The man sighed and reached for the chicken, grabbing her in his hands, before letting out a low curse. “Shit, that’s sharp.”
Courtney’s eyes had widened. “She scratches.” Stepping forward, she could already see the blood seeping from the cut on his hand. “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “Let me take her.”
“It’s okay. You get the other one.” He looked up at the farm lane. “You live up there?” he asked, his eyes on her small cottage in the distance
“Yeah.”
“I’ll carry her up.” He kicked the door to his car shut and started striding down the lane. She picked up a much-more compliant Harriet and hurried after him, trying to match his long, sure strides.
“I have a first aid kit at the house,” she told him. “I can clean up that cut for you. Are you up to date on your shots?”
“Had my annual appointment last month,” he muttered. Hester began squawking again, squirming in his grasp. She could see his jaw tighten.
His strong, square jaw. Damn, he was good looking. Not the kind of guy you expected to see around here at all.
They’d reached the house and she’d led him to the chicken run. Immediately, she spotted where the mesh had come loose on the side. Harriet and Hester were the only ones who’d noticed, the other hens too busy pecking and clucking to think of escape. She opened the door and put Harriet down. She went to take Hester from him and her mouth turned dry. He was staring at her legs, his eyes dark, his lips slightly open. Desire washed over her.
She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this much heat pulsing inside her. Trying to keep her face impassive, she took the hen from him, their fingers sliding together for a moment.
“Thank you,” she said as she closed the coop up, before she pulled the mesh back over the nail it had come loose from. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Won’t your husband mind you bringing a strange man into his kitchen?” the man asked, his voice thick and low.
“I’m not married.” She turned to look at him. The heat in his stare made her breath catch. It had been so long since anybody had looked at her like that. She’d forgotten what it was like. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Logan. Logan Hartson. What’s yours?”
“Courtney Roberts.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. His eyes followed the movement. “Come in.” She pulled open the kitchen door and they walked inside. Nodding at the chair, she told him to sit while she pulled the first aid kit down from its home in the top cupboard.
She cleaned him up, her brow almost touching his as she dabbed at the cut in his hand. He was silent, apart from his soft breaths. Her mouth was dry as the desert as she tried to think of something to say to him. Anything to cut the tension between them. Her chest was tight, her thighs hot, and her heart hammering against her ribcage. She had no idea what to do with this need pulsing inside her.
She stuck a Band-Aid to his warm skin, running her finger over it to make sure it had adhered. Then she looked at him again, her expression serious as their gazes met. It felt like hours that they stared at each other, him sitting on that chair, her leaning over him. There was a pulse in his neck that she wanted to touch, to feel the scruff of his beard growth that must have appeared since he’d shaved this morning.
“Courtney,” he finally said, his voice feeling like a caress against her skin.
“Yeah?”
“Put the first aid kit down.”
“Okay.” She did as she was told, her eyes still on his.
He reached out for her, his palm pressing against her back until she had no choice but to straddle his thighs. He slid his hand up, cupping her neck, his hand warm and sure and everything she didn’t know she needed. Slowly, he pulled her face to his until she could feel his breath against her lips.
Then his mouth was on hers, demanding and searing, his tongue sliding against hers until the desire was like a fire engulfing them both.
It was two hours later, when she was tangled in his arms in the bed she’d once shared with Shaun that she remembered Logan’s car was abandoned on the road for anybody to see.
And right then, she didn’t give a damn.
Chapter Three
Logan leaned on the doorjamb of Courtney Roberts’ cottage, his elbow bent, his shirt sleeve riding up. The Rolex on his wrist told him it was one minute past nine. Not that he needed a watch to tell him. The desire pulsing through his body was the nighttime equivalent of a sundial.
The corner of his lip curled up as he remembered the way she’d looked that first day they’d met, her curvy ass almost hanging out of the frayed cut offs she was wearing, her small-yet-perfect breasts barely hidden by the ribbed black tank covered in straw and dust. Her hair had been up, a cloud of curls hanging from the back of her head, revealing her wide blue eyes and perfectly bowed lips.
And in that moment, he’d felt like a storm had erupted inside him. A need so strong that he couldn’t think of anything but her. How she would feel. How she would taste. How she would sigh. It had been completely crazy. So was the hard-on he’d sported as soon as she’d started to clean up the scratch on his hand. He could feel the desire for her coursing through his veins.
He had to have her or die trying.
Logan blamed it on the dry spell he’d been having, thanks to working all his breathing hours on getting the latest restaurant ready for opening. He’d never been good at relationships, and that was an understatement. No woman liked coming second to his work, and that’s how it had always been.
