3. Abigail
Chapter Three
ABIGAIL
My ankle throbs with a dull ache as I shift my weight against the rough-hewn beam.
“You okay down there?” Hunter calls out but doesn’t look down from his perch on the ladder. His forearms flex as he secures another wire for the chandelier.
“I’m fine,” I lie, adjusting my position against the beam.
I’ve been perched in this corner for over an hour now, watching him transform my family’s working barn into something out of a wedding magazine.
And with each stretch of his arms, each flex of muscle beneath his fitted t-shirt, something hot and dangerous unfurls inside me.
“I’m almost done up here.” Hunter climbs down the ladder with practiced ease. “Just a few more ties and the lights should be all set.”
Then he turns to me and winks, and something flips in my stomach.
I need to stop this.
Whatever “this” is.
Hunter Thomas is my brother’s best friend. Our ranch manager. The guy who’s been around since we were kids. The very last person I should be watching with this level of intensity.
But I can’t tear my eyes away when his jeans pull tight across his thighs as he climbs back up the ladder. The muscles in his back shift beneath his t-shirt as he reaches up to secure the chandelier. There’s something mesmerizing about the control in his movements, the efficiency. Hunter never wastes motion, never fumbles. Every action is deliberate, confident.
My mouth goes dry as I imagine those hands, those deliberate movements, on my skin.
Hunter descends the ladder and steps back, evaluating his work.
The chandelier hangs perfectly centered in what will be the main area for the shower. The combination of wrought iron and soft Edison bulbs transforms the utilitarian space into something elegant yet still authentically ranch.
“What do you think?” He turns toward me. A thin sheen of sweat makes his skin glow in the filtered barn light. A smudge of dust cuts across one cheekbone.
“It’s perfect.”
And I don’t just mean the chandelier.
He nods, satisfied, then crosses to where I sit, crouching down to eye level. “Let me see that ankle.”
Before I can protest, his hands are gently lifting my leg, fingers probing with clinical precision around the swollen joint. Each touch sends jolts up my leg that have nothing to do with pain.
“Still pretty swollen. You’re pushing it too hard.”
“I’m just sitting here. Barely moving. Doctor’s orders.”
His amber eyes flick up to meet mine, one eyebrow raised in skepticism. “Ranch manager’s orders are to keep resting it. I’ve seen enough sprains to know when someone’s rushing recovery.”
His hands remain on my ankle, thumbs tracing small circles that are somehow both soothing and electric. I fight to keep my breathing steady.
“I’m only here for a week. I don’t have time to sit around with my foot up.”
“And if you push it, you’ll be limping through your brother’s wedding next month.” His voice drops a notch. “I could carry you back to the house.”
The image of being in Hunter’s arms sends a flush of heat from my neck to my cheeks. I remember the solid wall of his chest against my back as he helped me navigate the trail the other day.
“I’m fine right here,” I manage, though my voice sounds strained even to my own ears.
His eyes search mine for a moment too long before he nods and stands. “Break time. Want some water?”
“Has it been that long?” I glance at my watch, surprised. Time has slipped away as I’ve been watching him work, lost in thoughts I shouldn’t be having.
Hunter walks to the small cooler in the corner and pulls out two bottles of water. He crosses back and hands one to me, then lowers himself to sit beside me against the beam. His shoulder brushes mine as he settles, sending a wave of awareness through my entire body.
“So,” he says after taking a long drink, “how long are you going to pretend coming back here doesn’t mess with your head?”
The question catches me off guard. I turn to find his profile beside me, eyes fixed ahead on the barn doors, jaw set in that determined way I’ve always found maddeningly attractive.
And suddenly I’m not sure if he’s talking about the ranch, my family, or him.
Coming back does mess with my head. But what messes with it more is sitting this close to him, feeling the solid warmth of his shoulder against mine.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I take a sip of water to hide whatever my face might be revealing.
He laughs, low and deep.
“Sure you do.” His shoulder shifts against mine as he turns slightly my way. “You’ve been avoiding me since you nearly fell off the mountain.”
“I’ve been here three days, Hunter. And I’m sitting right next to you. Not exactly avoidance tactics.”
“You didn’t come to dinner at the house last night.”
“I was tired. My ankle hurt.”
“And this morning when I came by to check on you?”
“I was on a conference call with work.”
He chuckles. “Like I said. Avoiding me.”
I shift to try and put a few inches between us, but my treacherous ankle sends a sharp twinge of pain up my leg. I wince, and immediately his hand is on my knee, warm and heavy.
“Easy.” His voice drops to that low register that makes something tighten low in my belly. “Come on. Let’s get you more ice for that ankle.”
