Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Ty’s mouth claimed hers—rough, commanding, with a hunger that stole the breath from her lungs.
Lark melted against the solid wall of his chest, her fingers curling tight in his flannel shirt as if she could anchor herself to this moment, to him, to the fire sparking low and hot in her belly.
Every kiss deepened, each one more possessive than the last, gathering heat like a storm building on the horizon until the rest of the world fell away into shadow.
She’d told herself she was furious with him, that she didn’t trust him—couldn’t trust him.
But now, with his large, calloused hands skimming up her sides, fingertips rough against the soft skin of her ribs through thin fabric, and his breath ragged and hot against her throat, none of that mattered.
Anger had burned away, leaving only want—raw and aching and impossible to deny.
When he broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers, their breath mingling in the charged space between them. His voice came out gravelly-rough, a low rumble she felt in her bones. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.”
Her lips curved, though her breath came shaky and uneven. His heart hammered against her palm, wild as her own, his chest broad and solid beneath her touch. “Then stop pretending you don’t want to burn, too.”
His answering sound was a low growl, part warning, part barely restrained need. The way he looked at her—dark eyes intense, possessive, like she was something he’d claimed the moment he’d laid eyes on her—sent liquid heat cascading straight through her core.
“Careful what you ask for,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made her knees weak.
He kissed her again, but this time there was nothing tentative about it.
His mouth demanded surrender, and she gave it willingly, opening for him with a soft whimper that seemed to snap something loose inside him.
His tongue swept against hers, claiming, tasting, branding.
His hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back to give him deeper access, the slight pull on her scalp sending shivers racing down her spine.
His mouth traced a burning path along her jaw to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse fluttered wild and frantic. He scraped his teeth against the sensitive skin there, and she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
“That’s it,” he murmured against her skin, his voice rough with approval. “Let me hear you.”
His beard rasped against her neck as he kissed lower, and the contrast of rough and soft made her head spin.
One large hand cupped her face, calloused thumb brushing her flushed cheek, while the other splayed possessively across her lower back, pulling her flush against him until she could feel every hard plane of his body.
“Tell me to stop,” he commanded against the curve of her shoulder, though his grip only tightened, his voice holding no conviction whatsoever.
She met his gaze through heavy-lidded eyes, saw the barely controlled hunger there, the promise of exactly what she’d been craving without knowing it. “I won’t.”
Something wild flashed in his eyes—restraint snapping like a frayed rope. “Good girl,” he growled, and the praise sent a thrill straight through her.
In one fluid motion, he lifted her, his hands gripping her thighs as he walked them toward the bed. She wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the powerful muscles flexing beneath her, the size and strength of him making her feel small and protected and utterly claimed.
He laid her on the bed with surprising gentleness, but there was nothing gentle in the way he looked at her—like a predator that had finally cornered its prey.
The firelight flickered over his face, casting shadows that emphasized the sharp cut of his jaw, the intensity in his dark eyes, and the breadth of his shoulders as he loomed over her.
“You’re mine tonight,” he said, his voice a low rasp that brooked no argument. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she breathed, and the word came out like a prayer and a plea.
He made a satisfied sound deep in his chest, then his mouth was on hers again—demanding, consuming. His weight settled over her, and she reveled in it—the solid, masculine heat of him, the way he made her feel sheltered and desired and safe even as he took complete control.
His hands mapped her body with deliberate possession—skimming up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through fabric, making her arch into his touch with a soft moan.
He pulled back just enough to strip away the barriers between them, his movements efficient, purposeful, his heated gaze devouring every inch of newly exposed skin.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with reverence and hunger. His palm slid up her thigh, calluses catching slightly on her smooth skin, the roughness of his touch a delicious contrast that made her shiver.
When his mouth found her breast, she cried out, her fingers tangling in his thick hair. He lavished attention there, his tongue and teeth working in tandem until she was writhing beneath him, desperate for more. His free hand pinned her hip to the mattress, holding her steady.
“Stay still,” he commanded against her skin. “Let me take care of you.”
She forced herself to obey, though every nerve ending screamed for friction, for release.
His hand traveled lower, fingers tracing patterns on her inner thigh before finally—finally—touching her where she ached most. The first brush of his calloused fingers against her slick heat made her gasp, her back arching off the bed.
“So ready for me,” he praised, his voice thick with approval and desire. He worked her with skilled fingers, learning what made her gasp and moan, what made her hips buck against his hand despite his order to stay still. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let go for me.”
The pressure built with devastating precision, his thumb circling while his fingers worked inside her, stretching, preparing. When release crashed over her, she cried out his name, her body trembling and clenching around his fingers as pleasure rolled through her in waves.
