Chapter 25 #2
I look at her. I see the wall she’s putting up. I see the way she’s pushing me away, trying to make it easy for me to leave.
“You don’t get to tell me where I belong,” I say, my voice rising.
“I’m not telling you,” she says. “I’m just saying... you don’t have to explain things to me. You don’t owe me an explanation. If you want to leave, just leave.”
She turns to go back inside.
“Wait,” I say.
I reach out and catch her arm. I don’t grab her hard. I just stop her.
“What?” she asks, not turning around.
“Don’t go back in there,” I say. “Can we just... talk? For a minute?”
She turns to face me. She pulls her arm out of my grip.
“Talk about what, Knox?” she asks. “About the circuit? About the money? About how you’re going to ride bulls in Louisiana while we’re back here trying to keep the roof from caving in?”
“We can talk about us,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “Us? There’s no ‘us,’ Knox. There’s a lawyer and three squatters who can’t seem to agree on anything. That’s not an ‘us.’”
“That’s not what it feels like,” I say. “Not anymore.”
She laughs again, but this time it sounds broken. “I don’t see what we have to talk about. You have your ticket out. Take it.”
She turns and walks toward her rental truck.
I watch her go. I watch her stomp through the mud, anger radiating off her in waves.
I shove my hands into my pockets.
I want to go after her. I want to grab her and shake her and tell her that the money doesn’t matter. That the circuit doesn’t matter. That I’d rather stay here and be broke with her than be rich and alone in Louisiana.
But the image of her face when she said “you don’t belong here” stops me.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I don’t belong here. Maybe I’m just holding on because I’m scared of the unknown. Because the thought of going back on the road alone, without them, is terrifying.
I stand in the dark, listening to the music from inside. I listen to the laughter.
I am going to miss this.
And I haven’t even left yet.
I haven’t left yet.
I’m still here.
She’s still here.
I don’t let her get far. The gravel crunches under my boots as I cut across the parking lot, closing the distance between us. She’s fuming. I can see it in the stiff set of her shoulders, the way she yanks the door of her rental truck open and practically dives into the back seat.
She’s rummaging through a box on the floorboard, throwing things aside with jerky movements.
“Saramaria,” I say, reaching the tailgate.
“Go away, Knox,” she snaps, not turning around. She’s digging through a pile of papers, her knuckles white. “I’m not in the mood for a pep talk. I’m not in the mood for your logic. Just leave me alone.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” I say.
I walk around the open door. I lean in, crowding her space. The inside of the truck smells like her—that vanilla and honey scent that drives me crazy—and the metallic tang of the rain on the upholstery.
She spins around, a crumpled flyer in her hand. Her eyes are flashing, green fire in the dim light.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
“We have nothing to talk about,” she says. “You made your position clear. You have your ticket out. Take it. Go ride bulls in Louisiana. Go be famous. Just get out of my face.”
“I’m not talking about the circuit,” I say, dropping my voice. “I’m talking about us.”
“There’s no ‘us’!”
She throws the flyer at my chest. It bounces off, falling to the floor mat.
“Yes, there is,” I say. I catch her wrist. Her skin is hot, her pulse racing under my thumb. “You feel it. I know you do. I can smell it on you every time you walk into a room.”
She yanks her hand back, but I don’t let go. I step closer, forcing her back against the stack of boxes in the footwell.
“You’re so arrogant,” she spits. “You think every woman wants you just because you’re an Alpha.”
“I think you want me,” I counter. “And it scares the hell out of you.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” I challenge. “Then why did you run away? Why are you out here hiding instead of in there, celebrating with your friends? Because you can’t stand being near me without wanting to touch me?”
Her breath hitches. She stares at my mouth.
I don’t wait for an answer. I don’t give her time to build another wall.
I kiss her.
It’s not gentle. It’s a collision. A crash of lips and teeth and frustration. She gasps against my mouth, and I take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, sweeping my tongue inside to taste her.
She freezes for a second, her body rigid against the truck seat. Then, something snaps.
She kisses me back. Her hands come up, tangling in my hair, pulling me down, forcing me closer. She nips at my lower lip, her nails scraping against my scalp.
I groan into her mouth. The sound is primal. My control snaps.
I push her back against the seat. I follow her down, climbing halfway into the cab, my knees hitting the edge of the truck frame. I don’t care. I just need to be closer.
My hand finds her waist. I drag my fingers up her side, tracing the curve of her ribs, the swell of her breast. She arches into my touch, a soft, desperate sound escaping her throat.
“Tell me to stop,” I growl against her mouth. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
“Don’t you dare,” she breathes.
My hand slides down. I cup her ass, pulling her hips flush against mine. She’s soft and yielding and perfect. My cock is so hard it hurts, straining against my jeans, desperate for contact.
I grind against her, letting her feel exactly what she does to me.
She moans, throwing her head back. The movement exposes her neck. I can’t resist. I bite down on the sensitive skin where her neck meets her shoulder. She tastes like rain and wine and pure Saramaria.
“Knox,” she whimpers.
My hand slips around to the front of her jeans. I don’t ask permission. I just undo the button. The zipper hisses down. My hand slides inside, bypassing the lace of her panties.
She’s soaked. Wet and hot and ready.
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
I push a finger inside her. She clenches around me, her inner muscles gripping me tight. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever felt.
I add a second finger. I curl them, stroking that spot that drives women crazy. Her hips buck off the seat, riding my hand.
“Look at me,” I command.
She forces her eyes open. They’re dazed, hazy with lust.
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask, my voice rough. “Do you want me to go to Louisiana?”
“No,” she gasps. “No.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You,” she says. “I want you. Right now.”
