“Maybe it’s warning us,” she murmurs, scratchy and drowsy.
I vow in low tones, raw-voiced, heart hammering steady. “If the storm’s coming, it’ll have to go through me first.”
Morning comes too soon.Lacey in my arms, warm and soft. I never want to let go or leave her side. But today’s about doing. Preparing. Making sure I can keep every vow made to her in the dead of night.
Breakfast is lazy, slow. Me feeding her from the plate of scones I saw her eyeing yesterday. Snagged a few, brought them home for this. Shared coffee. Her in my lap, wearing my flannel, teasing and kissing, making love with our fingers until her breath goes ragged, eyes simmering. She needs more.
Heart bursting, I rise, carry her to the kitchen counter, pulling the blinds when her eyes flick to the window uneasily. I drop to my knees, her breath catches as I worship her the way I should. With my fingers and my mouth, taste exploding on my tongue, the only heat I need.
Her legs drape over my shoulders, shaking, pulling me closer as I learn every inch of her. Thumb sliding and circling, tongue lapping and driving deep. Fingers seeking and wicked, not stopping until her back arches, hips grind into my face. Her walls quiver, spasm violently against my coaxing touch. She surrenders, melts into me like I’m her world, warm gush dragging me under with her.
Sweet honey, not a drop wasted. I moan against the gift, lapping up her pleasure. Then, straighten, grab her around the waist, and pull her into me hard. Her legs lock around my waist, arms thread around my neck, fingers teasing the nape of my neck as I take her in the slanting light of dawn. Breath rushing, body tightening, drenched in her heat and pleasure.
Her fingernails gouge, leave their mark as she fractures around me again, riding waves of pleasure. Heady, needy as I finally let the heat at the base of my spine take over, drive into her decisively, giving and taking, again and again. Flesh slapping, wet and welcome, until I bury my need deep, leave a part of myself. Eyes fracturing, hearts unraveling, bleeding into each other like our flesh.
I prop her ass on the counter, panting, resting my forehead against hers. Savoring the curl of spice around apple blossoms, smoke around vanilla. She cups my face, feathers it in soft adoration, lips tracing the scar running along my jaw and down my neck. Delicate fingers soft as petals trail behind, and I’ve never felt so loved or whole.
I let the silence speak, memorize everything about this bittersweet moment, knowing it has to break. “God, I want to stay with you today,” I confess, breath still easing back towards normal. “But there are things I have to do. Can’t put off.”
“Maybe I could come with you?” she asks, brows knitting, eyes searching my face. A tremble of foreboding beneath the silk of her voice.
“For some of it,” I say, not wanting to worry her more than I have to. I need to consult with Ash, Patrick, and the crew away from her. Have to shelter her from the ugliness and fear as much as possible.
I raise my hand, thumb over her radiant cheek, still hot from lovemaking. Slow drawl, bedroom eyes, reluctant to let go. “Come with me to the stables, then. Meet the horses?”
A wide grin captures her face, artless and unguarded. A hint of the little girl in this woman. “I would love to.”
I chuckle. “Good,” I say, inching back to take in her face, pass my big hand tenderly over her golden locks. “You can wear my flannel and one of my hats. I’ll make a proper cowgirl out of you, yet.”
“One of your hats?” she says, laughing, but there’s a flicker in her eyes I can’t name. Maybe it’s the wind howling around the eaves, maybe something else. Gone before I can pin it. “But doesn’t that mean…?”
“That you’re mine,” I say, jaw tensing. “If that’s what you want it to mean.”
“More than anything,” she whispers breathlessly, a slight hesitation threading the words. Like she can’t quite believe this is happening.
My heart explodes, filled with the need of her, even as I take steps to inch toward the day. Can’t rest, can’t let my guard down until Cary Brantley’s six feet under. He’s proven through his actions, the faint scar on her neck, her quivering words last night that there’s no other way.
I grab her ass, hoisting her through the kitchen and the living room, down the hallway, still buried deep like my promises to her. The tiny movements are excruciating. By the time we reach my bedroom, she’s riding me again, hips driving me closer to the edge, arms holding me tight. More love, too much love for one man, but I’ll take every drop. Coming hard, gripping her flesh, making her mine.
We follow with a shared shower, until I smell like vanilla and she smells like spice, lovemaking beneath curtains of hot water until I feel a new kind of wholeness. The kind I’ll carry with me for always.
Outside, storm clouds gray and burgeon in the distance, wind whipping her blond hair like a golden halo. I pause at the door,that soldier’s instinct tapping at the back of my skull—something about the air feels off, electric. I tell myself it’s the storm rolling in and push the thought aside.
We take my truck to ward off the wind. Inside the stables, the familiar odors of straw, hay, and leather greet us. The flicker of a tail, a snicker as we pass the stalls, greeting each horse and talking in low tones.
“Juniper,” she says at Ash’s mount, catching me off guard. Though I know there’s nothing to it, jealousy flickers, small and unformed. She steps forward, smiling, naming Marshmallow and Pearl, too. Now, my heart expands, feeling how she fits here. Knowing she needs a horse of her own.
“I saw them out riding the other morning on my way to see Chief Patrick.”
I nod, tipping her hat playfully, fighting the silly possessiveness, knowing she’s mine. She stands on tiptoes, returns the favor, a smile on her lips I have to taste. I lift her off the ground. Sunshine and hope, just as I thought. Miss Daisy, Elijah’s horse, neighs, shifts her weight like we’re silly creatures.
Faramir, my favorite, a sleek black Arabian gelding with a white star on his nose, paws at the ground, eyeing Lacey. I introduce them in low tones. Give them a moment to come to an understanding before she extends her hand, and he lets her pat his nose. Proud, hot-blooded, gentling at her touch.
A scar runs the length of his back from his neck to his hindquarters. Her fingers dance over it, eyes questioning. “Attacked by a mountain lion. Almost put down. Owner didn’t have the patience or money for rehabilitation.”
The steed snorts, ears flicking toward the open doorway. Wind shoves another gust of grit inside. Horses always feel a change before men do. I rub his neck, pretending it’s just the weather.
Her eyes ache with the story of discarded things, people. The story of this rescue, the story of us. “Best horse a cowboy ever rode. Would follow me to hell and back. Over cliffs, across raging rivers, trampling rattlesnakes underhoof. A good, solid protector.”
