Chapter 12
Mallory
Sitting in the guest house at Twisted Whiskey is surreal. I’m not one to fangirl, but I just saw Nash Rivers singing his latest hit at Boots on the Lake a month ago. Now I’m on his property? Driving under the famed arch that’s pictured on his Twisted Whiskey album was bizarre.
And the funny thing is, I don’t see Cam that way at all.
He may be Walker James, but he’s just Cam the laid-back ranch hand in my mind.
He wouldn’t let me help clear the dishes, insisting that I sit outside and watch the sunset.
The breeze is warm, and this part of the Texas Hill Country is beautiful.
There’s open land as far as the eye can see, right up into the hills.
“How’re the boys doing?” Cameron’s grin is infectious, so I return it.
“They’re great. Kate’s giving them a bath before hitting the books.” She’s in graduate school at Cobalt Ridge, living with my mother until she graduates. She’s thinking about moving abroad, which I fully support. Until then, it’s nice to live in the same house.
“I was sad they didn’t come, but I’m glad I got a little snuggle time before we headed over.”
Kasen brought Cam a book and crawled in his lap, so Cam read one of the Grumpy Monkey books, doing great voices. About two pages in, Mason joined his brother, and Cam didn’t skip a beat, even when Kasen said “agin!” He read it three times.
Cam pulls up a song on his phone. “Dance with me.”
I stand, and he pulls me in, the perfect gentleman.
He’s been that way all evening, to be honest. No kisses.
No innuendos. Just laughter and great conversation.
He asked about my job, listening intently as I described the project my students have been working on.
When I asked him about the song he was working on, he said he’d play it before I leave.
“Thank you for eating dinner with me.” His words are low, whispered against my temple as we dance.
“Thank you for inviting me.”
We dance to a slow Ed Sheeran tune, our bodies melding together seamlessly.
I breathe him in, the cedar and spice mixing with the Hill Country air.
It’s almost like time pauses just for us as we say, heat from his chest seeps through my dress.
Yes, I own dresses. It’s a black boho mini that I’ve paired with my brown Docs.
They look almost western, which is why I got them.
I decide it’s time. “I understand why you didn’t tell me your full name.”
He stops and tips my chin with a knuckle. “It was a mistake.”
I shake my head. “Not a mistake, just self-preservation. I might know something about that.”
He holds up his hand. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He steps inside and heads to his guitar case, pulling out the same one he had at Wild Vista. His phone rings, and he pops his head out the open door. “I’ve really got to take this. Shouldn’t be more than a minute or two.”
“Of course.”
His smile of regret warms my heart as he takes the call. I don’t mean to listen, but he’s not exactly a quiet man.
“Hey, Jules.” He holds the guitar by its neck, his back straightening. “Already? Monday works. Are you going to be at the ranch for the inspection? Fantastic.” He looks over at me. “Can we schedule it for after three? Alright. See you then.”
He steps outside and sits on the outdoor couch, motioning me to sit next to him. “Um, so are you available Monday at 3:00?”
“School ends at 2:30, so yes, but I have to pick up the boys by four.”
He rubs his hands together. “Bring them with you. I’d love for y’all to see it together.”
“I don’t know, Cam. You live in Tulsa. I know they’ve enjoyed you, but I don’t want them to get attached.”
“I’m moving to a ranch in the area. I’m setting down roots here.”
I back up, feeling a little stifled. “Why here?”
He chuckles, so I kick at his shin, but he grabs my booted foot and holds it steady on his lap. “My record label is here, so I’m in town a lot, anyway. My condo in Tulsa isn’t working anymore. I’ve already listed it. My parents have plenty of room for when we visit.”
“We?”
“That’s the other reason. You’re it for me, Prickly Pear. You’re the home I didn’t know I needed, and I know that’s not going to change. So living near Indigo Hills makes sense.”
It’s a sharp second of pure silence between us before he closes the distance, the air thick with heat.
Cam’s mouth covers mine—hot and shameless, tasting of sweet tea and trouble.
I press back, hard enough that the scrape of his stubble shoots a live wire up my spine.
The kiss turns molten, his hands gripping my back so hard that the skirt of my mini dress rides up.
“Let’s go to your bedroom.”
“Whah?” His eyes search mine. “That’s not why I brought you here. We are months from that.”
