CHAPTER TWO
Landry
Trouble had a name, and it was Sally Carter.
I’d realized it the first time I saw her, standing behind the counter at the hardware store, snapping at some poor bastard who didn’t know a wrench from a ratchet. The fire in her eyes, the confidence in her stance—it hit me like a physical blow. She wasn’t delicate. Wasn’t polite. She had a mouth on her, sharp enough to cut, and curves that could bring a man to his knees. Her hands moved with purpose, calloused and capable, not soft and uncertain like so many women who came through these mountains.
And I wanted her.
Bad.
The kind of want that settles deep in your bones. The kind that keeps you up at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what she tastes like. The kind that makes your body ache with need when you catch her scent on the wind.
Which was exactly why I had kept my distance.
Men like me didn’t get to have women like her. I knew my place in this world—out here in the woods, hands forever stained with dirt and sap, heart locked away where it couldn’t cause trouble. I knew what happened when I let myself want things. When I let myself reach for them.
But today the universe had other plans. Laughed at me. Taunted me with what I couldn’t have.
Now she was stomping through my cabin, shaking rain drops from her hair, her temper flaring. Which only made it worse. I loved her temper. Her no-nonsense attitude. The sight of her moving through my space, touching my things, breathing my air—it was doing something to me. Something dangerous.
Making me thing she belonged here.
With me.
Hell, to me.
I should’ve known the universe would throw her straight into my path during a damn storm. The rain had started the moment the tree crashed down, as if the sky itself had conspired to trap us together. By the time we’d made it to the cabin, the cold mountain rain had seeped into our clothes and straight under our skin.
She stood in the middle of my cabin, arms crossed over her chest like she was daring me to say something about what had happened. Like I was going to outright blame her. The storm howled outside, wind rattling the walls. But the real problem wasn’t outside.
It was inside.
Her.
Soaking wet. Flushed from the cold. That damn hardware store polo clinging to her curves, the white fabric gone nearly transparent where it stuck to her skin. Wet denim hugging hips that tested every shred of my self-control. Water droplets clung to her eyelashes, her lips, trailing down her throat to disappear beneath her collar.
Curves like that were meant to be held. Meant to be tasted. Meant to be worshipped with hands and mouth and body until she was trembling and breathless.
Not that I had any right thinking about her that way. Sally Carter wasn’t meant for men like me. Ones with a past full of callused hands, a present filled with hard work and a future that was too damn dependent on the whims of nature. Women like her deserved men who could offer them more than a rough cabin in the woods.
The place wasn’t much—just a single open space with a bed in the corner, a small kitchen lining the back wall, and a wood stove that did its best to fight off the Lone Mountain cold. It wasn’t built for comfort. It wasn’t meant to impress. It was built to last.
Like me.
I turned away before my body betrayed me. Again. Twice now, I’d had her pressed against me. Twice I’d felt the soft yield of her body against mine. Twice I’d had to push her away, fighting against every instinct that screamed at me to pull her closer.
I was known for my control, but she was quickly testing my limits. Pushing at boundaries I’d thought were made of steel, only to find they bent like tin beneath her touch.
I shoved some wood into the metal stove, striking a match with more force than necessary. The small flame flared to life, catching on the dry kindling, dancing with the same restless energy that coursed through my veins. There was a chill in the cabin and I needed to get it warm for her. Plus, it gave me something to keep my hands busy before I did something real stupid.
Like drag her against me and taste that smart-ass mouth.
I watched the flames grow, tried to focus on their dance rather than the woman behind me. The heat from the stove warmed my face, but did nothing for the cold dread—or the hot desire—twisting in my gut.
I wasn’t supposed to want her.
Didn’t mean I didn’t.
She was still watching me, her mouth set in that stubborn little line that made me want to test just how stubborn she could be. It was as simple as that. And twice as complicated.
Because now, she was in my space, filling the air with the scent of rain and something sweeter underneath—something that made me think of sweat-damp sheets and whispers in the dark. Something that made my body tighten with anticipation and my mind cloud with images I had no business entertaining.
