Chapter 4
SLOANE
It's Thursday, which means Cody made his morning mail run to the fire station about two hours ago…which means my third valentine is now sitting in Ike Thurman's cubby, waiting for those big, rough hands to slide it open.
Cody’s a junior at Deepwood Mountain High, a part-time post office employee, and my unknowing accomplice in what might be the most elaborate seduction attempt in Montana history…if I do say so myself.
It took some detective work to figure out the mail system for the fire station—a casual question to Tess about how local deliveries worked, a "coincidental" run-in with Cody early Tuesday morning as he was leaving for the the mail delivery.
The kid was suspicious at first, but two weeks of free lunches and a promise to put in a good word with Tess about his perpetually late essays sealed the deal.
So far, he's delivered three valentines without a hitch.
Tuesday's was subtle—an introduction, a hint that someone was watching. Wednesday's got bolder, talking about the weight he carries, the loneliness I see beneath his composure.
But today's note?
Today's note is going to make Captain Ike Thurman sweat through his uniform.
I think about your hands, Captain. How they'd feel wrapped around my wrists, pinning me down while you take what you need.
I think about your voice. That deep rasp when you give orders. I wonder what it would sound like commanding me to sink to my knees.
I want to be good for you. I want to submit to the man who’s so much more than his unwavering strength. I want to call you Daddy and watch your control finally snap.
— Your Secret Valentine
God. I actually sent that...
…to the most respected man in this tiny town.
I'm either incredibly brave or completely unhinged.
The bell rings, signaling the end of my planning period, and I force myself to act like a normal human being who isn't fantasizing about a silver fox fire captain bending her over the desk.
It's going to be a long afternoon.
Practice is torture.
Not because of the drills or the cold February wind cutting across the field. Or because Mackenzie is still hogging the ball or because half the team seems more interested in gossiping about Valentine's Day celebrations than running plays.
It's torture because I can't stop checking the parking lot.
He won't be here for another hour at least.
But my eyes keep drifting to the entrance anyway, searching for that familiar truck, that broad-shouldered silhouette.
"Coach Sloane?"
I snap back to attention. Riley is standing in front of me, soccer ball tucked under her arm, head tilted with curiosity.
"You okay? You seem kinda...somewhere else today."
"I'm fine." I force a smile. "Just thinking about the game next week. You ready to crush Canyon Ridge?"
"Born ready." She grins, then jogs back to the scrimmage.
I blow my whistle and call out the next drill, but my mind is already wandering again.
Did he read it yet? Did his jaw clench the way it does when he's fighting for control? Did he have to adjust himself in those uniform pants?
My knee throbs, a sharp reminder that I've been working it too long in this cold weather. I've been pushing through practices all week without giving it proper rest. I shift my weight and ignore it.
The hour crawls by. I run the girls through passing drills, defensive formations, a final scrimmage that I barely pay attention to. My eyes keep cutting to the parking lot, and every time a car turns in, my heart does a stupid little flip.
Finally, I see the dark truck pulling into a spot near the bleachers. The driver's door opens, and Ike steps out.
Even from fifty yards away, he looks tense. Shoulders rigid. Like he hasn't been sleeping well, like something's been eating at him.
Hmm…
I blow the whistle to end practice. "Nice work today, ladies! Hydrate, stretch, and I'll see you tomorrow!"
The girls scatter toward the bleachers, grabbing bags and water bottles and phones. I start collecting equipment…cones, extra balls, the heavy mesh bag…but I'm really just buying time. Waiting for him to come to me.
I don't have to wait long.
“Sloane.”
His voice hits me right between the shoulder blades, and I have to school my expression before I turn around.
He looks rough. Not in a bad way—god, never in a bad way—but there’s something there that wasn’t before…a tightness around his eyes. Like he's been wrestling with something.
I wonder what that something is. I wonder if it's written on simple white cardstock in my handwriting.
"Captain." I keep my tone light, teasing. "You should’ve seen your girl out there today. Kickin’ butt and takin’ names.”
"She gets that competitiveness from her dad." A ghost of a smile crosses his face, there and gone. "Wade was always the one who could read a play before it happened."
“And what about you?” I tilt my head, studying him. “You’re not competitive? Or into any sports?”
