“I’m sorry.” Jane felt horrible.
Bentley frowned. “Why would you feel sorry for dancing in streams of sunlight?” His face transformed into a grin before he grabbed her body and pulled it against his, twirling her around the room.
“You know the quick step?” She let out a breathless laugh.
“Grandfather raised me right.” He winked, tugging her body across the floor directly into the sunlight.
A burst of laughter escaped her as he bent her down and his lips hovered near her neck.
“Careful,” he warned, eyes locking with hers. “You’ll make me think you want me more than Brock, and I would hate getting strangled to death.” He leaned in toward her mouth. “Then again, it may be worth it.”
“What. The. Hell.” Brock’s voice was deafening. “Is happening in here?”
Bentley pulled her to her feet and turned. “Dancing. You know, where you move your feet and hold a woman close enough to feel the tips of her breasts press against your chest and—”
“Bentley, I swear I really will kill you if you finish that sentence,” Brock barked, his eyes thunderous as he looked between the two.
Suddenly feeling guilty, Jane backed slowly away from the testosterone and went into the kitchen.
She knew exactly what she was going to make.
Luckily, she’d gotten a few groceries from the store, including a few frozen treats.
Twenty minutes later the smell of cinnamon filled the house.
The timer went off. She grabbed the oven mitts and pulled the tray of cinnamon rolls out, then slowly began to drizzle icing across them.
“Are those”—Brock was suddenly behind her, and she could feel the heat of every warm masculine inch of him—“what I think they are?”
She gulped. He was going to yell. She just knew it.
Tensing, she gave him a jerky nod.
“And was it you who opened the blinds?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered.
His hands moved to her shoulders and then slid down her arms. With a sharp inhale he whispered gruffly, “Thank you.”
And then he was gone.
Her arms however, kept the memory of the way his hands had caressed her body.
It took a few minutes for her to regain her composure, and by then all three men were in and out of the kitchen as they grabbed coffee. Each of them tried to swipe icing off the rolls as they passed by.
“Let them cool!” she yelled when Brock came in for the second time.
He held his hands in the air. “I was just going to ask when they would be ready.”
“They’re ready when they’re ready!” She shoved him out of the kitchen.
“Heartless wench!” Bentley yelled. “Give us food!”
“Man hungry,” Brant growled, slamming his hand against the table. “Man need food!”
She shook her head and tried to keep the laugh in, but when they all started arguing she knew it was useless; they were walking, talking chaos.
Finally, she grabbed a few plates and piled the cinnamon rolls high, then deposited them in the middle of the table.
Hands went surging forward.
Within minutes, all of the cinnamon rolls were gone.
Even the icing was all but licked from the plate.
“So, I have a completely nonsexual proposition for you.” Brant leaned back and patted his stomach. “Live with me, bake for me, I’ll make you a very happy woman. Cars.” He spread his hands wide. “Money. Furs.”
Bentley nodded encouragingly. “You’ll be our kept woman. But you have to bake every day. Don’t worry, we’ll give you a safe word, just in case things get too crazy.”
“Who needs a safe word for cooking?” Brant asked, licking his finger while he winked at Jane.
“Food’s erotic.” Bentley blinked. “You’re almost as clueless as Brock.”
Brock groaned slowly and started banging his head against the table.
Both men ignored him and continued to argue about what Jane’s safe word should be.
“Potato!” Bentley snapped his fingers.
“There’s nothing liberating about a damn potato!” Brant argued. “How about ‘cherry’?” He smirked. “Get it? Cherry?”
Brock stood abruptly and started grabbing all of the plates, making more noise than necessary as he fumbled with the forks and left the dining area.
“Better go help him, Cherry.” Bentley winked. “Fuck me, I love sexy nicknames.”
She knew he was kidding but she was still embarrassed. With a weak wave of her hand she went into the kitchen, only to find Brock doing the dishes.
For someone who had been doing nothing but cleaning up after other people her entire life, it was like watching porn.
His denim shirt was rolled up to his elbows; tanned forearms flexed as he dipped a dish into the water and began to wipe.
A whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it.
He looked up at the sound and a smile spread across his face. “Imagine what would happen if I had a larger…plate,” he teased.
Her face probably did look like a cherry.
Clearing her throat, she grabbed one of the wet dishes and started drying it, only to have him pull the towel from her hands and jerk the plate away from her.
Great, he was mad again. Just when she’d gotten him to smile.
His large body loomed over hers, his blue eyes flashed and then his mouth slammed against hers.
She wasn’t ready for it.
Then again, she imagined as his tongue slid past her lips, a woman could never be prepared for a kiss like this.
It was as if he was claiming her, consuming her, and the very last thing she wanted to scream out was “Cherry.”
His body pressed so hard against hers she could feel his arousal strain against his jeans. Jane gripped his shirt, bunching it in her hands as he deepened the kiss with a growl, only to abruptly pull away.
Chest heaving, he whispered a hoarse “thank you” before walking out of the kitchen.
She didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
“Everything okay in here?” Bentley poked his head around the corner then grinned. “Oh, never mind, I can see things went just fine. Need to go take a cold shower?”
