Chapter 10
Madison
The drive back to Wylde Mountain feels like thirty minutes.
We're in Jake's truck. My food truck will stay parked at the rodeo grounds until tomorrow, when we'll figure out logistics. And my phone hasn't stopped buzzing since we pulled out of the parking lot.
"Your followers are very invested in our relationship," Jake observes, glancing at my screen as I scroll through the notifications.
"Apparently so." I laugh at another comment. "'If they don't post an update within 24 hours I'm filing a missing persons report.' These people don't mess around."
"Should I be concerned?"
"Probably." I shift in my seat to face him better, tucking one leg underneath me. "My account has never had this kind of engagement before. You might be good for business."
"Happy to help."
My phone buzzes again. And again. I post a quick story—just a shot of the dark highway ahead, captioned "Heading home" with a heart emoji—and the responses flood in immediately.
"'Home,'" Jake reads over my shoulder at a red light. "Interesting word choice."
"It feels right."
He reaches over and takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. We stay like that for miles, connected across the center console while the dark Montana landscape rolls past outside.
My phone keeps buzzing.
"You're popular tonight," he says.
"I've never gone viral before. It's a lot."
"Do you want to turn it off?"
I consider this. "No. It's actually kind of fun. In a completely overwhelming way."
He laughs. "That's one way to put it."
I spend the next hour alternating between responding to comments and stealing glances at his profile in the darkness.
"I can't believe you drove this far to profess your love in front of thousands of strangers."
"I can't believe you were live streaming."
"I was making content! It's literally my job!"
"At 7pm on a Tuesday?"
"Peak engagement hours!"
He's laughing now, shaking his head. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I do." He squeezes my hand. "I really do."
*****
By the time we pull into Jake's driveway, it’s late. The house is dark, the porch light casting a warm glow across the front steps. Everything is quiet and still and perfect.
Jake cuts the engine.
We look at each other.
"So," I say.
"So."
"We're here."
"We are."
There's a beat of silence. Then Jake is out of the truck, around to my side, yanking open my door. Before I can even process what's happening, he's scooping me up and throwing me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
"Jake!" I shriek, laughing. "What are you—put me down!"
"Nope." He's already striding toward the house, his arm locked firmly across the backs of my thighs. "I've been thinking about this for hours. Longer. Five days, actually."
"Thinking about manhandling me?"
"Among other things."
He fumbles with the door, gets it open, kicks it shut behind us. The house is dark but he navigates it easily, carrying me through the living room and down the hallway and into his bedroom.
Then he tosses me onto the bed.
I bounce once, laughing, breathless. He's standing over me, chest heaving, eyes dark with want.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi."
"That was very caveman of you."
"I have my moments."
I sit up, suddenly aware of everything—the smell of the rodeo still clinging to my clothes, the dried sweat at my temples, the flour I never quite managed to wash out of my hair.
"I need a shower," I say. "I've been working a food truck all day. I'm disgusting."
Jake's expression shifts into something heated. "Okay."
"Okay?"
He holds out his hand. "Let's go."
We don't make it to the bathroom with our clothes intact.
It starts with a kiss. Him pulling me up from the bed and capturing my mouth with his. Then his hands are at the hem of my shirt, tugging upward, and I'm reaching for the buttons of his flannel, and somewhere between the bedroom and bathroom my shirt hits the floor.
His flannel follows.
By the time we reach the shower, we're both down to nothing.
Jake reaches past me to turn on the water, his chest pressed against my back, his breath hot on my neck. Steam begins to fill the small space.
"Get in," he murmurs against my ear.
I step under the spray. The hot water hits my shoulders like a blessing, washing away the long day, the dust and sugar and exhaustion. Then Jake steps in behind me and nothing else matters.
He turns me to face him.
For a moment we just stand there, water cascading over us, looking at each other. Really looking. No pretense, no barriers, nothing between us but steam and want.
"You're beautiful," he says.
"You're biased."
"Doesn't make it less true."
He reaches for the shampoo, some generic man brand that smells like cedar, and pours some into his palm. Then his hands are in my hair, massaging my scalp, working the lather through my tangled waves.
I close my eyes and let myself feel it. His strong fingers. The hot water. The intimacy of being cared for like this.
"Tip your head back."
I do, and he rinses the shampoo away, careful to keep it out of my eyes. Then he reaches for the soap.
"My turn," I say, intercepting him.
I lather up my hands and start with his chest, tracing the planes of muscle, the dark hair, the small scar on his left side I hadn't noticed before. He watches me with hooded eyes as I work my way down his arms, across his stomach, around to his back.
"You're thorough," he manages.
"I believe in doing things right."
He takes the soap from me and returns the favor. Slower, more deliberate. His hands slide over my shoulders, down my arms, across my collarbone. He cups my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I gasp.
"Jake—"
He kisses me. Deep and searching, his tongue sliding against mine, his hands still moving over my slick skin. The water falls down on us as he backs me against the cool tile wall.
"I've been thinking about this," he murmurs against my mouth. "Every night for five days."
"What specifically?"
His hand slides down my stomach. Lower. "This."
When his fingers find me, I cry out. He swallows the sound with another kiss, his hand working between my thighs with devastating precision.
"That's it," he breathes. "Let me feel you."
The combination of his mouth on mine and his fingers inside me is almost too much. I grip his shoulders, my nails digging in, as the pressure builds and builds.
"Jake—I'm going to—"
"I know." He presses his forehead to mine, watching my face. "Let go, Madison. I've got you."
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me, wave after wave, and Jake holds me up through all of it, his fingers gentling as I come down, his mouth pressing soft kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
"Good girl," he murmurs.
I laugh weakly against his chest. "I think my legs stopped working."
"Then I'd better get you to bed."
He turns off the water and guides me out of the shower, grabbing a towel from the rack. He dries me off with the same careful attention he gave to washing me, then swipes the towel haphazardly over himself before tossing it aside.
We're still damp when we fall into his bed.
I don't care. I don't care about anything except his body against mine, his hands in my hair, his mouth finding mine in the darkness.