Chapter 35
Blair’s cabin, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia.
Two words and she was undone. Come here. She didn’t need to be told twice.
She moved toward him, her body aligning with his like magnets clicking into place. He met her halfway, mouth crashing into hers, hot and hungry, like the truth she’d just told him had torn something loose inside him.
His kiss was all shades of desperate.
Like he needed to taste everything she was. Like he wanted to burn the rest of the world away and crawl into her skin and just exist there for a while.
She moaned softly, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging gently. He growled against her mouth, his hands gripping her hips, hauling her closer until she was practically straddling his thigh, heat blooming everywhere they touched.
It was frantic and tender, explosive and careful, all at once.
Her body lit up under his touch, every nerve ending sparking to life, a live wire thrumming with current.
His tongue tangled with hers, and God, the way he kissed.
It was like he couldn’t decide whether to worship her or ruin her, and she found herself praying for both.
His hands, which had been gripping her hips, slid up her ribcage, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin underneath her breasts.
The anticipation was a delicious, agonizing tease before his palms finally covered her.
He didn't just touch her. He claimed her.
His hands molded to the weight of her breasts, his fingers almost mauling her with the sheer force of his passion.
He squeezed, a possessive, desperate grip that sent a bolt of pleasure straight to her core.
Through the thin fabric of her shirt, he found the tight peaks of her nipples, already hard and begging for his attention.
He rolled them between his thumbs and forefingers, a rough, insistent pressure that made her gasp into his mouth.
The friction was exquisite, a sweet torment that made her clit pulse in response, a deep, insistent throb that mirrored the rhythm of his touch.
Her fingers slid under his shirt, her nails scraping lightly across the taut, hot skin of his abdomen, tracing the lines of his muscle.
He shuddered, a full-body tremor that vibrated right through her.
She felt him then, hard and thick against her thigh, a rigid, aching length that promised everything she suddenly craved.
She was gone. Drenched. Her core clenched, a wave of slick heat flooding her, making her panties feel impossibly wet.
Ready. Wanting. She was so ready for him, she was trembling with it.
He deepened the kiss, angling his head to take more, his tongue stroking, claiming, possessing. He was no longer just kissing her. He was devouring her, and she wanted so much more.
He broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, and for a second, she saw the wild, desperate need in his eyes before he was moving.
His hands were on her waist, and he was lifting her, turning them, and then gently, firmly pushing her back onto the couch.
The cushions gave way beneath her, and he was on her in an instant, covering her body with his own.
He was a furnace, a solid wall of heat and muscle that blanketed her.
His weight was delicious, grounding, a promise of everything she’d been wanting.
He settled between her thighs, his hips finding a perfect, devastating home against hers.
He thrust against her, one slow, deliberate grind of his rigid length against the seam of her jeans.
The friction shot through her, a white-hot jolt that made her back arch.
He did it again, harder this time, a rhythm that was both a question and an answer, and her hips rose to meet him, a silent, desperate plea for more.
His breathing was harsh and ragged in her ear, each exhale a testament to the control he was fighting to keep.
She could feel the frantic beat of his heart against her ribs, a powerful, frantic drumming that matched her own.
His muscles were bunched and tense, the thick cords of his shoulders and arms locked as he held himself above her, a predator poised to strike.
Then his hands were on her shirt, pushing the fabric up her stomach, over her ribs.
His big hands were a shock of searing heat, leaving a trail of aching need in their wake.
He was beyond finesse, hooking his fingers into the cup of her bra and yanking it down, exposing her breast to the cool air.
His gaze dropped, dark and hungry, before he lowered his head.
His hot, wet mouth closed over her nipple.
He savaged the aching bud, his stubble sending prickles of delicious, shivering sensation into her throbbing nerve endings.
Her hands curled into his hair, clenching and pulling him closer.
He sucked hard, a deep, pulling pressure that sent a shockwave straight to her clit, making her core clench and pulse for the same treatment.
His tongue swirled around the tight peak, a rough, wicked circle of pleasure that had her crying out, her fingers digging into the powerful muscles of his shoulders. She never wanted him to stop.
