Come On Over. Debbi Rawlins

      He turned his head.

      She was rearranging the towel. “Almost lost the sucker,” she said, pulling the terrycloth snugger.

      Her breasts swelled and plumped over the top with each small tug of the towel. He could barely drag his gaze away.

      Talk about playing dirty. She was baiting him. And it was working. All the blood and oxygen had rushed south leaving his brain to fend for itself.

      Man, he didn’t want to fold this early in the game.

      He caught himself staring again and forced his attention back to the sink.

      “Okay, well,” she said, “thanks.”

      “Sure.” He heard the kitchen door open and close, and he slowly lifted his head for a clear shot of her out the window.

      Only he couldn’t see her. What did she do, turn the wrong way? How could she miss the barn?

      The hinges squeaked as the door opened. He barely had a second to lower his chin.

      “I need to take some clothes. Or I’ll have to come back in a wet towel,” she said with a soft laugh as she crossed the kitchen.

      It took all of a second for him to imagine her wearing nothing but a wet towel plastered to her body. His heart pounding like a Derby winner at the finish line, he ordered himself not to watch her exit, then gave up and looked. She was taking her sweet time, making a show of staying on her side of the duct tape.

      The woman’s legs were world class, no argument from him. And if he’d had the slightest doubt she was toying with him, it was gone. Guess it was time to prove he was made of stronger stuff than being a dope for a half-naked woman.

      He turned to face her, leaned back against the counter and glanced at Mutt, who was curled up by the door. “Hey, boy.” The dog looked up. Trent nodded at Shelby. “Fetch the towel.”

      She froze. Her eyes widened at Mutt, who had no clue what the command meant.

      Trent smiled and watched her take off to her room as if she had the hounds of Baskerville on her heels.