C H A P T E R   F O U R

LELA

What is happening?

And I don’t mean just the fact that I’m standing here boot to boot with the forger, and his name is Miller for heck sake.

Although just those two things are pretty dang peculiar on their own.

I mean, standing here face-to-face with him, the man I’ve thought about every single day, ever since we spoke those few words and kissed under the summer sun. I was so flustered I couldn’t remember my own name that day, then when it finally came to me, my father and the Royal Parade swept by and I was gone.

But it’s not just the huge, unbelievable coincidence that’s got me slack jawed and disbelieving.

I also have no idea what is happening to me.

I’m melting into his hand, which has been affixed to the side of my head since the moment he charged toward me at his door. My arms beg to be thrown around his neck and let him draw me in as close as physically possible. I want this human contact like I’ve never imagined before. This man I don’t even know, and yet I feel like I belong here with him for the rest of my life.

It’s crazy and stupid, but there’s a kind of gravitational pull between us and I’m not sure how long I can fight it.

I’ve never been careless as a character trait, especially with dating and men. But something tells me I’m about to sidestep careless and go directly into reckless because there is a growing hum between my legs that is quickly taking over the decision-making portions of my addled brain.

“I followed you...” he says, his voice somewhere between a caveman and an angry father. “...that day.”

I drop my eyes because the look he’s giving me has me nearly falling to my knees ready to fulfil any wish he may utter. His dominant energy wraps me in an odd sense of comfort and belonging. The same way it did that day when we met.

“I came back to find you too, but you were gone,” I admit, trying my hardest to look back into his face. It’s hard and rough, but it’s also as sexy as any I’ve seen before. Not perfect. Not symmetrical. Not refined. But one hundred percent male. “Then I had to go. I had to leave.”

It’s true. My dad made me eat a turkey leg and slug down a warm Guinness with some of the regulars we’d gotten to know over the years, then I made an excuse and rushed back to the forging demo area. I just wanted one more look.

But he wasn’t there.

I waited five minutes. Then ten, but Dad was waiting and we had to go.

“I wish I could have stayed,” he says, and I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. We’re here now, face-to-face, and I’m awestruck.

He is not just big, not just a massive iron lump of a man. He’s bigger than any man I’ve encountered in all my life, and that includes all the rig workers over the years. But it’s odd because he’s also gentle. I feel the enormity of his heart. It’s in his near-black eyes. Those deep, soulful eyes of a wild stallion. Long black lashes framing his intense gaze.

His heart shines through his eyes, and what I’m feeling is a sense of awe.

“Wow, it’s just...” I start to speak, not sure what I’m trying to say.

He quickly makes it a nonissue as he brings his hand from the side of my head to press two fingers against my lips. Then he traces them around slowly, my panties soaking up the wetness that’s undeniably generating from between my legs.

I didn’t pack enough panties.

He is pure masculinity, condensed and bottled into a human-shaped package. The flannel and jeans are just the beginning. The few days of beard that covers his jaw calls for my hands, as do the waves of his deep brown hair. He’s rugged but somehow neat at the same time.

Glancing just past him into the open room behind, I see there is a casual order to everything. Stacks of books are placed carefully, regimented, on carved log tables. There are pictures on the walls, all hung perfectly level. Coasters collected into a neat stack. Nothing out of place. It’s inviting, a low fire crackling in the stone fireplace between the kitchen and the big great room into which the front door opens.

His hand swoops around the back of my neck, pulling my attention back to him.

Only him.

The rough calluses that cover his palm scrape softly against my skin as he pulls me forward with a restrained urgency, kicking the front door shut behind me.

“Wh-where’s Little Shit?” I manage. Rattling around in the back of my brain I try to remember why I’m here.

“Soon enough. She’s sleeping for once. Get in here.” His order is stern and sends a shiver down my back to wrap around my belly.

He guides me from behind by the back of my neck farther into the room. He brings his other hand forward to relieve me of the client folder I’m gripping, discarding it in mid-step onto a worn, brown leather chair as we pass by. The only thing that’s out of place in this entire room. Maybe this entire house.

Next, his hand is on my backpack. He’s lifting the weight of it from my shoulders, and I wiggle out of the straps, eager to be free, then out of the arms of my jacket as he pulls it off along with the backpack. He drops them onto the smooth wooden planked floor as he continues our forward motion, driving me on through the room to wherever he chooses.

For a split second, I remember all the gawking women at the fair. I wonder how many others have been here, how many of his other fans. He’s smooth.

Too smooth, in fact.

Maybe this is just his act, and I’ve fallen for it.

All this alpha-ness.

The strong hand at the back of my neck spins me to face him. Inching the small of my back into the cool granite edge of the counter.  His hands grip on either side of me as his elbows lock, centering me in the cage of his body. I’ve never felt safer or in so much peril.

“I only know your first name. I want it all. What’s your full name?” He groans the words as if in pain.

“Lela Marshall,” I mumble, my insides doing their best impression of a fish flopping around on a dock. “My name’s Lela Marshall.”

His eyes drift half shut, and he leans in another inch, taking a deep breath above my hair. Goose bumps rise on my forearms as the cool granite digs in across the small of my back through the thin fabric of my shirt.

“Well, Lela Marshall. I’m going to kiss you now. Not asking, but letting you know, because there is no more wait left in me.”

I gulp a mouthful of air as his eyes pin me, and his full lips open, showing off the glint of white teeth. A thousand thoughts are spinning around in my head. Something tells me I should protest. Surely play coy or push back, something to slow this down.

But I don’t. Instead, I stop thinking altogether, my hands coming up to drape around his muscled neck. He flinches at the contact, and I feel the hardness under my fingertips.

His eyes go black, and I wonder for a moment if I’m in the hands of a dangerous man. Panic sets in, but my hands stay planted, somehow continuing on their own as the battle inside me rages on.

“You don’t know if I have a boyfriend...or maybe I’m married...” Even as the words slip through my lips, I know they’re a mistake. The forced lilt in my voice is a dead giveaway. I’m a horrible liar, and from the quick flash of anger behind Miller’s eyes, I’m hoping he can see through my flimsy protest.

He cocks an eyebrow and regards me for a moment. Then the spark of anger in his eyes shifts toward amusement, and I realize he’s reading me just fine.

“I don’t kiss married women, and my senses tell me you are not one. And quite frankly, if you had a man before you stepped onto my porch that would be over as of this moment.”

As I start to respond, his mouth is on me. Those full, warm lips are greedy. His tongue comes forward, and I struggle to get a breath. His taste is coffee and sex. My knees shake and my thighs quiver. A tightness starts in my core, I bust out a Kegel clench that has me on the verge of an orgasm.