He shakes his head. "Nah, I was the loyal friend that supported Wade in whatever sport that caught his fancy that month." His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. "And I was big enough to carry him home after he had too many beers at the bonfire game celebrations.”
I laugh, surprised by the glimpse of humor beneath all that stoic composure. "So you've always been the responsible one. The caretaker."
The amusement fades from his expression, replaced by something more guarded. "Someone has to be."
I take a deep breath. "Must be exhausting. Being the one everyone leans on."
His gaze sharpens, searching my face like he's looking for something. "You'd know something about that. Coaching isn't exactly a low-pressure gig."
"No," I admit. "But I get to yell at teenagers and call it 'motivation.' It’s highly therapeutic."
That almost-smile returns. "I'll have to remember that with my crew."
"Mm." I heft the mesh bag of soccer balls onto my shoulder and immediately regret it. My knee screams in protest, buckling slightly, and I stumble.
Ike moves faster than a man his size should be able to. One second he's three feet away, and the next his hand is on my elbow, steadying me, while his other hand grabs the bag and drops it to the ground.
"You're hurt," he rumbles.
"It’s just an old injury," I say, trying to wave it off. "It flares up sometimes. I'm fine—"
"Sit down."
Two words. An order.
And my body obeys before I can even think about arguing. I sink onto the bottom bleacher like my legs just decided to listen to him instead of me, and something hot and liquid pools in my core at how natural it feels.
He notices. I see a micro-expression of surprise crossing his features before he schools it back to neutral.
He crouches in front of me, and suddenly his face is level with mine.
I see how thick his hair is despite its short length, how silver dots through his stubble, and how the fine lines at the corners of his eyes draw me in.
He smells so clean and fresh and warm, with a subtle woodsy undertone that has me fighting not to inhale deeper.
"Which knee?" he asks.
"Left."
He shifts, his attention going into clinical, EMT mode. I mean, he's probably done this a thousand times…assessed injuries, checked for damage.
But there's nothing clinical about the way my heart is pounding.
"I'm going to check to make sure you didn’t re-injure anything," he says, his voice low.
I nod.
His hands wrap around my calf first, and I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping. They're warm even through my leggings…big and yet gentle. He's feeling for swelling, checking my range of motion, his fingers pressing and probing.
"Does this hurt?" He manipulates my ankle, rotating it slowly.
"No,” I manage.
His hands slide up to my knee, and I stop breathing.
His fingers probe the area around my kneecap, pressing in careful places, testing the stability of the joint. Every touch sends sparks shooting up my thigh, and I'm suddenly very aware of how thin these leggings are, and how wet my panties are.
"What about here?" he continues.
"N-no." My voice comes out breathy.
Dammit.
He glances up at me, and our eyes lock. His hands are still on my knee, his thumbs pressing into the soft areas just above and below.
He clears his throat. "Extend your leg for me."
I do. Slowly. And watch his jaw twitch as his hand slides up to my lower thigh to brace me.
His palm is huge and hot against my leg, his fingers curving around the muscle like he's savoring the shape of me. He bends my knee, straightens it, and bends it again.
"Doesn't feel like anything's torn," he murmurs, still focused on my knee. His brow is furrowed, breathing slightly uneven. "Probably just aggravated. You've been on your feet too much."
"I'm the coach." I try for levity, but my voice is too husky. "Being on my feet is a big part of the job."
He looks up at me again. We’re so close. His hands are still on my leg, and his gray eyes are searching mine with such intensity. "You need to take better care of yourself."
The words hit me somewhere deep and primal. He’s scolding me. Like he's concerned.
My response slips out before I can stop it: "Maybe I need someone to make me."
His hands tighten on my leg. Just enough that I feel it, my whole body lighting up.
Neither of us moves. I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, can see the war playing out behind his eyes—want and restraint, desire and denial.
"Sloane—" His voice is gravel and smoke, and hearing my name in that tone makes me want to combust.
"Can we get tacos tonight, Uncle Ike?!" Riley asks, walking up.
Ike releases my leg and straightens up in record speed. He clears his throat, and just like that, the mask of Uncle Ike slides back into place.
I exhale slowly, trying to get my heartbeat under control. My leg still tingles where his hands were.
"Sure thing." His voice is almost normal. Almost. "Tacos sound good."
