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They are. My fingers are wrapped over hers, thumbs resting against her knuckles, my palms dwarfing hers completely. I can feel her pulse in her wrist. Fast.

She turns.

In the space between me and the press, she turns, and now we're face to face. My hands drop to the press on either side of her, boxing her in. Her back is against the iron frame. My chest is inches from hers. She looks up.

Gold in her eyes. A flush climbing her neck. Her tongue touches her bottom lip, quick, unconscious. Every nerve in my body pulls toward that mouth.

"This is a bad idea," I tell her.

"Terrible idea."

"You're leaving when the assignment's done."

"Probably."

"I don't do temporary."

"Good." She tilts her chin up. "Neither do I."

My hand leaves the press. Finds her jaw. Tilts her face up the rest of the way. My thumb traces her cheekbone, her skin warm under the callus, her breath catching on the inhale.

I kiss her.

Not gentle. Not careful. Five days of watching this woman move through my farm, eat my food, wear my clothes, fill my empty kitchen with laughter, and every bit of it lands in this kiss. My mouth covers hers completely. She opens for me instantly, her hands gripping the front of my thermal, pulling me closer. Tongue against tongue, warm and slow, the taste of apples and coffee. Her back arches off the press. My free hand slides to her waist, fingers gripping the curve of her hip through her jeans, pulling her flush against me.

A sound comes out of her. Small, breathless. My grip tightens.

Her fingers climb my chest, my neck, into my hair. She pulls. My teeth catch her bottom lip. She gasps, and the sound drops straight through me to a place I haven't felt in so long I forgot it existed.

I press her harder against the press. One hand on her hip, one in her hair now, curls wrapping my fingers. Her mouth is sweet and demanding. She kisses back with her whole body, arching into me, her breasts against my chest, her thighs pressing against mine.

My blood is running hot. Brain is going offline. Every cell focused on her mouth, her hip under my hand, the way her body moves against mine. If I don't stop now I won't stop at all.

I pull back. An inch. Forehead against hers. Both of us breathing hard. Her eyes are half-closed, lips swollen, fingers still tangled in my hair.

"That wasn't careful," she whispers.

"No."

"Are you going to pretend it didn't happen?"

My thumb traces her bottom lip. Swollen from my teeth. "I don't pretend."

"Good." She lets go of my hair. Smoothes the front of my thermal where she grabbed it. Straightens up against the press. "Because I'm coming back tomorrow."

"I know."

"And Wednesday."

"Poppy."

"And probably Thursday."

"You're a problem."

"I know." She grins. Bright, flushed, completely devastating. "Your problem."

She slides out from between me and the press. Grabs her camera from the table where she left it. Walks to the barn door. Stops. Looks back.