“We are minutes from that, Cameron Walker James. Now where’s your bedroom.”
He leads me inside, kicking the back door closed as he leads me toward the hall.
We step inside to a king-size four-poster bed made of dark wood, the bed made. He backs me onto it, never breaking the kiss. I fall flat on my back, my hands tugging him to me until the line of his body pins me soft against the duvet.
Cam stops, forehead to mine. “We don’t have to—”
“Shut up.”
He laughs, unzipping and pulling my boots off, then kicking off his own before hovering over me, his lips devouring mine.
His hands slide up my thighs, thumbs tracing slow lines along the inside that make my breath catch.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, really look, his brown eyes dark and certain.
“You’re so damn beautiful.” His voice is rough at the edges. Not performed. Just true.
I reach up and pull his shirt over his head, and whatever I was going to say next completely abandons me.
The man is unreasonably built, all planes and warm skin and that cedar scent that has been undoing me since a horse barn in Rosewood County.
His stacked abs are ridiculous, his golden v-cut tapering down below his belt.
Dark hair dusts his abdomen just under his belly, and I can’t wait to get my hands on him.
I press my palms flat against his chest and feel his heart hammering. Good. Mine is doing the same thing.
His mouth finds my collarbone, then my throat, kissing me slowly.
“Cam.”
“I’ve got you.” He says it against my shoulder like a promise, and I believe him. That’s the part that surprises me. I just believe him.
His teeth nip at the soft spot below my ear. “I’ve wanted this since a pond at three in the morning,” he says.
“You and me both, Cowboy.”
My fingers find his hair, and I stop being polite about what I want. My hands run over his bare chest, learning him, before shoving his shirt down his shoulders. He yanks it off, his hands moving to my thighs, massaging them slowly as we writhe against each other.
“Mmm.” The sound is low against my skin, vibrating straight through me as he pushes up the skirt to reveal my new underwear.
“Where did you get these?”
“A boutique in town.”
He bends down and kisses my black thong right on the words Cowboys Do It Better in rhinestones.
He reaches behind me, finding the zipper of my dress and eases it down with such a dirty grin it makes my whole nervous system short-circuit.
“I want you, Cam.”
“You’ve got me, Mallory.”
The dress goes. His jeans follow, along with my bra. And then there is nothing between us but warm skin and the Hill Country evening pressing soft through the open window, and Cam looking at me like I am the only thing in his entire orbit.
“You are magnificent.” He kisses my breasts, squeezing one while licking the other. He takes his time, unhurried and certain, like a man who has nowhere else to be and loves what he is doing.
I have been wanted before. This is different. This is Cam finding every place I’ve been guarding with no intention of leaving anything untouched. The curve of my hip. My scar. My belly.
He edges his fingers around to my backside as he grabs the globes of my rear and squeezes. “I love this ass, Mallory.” The words are said somewhere between my hip bones as he worships me.
I feel so free in this moment that I sit up, pushing him off me. “Get on your back, Cowboy.”
“I’m not through playing.”
“Get. On. Your. Back.” I squeeze my arms on either side of my breasts, and he does exactly as I say.
I straddle his broad chest, pinning him down with my thighs. Then I grab his wrists and press them into the mattress above his head, tasting the surprised laugh on his lips, the hard edge of his need beneath my thigh. “You’re not in charge right now.”
“No?”
“Nope.”
I slide down his body, slow as honey, letting my hair trail over his chest and stomach, just to watch him twitch.
Cam’s skin is gold and hot to the touch, his hands opening and closing where I’ve pinned them.
I plant kisses down his treasure trail, stopping at his engorged dick.
I know he’s clean; we’ve already had a talk.
I play him, slow and mean, relishing the tension in his arms, the way he tries to buck up and I just tighten my grip, holding him fast and helpless, which is wild, because Cam has never been that for anyone, as far as I can tell.
It’s such a turn-on, this big man brought to a shuddering, arching mess just by the way I taste him, squeeze him, and roll my tongue in promises until his voice changes from words to desperate, animal sounds.
Finally, I take him into my mouth in one slow, greedy swallow, my tongue swirling the tip just enough to drive him crazy.
Cam’s hips stutter, but I grip the base of his cock to keep him still, glancing up so he can see the glossy, spit-slicked shape of my lips around him.
He makes a strangled noise, a sound I am suddenly hungry for, and dig my nails into his wrists just to bring it out again.