Before I can protest, he’s standing and offering his hand. I hesitate a beat too long, and his eyes narrow slightly.
“I don’t bite, Abby.” Then, with the smallest curl of his lip, he adds, “Unless you want me to.”
Heat floods my face.
“Very funny.” I take his hand and let him pull me up. The motion brings me close—too close—and for a moment we just stand there, my hand in his, our bodies a breath apart.
He leads me across the barn to where a larger cooler sits near the back wall. Each step makes me acutely aware of the pressure of his hand around mine, the heat of him beside me. I try to focus on the limp in my step, the dull throb of my ankle, anything but the way my entire body seems to spark with awareness of him.
Hunter releases my hand to open the cooler, and I lean against the nearby wall and watch the stretch of his back as he bends, the way his jeans pull taut across his thighs. He pulls out more ice and wraps it in a clean shop towel with careful, efficient movements.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to an old wooden bench against the wall.
I comply, suddenly too tired to argue. He kneels in front of me and gently lifts my injured ankle onto his thigh. The position puts him between my knees, his face level with my chest. I focus on a point over his shoulder and try to ignore the intimacy of the position.
He presses the ice pack to my ankle and carefully adjusts its position.
“How’s the city life treating you?” he asks.
The question feels loaded somehow.
“Good. Busy.”
“Hmm.” His thumb traces a small circle just above my ankle bone. “Still seeing that investment banker? What was his name?”
“David. And no. That ended months ago.”
He nods, still not looking up. “What happened?”
“Why do you care?”
Hunter chuckles again. “Just making conversation.”
I roll my eyes. “You never ‘just make conversation.’”
His lips quirk. “Maybe I’m trying something new. Tell me about David.”
I sigh.
“David was boring. And he hated that I came from a ranching family. Made jokes about it. Called me his ‘little cowgirl’ in front of his friends.” I wrinkle my nose at the memory. “We wanted different things.”
“Sounds like an asshole.”
“He was.”
“And what did you want?” Hunter’s eyes flick up to meet mine. “That David couldn’t give you?”
The barn suddenly feels too quiet, too intimate. Just Hunter and me, and this dangerous conversation.
I sigh again. “I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
My heart hammers in my chest.
Hunter has always been able to see through me. Even when we were kids, he knew when I was hiding something, when I was scared or lying or pretending to be tougher than I felt.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He shifts closer. He’s still kneeling between my legs, but his hands now rest on either side of my injured ankle. “The truth.”
The dust motes dance in the shaft of light between us. I can hear our breathing, slightly out of sync. Mine quicker, his deeper.
“I wanted someone who understood where I came from,” I finally say. “Who didn’t think it was a joke or something quaint to outgrow.”
Hunter nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “And?”
Of course, he’s not going to make this easy.
“And someone who challenged me. Who didn’t just agree with everything I said because he was afraid of confrontation.”
“And?”
I swallow hard. “And someone who made me feel something. Anything.”
The last word hangs between us, charged and dangerous.
Hunter moves then, rising slightly but still on his knees. He slides his hands up to rest on my thighs, and the heat of his palms burns through my jeans. My breath catches in my throat.
“Someone who made you feel like this?” he asks, his voice rough.
I can’t speak. Can’t do anything but watch as he leans in, slowly, deliberately, giving me every chance to stop him. I don’t. His face is inches from mine now, his breath warm against my lips.
“I’ve wanted to do this since you were eighteen, Abby. Right before you left for college. That summer night when everyone else was asleep and we stayed up talking on the porch swing.”
I remember. How the moonlight silvered his features. How I’d wanted him to kiss me so badly I could barely breathe. How he’d walked me to my door and hesitated, just for a moment, before saying good night.
“Why didn’t you?” I whisper.
His hands tighten slightly on my thighs. “You were leaving. I was staying. You were my best friend’s little sister. Take your pick.”
“And now?”
His eyes darken. “Now I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”
He closes the distance between us, and his mouth is on mine.
Soft at first, questioning. When I make a small sound in the back of my throat, his kiss turns hungry, demanding. I’m drowning in the taste of him, the feel of his hands sliding up to my waist as he pulls me closer to the edge of the bench, closer to him.
I reach for him, tangle my fingers in his hair, and hold him to me as if he might disappear. He groans into my mouth, and the sound vibrates through me, igniting something primal and needy.
His tongue slides against mine, and I open for him, inviting him deeper. His hands grip my waist tighter, then slide around to my lower back, pressing me against him. I can feel the hard planes of his chest against my breasts as the heat of him seeps through my clothes.
