After all, didn’t rain mean fresh chances? Starting over?
Her gaze blurred as she took in Brock’s wet form hovering over her. His thick black eyelashes blinked slowly as his hazel eyes locked on hers, never wavering. His full lips were slightly swollen, his chin lifted in defiance—ready to challenge her, maybe?
Or himself?
“Mud pies?” she whispered, needing to break the tense silence with something.
“Mud wrestling?” he countered.
“Tough choice.”
“Believe me.” He held out his hand to her. “I know.”
With a grin she took his hand and stood. Seconds later he lifted her up into his arms and twirled her around the wet grass.
She burst out laughing as he jogged over to a pile of dirt that was quickly turning into mud and set her on her feet. “How do we do this?”
“Oh I forgot. You were born an old man.”
He shoved her lightly, making her laugh like she was a teenager.
“You need to stop talking to the twins, before one or both of them end up dead.”
“You’d kill them?” she asked in mock horror.
“It’s often a tempting thought, the only thing that used to help me fall asleep at night with a smile on my face.” His crooked smile had her heart hammering in her chest uncontrollably.
“And now?”
“Now, she asks.” He smiled down at the dirt and slowly leaned over, pulling some mud into his hand and slapping it into his other like he was clapping. “Now, my thoughts are a lot hotter at night, scorching, uncontrollably erotic, and if I’m being honest, damned uncomfortable.”
“Hot, you say?” She grinned, leaning down on her haunches to grab some mud.
“Very.” He nodded.
“Let me cool you off.” She winked, then smeared mud on his face. “Better?”
He bit back a curse then fell against the dirt laughing. “Completely healed of any sort of sexual fantasy, yup, thanks.”
“I’m at your service.”
He let out a groan. “Just kidding. Still hot.”
Laughing, she trailed more mud down his chin with her finger, then captured his lips in hers without even giving a second thought to what she was doing, initiating whatever this was between them.
He cupped her face with his dirty hands, as if she was precious, as if she was everything, and pressed his forehead against hers. “What about now? Not then, but now?”
She frowned. “What are you asking?”
“Now. Give me now.”
“And forget about the future? Is that what you’re asking?”
“Borderline begging.” His voice rasped. “Let me worry about the future. And I swear to you I’ll figure something out—but let me taste you now—let me have you now.”
Out of fear, Jane hesitated. She wanted him more than anything, but…she wanted more than a fleeting kiss or moment.
“Trust me,” he whispered across her lips.
His tone was gentle, desperate.
So she said yes.
Even though her heart simultaneously screamed for her to be careful.
Chapter Thirty
Brock couldn’t get the afternoon ride out of his mind. They’d returned to the house soaking wet, and while the twins both gave them looks of complete innocence, he knew better. Hell, he knew their minds sometimes better than he knew his own.
Sending them off had been a complete set-up.
To get them out of the house and alone together.
A set-up he was grateful for and had desperately needed.
He just didn’t know what the next move should be. He knew what he wanted it to be, but ignoring the future was like ignoring a burning house— eventually it was going to crumble around you. And the last thing he wanted was to take her down in the same flames that were going to consume him.
His thoughts darkened, and by the time he was done showering, it was already nearing dinnertime.
Laughter from downstairs gave him pause. The house used to have laughter; hell, it had been filled with it, overflowing to the brim. In fact, nearly all of his memories from before the accident—if he let himself go there—were of laughter.
Memories that no longer refused to stay buried.
But he was starting to realize it wasn’t necessarily his presence in the house that was causing them to resurface—but hers.
She brought life back to death.
Didn’t she say that was her specialty? Looking at something that others would pass by, picking it up, cleaning it, and making it shine?
His gut still clenched when he thought about his parents’ deaths, about his grandfather’s orders to marry one of the women of his choosing.
But it was better.
For the first time since he was twelve, it was better.
He took the stairs a few at a time and frowned when he saw that Brant and Bentley both had their bags by the door and were hugging Jane.
“Are you sure you can’t stay?” she asked, her expression sad, causing a little kick to Brock’s chest.
“Sorry, beautiful.” Bentley winked. “We’ve got women to conquer, millions to make, a world to take over.”
Brock rolled his eyes.