But he pulled back. Abrupt. Breathless.
She kissed down his jaw, across the stubble of his throat, felt the way his breathing turned ragged. “Kelly,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “We can move to the—”
His hands slid from her body like he didn’t trust himself to keep holding on. His jaw clenched, chest rising and falling like he’d just run ten miles. “Oh, God. What the fuck am I doing?”
She froze, confused.
“I want you,” he said, voice wrecked, every word like it scraped its way out of his chest as he smoothed her clothes over her exposed body.
His eyes locked on hers, storm-dark and raw, and for a single breathless moment, she felt all of it, the hunger, the restraint, the ache that went bone-deep. There was no mask left. No armor. Just a man trying not to drown in the pull of her.
“God, Blair,” he whispered, his voice catching. “I want you so bad it hurts.”
“Then—”
“I can’t.” The words shattered between them.
He stood, quickly, like distance would protect them both. Scrubbed a hand through his hair.
“I have to get my head right,” he said, pacing a few steps away. “I’m still…I’m not okay yet. I’m not doing this with you unless it’s real. Unless I’m all the way in it. Not just in my body. In my head. In my heart.”
She stared at him, pulse pounding, lips kiss-swollen and fingertips still burning.
“I’ll take the guest room,” he said softly, not looking at her yet. Then he turned. That look… Geezus. It gutted her. He wanted to stay, it was killing him to leave. He memorized her face in case he fell apart before morning.
“Good night, angel,” he said, voice low and hoarse. Then he walked away and left her sitting there, wanting him more than she ever had in her life, her body still humming with the heat of what almost happened. The guest room door was only a few feet away, but it felt like a hundred miles.
No. Not like this. Not after everything he had just laid bare.
She stood, quiet and steady, and took a step toward him.
“Kelly.” His name was barely a whisper, but he stopped.
Turned. His eyes were full of that same storm.
Want, fear, restraint. But under it was need.
“Don’t go,” she said softly. “Not like that. Come back to the fire. Just sit with me.”
A long moment passed. Then he came back. Slowly. Hesitantly. But he came.
She settled onto the couch again, curling one leg under her, giving him room. He sat beside her like he wasn’t sure how to take up space anymore. His shoulders were tight, his body still thrumming like he hadn’t found a place to set it all down.
She just leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, the fire warming them both.
"Why all this restraint?" she asked quietly.
He swallowed hard, rubbing his thighs like the truth had to be pulled from his skin. "It's an ugly story," he said, not meeting her eyes. "And it starts with my mom… do you want to… hear it?"
She moved closer, gently, giving him the space to back away if he needed it.
"Of course, I do," she said. "Tell me."
He took a breath, released it slowly, and his voice was compressed, low, aching.
He told her about his father’s death when he was ten, the way his mom reacted, the way she lied to him when he knew she was grieving, something he didn’t know how to handle.
All he wanted was truth and something real from her.
The lying continued over the years, then he’d found the picture, the devastating lie, the betrayal that gutted him in his own kitchen.
How he’d spent years cherishing a truth that turned out to be fabricated.
His voice was steady, until it cracked at the part about the bruises.
His eyes stayed on the floor when he admitted how helpless he’d felt, how enraged he was now knowing who his real father was, and what that man had done. “I was lost.”
She listened, motionless except for the way her chest lifted, slowly, like she was trying not to break.
When he paused, she slipped her arm across his shoulders, fingers moving to his nape, massaging gently. His hair was soft against her skin, like silk warmed in firelight. Her hand drifted lower, settling over the rise of his shoulder.
Then came Dusty's Roadhouse.
He stuttered through it, the words jagged and thick.
The hollow in his voice was deeper than anything he’d shared.
She could see the memory living in his eyes, dark and full of shame.
It wasn’t just about what he’d done. It was what it meant.
What it revealed about him. Or what he feared it revealed.
When he finished, he turned toward her. That stoic sniper face cracked open and vulnerable in a way that broke her in two.