9. Matt
MATT
The knock comes soft, barely there. I don't answer.
"Matt?" Her voice cracks through the door. "Please."
"Leave."
The door opens anyway. Course it does. She never could follow a simple order when it mattered.
I keep my back to her, staring out the window at the empty pasture. My jaw aches from grinding it for the last hour.
"I don't have an excuse." She stays by the door. Smart. "For what I said. Calling you a hick. Making fun of—of everything you care about. Everything you are."
I cross my arms, feel the tension pull across my shoulders.
"I was that girl. The one who threw away Mom's money because I was too lazy and entitled to show up to class. Who thought manual labor was beneath me. Who—" Her breath hitches. "Who mocked the best man I've ever known to make myself look cool to people who don't even matter."
My throat tightens but I don't turn around.
"I'm different now." Footsteps, careful, coming closer.
"I know you don't believe me. Why would you?
But Matt, I—I love the smell of hay in the morning.
Even when it makes me sneeze. I love checking the fence line at dawn and seeing the mist burn off the fields.
I love the way the horses nicker when I bring them breakfast, how they shove their noses into my hands. "
She's beside me now. I can see her reflection in the window glass, small and wrecked.
"I love that my back aches at the end of the day because I actually did something.
Built something. Fixed something. Helped something.
" Her voice drops. "I love watching you work.
How you're so careful with the foals, how you know every animal by name.
How you check the gates twice because you're responsible for every living thing here. "
My chest hurts.
"I love the way the stars look without city lights. The way the barn cats follow me around now. How Mrs. Henderson at the feed store remembers my coffee order." She laughs, wet and broken. "I even love mucking stalls, because it means I'm useful. That I'm not that useless girl anymore."
I finally turn. Her eyes are red, her face blotchy. No makeup, hair a mess. Never looked more real.
"I enrolled back in vet school." She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "For real this time. Because I want to help animals, not because Mom pushed me. Because I found something I'm actually good at, something that matters."
"Mira—"
"I'm sorry." The words pour out desperate, raw. "I'm so, so sorry. For disrespecting you. For treating this place like it was nothing when it's everything. For being too coward to defend you to people whose opinions I don't even care about."
She reaches for my hand, stops herself.
"I know I don't deserve it, but I'm asking anyway." Her chin trembles. "Please forgive me."
The silence stretches. She stands there, not running, not making excuses. Just waiting.
Just different.
The shame in her eyes guts me. Not fake, polished-up regret—real, bone-deep remorse that sits heavy in the space between us.
She's different. I feel it in my chest, in the way she stands there waiting for judgment she thinks she deserves.
I reach for her. She flinches, surprised, then melts into me as I pull her close. Her small frame fits against mine like it always has, like it's supposed to.
"I want to make love with you."
Her breath catches. Those caramel eyes search mine, finding something there that makes her whole expression crack open. She cups my face with both hands, her palms warm and steady.
"Yes."
I kiss her. Not rough or claiming—slow and deep, like I'm trying to memorize the shape of her mouth, the taste of her. She sighs into it, her fingers sliding into my hair, and I kiss her harder, torrid, like she's my air and I've been drowning.
Her hands drop to my chest, fumbling with the buttons on my work shirt. I help her, shrugging it off while I tug at the hem of her tank top. She lifts her arms and I pull it over her head, toss it aside. No bra underneath. Her breasts are fuller now, heavier.
Mine.
She works at my belt, her fingers shaking a little as she unlatches the buckle and pushes my jeans down. I kick them off, then hook my thumbs into her sleep shorts and peel them down her thighs. She steps out of them, naked and flushed in the dim light from the window.
I scoop her up. She wraps her arms around my neck, presses her face into my throat. Her legs curl around my waist as I carry her to the bed and lay her down on the quilt.
She looks up at me, her curls fanned out on the pillow, her chest rising and falling fast. I settle over her, careful not to crush her with my weight. Her hands slide up my arms, tracing the ink on my biceps, then higher to my shoulders.
"I love you." She whispers it like a secret, like it's been locked inside her for weeks and she finally can't hold it back.
My throat tightens. I kiss her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth.
"I love you too."
Her eyes shine. She pulls me down, kisses me deep and slow, her legs parting to cradle me. I settle between them, feel the heat of her against me, and I have to stop myself from just driving in and taking what I need.