I slammed the stove shut a little harder than necessary, straightening to find her watching me. Her gaze traveled over me, leaving heat in its wake—like fingers tracing patterns on my skin. I could feel it. The weight of her attention. The curiosity in her eyes.
Those dark eyes, sharp and unreadable. That mouth, just a little too smug. Like she knew.
Knew she was testing me.
Knew she was winning.
I moved to what passed as a kitchen, trying to find some distance from the charge that seemed to build between us with every passing moment. I found two cans of soup and started heating them, movements mechanical, practiced. I needed something to do. Something to focus on that wasn’t the curve of her waist or the way her jeans clung to her thighs. Something to stop thinking about what it would feel like to have her under me, those smart lips parted in a gasp, those clever hands clutching at my back.
I heard her shift behind me, her shoes scuffing against the wooden floor. A small, ordinary sound that shouldn’t have sent heat down my spine. “Not exactly cozy, huh?”
“No one’s ever complained,” I muttered, rubbing a hand over my jaw, feeling the rough scratch of stubble beneath my palm. No one else had been here to complain. No one that mattered, anyway.
She snorted, moving toward the small kitchen, inspecting the place with those keen eyes that seemed to miss nothing. “I bet the bears love it.”
I snorted, the sound somewhere between amusement and irritation. “It’s a work cabin, not a damn bed-and-breakfast.”
“Seriously, McAllister,” she went on, trailing her fingers along the counter, leaving invisible marks that I knew I’d feel long after she was gone. “You live like a recluse up here. Ever think about getting some furniture that doesn’t look like it was chopped down yesterday?”
I turned, leveling her with a look that had sent grown men backing away. “You need a mint on your pillow or something?”
She rolled her eyes, unfazed by my glare. “I need a blanket that doesn’t smell like sawdust and testosterone, but I’m guessing that’s too much to ask.”
I grunted. Because the idea of her wrapped up in my blankets, buried in my bed, surrounded by my scent—was a thought I didn’t need in my head. It would haunt me long after she left. Long after the storm passed and we returned to our careful distance.
“No, can do.” I tried for casual disinterest instead of the raw need clawing at my insides.
She shook her head, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You always this charming?”
“Only when I have company I don’t want.”
Lie.
The problem wasn’t that I didn’t want her here. The problem was that I did.
Too much.
And she had no business being in my cabin or my damn head. She had no business making me feel things I’d long since buried. Making me want things I’d convinced myself I didn’t need.
I leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest, a barrier between us. I watched as she wandered around the small space, taking in rough-hewn table and the large, beat-up leather couch. Every piece had been chosen for function, not form. All of it served a purpose. A place for me and my brothers to crash during bad weather or equipment failure. Delays that kept us on site longer than planned. There was always something testing my control.
Like her.
She looked too damn good here.
Too right.
Like a missing piece I hadn’t known was gone. Like she belonged among my things, her softness a perfect counterpoint to the rough edges of my world.
And that was a problem.
That was why I’d kept my distance. I wasn’t the kind of man who gave women what they deserved. I wasn’t the kind of man who knew how to love gently. I took and I consumed and eventually, I destroyed. It was in my nature.
I had learned that lesson the hard way. Years of short-lived relationships, women who thought they could fix me, who wanted more than I could give. They’d all left eventually, disappointed by the reality of who I was. I wasn’t soft. I wasn’t easy. I wasn’t built for love.
Logging was the only thing that ever made sense to me. The rhythm of it, the way the work stripped you down to nothing but muscle and sweat and force. Out here, things were simple—you took what the land gave, and you respected what it took back. There was no room for complication.
And Sally? She was nothing but complication.
She turned back to me, leaning against the counter. Her hip jutted just enough to test my restraint, the pose both casual and calculated just like it had been when she’d leaned over the seat of her damn truck. “So what now? We sit in silence all night?”
Damn, the attitude on this woman. It made me want to smile. Made me want to see just how far I could push her before that attitude gave way to something else. Something hungry and desperate.
I should have left it alone. Should have turned away, served up the soup. Focused my attention on anything that wasn’t her.
Instead, my mouth betrayed me.