She practically climbs me. She wraps her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my back. She pulls me down, grinding herself against my hand.
I devour her mouth again. I kiss her like I’m starving. My fingers pump inside her. I can feel the tension coiling in her belly, the way her thighs are starting to tremble.
I want more. I want everything.
I pull my hand out of her pants. She whimpers at the loss, a sound of protest that goes straight to my head.
“Turn around,” I order.
She hesitates for a split second, then she obeys. She turns, bracing her hands on the seat of the truck, her ass presented to me.
I reach for my belt.
“Well, I can’t see her anywhere!”
The voice cuts through the fog of lust like a knife.
The side door of The Salt Lick flies open. Light spills out into the parking lot, accompanied by the roar of music and laughter.
I freeze. My hand is on my belt buckle. Saramaria freezes, her forehead pressed against the back of the driver’s seat.
Dot stands on the porch, clutching her binoculars. She’s looking right at the truck.
I hold my breath. If she sees us...
Saramaria sucks in a breath. She pushes herself upright, frantically buttoning her jeans. I retreat, hopping down from the running board, adjusting my shirt to hide the massive erection straining against my zipper.
Dot scans the parking lot, her gaze sweeping right over us. “Saramaria? Saramaria, honey? Are you out here?”
Saramaria opens the driver’s side door. She leans out, her face flushed, her hair a wild mess.
“I’m here, Dot,” she calls out. Her voice is breathless, but steady. “I was just... looking for something in the truck.”
“Oh!” Dot lowers her binoculars. “There you are. We’re about to start the raffle. You need to be inside for the drawing.”
“I’ll be right there,” Saramaria says.
Dot nods and goes back inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I stand there, looking at Saramaria. She’s gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles are white.
I walk back to the open door. I lean in, bracing my arms on the roof.
I don’t say anything about what just happened. I don’t apologize. I don’t make excuses.
I just lean in and scent her. I bury my nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling deep. She smells like sex and sweat and vanilla. It’s the best scent in the world.
I cup the back of her neck, my thumb stroking the soft skin behind her ear.
“You’re perfect,” I say.
She turns her head. Her eyes are wide, swimming with unshed tears.
“I have to go,” she whispers.
“I know.”
She pulls away from me. She reaches onto the dashboard and grabs a straw cowboy hat—the one she won in the dart game earlier. She puts it on her head, pulling it low over her eyes.
“Don’t go,” I say.
“I have to,” she repeats. She climbs out of the truck. She adjusts her shirt, smoothing down the wrinkles.
She pauses. She looks at me, her gaze lingering on my mouth. Then she turns and walks toward the bar.
I watch her go. The parking lot is dark, the only light coming from the neon sign above the door. Her hips sway with every step—a natural, hypnotic rhythm that makes my mouth go dry.
I adjust myself again, wincing. My cock is throbbing, a painful reminder of what we almost did.
I know I’m going to relive this moment for years to come. The taste of her mouth. The feel of her body. The sound of her telling me not to stop.
I shove my hands in my pockets and head back inside.
The noise hits me like a physical wave. The band is playing a cover of a popular country song, the fiddle player wailing away. The room is even more crowded than before.
I weave through the bodies, heading for the bar. I need a drink. I need to numb the ache in my chest and the ache in my groin.
I scan the room.
Boone and Rhett are in the corner, playing pool. Boone is leaning over the table, lining up a shot. Rhett is watching him, a pool cue resting against his shoulder. They look relaxed. They look like they belong.
I envy them. They don’t have a career dangling in front of them like a carrot on a stick. They aren’t torn between two worlds.
I grab a beer from the bartender. I lean against the rail near the pool table, watching the game.
Boone sinks the eight ball. He straightens up, a satisfied smirk on his face.
“Where have you been?” Rhett asks, looking at me. He takes a sip of his drink.
“Around,” I say. I take a long pull of the beer. It’s cold, but it doesn’t help.
I look out over the crowd.
And I see her.
Saramaria is standing near the stage with Willa and Pearl. She’s laughing at something Pearl is saying, her head thrown back.
She looks beautiful. She looks free.
And I realize, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that this might be the last time I’m ever that close to her.
I don’t even want to think about it, but if I stayed and jeopardized my career… then what?
We live happily ever after?
What if I resent myself for giving up my career? This is a huge opportunity. Am I really going to let that go to Gage?
But Saramaria likes me, right? She’s into me.
The question is, will that be enough? Is staying here for an Omega I’m not bonded to the right move?
The alternative, however, feels like worse.
If I take the job in Louisiana, I’m gone for three months. Three months is a lifetime. Things change. People change. She could sell the ranch. She could move on.
She could find someone else.
The thought makes me want to break the bottle in my hand.
I watch her laugh.
I’m going to miss this.
I’m going to miss the chaos. I’m going to miss the fights. I’m going to miss the way she looks at me like she wants to kill me and kiss me at the same time.
I drink the rest of my beer in one long swallow.
Boone racks his pool balls. “You going to play?”
“Not tonight,” I say. “I’m just going to watch.”
I stay there for the rest of the night. I watch her from the shadows. I watch her dance with Dot. I watch her congratulate Clara for winning the raffle—a gift basket from Hattie’s filled with baked goods. I watch her hug Willa goodbye.
Every time she smiles, my chest aches.
I’m torn between leaving, just so I can get paid and secure a future for myself, or staying and fighting for a future for both of us.
I can’t be the man who loves her if I’m three states away.
If I decide to go to Louisiana, then I have to let her go. That’s the only choice that will be fair to her.
So I’ll take the memory of that kiss in the truck. I’ll take the taste of her skin and the sound of her voice telling me not to stop.
And I’ll hope it’s enough to get me through the lonely nights on the road.