Free Secret Confessions: Down & Dusty — Skye by Rhyll Biest Page B
Authors: Rhyll Biest
she’d love him to wrestle her into submission, to pin her down with his strong body and do things to her that she couldn’t even admit she wanted.
The electric eel coiled tight in her belly.
Dammit, it was plain unfair the way his whole body was a veritable red carpet rolled out for dirty thoughts. That left her to do the right thing by ignoring the terrifying effect his size and strength had on her libido, so that they could continue their happy existence in Friendsville on the River No-touching, which was nowhere near Upper Lewd or Boningsville.
Risking a friendship like theirs over sex would be like giving away bread during a famine in the hope of getting caviar.
Just plain stupid and greedy.
No, the dark, secret crush she sat on had to be handled like a time bomb. A time bomb made from poorly defined yearnings and sexy dreams that could explode at any second—scattering needs and desires sharp and dangerous as nails—all over her face and their friendship, ripping them apart.
A shame there was no bomb disposal unit for that, which left her sitting on the thing and hoping for the best.
She smiled as Bret jumped from the back of the utility truck with lean ease and stood brushing his hands on his jeans, broad smile dazzling white against his tan face. Handsome from the dirt-encrusted tips of his boots to the battered Akubra shading his face. Jesus, Mary and Jiminy Cricket, who the hell looked like that outside of some model in a Calvin Klein ad?
Actually, his body was stronger, more commanding than that of a model, though he remained as smooth-chested as in his teens, a fact which her fingers itched to verify. She swallowed to moisten her suddenly dry throat. ‘Hey, stranger, long time, no see.’
‘Skye Mad Dog Malone.’ Tall and rangy, he towered over her as she avoided looking too directly at the gleaming body built for hard work that he was practically shoving in her face. Instead she focused on his gaze, a complex wash of blue, brown, grey and green so deep that she could practically do backstroke in it, the unparalleled amazingness of his eyes fringed by dark, thick lashes that were still a source of envy to her after all these years.
He might set her time bomb ticking dangerously loud, but her heart still felt a whole lot less dusty and dry after taking a dip in that deep gaze of his and hearing his bottomless voice wrapped around the ridiculous nickname he’d bestowed upon her.
Yes, she was mad, but ‘Mad Dog’, really?
‘I thought you were back next week, Mad Dog. Did I fuck up?’
‘Nah, I came home a little early to check on you and Miss Molly.’ She registered the wag of the kelpie’s tail at her name.
‘She’s missed you, so have I.’ The corners of Bret’s eyes crinkled before he swept his hat off to run it and a brawny forearm across his dripping brow.
She frowned—not at the way his hard-packed, stripped-down torso rippled with the movement, his taut muscles flexing in a purely unintentional tease, but at his hair, his once thick, beautiful midnight hair hacked brutally short.
‘Jeepers, what happened to your hair, Rapunzel?’
He grimaced. ‘Ticks. From a dead roo I pulled out of the dam. Had to remove one from my head, but couldn’t find it without cutting most of my hair off first. Stupid, hey?’
She shook her head, kept her tone playful, though the thought of him trying to remove a tick from his head on his own stabbed her right through the heart. Were there even tweezers in the world big enough for his enormous paws to operate? She could imagine him fumbling and swearing. She forced a sassy grin. ‘So you’re wearing ticks as hair accessories now? I must say, it’s a real wonder some girl hasn’t snapped you up yet.’
He smirked. ‘Like you can talk. You still dabbing cow poop behind your ears to attract all the young farmers?’
She scowled. Damn her short arms so very unsuited to pregnancy testing cows. ‘That was one time. Plus, I meant to do
The electric eel coiled tight in her belly.
Dammit, it was plain unfair the way his whole body was a veritable red carpet rolled out for dirty thoughts. That left her to do the right thing by ignoring the terrifying effect his size and strength had on her libido, so that they could continue their happy existence in Friendsville on the River No-touching, which was nowhere near Upper Lewd or Boningsville.
Risking a friendship like theirs over sex would be like giving away bread during a famine in the hope of getting caviar.
Just plain stupid and greedy.
No, the dark, secret crush she sat on had to be handled like a time bomb. A time bomb made from poorly defined yearnings and sexy dreams that could explode at any second—scattering needs and desires sharp and dangerous as nails—all over her face and their friendship, ripping them apart.
A shame there was no bomb disposal unit for that, which left her sitting on the thing and hoping for the best.
She smiled as Bret jumped from the back of the utility truck with lean ease and stood brushing his hands on his jeans, broad smile dazzling white against his tan face. Handsome from the dirt-encrusted tips of his boots to the battered Akubra shading his face. Jesus, Mary and Jiminy Cricket, who the hell looked like that outside of some model in a Calvin Klein ad?
Actually, his body was stronger, more commanding than that of a model, though he remained as smooth-chested as in his teens, a fact which her fingers itched to verify. She swallowed to moisten her suddenly dry throat. ‘Hey, stranger, long time, no see.’
‘Skye Mad Dog Malone.’ Tall and rangy, he towered over her as she avoided looking too directly at the gleaming body built for hard work that he was practically shoving in her face. Instead she focused on his gaze, a complex wash of blue, brown, grey and green so deep that she could practically do backstroke in it, the unparalleled amazingness of his eyes fringed by dark, thick lashes that were still a source of envy to her after all these years.
He might set her time bomb ticking dangerously loud, but her heart still felt a whole lot less dusty and dry after taking a dip in that deep gaze of his and hearing his bottomless voice wrapped around the ridiculous nickname he’d bestowed upon her.
Yes, she was mad, but ‘Mad Dog’, really?
‘I thought you were back next week, Mad Dog. Did I fuck up?’
‘Nah, I came home a little early to check on you and Miss Molly.’ She registered the wag of the kelpie’s tail at her name.
‘She’s missed you, so have I.’ The corners of Bret’s eyes crinkled before he swept his hat off to run it and a brawny forearm across his dripping brow.
She frowned—not at the way his hard-packed, stripped-down torso rippled with the movement, his taut muscles flexing in a purely unintentional tease, but at his hair, his once thick, beautiful midnight hair hacked brutally short.
‘Jeepers, what happened to your hair, Rapunzel?’
He grimaced. ‘Ticks. From a dead roo I pulled out of the dam. Had to remove one from my head, but couldn’t find it without cutting most of my hair off first. Stupid, hey?’
She shook her head, kept her tone playful, though the thought of him trying to remove a tick from his head on his own stabbed her right through the heart. Were there even tweezers in the world big enough for his enormous paws to operate? She could imagine him fumbling and swearing. She forced a sassy grin. ‘So you’re wearing ticks as hair accessories now? I must say, it’s a real wonder some girl hasn’t snapped you up yet.’
He smirked. ‘Like you can talk. You still dabbing cow poop behind your ears to attract all the young farmers?’
She scowled. Damn her short arms so very unsuited to pregnancy testing cows. ‘That was one time. Plus, I meant to do