CHAPTER 25
BLAIRE
I f I’d had the faintest amount of self-preservation, I would have taken my ass directly to bed, locked the door, and maybe even pushed a dresser in front of it for good measure.
What I wouldn’t have done was wash my face, complete my skincare with unsteady hands, and brush my teeth for exactly two minutes while avoiding my flushed reflection in the mirror.
I wouldn’t have paced the living room like a caged animal, heart hammering against my ribs and heat prickled up my neck as I caught myself glancing at Ruby’s door for the tenth time.
I foolishly tried to convince myself I didn’t want Colt, didn’t crave the weight of his gaze or the brush of his fingers, but my body betrayed me with each shallow breath.
Good.
The word vibrated through me as I replayed his voice in my head. That one word dripped with promise, with intent. He wanted me waiting, wanted me aching, and I shouldn’t have cared what he wanted. But I did.
I pushed out onto the front porch, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that made my stomach clench. The night air slid over my skin, both welcome and unbearable, as I stood there with my pulse slamming so hard against me I felt it between my thighs.
I moved across the porch as the smell of the ranch at midnight wrapped around me with sweet honeysuckle, the far-off earthiness of hay, and the freshness of the lake as it lapped against the shore.
I sank onto the porch swing, tensing as the chains creaked in protest. The seat was still warm from the sun, but I was burning up from the inside out: a low, liquid ache. I stared down at my hands and clenched and unclenched them to try to make them stop shaking.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Nothing about this felt sensible or safe, and yet I couldn’t make myself pull back from it, couldn’t quiet the part of me that leaned into the danger of him.
Every logical part of me screamed at me to go to bed and lock myself in my room until the memory of Colt’s mouth faded into something manageable.
But logic meant nothing when I could still feel the print of his fingers on my skin and the ghost of his breath on my neck.
If I went to bed now, I’d only waste the night with my hands between my thighs and teeth buried in my pillow to keep from making a sound. I’d done it before, wrapped up in my want for Colt Calloway, tumbling into sleep only when the ache dulled.
But I didn’t want to dull that ache tonight, and I hated myself for it.
I heard his footsteps inside the house before the handle turned, and every muscle in my body tensed at once.
The door swung open and Colt leaned against the doorway, filling the frame with his body, and every nerve in mine strained toward him.
His silhouette was all hard lines and shadow, but the moon caught on his face as his eyes landed on me.
There was no searching, no surprise, just a low, steady heat that rolled across the porch and pinned me to the swing.
“I kind of expected you to be asleep,” he admitted, voice low enough that it sank into my skin.
I fiddled with the hem of my shorts, hoping the darkness would swallow the blush crawling up my chest. “I told you I’d still be up.”
“I know.” He considered me, eyes tracing the line of my jaw, the slope of my throat, like he could see right through the frantic mess beneath. “But I half expected you to run.”
His eyes met mine then, and the silence stretched, taut as a wire, filled with everything neither of us wanted to say.
He finally stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him, and the sound of it clicking shut snapped something loose inside me. He crossed the porch in a few long strides and settled onto the swing beside me, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
We sat like that, side by side, both staring out into the moonlit yard as if it might offer us an answer.
But all I could think about was the distance between us, the half inch of space that felt like a canyon.
I could sense the tension in him, the way his leg bounced restlessly, the way his hands clenched on his thighs.
I was desperate to touch him, desperate to be touched, and the ache of it was unbearable.
We didn’t speak for a long time. Every second ratcheted the pressure higher, wound us tighter. My breath came shallow and fast, and I tried to steady it by matching his rhythm. It only intensified the sensation of waiting, of wanting.
It felt like it did when we were teenagers, two friends both scared to cross the line and ruin what we already had. I’d spent so many nights just like this, drowning in my want for him.
He turned to look at me, and the porch swing creaked as he shifted his weight. His gaze was almost too much to bear—hungry, dark, and unflinching.