“Beautiful,” he murmured again, watching her come undone with possessive satisfaction. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
He positioned himself above her, his muscled arms bracketing her head, making her feel surrounded, sheltered, claimed. When he finally joined with her, filling her completely in one slow, devastating thrust, they both groaned—her at the exquisite stretch and fullness, him at the tight, wet heat.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and her eyes snapped to his. “I want to see every expression on that pretty face.”
He set a rhythm that was both tender and demanding—deep, deliberate strokes that hit something perfect inside her with each thrust. His hand found hers, pinning it to the mattress beside her head, fingers threading through hers in a gesture that was both possessive and intimate.
The sounds of their bodies joining filled the room—skin against skin, her breathy moans, his rough groans of pleasure.
The bed frame creaked with the force of his movements, and she loved it—loved the reminder of his strength, his control, the way he held nothing back now that she’d given herself over to him.
“You feel perfect,” he rasped against her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Like you were made for me.”
The words, the praise, the commanding tone—all of it pushed her higher. She felt the tension coiling again, tighter this time, more intense.
“Ty,” she gasped, her free hand clutching at his back, nails digging into the flexing muscles there.
“I’ve got you,” he promised, adjusting his angle, his movements becoming more purposeful. “Come for me again. I want to feel you.”
His thumb found that sensitive bundle of nerves between them, and that was all it took.
She shattered with a cry, her body clenching around him in waves of overwhelming pleasure.
He followed moments later with a rough groan of her name, his whole body going taut as release claimed him, his arms tightening around her like he’d never let go.
For long moments, they stayed locked together, both trembling and breathless. Finally, he shifted his weight slightly so he wouldn’t crush her, but he didn’t pull away—instead gathering her close, tucking her head beneath his chin, one large hand splaying possessively across her lower back.
His other hand traced soothing patterns along her spine as their breathing gradually evened, their racing hearts slowing in tandem. She felt boneless, utterly sated, safe in a way she hadn’t expected.
“You okay?” he murmured against her hair, and she heard the genuine concern beneath the gruffness.
“More than okay,” she whispered against the solid warmth of his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her cheek.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head—gentle now, protective—and pulled the quilt over them both. Outside, the wind sighed through the pines, and the fire crackled softly, casting amber light across the rough-hewn walls of the cabin.
Lark pressed closer to him, her body still humming with the echo of pleasure, her heart unsteady and unguarded. For the first time since she’d met him, she wasn’t thinking about betrayal or consequences or what came next.
For now, wrapped in his strong arms with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, she just wanted to stay in this peaceful moment—knowing full well that morning would shatter it, but she chose to claim this slice of heaven anyway.
Ty lay awake long after Lark’s breathing had gone soft and even.
The fire had burned low, the last embers glowing in the stove like the setting sun. The cabin smelled of cedar and rain, of smoke and her. She was curled against him, her skin warm beneath the sheet, her hair spread across his chest in a dark tangle.
He should’ve felt at peace. He hadn’t felt anything close to that in years. But instead, his chest ached with something sharp and restless.
Because he’d gone too far.
He’d told himself not to touch her. Not to cross that line. Not until she knew everything. But when she’d looked at him like that—eyes wide and trusting, lips parted, whispering his name—every ounce of discipline he’d ever had had gone straight to hell.
Now she was here, wrapped around him like she belonged there, and he was drowning in the truth he hadn’t told her.
Her father’s offer had seemed simple—babysit his daughter, keep her safe, and quietly convince her that the wilderness wasn’t for her. In exchange, the Monroe ranch would be safe. For now, at least.
At the time, it had sounded easy. Make life a little rough for the pampered princess and help his buddy’s family.
But then she’d shown up—all bright eyes and determination, every bit as wild as the country she wanted to photograph—and suddenly it wasn’t simple anymore.
She shifted against him in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, her hand sliding across his stomach. The innocent contact hit him square in the chest. He caught her hand gently, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before resting it back against his heart.
He was a bastard. No way around it.
He should’ve told her from the start. Should’ve walked away the moment he realized she was different. That she wasn’t just another spoiled rich kid with too much money and not enough sense.
But he hadn’t. And now it was too late to pretend it didn’t matter.
He looked at her, studying the curve of her cheek in the shadows. She looked so damn peaceful, so trusting. He didn’t deserve that.
He exhaled slowly, the sound quiet but ragged. He needed to tell her. She deserved to know the truth before she found out some other way.
But how the hell did he tell her that her father had paid him to break her spirit?
He could already picture it—the hurt in her eyes, the betrayal twisting her expression. She’d never forgive him. Hell, he wouldn’t forgive himself.
And yet, keeping it from her wasn’t an option anymore.
He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, letting his fingers linger for just a second before pulling back.
Tomorrow. He’d tell her tomorrow. Before Jake left. Before they headed back out.
She deserved to hear it from him—not from anyone else.
But as he lay there in the quiet, her steady breathing against his chest, he couldn’t shake the feeling that tomorrow might already be too late.