“You’re wet.” The words hung in the air between us, loaded with meaning I hadn’t intended but couldn’t take back. Of course, those words made my hard as a fucking rock. At the thought of her wet. For me. At the thought of sliding my fingers between her thighs and finding her slick and ready.
One of her delicate brows lifted, a gesture that was becoming dangerously familiar. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you walk in the rain, Captain Obvious.”
Something flickered in her gaze. Something like amusement. But beneath it, something heated. Something that matched the fire building in my gut.
“If I didn’t know better,” she mused, taking a step toward me, closing the careful distance I’d maintained, “I’d say you’re worried about me, McAllister.”
“I just don’t want to deal with your ass getting sick while we’re stuck here.” The words came out gruffer than I intended, defensive.
Her mouth curved, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she reached for the hem of her polo and peeled it over her head in one smooth motion, exposing inches of smooth, damp, freaking curvy, skin.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Underneath she had on a thin, black bra. The fabric was wet, clinging to her breasts like a second skin. Her nipples pushed against the fabric. Hard and thick. Begging for attention I had no right to give.
My throat went dry, blood rushing south. I clenched my jaw so hard it ached, fighting the urge to cross the room and put my hands on her. To discover if her skin was as soft as it looked. To taste that damn rainwater that still clung to her collarbone.
She tossed the polo over a kitchen chair, looking straight at me. Like she wasn’t completely unraveling my damn sanity with every casual movement.
She let out a slow breath, her chest rising and falling with the motion. “Better?”
No.
Not even close.
Better would be her beneath me. Better would be her moaning my name. Better would be her wrapping those strong thighs around my waist as I drove into her.
I gave a low growl and marched toward her, unable to stand still under the weight of those thoughts. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just stood there, breathing hard, her eyes tracking me like she was memorizing every movement. I stepped around her and pulled open the top drawer of an ancient dresser by the bed. I grabbed the first shirt I found and tossed it to her.
She caught it, her movements quick and sure.
“Put that on,” I ordered, my voice rough with restraint.
I was surprised—and disappointed—that she obeyed the growled command. The shirt swallowed her, hanging loose on her curvy frame. But somehow, seeing her in my clothes was worse. More intimate. More possessive.
“What about you?” she asked, pulling the hem down over her wide hips.
The movement drew my eyes like a starving man. I dragged my eyes back to hers, forcing myself to focus on her face instead of the curves now hidden beneath my shirt. “What about me?”
She nodded toward me, her eyes traveling over my damp clothes with deliberate slowness. “You have on wet clothes too.”
I grunted, not trusting my voice with actual words. “I’m used to it.”
“Well, I don’t want you getting sick on my conscious either. Take off your shirt.” Her gaze met mine, bold and deliberate. Challenging. She was pushing me. Pushing hard. Testing boundaries I’d carefully constructed to keep her—the one woman who made me want impossible things—at a safe distance.
Slowly, as if I had all the time in the world, as if my body wasn’t springing to life beneath her gaze, I unbuttoned the damp flannel shirt. Each button felt like a surrender, a concession in a battle I was rapidly losing.
I watched her watching me. Watched the way she bit her lip, the way her breath hitched. The way her pupils dilated, black overtaking brown. Saw how her damn nipples became hard diamond points beneath her bra. The way her tongue darted out to wet her lips, a small, unconscious gesture that sent heat straight to my groin.
What the hell were we doing? Playing some kind of twisted game of truth or dare?
I knew her truth. I knew mine.
She wanted this.
I wanted her.
“Are you going to share your food, or do I have to beg?”
Fuck.
That thought nearly snapped my control.
The image of her on my bed, begging me to take her. To touch her. To claim her. Those eyes, challenging even in submission. That mouth, forming my name like a prayer. It was too much.
I grabbed another shirt and pulled it over my head, using the brief moment it covered my face to compose myself. To lock away the beast that was clawing at my restraint.
“Go sit down.” I walked back to the stove, quickly filling two bowls with the soup. I sat them on the table, along with some crackers and spoons. Mundane tasks. Normal things. As if there was anything normal about this situation.
The soup was supposed to be a distraction. A way to cool the fire she’d been stoking in my gut since the second she’d driven onto my land. Hell, the second that I had seen her, months ago, standing behind that counter with fire in her eyes.