“Why are you out here, Blaire?” he asked, voice soft but edged with something sharper. “I need to hear you say it.”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and shook my head.
He grinned as he leaned in, his eyes never leaving mine. “You know you drive me crazy, right?”
My chest hollowed out. All the sharp retorts I’d practiced in my head to keep him at arm’s length disappeared. I opened my mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. I was tired of pretending I didn’t want him, even if it was a terrible idea.
He must have felt my hesitation, or maybe he saw straight through it.
He reached out slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear before letting his fingers trail down the side of my neck.
My skin flared under his touch, every nerve ending desperate for more.
His thumb skated along my jaw, making me feel dizzy and rooted all at once.
He leaned in closer, enough to close the space that had separated us all night, and his day-old stubble followed the same path his fingers had mapped.
Sparks skittered over my skin, and a shiver ran through me.
My thigh jerked against the swing, and I had to anchor myself by curling my fingers around the edge of the seat.
He smelled like leather and spice and something wild I wanted to bottle up and breathe in forever.
He lowered his voice to a hush, and every word sounded like a promise and a threat. “I’ve had you in my house all damn week.” He pressed his lips to the hollow of my throat, and the contact was so unhurried, I thought I might scream.
I clung to the edge of the swing, hot and quivering, but he was in no rush.
He skimmed up my throat and across my jaw, never quite kissing, just breathing, and murmuring, “Do you have any idea what you do to me, Strawberry? The way you smell, the way you look at me.” He groaned, low and guttural, and I could feel how wet I was just from his words.
I could have stopped him. I could have pushed his hand away or told him to go to hell, but every part of me was humming yes, yes, yes .
His mouth hovered at my ear, and I felt the smile in his whisper. “You ever think about me, Blaire? When you’re alone at night in my fucking house?” He let the question hang there, a lit match tossed into the dry grass of my restraint.
I nodded once, but I couldn’t find the words.
He released a breath, and it fanned across my cheek.
“I think about you all the damn time,” he whispered, voice rough with lust. His hand came up to cradle my jaw, thumb dragging over my bottom lip with enough force to open my mouth.
“I think about this fucking mouth and all the things I’d love to do to it.
I think about you being down the hall from me, and I wrap my hand around my cock to the thought of you being in that room as desperate for me as I am for you. ”
His eyes were black with need, but he kept his voice low against my skin.
“I imagine you coaxing your sweet little pussy with your fingers, so much gentler than I could ever be, and I come with your name on my lips.”
I made a sound in my throat, helpless and high.
I squeezed my legs together, trying to wring out the ache building between them, but he was way ahead of me.
His palm splayed over my throat, holding me steady, while his other hand slid with predatory patience down my bare arm, over my knee, and then up the inside of my thigh.
He didn’t stop until he met the trembling resistance there, and I felt my body arch toward him, desperate and exposed.
He inched my legs apart, enough to break my composure, enough to let the night air in where I was hottest. I could feel the heat of him, his body angled toward mine, the length of his thigh pressed up against my own. He held me open with one hand while his other flexed against my neck.
“Colt,” I whimpered his name.
“Do you like that thought, baby?” His voice was tighter now, as if he was strangling the need with his own hands. “Does it make you hot to know that I haven’t been able to get off since you left without thinking about you?”
I’d always imagined sleeping with Colt again would feel like a betrayal, like giving in to a weakness I should have grown out of years ago, but in that moment, there was no shame, only desire. I felt dizzy with it, wild with the knowledge that I was the only thing in the world that could sate him.
He pressed his forehead against my neck, and for a breathless second, we just sat there, not kissing, not moving, both of us unsteady. I could feel the shape of his restraint, the way he held himself barely in check, and it made me want to shatter that control, to see him undone.
“I think about you too,” I whispered the reckless words.
His lips grazed the shell of my ear. “Tell me what you think about.”
I shut my eyes tight, but the images came anyway. Late-night fantasies, the shame of wanting him when I was engaged to another man, and the echo of his hands in every man I’d let touch me since.