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Summary
He stood there for a second, as if deciding on something. Then he turned fully toward her and extended his right hand. “Welcome to DragonBlood Acres, Dr. Arryn.”
The formality of it, after the gruff tour, took her slightly aback. She reached out and took his hand.
The feeling was immediate and electric. His hand was large, the palm broad and seamed with calluses that felt like ridges of worn leather against her skin. It was overwhelmingly warm, a dry, living heat that seemed to radiate up her arm. Her own hand disappeared within his grasp, which was firm, solid, and brief. It was a businessman’s handshake, but the physical reality of it,the sheer, tactile difference between his work-forged strength and her own softer, smaller hand sent a confusing jolt straight to her core. It was a sensation of pure, unadorned physicality that was both startling and strangely compelling. She pulled her hand back, the ghost of his warmth lingering on her skin.
“Thank you, Mr. Targaryen,” she managed, her voice thankfully steady.
The Daemyra horse ranch's slow burn au nobody asked for!