Not tonight.
Tonight I want her to feel everything. Every touch, every kiss. I want her to know she's forgiven, that she's mine, that nothing—no cruel text, no bratty past version of herself—can change that.
I brush her hair back from her face, run my thumb along her jaw. She turns into the touch, her eyes locked on mine, and I see it there—trust, love, need.
"You're mine, Mira."
"Always."
I kiss her again, deeper this time, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my mouth against hers. She gasps, her fingers tightening in my hair, and I swallow the sound.
My lips leave hers and trail along her jaw, rough beard scraping against her soft skin.
She tilts her head back, giving me access, and I take it.
My mouth moves down the column of her throat, lingering at the hollow where her pulse hammers wild and fast. I drag my teeth across the sensitive skin there and she shivers beneath me.
Lower. I kiss along her collarbone, then down to her chest. Her breasts rise and fall with each uneven breath, full and heavy. The veins beneath the skin are faint blue lines, more visible now than they used to be. I cup one breast in my palm, feel the weight of it, the warmth.
She whimpers.
I lower my head and close my mouth around her nipple. The first taste hits my tongue—sweet, rich, familiar. Milk beads at the tip and I suck harder, drawing it out. She cries out, her back arching off the bed, and I keep going, greedy for it.
Her fingers claw at my shoulders, nails biting into muscle. "Oh God—Matt?—"
I knead her other breast with my hand, thumb circling the nipple until it's stiff and leaking. Milk drips down the curve of her breast and I shift to catch it with my mouth, licking up the trail before sealing my lips around her again. She tastes perfect. Always does. I can't get enough.
She's panting now, her thighs trembling where they bracket my hips. "Please?—"
I release her nipple with a wet pop and move to the other one, giving it the same attention. My hand replaces my mouth on the first, squeezing and rolling, coaxing more milk from her. It leaks between my fingers and I groan against her skin, the sound vibrating through her chest.
"Matt—" Her voice breaks, desperate and needy. "I need?—"
I know what she needs. I can feel her heat against my thigh, slick and ready. But I'm not done yet. I suck harder, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak, and she sobs, her whole body shaking.
Her hips roll against me, seeking pressure, seeking relief. I press down with my thigh and she grinds against it, shameless and frantic. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps, her pupils blown wide when I glance up at her.
"You taste so good," I rasp against her skin. "So damn good, baby."
She whimpers, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Please—please—I can't?—"
I release her breast and drag my tongue across her chest, licking up every drop of milk that's escaped. Her skin is flushed pink, her breasts swollen and tender from my mouth. I kiss the valley between them, then lower, trailing my lips down her stomach.
She's trembling all over now, her hands fisted in the quilt. "Matt?—"
I lift my head, meet her eyes. Hers are glassy, unfocused, her lips parted and wet. She looks wrecked. Beautiful.
"Tell me what you need."
"I need you." Her voice cracks. "Inside me. Please."
I give her breast a small tug, just enough to make her gasp. "Patience."
She whines, high and needy in the back of her throat, and I press a kiss to the underside of her breast before moving lower.
Her stomach quivers under my lips. I drag my mouth down her belly, tracing a path with my tongue. She tastes like salt and skin and something uniquely hers. Her muscles tense and release beneath my touch, her breath coming faster with every inch I descend.
When I reach the juncture of her thighs, I pause. Look up at her.
Her head is thrown back against the pillow, curls wild around her flushed face. Her chest heaves, breasts still damp from my mouth. She's biting her lower lip so hard I'm surprised she hasn't drawn blood.
I spread her thighs wider, settle my shoulders between them. The scent of her hits me—musky and sweet and so damn good my mouth waters.
"Matt—" She lifts her head, eyes wild. "You don't have to?—"
I cut her off by dragging my tongue up her slit in one long, slow stroke.
Her whole body jolts. A strangled cry tears from her throat and her thighs clamp around my head. I grip them, hold her open, and do it again. This time I circle her clit with the tip of my tongue, teasing.
"Oh God—oh?—"
She's soaked. I lap at her entrance, tasting her arousal, then push my tongue inside. Her hips buck against my face and I have to pin them down with one arm across her pelvis. She writhes beneath me, desperate little sounds spilling from her lips.