WhiskeyintheJar Romance

There was something essential and elemental to watching a man perform physical labor, something that hit her as hard as a horse kicked. Instead of an explosion of pain, though, warmth blossomed inside, a flame that somehow unfurled in her belly.

Fascinated, she watched a droplet of sweat quiver at the base of Mr. Crosby’s neck until it slipped into the furrow that delineated his spine and slid down to the waistband of his breeches. For some reason, that inner flame fed on the sight and grew hot enough to scorch.