Jane glared.
“Don’t deny it. I can practically smell sexual arousal when it hits the air. Just remember to use protection; I’m too young to be an uncle.”
“Don’t you have a job?” Her voice was stupidly weak.
“Yup.” He nodded. “And I’m so good at it and so rich that I rarely need to be in the office. Lucky you.”
“Yes, just what I was thinking. Lucky me.”
He smirked. “Do you want help with the rest of the dishes? I can dry while you overanalyze the panty-melting kiss he just gave you.”
Searing heat blazed her cheeks, and she turned around and shoved her hands into the soapy water.
Bentley grabbed a plate and started drying. “Did he use tongue?”
Water sloshed over the edge of the sink.
Bentley tilted his head and nodded. “That slick bastard. He dark-horsed me, didn’t he?”
“Hunh?” She blinked over at him and dipped a plate into the hot soapy water.
“Brock’s the Dark Horse. He just staked his claim and ran like the ass he is, but it’s good to see him actually do something for himself for once.” He was quiet. “Damn, must have been some kiss if you’re still thinking about it.”
“You’re really, really aggravating.” She ignored the question just like she ignored the tightening in her stomach. Brock’s kiss had been…everything.
Ugh, she was in so much trouble.
She had over two weeks of suffering, knowing what his lips felt like on hers? What his body was capable of?
“You’re about to break that dish.” Bentley pried it from her hands and started wiping. “Why don’t you go fix your lipstick, since half of it is currently sitting nice on my brother’s mouth, whi
le the other half is smeared just here.” He pointed to her cheek. “Not that I’m not a huge fan of a sexed-up woman; I just want you to be aware that men are attracted to that look, the one you still have, so if you don’t want Brock to attack you again, you may want to”—he lifted a shoulder—“fix it.”
“Th-thanks.” She backed away slowly, tucking her hair behind her ear. How had it come out of its bun? When had that even happened?
Bentley’s smile was slow, dangerous. “You know, once you go Brock you never go back.”
She sighed. “It would be bad enough if there were only one of you, but there’s two. Literally.”
“Ain’t it great?” He winked.
“I’ll just go deal with…this.” She pointed to her head.
“Good. Oh, and Jane?”
She stopped and turned back around. “Hmm?”
“Brock likes ponytails.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brock kicked the side of the barn over and over and over again. The cock clearly thought it was being threatened and came barreling toward him, wings raised, beak out.
“Hell,” he rasped, jumping over the stall wall and joining Buttercup.
Right. He’d just kissed the shit out of a woman that he had no business messing with and now he was in a horse stall hiding from a cock.
As if sensing his distress, Buttercup neighed and nudged his shoulder with her soft nose.
“Sorry, girl.” He patted her head. The last time he’d ridden her had been years ago, but whoever had been taking care of the ranch was doing a good job. The barn was still a bit run-down but it was clean, the horses clearly fat and happy with plenty of roaming room and the best oats money could buy.
But still.
He felt guilty.
Damn it, he was so tired of the constant guilt.
Guilt made him say yes when he wanted to say no.
Guilt had him turning into a complete madman when it came to Jane. Hell, he’d mauled her and then run away.
She’d made those cinnamon buns for him. He knew that. He just didn’t know why—especially after he’d been such an ass to her. Blaming her for things that weren’t her fault.
With a sigh, he patted Buttercup’s nose again and ran his hands down the side of her belly. “Wanna go for a ride, girl?”
Maybe it would distract him from marching back into the house, stripping Jane naked, and having his way with her next to the cinnamon roll crumbs.
His blood heated at the thought.
Buttercup kicked her hoof as if excited to get out and run. There was more thrill then hesitation on his part as he gently placed a saddle pad on her back then positioned the saddle before tightening the first cinch. When he was finished he put the bit into her mouth and ran his hand down the side of her nose.
“You ready, girl?” Fear slid into his chest, warning him against riding a horse he hadn’t ridden since the week of his parents’ accident. She’d been young then, so young that he’d probably had no business getting on her in the first place. And now she was old enough that it was a miracle she still looked so good.
He glanced back at the house, then at the horse. What other choice did he have? Going back into the house only meant temptation, and if he didn’t move away from the cock it was going to attack the shit out of him. He opened the gate and hopped onto Buttercup.
And everything clicked into place.
Memories of riding her.
The trails they used to take.
Being on the back of his horse made Brock feel the most centered he had in a while, especially after kissing a girl who made him want a life he would never have. Was that what it was about Jane? The fact that when he was with her he was tempted to want more and actually believed he could have it? Somehow, kissing her had made him feel more alive than he had in months—years. It felt freeing. She was freeing.
Buttercup let out a little snort as she started to gallop across the field, to where his grandfather used to train his old horses back when the ranch was active with horse breeding.
“Good girl.” He patted the sweaty horseflesh and breathed in deep.
“Thought I might find you out here,” a male voice called.
Frowning, Brock turned around and burst into laughter.
The twins were both attempting to ride one of the shortest horses in the barn. Its girth made up for whatever it lacked in height, but the idea that they were both able to stay on it without the horse biting them was impressive.