“Enough.”
He flips me over, holding my wrists like I did his, teasing me with his dick, sliding it between my breasts. “You’re going to regret playing with me.”
“I don’t think so.” I smile wickedly as his mouth moves to my pussy.
He licks my center, his tongue flicking my clit. My whole body jolts.
“Don’t be too sure, my prickly girl.”
His tongue is hot and stubborn, holding me open, holding me still. Cam knows exactly how to break me down, and it’s unfair the way he learns so quickly, how he can make a simple flick feel like lightning. I bite back a whimper, suddenly furious at how far gone I already am.
He pulls back, just for a second, to watch the way my mouth goes slack and my breath stammers, and then he flattens his tongue and circles my clit so slow and deliberate, I feel my eyes roll back in my head.
He grabs a condom from somewhere and rolls it on while bask in my orgasm. “You ready for me?”
“So ready.”
He takes his time, sliding inside me low, deep, like he wants to savor the first stretch and slide. I brace on his shoulders, digging my fingers into the slabs of muscle as he fills me, slowly, then faster, his hips picking up a steady, perfect rhythm that leaves me gasping.
My knees press into his waist, and he hauls me closer, the roughness of his hands skating up my spine as he fucks me, hard and hungry. Every thrust shakes my bones, the headboard biting into the wall with a a continuous, insistent thud.
“You feel so damn good, Mallory.”
He kisses me as he comes, shuddering hard, his hips slowing to a stop. Then, he bends down, his tongue circling my clit, and I come a second time.
I don’t know how much time passes before he shifts beside me, pressing his lips to my temple.
“Stay right there.”
I watch him pull on his boxer briefs and pad barefoot to the living room, returning with his guitar.
He settles back against the headboard beside me, close enough that his shoulder is warm against mine, and sets the guitar across his lap like it belongs there.
Like this is the most natural thing — a man in his own bed with a woman he just wrecked and rebuilt, picking up an instrument to play for her.
I pull the duvet up and wait.
He doesn’t look at me when he starts to play the familiar chords by the river.
The song is rich now, more solid , the notes blending together.
When his voice comes in low and unhurried, Walker James’s voice from Boots on the Lake fills the room.
It’s the same voice I heard from that festival front row, the one I tried so hard not to react to, and now here it is, unhurried and private, meant only for me.
She don’t need the spotlight
She don’t need the noise
She just needs somebody who appreciates her thorns
I ain’t scared of prickly, I ain’t scared of dark
Guess dark and prickly might be just my kind
But I’ve been half a man
Giving her a name that ain’t mine
If you knew the whole truth of me, darlin’
Would you still want to waste your time
An awareness seeps through me, my face filling with color.
I’ve had people tell me I’m beautiful, tell me I’m too much, tell me I’m not enough.
Nobody has ever written a song about me.
And he started it before the pond, before I gave him any reason to hope.
And not telling me who he was cost him something.
His eyes flick to mine as the chorus hits, the lazy smile Walker James is known for crossing his face as he sings.
She’s a dirt road in a concrete world
always holding her own
She’s carved from something true and real
the realist I’ve ever known
I ain’t looking for easy
never was that kind
Turns out that dark and prickly
suits me just fine
I don’t move. I didn’t know a song could feel like being completely known.
As he finishes the song, the lyrics settle into my spirit, proof that some things find you whether you’re ready or not. His eyes hold mine as the last chord fades until there’s nothing left but the ceiling fan and the crickets and the Hill Country dark.
“Cam.” I reach up and touch his jaw, the scruff rough under my palm. “When did you write that?”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “I worked out the melody in my head on the drive to Wild Vista. I couldn’t believe I’d never see you again.”
“Funny how life works sometimes.”
He sets the guitar carefully against the nightstand and turns back to me, his hand pulling mine over his heart.
“I’m falling in love with you, Mallory Jenkins.”
I’ve spent a long time being someone who stands at the edge of things. You can’t get hurt if you don’t put yourself out there. And I’ve been waiting for a reason to bolt since the pond. But Cam’s given me a reason not to at every turn.
“I’m falling too, Cowboy.”
I tuck into Cam’s shoulder and think about Mason sitting on his foot and Kasen shouting boo into his face, and I smile against his shirt. They already chose him. Maybe it’s time I stop pretending I haven’t.