It wasn’t working. Nothing had worked. Not distance. Not coldness. Not pretending I didn’t notice every damn thing about her.
I forced myself to focus on my food, slow and steady, ignoring the way she kept sneaking glances at me. The way her spoon would pause halfway to her mouth when she thought I wasn’t looking. The way her tongue would dart out to catch a drop on her lower lip.
Finally, she broke the silence. “That was one big ass tree that fell. Right across the road.”
I exhaled hard. “Yep.” One syllable. Safe. Controlled.
“And you can’t possibly move it tonight?”
I arched a brow. “What do you think? It’s getting dark and it’s raining.” And dangerous. Too dangerous to be out there with chainsaws in this weather. Not that I would risk Sally’s safety for all the comfort in the world.
“So, just to recap.” She flicked a glance around the cabin, her eyes settling briefly on the bed before returning to me. “We’re stuck. Together. All night. In a one-room cabin. With one bed.”
I didn’t like the way she said that.
Didn’t like the way the words hung in the air between us, loaded with possibility.
Didn’t like the way she was looking at me now, more than a hint of want clouding her gaze. I’d kept her at arms’ length for a reason. So that she wouldn’t wind up in my bed. So that I wouldn’t have to face the temptation of her, warm and willing and so close I could touch her.
She was enjoying the situation. The corner of her mouth curled up in a small, knowing smile. Like she could read every thought crossing my mind. Like she knew exactly how hard I was fighting myself.
“My brothers will be here in the morning. We can cut the tree then.” That was the only promise of rescue I could offer her and to myself an end to this torturous proximity. We finished the soup in silence. I quickly washed up the few dishes, turning my back to Sally and bolstering my control. Usually on evenings like this, I read. Or sat out on the small porch and watched it rain, letting the sound soothe me into a meditative state.
When I turned back around, I almost lost it. Sally had removed her shoes and jeans and was now sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed, wearing nothing but my t-shirt and a pair of panties.
Blue. Her fucking panties were blue. Like the sky on a clear day. Like the forget-me-nots that grew in the meadow behind my main cabin. A small scrap of fabric between her legs that I knew would haunt my dreams for weeks to come.
I should’ve looked away. Should’ve thrown a blanket over her, turned my back, done anything but let my gaze drag over those soft, smooth thighs. The curve of her hip. The dip of her waist beneath my too-large shirt.
Instead, I felt my blood heat, my body reacting like I was some kind of fucking animal. Like I’d never seen a woman before. Like Sally Carter was the first and last woman on earth, and I was dying to get laid. And she knew that was exactly how I was feeling.
Oh, she knew.
That smirk, that slow, teasing arch of her brow. Like she could see exactly how much I was fighting myself. Like she was enjoying every second of my torment.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The pain was grounding. Centering. A reminder of who I was and what I couldn’t have.
I’d spent months pretending I wasn’t obsessed with this woman. Pretending I hadn’t jacked off to the memory of her mouth the first time I saw her lick her lips behind the counter at the hardware store. Pretending I hadn’t memorized the sound of her laugh, the way she moved, the scent of her skin when she handed over an order.
And now she was in my bed. Half-dressed. Looking at me like she wanted me to take her. Claim her. Make her mine. As if it could be that simple. As if I was the kind of man who deserved something so good.
I swallowed hard, dragging a hand over my face, trying to shake off the urge to pin her to that mattress and taste every inch of her. Trying to remember all the reasons this was a bad idea. All the ways I could hurt her. All the ways I would inevitably disappoint her.
She’d removed her bra. I saw it laying over her jeans, an invitation to temptation. She stretched, arching her back just a little, her breasts pressing against the thin fabric of the shirt, her nipples hard and hungry. The motion was casual, natural—and utterly devastating to my self-control.
God help me.
I started to pace in front of the window, shoving a hand through my hair. “You need to sleep, Carter.”
She made a small hum, a smug, wicked little noise that shot straight to my cock. I wanted to wipe it off her face with my mouth. Wanted to see if she’d make that same sound when I slid my hands under my shirt and touched her the way she was begging to be touched. With rough calloused hands that would leave bruises.
