I heard Leo saying good night to some of the guys who worked the farm, then heard his footsteps. Which came to stop just behind me. I walked through the old oaken doorway of the silo, and he followed. Once the door closed behind us, it was quiet. And dark.

“So which came first, the barn or the silos?” I asked, looking at the soaring stone walls. Perfectly cylindrical, the four silos were almost three stories tall and could be seen from all over the farm.

“The barn,” Leo answered, walking toward me.

I backed away slightly, letting my gaze linger on the stone walls, and not the farmer who was now circling behind me.

“And when did you say the barn was constructed?” I asked, moving closer to the curved wall.

“Weren’t you paying attention on the tour the other day?”

I traced the line of one of the fieldstones, fitting my fingertip into the groove between it and the one on top. Though the day had been warm, inside the silo the stones were cool. “I was mostly paying attention,” I admitted.

“Mostly?” he asked, now directly behind me.

I shivered a bit, and not from the cool rock wall. I could feel the heat of him on my body, not yet touching, but fitting against my skin.

“I was a little”—I inhaled sharply, as those strong hands lifted my hair off my left shoulder, leaving my freckled skin exposed—“distracted,” I finished weakly.

Because now he bent his head down to my skin, nuzzling into my hair. Little flickers of desire were starting to smolder all over. Thinking someone felt the same attraction you were feeling was one thing; knowing that it was mutual was an entirely different kind of awesome. His nose brushed against my shoulder, and my fingers opened wide against the stone.

He pressed one solitary kiss into the hollow between my shoulder and neck, and my brain went a bit fuzzy. His lips, warm and wet, continued a path up along my neck, dragging his mouth, a little bit nibbling and a lot bit incredible.

His hands settled on my hips, curving around and up as his thumbs brushed the skin exposed by the dip in my dress. My back arched as my body reacted to having him so close. Once again he nuzzled at my neck, his breath now heavy in my ear.

“If you still want to talk about construction dates and historical significance, I’m happy to oblige,” he told me, then swept another line of kisses along my jawline.

I turned my head to let the man do the job he was clearly so good at. “I like history,” I replied, my voice husky.

“History . . .” he said, closing his mouth around my pulse point. Pretty sure my heart tried to move closer to his lips. “. . . has its place.”

“I like the present too.” My hands finally tangled in his hair. “The present can be just as interesting.”

And in the current present, Leo’s hands were sliding up the sides of my torso to splay his fingers wide across my rib cage, just barely brushing underneath my breasts. I stopped breathing. I also stopped caring that I was unaware of how many people might be outside that heavy oaken door. A door that, while extremely thick, might not be thick enough to muffle my cries if Leo touched me where I needed him to.

Every part of my body shivered as his fingers slid up, up toward my breasts, which felt heavy and full. I sighed when the tip of his pinkie grazed my nipple. I sighed when I arched into him and felt him at my back, strong and hard and oh . . . hard. I sighed when his teeth nibbled just behind my ear, his teeth and his tongue and his sweet scruff rasping my skin. And I sighed when one of his hands left my breasts to sweep my hair back again, rolling my head to the side to expose the base of my neck. And I cried out when he left a trail of openmouthed kisses down the center of my back, and then licked my spine on the way back up.

He. Licked. My. Spine.

That night I tossed and turned for a different reason than usual. The breeze had dissipated, leaving the night warm and sticky. I had all the windows open with a fan blowing, trying to bring in a breath of wind. I tossed and turned because I was hot, I tossed and turned because I was an insomniac, and I tossed and turned because I was horny as hell after Almanzo Wilder very nearly worked me over in a century-old silo. And if it wasn’t for a tour group very nearly catching us in flagrante desilo, I’d have totally let him.

I turned over onto my stomach, burying my face in my pillow as images scorched my overheated mind. His hands, sliding my dress halfway up my thighs. I exhaled loudly into the pillow, and rolled over onto my side. A minifilm played out in my mind, where Leo and his torture beard tickled my spine as he kissed a path straight down from the base of my skull down to where my dress began, and then licked my spine on the way back up. A dress that was one of my favorites, but if he’d torn it off and left it in a heap on the floor, I’d have shouted hallelujah and made sure that he found my bra and panties equally as offensive.

He licked my spine.

I huffed over onto my back, right leg bent up and left leg stretched to the side, trying to feel some kind of breeze, some kind of air, some kind of relief from the way my brain was burning up with fantasy flashes of sweaty, sexy bodies frolicking through a vegetable patch and doing the naughty next to some peeping tomatoes.

How do you spell relief?

T-O-U-C-H M-Y-S-E-L-F.

Well, a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do . . .

My left hand was clenched into a fist up by my head, and my entire body was clenched in a ball of tension. I forced it to unclench, forced my fingers to relax and waggle back and forth a little bit, rolling my wrist as I let my hand come down down down, ghosting along the white sheets, along the edge of my tank top and my overheated skin.