She cheers, oblivious to anything she might’ve interrupted. “I’ll check Insta to see where the Mariposa Taqueria is parked right now." She looks at me. "Coach Sloane, you should totally come! These tacos are like sooo good.”
"Coach Sloane needs to rest her knee tonight," Ike cuts in smoothly. He looks at me, and there's something in his eyes I can't read. "Ice it. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. And stay off your feet."
It's not a suggestion. It's a command.
And my insides melt at being told what to do. "Yes, Captain," I say softly, holding his gaze.
His eyes darken for just a second before he turns away. "Come on, Riley. Let's go."
"Bye, Coach Sloane! Hope your knee feels better soon!"
"Thanks, kid." But I'm not looking at her. I'm looking at him—at the rigid set of his shoulders as he walks away, the controlled movements.
Whatever this thing is between us, he felt it.
I know it.
I stay on the bleacher until his truck disappears down the road, my knee throbbing and my whole body buzzing with want.
By the time I limp into my cabin, the adrenaline has faded and the ache in my knee is competing with the ache between my thighs.
I drop my bag by the door and head straight for the bathroom.
Hot bath. I’m following his orders.
I crank the faucet and strip out of my sweaty clothes while the tub fills. The mirror shows my flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips I've been biting all afternoon. I look like a woman who's been thoroughly wound up and left wanting.
Because I am.
I settle into the bath, the hot water enveloping my aching muscles. My knee throbs for a moment, then eases up as the heat seeps in.
I slide my hand down my stomach beneath the water, trailing my fingers over my hip, my thigh. I remember the heat of Ike’s palms through my leggings, the way his fingers touched my leg.
What would it feel like if he touched me for real? If he slid those hands up my bare thighs?
My fingers find my center, and I gasp at how on edge I already am.
I stroke pussy slowly, the way I imagine he would. Patiently and thoroughly. Making me wait for it because he's the one in control.
"That's it," I whisper to myself, his voice playing in my head, low and husky. "Just like that. Let me see how much you want me."
I circle my clit, teasing, and my hips roll up against my hand. The water sloshes against the sides of the tub, but I barely notice. I'm too lost in the fantasy.
He's kneeling between my legs, those gray eyes dark with want, watching me get more and more needy. His hands are on my thighs, holding them open, and his voice is a growl against my skin.
"You've been such a good girl, letting Daddy know what you need."
I whimper, my fingers rubbing deeper. I slip two of them inside myself, curling them how I imagine he would.
"Is this what you wanted?" He murmurs against my ear. "My hands on you? My fingers working your pretty little pussy?"
"Yes," I gasp. "Yes, Daddy, please—"
"Please what, little girl?"
"Please let me come. Please, I need—"
"I love when you beg, baby."
His approval makes me moan, my whole body wound tight, right on the edge. I rub my clit, chasing it, desperate…
"Now," he growls. "Come for me now."
And I explode.
The orgasm rips through me, my back arching into the frothy bubbles, my inner walls clenching around my fingers.
I cry out, and the word that spills from my lips is the one I've been thinking all week: "Daddy…"
It echoes off the tile, loud in the quiet cabin. I ride out the aftershocks, trembling, gasping, and completely wrecked.
When I finally come back to myself, the bathwater has gone lukewarm and my limbs feel like jelly.
I lie there for a long while, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard.
He has to know it's me by now. The valentines, the way I respond to him, the things I said today—it's all pointing directly at me like a neon sign. And he's not stupid. Far from it.
But denial can be a bitch.
The question is: what's he going to do about it?
I haul myself out of the tub and wrap up in my robe, heading to the kitchen on unsteady legs. My stationery is still on the table where I left it this morning.
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day.
After practice all of the girls are going to MacKenzie’s house for a sleep over.
I sit down at the table and pull a blank card toward me.
This one needs to be perfect. I'm not going to tell him who I am—that feels too safe, too easy. I’ll ask him to meet me somewhere.
I want him to choose this. I want him to show up not because he knows it's the girl he's been flirting with all week, but because the words I've written have gotten under his skin so deep he can't stay away.
Tomorrow night, I'll be waiting, hoping against hope that the fire captain is brave enough to come claim what he wants.
I pick up my pen and start to write.