Chapter 22
Saramaria
He’s standing so close that the rain dripping from the brim of his hat splashes onto my forehead.
I can see the dark stubble coating his jaw, a shadow that highlights his chin.
The air is filled with the scent of wet pine, damp earth, and him—that spicy, clean aroma of rosemary and mint that has been haunting my dreams for a week.
His gaze drops. It tracks a slow path from my eyes down to my mouth, and then back up again. The heat in his eyes is terrifying. It’s a banked fire that has suddenly roared to life, consuming the oxygen in the space between us.
I should push him away. I should remind him that I am the owner of this land and he is the employee. I should tell him to get off me.
But I don’t.
I feel feverish. Even though the rain is freezing, soaking through my coat and my jeans, my blood is boiling.
His chest pins against the tree.
He leans in. It’s not a question. It’s a taking.
His lips crash down on mine.
There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s years of frustration, years of unspoken anger, and a hunger that scares us both. His mouth is hot and demanding, his teeth grazing my lower lip. I gasp, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping in to claim me.
I melt. My knees go weak, the only thing holding me up is the tree at my back and the solid wall of his body in front. I taste the rain on him. I taste the desperation.
I reach up, my hands tangling in the wet fabric of his coat, pulling him closer. I need him to press into me. I need to eliminate every inch of space between us.
He groans low in his throat, a vibration that travels straight through my chest and down to my core. I can feel him—hard, thick, and demanding—against my hip. The evidence of his desire sends a shockwave of pleasure through me that makes my toes curl in my boots.
One of his hands leaves my hip, moving to the front of my coat. He undoes the buttons with rough, impatient fingers. Then his hand drops lower, fumbling with the heavy brass buckle of my belt.
The metal clinks, a loud sound in the quiet of the shelter.
“Boone,” I breathe against his mouth, but he doesn’t stop.
He gets the belt open. The button of my jeans pops free. The zipper hisses down. His hand slides inside, bypassing the layers of soaked cotton and finding the heat of my skin.
I cry out, my head falling back against the rough bark of the oak.
His fingers are callused, rough, and absolutely perfect. He strokes me through the damp silk of my panties, exploring, testing. I buck my hips, seeking more friction, needing more pressure.
He pulls his hand back. I whimper at the loss, but then I watch, transfixed, as he brings his fingers to his mouth. He tastes me. His eyes roll back slightly, and a look of pure, unadulterated lust transforms his face.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper. The sight is erotic. Vile. Perfect.
“I’ve thought about this,” he says, his tone ragged. “About kissing you. About tasting you.” He steps closer, his leg wedging between my thighs, pinning me open. “I regret not kissing you that day in the rain. I regret letting you drive away.”
He reaches up and pulls the cowboy hat from his head, tossing it into the mud.
His hair is wet, dark curls plastering to his forehead.
I reach up, my fingers tracing the hairline at his temple, then moving down to trace the hard line of his jaw.
He turns his head, kissing my palm, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
His hand returns to my jeans. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and tugs. He pushes the heavy denim down my hips, along with my panties. The cold air hits my wet skin, making me shiver, but his hand is there a second later, covering me, warming me.
“You’re so wet,” he growls.
“It’s the rain,” I manage to say, my voice hitching as his thumb finds that sensitive bundle of nerves.
“No,” he says. He drops to his knees in the mud. He doesn’t care. He lifts one of my legs, draping it over his shoulder, opening me completely to his gaze. “It’s not the rain. It’s you.”
He buries his nose against the apex of my thighs, inhaling deeply. “You smell delectable, Saramaria. Like honey and cream and pure need.”
“Boone...”
“Look at me,” he commands.
I look down. Our eyes lock. Then he leans in and puts his mouth on me.
I see stars.
His tongue is hot and wet and wicked. He licks a stripe from my entrance to my clit, circling the sensitive nub with teasing precision. My hands fly to his hair, holding on for dear life as my legs begin to tremble.
He pushes two fingers inside me. I gasp at the intrusion, the stretch. He scissors them, stretching me, preparing me. He curls his fingers, finding a spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
“Oh god,” I cry out.
He doesn’t let up. He sucks my clit into his mouth, biting down gently, then soothing the sting with his tongue. He pumps his fingers in and out, a ruthless, perfect rhythm.
