udder, he wondered whether she had any idea how erotic the act was—not her milking a goat per se, but her hand grasping and tugging on warm flesh and coaxing forth a jet of liquid. It was earthy and unabashedly sensual.
Then her other hand joined in, working the second teat. Quinn pumped rhythmically, the milk hitting the pail in a steady stream. “Once you’ve started milking, you’ll notice that the bag—a.k.a. the udder—empties. When it’s less full, you can press higher. See?”
“Yeah,” he said, and then, figuring she wanted him to look, he leaned in. A mistake, as once again he was distracted by her nearness. He told himself to concentrate on the goat and not the girl, on the rich tang of warm milk rather than the lighter, floral scent emanating from Quinn. It was damned hard.
And, Christ, she really must be unaware, or at least totally unaffected and uninterested, because she began chattering away, telling him all about her goats and the cheesemonger who used their milk to make cheese for the ranch’s restaurant, selling any extra that remained at the farmer’s market in town. Meanwhile, Ethan watched her long, supple fingers and wondered what they’d feel like against his skin….
“Okay, now put your hands over mine so you can get a better sense of what I’m doing.”
He bit back the instinctive
No. Hell, no
that sprang to his lips. He’d been to Afghanistan. Surely he could manage to milk a goat. Surely he could handle touching Quinn Knowles. “Right,” he muttered.
She stilled her hands. He placed his larger ones lightly over them.
For a second she was silent. Then she said, “Here we go.”
Was there a slight breathlessness to her voice? he wondered. But then her hands began moving, her fingers opening and squeezing as she worked the teat, his own following, learning, feeling the softness of her skin and the strength in her fingers. Warm milk streamed into the pail, the sound growing deeper as the pail filled.
“Pay attention to the rhythm,” she instructed.
Oh God, the rhythm. And no, it wasn’t a slow thrust and grind but that didn’t make it any the less carnal. He frowned, trying to concentrate.
Up, open, down, squeeze,
he recited silently.
“Got it?”
Jesus.
“Yeah, I think so.” His voice was rough.
“Good.” Without warning, she slipped her hands from beneath his and sat back, crossing her arms about her middle.
He knew a moment of panic as he tried to remember Quinn’s motions, tried to feel for the milk in the udder that was waiting to be released. Then a minor miracle occurred. A stream of milk spurted into the pail, followed by another—nowhere near as strong or evenly paced as when Quinn had worked the teats, but still.
Ethan made himself maintain the tempo and smooth it out, even as his arm and shoulder began to throb from moving these few inches. Within minutes both his shoulders, biceps, and forearms felt as heavy as if he’d been chopping wood for hours. He set his jaw and continued, reaching ever higher as the goat’s udder softened.
After what seemed like an eternity she said, “You can ease up now. She’s at empty.”
He lowered his hands and bit back a groan.
“Pretty decent job for your first time.”
Who would have predicted her words would make him feel like he’d just been awarded a Pulitzer?
She reached up to pat Coco’s shaggy flank. “Coco obviously thought so, too, since she didn’t kick you in the gut. You up to milking Gertrude? She’s a real sweetie.”
God help him. This was harder than any of the PT exercises he’d been given. “Yeah.” He surreptitiously clenched and relaxed his right hand to keep the muscles from stiffening any further.
“Good. Then I can—”
“Morning, Quinn. Brought you coffee.” It was a man’s voice, laced with a Texas accent.
Beside him Quinn started. “Oh! Hi, Josh.”
Ethan looked up and encountered an assessing gaze. He had a hunch this Josh guy had been measuring the inches—of
Then her other hand joined in, working the second teat. Quinn pumped rhythmically, the milk hitting the pail in a steady stream. “Once you’ve started milking, you’ll notice that the bag—a.k.a. the udder—empties. When it’s less full, you can press higher. See?”
“Yeah,” he said, and then, figuring she wanted him to look, he leaned in. A mistake, as once again he was distracted by her nearness. He told himself to concentrate on the goat and not the girl, on the rich tang of warm milk rather than the lighter, floral scent emanating from Quinn. It was damned hard.
And, Christ, she really must be unaware, or at least totally unaffected and uninterested, because she began chattering away, telling him all about her goats and the cheesemonger who used their milk to make cheese for the ranch’s restaurant, selling any extra that remained at the farmer’s market in town. Meanwhile, Ethan watched her long, supple fingers and wondered what they’d feel like against his skin….
“Okay, now put your hands over mine so you can get a better sense of what I’m doing.”
He bit back the instinctive
No. Hell, no
that sprang to his lips. He’d been to Afghanistan. Surely he could manage to milk a goat. Surely he could handle touching Quinn Knowles. “Right,” he muttered.
She stilled her hands. He placed his larger ones lightly over them.
For a second she was silent. Then she said, “Here we go.”
Was there a slight breathlessness to her voice? he wondered. But then her hands began moving, her fingers opening and squeezing as she worked the teat, his own following, learning, feeling the softness of her skin and the strength in her fingers. Warm milk streamed into the pail, the sound growing deeper as the pail filled.
“Pay attention to the rhythm,” she instructed.
Oh God, the rhythm. And no, it wasn’t a slow thrust and grind but that didn’t make it any the less carnal. He frowned, trying to concentrate.
Up, open, down, squeeze,
he recited silently.
“Got it?”
Jesus.
“Yeah, I think so.” His voice was rough.
“Good.” Without warning, she slipped her hands from beneath his and sat back, crossing her arms about her middle.
He knew a moment of panic as he tried to remember Quinn’s motions, tried to feel for the milk in the udder that was waiting to be released. Then a minor miracle occurred. A stream of milk spurted into the pail, followed by another—nowhere near as strong or evenly paced as when Quinn had worked the teats, but still.
Ethan made himself maintain the tempo and smooth it out, even as his arm and shoulder began to throb from moving these few inches. Within minutes both his shoulders, biceps, and forearms felt as heavy as if he’d been chopping wood for hours. He set his jaw and continued, reaching ever higher as the goat’s udder softened.
After what seemed like an eternity she said, “You can ease up now. She’s at empty.”
He lowered his hands and bit back a groan.
“Pretty decent job for your first time.”
Who would have predicted her words would make him feel like he’d just been awarded a Pulitzer?
She reached up to pat Coco’s shaggy flank. “Coco obviously thought so, too, since she didn’t kick you in the gut. You up to milking Gertrude? She’s a real sweetie.”
God help him. This was harder than any of the PT exercises he’d been given. “Yeah.” He surreptitiously clenched and relaxed his right hand to keep the muscles from stiffening any further.
“Good. Then I can—”
“Morning, Quinn. Brought you coffee.” It was a man’s voice, laced with a Texas accent.
Beside him Quinn started. “Oh! Hi, Josh.”
Ethan looked up and encountered an assessing gaze. He had a hunch this Josh guy had been measuring the inches—of
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