Sinful Southern Ink by S.J. Drum Page A

drifted down, following a bead of sweat from below his ear rolling down his neck, over his collarbone and to the valley between his pecks. It rippled over the defined muscles of his stomach and glided over the cut angle of his hip before meeting the waistband of his jeans. She swallowed hard as her throat seemed to close up.
    When she managed to raise her eyes, she realized he’d walked toward her as she’d been leering at him. Looking at a man like Jed Weston, all sweaty and hard and hot from working outside in the summer, it was easy to lose yourself for a few minutes. She inhaled, finding Jed’s scent pleasing. Even drenched in sweat and standing in a dirty stall, he still smelled of pine and musk and clean male, only more so.
    “And what was it you wanted to help with, exactly?” Jed’s gem-green eyes heated, lust evident in his hooded gaze and the half smile tilting his firm lips.
    “Don’t get any ideas, stud. I came to help with the barn work,” Abigail said, though she didn’t back away from his heated body nor did she do anything to discourage the chemistry snapping between them. Feeling a little naughty, she fluttered her eyelashes and gave him an innocent look. “So, where do you want me?”
    He gave an exaggerated groan and clutched at his chest as if wounded. “You’re killing me, sweetheart.”
    “How about you go over there and have a seat on that bale of hay and I’ll finish up this stall.” She pushed past him, taking care to rub up against him in all the right places. A smug thrill ran through her when she felt him shudder as her elbow scraped across the front of his jeans. “No arguing. You’ve done quite enough already. Did you tear any of your stitches?”
     
    The little vixen squeezed into the only stall he had left to clean and pushed him out into the hall, giving a pointed look to the bale of hay sitting a few feet away. He’d almost come in his pants when he’d spun around to find her standing in his barn, her shiny brunette hair pulled into low pigtails and twisted into braids that hung over her shoulders and stopped just above her waist. No one had ever looked so good in a pair of jean overalls, western boots and pigtail braids.
    He flexed his injured hand, feeling the sting and burn of the abused laceration and stitches. His pride demanded he not accept Abigail’s help but his throbbing thumb and waning painkillers forced him to take a seat and let her work. Besides, it’d take all of ten minutes to finish the last stall and as a bonus, he could watch her cute ass as she worked.
    After sinking onto the bale of hay, he tugged off his leather work glove and checked to see if he’d bled through the bandage. A smudge of red showed through the white gauze. Damn.
    He looked up to find Abigail standing in the doorway with a hand propped on the handle of the pitchfork, scrutinizing his hand with concern etched on her face. She shook her head, sending her braids slithering across her breasts and he wondered if the sensation had hardened her nipples.
    “I’ll take a look after I’m done here. Wait until we’re inside to unwrap the bandage. There’s about a billion germs out here and I don’t want you getting an infection.” She turned and went back to mucking out the stall.
    A persistent ache settled into his cock as he watched Abigail. He remembered what her body had felt like, cradled in his arms and pressed against his chest when he’d carried her inside his house the night she’d learned of her father’s death. Holding her had felt right.
    Would Abigail enjoy his rough-edged style of lovemaking? Would her nipples draw tight and her pussy weep as he commanded her to her knees in front of him? Or would she balk, running scared when he brought out the rope?
    Didn’t matter, as long as she’d have him, he’d take her however she wished. Long, and slow. Fast and rough. Whatever would make her his.
    By the time she’d finished scattering the clean sawdust on the floor of