The pressure builds low in my belly, a tight coil of heat. I try to hold back, try to maintain some semblance of control, but it’s useless. He’s too good. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Boone, I’m going to...”
“Let go,” he murmurs against my skin.
He sucks hard on my clit again, and I snap.
The orgasm rips through me, violent and overwhelming. I arch my back, a cry tearing from my throat. My inner muscles clench around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me. I shudder, my entire body shaking, as he works me through it, drawing out every last drop of sensation.
I slump against the tree, boneless, gasping for air.
Boone stands up slowly. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and possessive.
I reach for him. I drag him up by his wet shirt and crash my lips against his. I can taste myself on him—salt and musk and sex. It drives me wild.
I fumble with the button of his jeans. My hands are shaking, but I get them open. I push the denim down, along with his boxers.
He springs free. He’s thick and heavy, jutting out from a nest of dark curls.
“You’re so hard,” I say, wrapping my hand around his length. He pulses in my grip.
“Because of you,” he says, his jaw clenched tight. “Only ever because of you.”
I begin to stroke him. I watch his face as I touch him. His eyes flutter shut, his head falling back. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He’s fighting for control. He’s trying to hold back, to be gentle.
I don’t want gentle. I want the wildness I saw in his eyes.
I tighten my grip, moving my hand faster. I use the pre-come beading at the tip to slick the way.
“Saramaria,” he warns, his voice strangled.
“Let go, Boone,” I echo his words from moments ago.
I swipe my thumb over the sensitive head of his cock.
That breaks him.
He groans and his hips jerk forward. He comes, hot and thick, over my hand and his stomach. He pulses in my grip, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
He stands there for a moment, bracing his hands against the tree on either side of my head, his chest heaving. He leans his forehead against mine.
We stay like that, the rain pouring down around us, the cold air cooling our heated skin.
“You drive me insane,” he whispers. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I look down. My hand is sticky. My jeans are pooled around my ankles. I feel exposed. I feel raw. And underneath it all, I feel a terrifying heat that has nothing to do with sex.
I pull away from him. I bend down and pull up my panties and jeans. I fasten them with trembling fingers. The damp fabric clings to me, uncomfortable and sticky.
I feel hot. Feverish.
“I should go,” I say. My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
“Wait,” he says, reaching for me.
“No,” I say. I step back, out of his reach. “I can’t... I can’t do this.”
I turn and scramble toward the horses. My legs feel like jelly. The mud sucks at my boots, nearly tripping me.
“Saramaria!”
He doesn’t chase me. He stays there by the tree, watching me.
I reach the mustang. He nickers, sensing my distress. I grab the reins, my hands still shaking, and haul myself into the saddle. It’s an ungainly mount, lacking my usual grace. I almost slip, but I manage to right myself.
I look back once.
Boone is standing under the oak tree. He has put his hat back on. He’s watching me, his face shadowed by the brim. He looks like a statue, a monument to things that can never be.
I kick the mustang’s sides.
“Go!”
We take off. I don’t wait for Midnight. I don’t look back. I race across the meadow, the wind stinging my face, the rain lashing at us. The mud flies up behind the horse’s hooves.
I ride hard. I ride until my lungs burn and the tears on my face are washed away by the rain.
What the hell did I just do?
I betrayed my own principles. I let myself get distracted. I let myself feel.
And worst of all... I liked it. I liked it more than I have ever liked anything.
And that is the most dangerous thought of all.
I don’t remember the ride back to the ranch.
It’s a blur of wet mane, stinging rain, and the thunder of my own heart in my ears.
I leave the mustang tied to the hitching post near the porch, not bothering to walk him to the barn to cool down.
I can’t. If I spend one more second doing the right thing, the responsible thing, I’m going to shatter into a million pieces.
I stumble up the steps, my boots leaving heavy, muddy prints on the wood. Wellsy is there, barking, jumping up to greet me. I push past him, my hands shaking so badly I can barely get the key in the lock.
I need to get out. I need to leave. Right now.
I burst into the main house. The air is warm, smelling of coffee and the faint, lingering scent of the generator. It feels suffocating.
I head straight for the bedroom. I grab my duffel bag from the closet and throw it on the bed. I don’t fold. I don’t organize. I just grab clothes—jeans, sweaters, underwear—and shove them in. I grab my toiletry bag. I grab my charger.