“What the hell is that?” He pointed to the scruffy bay horse with short legs.
“Oh, this bad ass thing?” Bentley rubbed the horse’s neck. “Don’t listen to him, Frodo, he’s just pissed because his dick isn’t balls deep in—”
“Finish that sentence, I dare you.”
“In his hand?” Brant said with a laugh. “By the way you look really sexy out here, your hair blowing in the wind. I almost orgasmed twice.”
Brock rolled his eyes. “Why are you guys following me?”
“Oh, that.” Bentley kicked Frodo’s sides and the poor horse trotted forward, its eyes wide. “We came to tell you what a jackass you are.”
Brock groaned out loud. “Is this about Jane?”
“It’s sure as hell isn’t about us.” Brant shrugged. “You’re lucky Bentley’s off his game or he’d swoop in and steal her before you could make up your mind if you’re man enough to even go after her.”
“What the hell!” Brock yelled. “She isn’t some prize to be won, and she sure as hell isn’t up for grabs! Not by either of you.”
Brant narrowed his eyes at Brock. “Are you actually going to grow a pair of balls and go after her?”
Brock growled. “Back the fuck off. I mean it. She isn’t like the girls you normally date.” He cleared his throat. “She’s better than that.” The idea that they would even contemplate actually doing more than hitting on her made Brock want to punch something.
“She seemed embarrassed that you just took off after making out with her. Probably isn’t used to all the attention only to have the guy who just kissed her run out of the house like she has Ebola,” Bentley said softly. “And stop looking at me like I’ve grown another head. I’m a manwhore, not heartless.”
“I didn’t,” Brock said defensively. “I just needed to think.”
“We know.” Brant’s eyes flashed. “But we grew up with you so we know how you deal with shit. She, however, doesn’t.”
“I never thought I’d see the day where you two are the ones lecturing me.” Brock shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. They were right. And he hated it.
“So.” Bentley rubbed his hands together. “Who’s going after the girl? First man back to the house wins?”
“First man to the house, my ass.” Brock leaned over the horse’s neck as they glided across the pasture and made it back to the barn in record time. He made sure Buttercup had fresh water and gave her a handful of oats before putting her in her stall, promising to take the saddle off once he made sure Jane was okay.
Buttercup seemed too immersed in the oats to care.
Long strides took him up the stairs and into the house.
The kitchen was spotless.
No Jane.
“Jane?” he yelled.
Nothing.
He took the stairs two at a time and swore as he spotted her, bent over in front of him, washing the floor with a rag.
He gulped. “No mops?”
Her ass was pointed straight at him, and so help him God he wanted to take a bite out of it. He gripped the wall with one hand and let out a rough exhale.
“This hard wood deserves more attention than a simple mop. I want to get in all the crevices.” She didn’t stop moving her hands back and forth.
His dick ached with each movement, as if she was stroking him instead of the wood. What the hell was it about this woman? This small, intimidating woman with her silky brown hair and chocolate eyes?
She let out a little grunt, turning on her hands a
nd knees to get the section directly in front of his feet, and slowly she raised her head, cheeks flushed.
His breathing slowed as she moved one hand back and forth across the wood, and the smell of lemon soap and water filled his nostrils as he watched her work. Pieces of hair poked out of her bun, kissing her neck and shoulders. Her hand moved a bit faster.
He clenched his free hand into a fist.
She was stunning.
From her freckles to her toes.
Damn it.
“You’re really good at that.” Brock wanted to slap himself in the face, or run headfirst into the wall. Did he really just say that out loud?
She smiled. “Cleaning hard wood?”
Hard wood. Yeah, his wood was definitely hard. Fuck. If he kept watching, he was going to explode on the spot, like a teenage boy.
“Cleaning,” he said with a rasp.
“I love it.” She smiled down at the floor, her body visibly relaxing. “I know some people think it’s demeaning, but there’s nothing better than removing the dust and grime and seeing what’s beneath a dirty surface. There’s always something, you know? Something beautiful. No matter how it starts, it ends beautifully. I think objects deserve that, just…” She sighed. “Just like people.”
“You’re a fixer.” He almost groaned. Was he her next project?
“I like to think of myself as a helper. After all, you can’t fix others, only yourself.”
“And me?” He just had to ask as he leaned down to her level. “Am I worth cleaning up, you think?” He hated how vulnerable he sounded, how weak the question made him and how hungry he was for her response.
“Obviously.” She stopped moving her hand and glanced up at him. “Or you wouldn’t be brave enough to even ask.”
He leaned forward, cupping her face with his hand.
Her mouth trembled.
“Brock…”
“Don’t say no.”
“But—”
“Please?”
He lowered his head just as something bit him in the ass. Or pecked him. He fell against the couch with a curse.
“Forget to close the front door?” Jane asked in an amused voice.
He kicked toward the cock. “Go away!”
His volume seemed to only encourage the rooster as it made an ear-splitting noise and flapped toward him with a fury that would only be matched by Satan himself. Feathers puffed into the air with each angry flap.