“Is that what you want me to do?” she mused, voice like honey, sweet and thick with promise.
My eyes narrowed on her, my muscles coiled tight. Because no, that was not what I fucking wanted. I wanted to crawl over her, shove my knee between her thighs, and see if she was as wet as I imagined. I wanted to hear her moan my name, feel her nails scrape down my back, make her beg until she was hoarse with it.
And that was exactly why I needed to keep my distance. Why I needed to hold onto my control with both hands. Because once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’d consume her completely, take everything she offered and demand more.
I turned my back to her, my body so tight with tension I thought I’d snap. The storm outside mirrored the one within me, wild and untamed and dangerous. She watched, eyes gleaming like she was waiting for me to break. Like she wanted to be the one to push me over the edge.
And then she spoke. “Landry?”
My name. Her voice. Fuck. The sound of it was like a physical touch, trailing down my spine, settling in my groin. No one had ever said my name like that. Full of want. Need.
I didn’t turn. Couldn’t. “Yeah?” The word scraped my throat, rough with need.
A beat of silence. Then, soft as sin, “You want me.”
Not a question. A statement. Simple. Direct. True.
I whipped around, chest tight, my body vibrating with restraint. This time her face was serious. No teasing smile. Just honesty. And maybe, if I looked close enough, a hint of unease. Uncertainty.
I took a step forward. Then another. Until I was standing right at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. She didn’t shrink back. Didn’t show an ounce of fear. Just looked up at me with those dark, knowing eyes. “You think this is a game, Carter?”
She tilted her head, considering me. “I think you want me, and I think you’re too stubborn to do anything about it.”
Fucking hell.
The truth, laid bare between us. The thing we’d been dancing around for months. The tension that had been building since the first time I saw her. The want that had been growing with every encounter, every exchange, every moment in her presence.
I bent, bracing my hands on either side of her hips, caging her in. The heat between us was suffocating, thick and charged. Like the air before lightning strikes. Dangerous. Electrifying. Inevitable.
Her eyes widened just slightly.
Good.
Let her realize just how close she was to losing control of this game. Let her understand exactly what she was asking for.
My voice was low, rough. “You have no idea how fucking bad I want you.”
Her breath hitched, the sound small and vulnerable in the quiet cabin. Another crack in her confident facade.
My cock twitched. Hard. Full. Unmistakable. Straining against my jeans in a way that left no doubt about my desire.
Her body stilled, waiting.
Waiting for me.
I leaned in, my lips just a whisper from her ear. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. Close enough to smell the sweet scent of her shampoo beneath the lingering smell of rain.
“You don’t play with a man’s control, sweetheart,” I murmured. “Not unless you want to find out exactly what happens when he loses it.”
She shivered. Shivered. The small movement traveled through her body, a visible ripple of need that matched my own. And fuck if that didn’t threaten to snap something inside me like nothing else had. My hands dug into the mattress beside her hips, trying to hold on to what little was left of my restraint. “Go to sleep, Carter,” I said, my voice bare, almost broken.
She exhaled, slow and measured. Her chest rising and falling beneath my shirt. Her eyes never leaving mine. “What if I don’t want to?”
I clenched my jaw so tight it hurt. “You do.”
A beat of silence.
Then she whispered again, “No, I don’t.”
Fuck.
The words hung between us, a challenge I couldn’t accept. Not if I wanted to maintain any semblance of control. Not if I wanted to walk away from this with my sanity intact.
I pushed off the bed, storming to the other side of the cabin, trying to put some damn distance between us. The whole time, I could feel her watching me. Studying the way my body was fighting for control, the way my fists clenched at my sides, the way I was doing everything in my power not to come apart at the seams.
Because I had rules.
Even if Sally Carter was made to break them.
I grabbed the spare blanket, tossed it on the couch and laid down, throwing an arm over my eyes. Blocking out the sight of her in my bed. Trying to block out the knowledge that she was just a few feet away, warm and willing and wanting me.
She laughed.
Soft. Amused. Back to knowing.
“Goodnight, McAllister,” she purred, the sound seeping into my blood like a drug.
And in that moment I knew.
I was so fucking fucked.