He moves one of his hands to the nape of my neck and angles my head to deepen the kiss further. He slides his other hand beneath the hem of my t-shirt, his calloused palm rough against the sensitive skin of my back. I gasp, and he swallows the sound, pressing me harder against him.
“Hunter,” I manage between kisses, not sure if I’m asking him to stop or begging him for more.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with desire. “Tell me you don’t want this.” His voice is a low growl. “Tell me, and I’ll stop.”
I can’t say it. Can’t lie. Not to him. Not now.
He sees the answer in my eyes and captures my mouth again, more demanding this time. His hand at my back slides around to my stomach, then slowly upward until his thumb brushes the underside of my breast. Even through my bra, the contact sends lightning through my body.
I arch into his touch, shameless with need. It’s been so long—too long—since anyone has touched me like this. Since I’ve felt this alive in my own skin.
His mouth leaves mine to trail hot kisses down my neck. I tilt my head to give him better access, and my eyes flutter closed as he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below my ear.
“You taste even better than I imagined,” he murmurs against my skin. He finally cups my breast fully, his thumb brushing over my nipple through the fabric of my bra. I bite my lip to stifle a moan.
“Don’t.” He presses another kiss to my neck. “I want to hear you.” He moves his other hand to the button of my jeans and pauses there. “Is this okay?” he asks, his voice rough with restraint.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He makes quick work of the button and zipper, then slides his hand inside, over my underwear. Even this light touch makes me tremble.
“Christ, Abby,” he groans when he feels the dampness there. “You’re soaked.”
I should be embarrassed, but there’s no room for shame in the inferno he’s building inside me. His fingers press more firmly, and when he rubs me through the thin cotton, my hips buck involuntarily.
His mouth finds mine again as he slips his fingers beneath the elastic and finally touches me where I’m aching for him. I gasp at the contact and clutching at his shoulders.
He pulls back just enough to watch my face as he slides one finger through my folds, exploring, teasing. “This all for me?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
I try to answer, but he chooses that moment to circle my clit, and all that comes out is a strangled moan.
He smiles, satisfied, and continues his torturous exploration. Just when I think I might explode from the tension building inside me, he slides one finger inside me. The invasion is so good, so right, that my inner muscles clench around him greedily.
I try to move my hips to take him deeper, but his other hand holds me firmly in place. “Easy,” he says, withdrawing slightly. “We’ve got time.”
“Hunter, please,” I gasp and reach for him.
He stills his movements entirely, and I whimper at the loss. “Please what, Abby?” His eyes hold mine. “Tell me what you want.”
I bite my lip, suddenly shy despite the fact that his hand is literally inside my underwear.
His expression turns knowing, almost predatory. “You’re going to make me earn it, baby, is that it?”
The endearment, so foreign on his lips, sends a fresh wave of heat through me. I can only nod.
“I promise you, I will,” he says, and slides a second finger inside me.
The stretch is exquisite and pushes me right to the edge of too much. When he curls his fingers, he finds that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. His thumb returns to my clit, circling with just the right pressure.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower. “So wet for me. Been thinking about this for years, Abby. How you’d feel around my fingers. How you’d taste on my tongue.”
His words are as much a caress as his fingers. They push me higher, make me wetter. I’m rocking against his hand now, mindless with need.
“That’s it.” He increases the pressure, the speed. “Take what you need. Show me how you like it.”
I’m so close I’m teetering on the edge of something massive. He pumps his fingers into me, his thumb relentless on my clit. The dual sensations are overwhelming as they push me toward a cliff I’m desperate to fall from.
“You gonna come for me?” HIs voice is strained with his own need. “Let me feel it, Abby. Let me feel you come on my fingers.”
His words push me over.
The orgasm crashes through me, wave after wave of pleasure so intense I have to bury my face in his shoulder to muffle my cries. My inner muscles clamp down on his fingers as they pulse with each aftershock of pleasure. He works me through it, gentling his touch as the waves begin to recede, until I’m a boneless, trembling mess in his arms.
Just as I start to come back to myself, I hear the sound of footsteps at the barn entrance, followed by the rustle of bags.
Shit.
The party planner is back.
Hunter withdraws his hand carefully, and I quickly readjust my clothing with shaking fingers. He helps me, his movements efficient but still somehow tender. When he’s sure I’m decent, he presses a soft kiss to my forehead.
“This isn’t over, Abby,” he murmurs.
I can’t meet his eyes, embarrassment already creeping in to replace the bliss of moments ago.
“Hunter—”
“Don’t. Don’t pretend this didn’t happen.”
Now I do look at him, startled by the intensity in his voice.
“I’m not pretending.” I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. “But I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m going back to Houston at the end of the week.”
He leans in and kisses me again. “We’ll see about that.”