Page 36 of Fearless Bond

“Nuh-uh.” No way. I’d never been less bored in my life. Could I ask him to take his shirt off?

I want to see what’s mine.

Since when was I a greedy, possessive horndog? I mentally shook myself.

“How do you decide on designs?” I asked, happy to come up with a neutral question. “Do you work with a designer or do everything yourself?”

He scratched his neck, reached for a different tool, and began chipping away on something at the base of the trunk. “I ask the wood. It knows what it wants to be.”

That made me chuckle. “You talk to wood? Is that a bear thing?”

“Oh, I wish! But every piece I get is different. I look at it, at its strengths and imperfections, and it turns into a chair in my head or into a cabinet. When this trunk landed here, it told me it was the tabletop for Monty’s party room at the B&B.”

“Witchery,” I joked.

Barclay snorted. “As long as it works, I don’t question it.”

He reached for something on a shelf, and his T-shirt rode up, revealing his furry stomach. The pelt thickened into the happiest of trails, and my gaze inevitably landed on the bulge in his jeans.

Then he began smoothing something out, rubbing back and forth, and back and forth, his body rocking in averysuggestive way. I swallowed thickly. All those muscles stretching and hardening…

“Ooh.”Shit. I moaned out loud.

Barclay paused and threw me a confused look. “Come again?”

“Um. Nothing.”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s warm in here.”

“It’s not.”

Barclay stood and folded his thick arms over his chest. That was not helping my situation. He looked like a damned gladiator.

I licked my lips.

“Eyes up here.”

I blinked up.

“Another heat wave?” he asked.

Shaking my head, I crossed my legs. My blush must have been visible from space.

Barclay put the tool aside and walked around the would-be table. He hugged me around my waist and sniffed the crook of my neck. With his warm body pressed against mine, I sagged with relief. My legs fell open, and he nestled between them.

“It’s not a heat wave,” he murmured, kissing my neck. His beard tickled my skin, and I bucked against him. “But you’re hard, sweetheart.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you want me to do something about it?”

“Can you? Even between waves?”

He stepped away, and I felt bereft. But then he set me on the floor and turned me around in a single smooth move. He tugged my jeans down my thighs and spread my ass cheeks. With a soft hum, he ran his nose through my crease. I loved the scrape of his beard on my skin. He kissed my hole, just a chaste press of lips, and I cried out as if he’d shoved his dick into me.

“Shh. I’ll make you feel good. Patience.”

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