20. Quinn
Quinn
Idon’t tell him.
That’s the first decision I make.
Not about the ranch.
Not about Evan.
About Logan.
Because the moment he asked the right question—
What did he do to you?
—everything shifted.
Too close.
Too personal.
Too dangerous.
So I don’t answer it.
And I don’t tell him what I’m about to do.
The barn is quieter than the rest of the ranch.
Not empty.
Just… removed.
Work happens here, but it doesn’t carry the same urgency as the yard or the fences. It’s contained. Controlled.
Manageable.
I step inside, letting the door fall shut behind me, the scent of hay and dust settling around me as I move toward the loft ladder.
This is where I can think.
Where I can act without someone watching every move.
Without Logan watching.
That part—
that part I feel more than I should.
I climb the ladder, each step grounding me back into something familiar—structure, focus, execution.
Not emotion.
Never emotion.
At the top of the loft, I pull my phone out.
Different device.
Different line.
One Evan doesn’t monitor.
One he doesn’t expect.
That’s the only advantage I have left.
I type fast.
You’re pushing too early.
I hesitate.
Then add—
You don’t have control here.
I don’t send it right away.
Because this isn’t just a message.
It’s a move.
A signal.
A challenge.
And once I send it—
there’s no taking it back.
A floorboard creaks behind me.
I don’t turn.
I already know.
“You really think I wouldn’t notice you disappear?”
Logan.
Of course.
I close my eyes briefly.
Then turn.
He’s halfway up the ladder already, eyes locked on me, jaw set in a way that tells me he’s not here for a casual conversation.
“You shouldn’t be up here alone,” he says.
“That wasn’t part of our deal conditions,” I reply.
“It is now.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
“You don’t get to rewrite terms every time something shifts.”
“I do when it puts you in danger.”
There it is again.
Not strategy.
Not control.
Something else.
I don’t engage with it.
Not yet.
“You’re watching me,” I say instead.
“I’m paying attention.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s better.”
Silence stretches.
Not comfortable.
Not distant.
Charged.
He climbs the rest of the way up, stepping into the loft, closing the space between us without hesitation.
“What are you doing up here?” he asks.
“Thinking.”
“Try again.”
His gaze drops briefly—
to my hand.
To the phone.
Then back up.
“You don’t disappear to think,” he says. “You disappear to act.”
He’s not wrong.
That’s the problem.
I hold his gaze.
“Then stop watching me,” I say.
“No.”
Simple.
Final.
Of course.
“You still don’t trust me,” I add.
His expression shifts slightly.
“Not when you’re hiding things.”
That hits.
Because it’s true.
Because I am.
Because I have to.
“This doesn’t work if you don’t trust me,” I say.
“This doesn’t work if you keep making moves I don’t know about.”
The tension sharpens.
Not just attraction now.
Not just conflict.
Both.
At the same time.
“You don’t need to know everything,” I say.
“I do if it affects me.”
“It doesn’t.”
“That’s not your call to make.”
There it is again.
The same line.
Different weight.
Because now—
he means it.
And I feel it.
Before I can respond, he steps closer.
Too close.
The space disappears.
“Whatever you’re planning,” he says quietly, “you don’t do it alone.”
“I’m not—”
“Stop.”
The word cuts clean.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Certain.
I stop.
Because there’s something in his expression now I haven’t seen before.
Not just frustration.
Not just control.
Concern.
Real.
Unfiltered.
And that—
that’s worse.
Because I don’t know how to manage it.
“You think this is about control,” he says. “It’s not.”
“Then what is it?”
His gaze holds mine.
“Making sure you’re still here when this is over.”
My breath catches.
Just slightly.
I hate that he sees it.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this something it’s not.”
His mouth curves faintly, “That ship’s already gone. Actually it left the harbor and is already halfway around the world.”
Before I can push back, his hand settles at my waist, pulling me closer—not rough, not forcing—just enough to shift the balance.
To ground me.
To disrupt the space I’ve been holding onto.
“You keep trying to separate this,” he murmurs.
“I need to.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You want to.”
Because if I don’t—
this becomes something I can’t control. I need to finally have control over my life.
My hand tightens around the phone.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His gaze flicks down.
Then back up.
“Put it away,” he says.
“That’s not your call.”
“Quinn.”
My name again.
Different this time.
Softer.
More dangerous.
“Put it away.”
I hesitate.
Just a second.
Then—
I set the phone down beside me.
Not because he told me to.
Because I chose to.
That’s the difference.
That’s the shift.
His expression changes.
Not victory.
Recognition.
And then—
he kisses me.
Not like before.
Not sharp.
Not urgent.
Slower.
Deeper.
Intentional.
Like he’s not trying to take control—he’s trying to keep it from breaking.
My breath softens against his mouth, a quiet sound slipping out before I can stop it, and this time I don’t pull back.
Don’t analyze.
Don’t separate.
I lean into it.
Into him.
Into something that doesn’t fit the plan and doesn’t wait for permission.
The barn smells of sunbaked wood and horses—that particular musk of leather and sweat and earth that clings to everything inside these walls.
Dust motes drift through slanted light coming through gaps in the weathered boards.
I can hear one of the horses shifting in a stall nearby, the soft snort and shuffle of hooves against straw.
And then I can't hear anything over the thunder of my own pulse.
Logan's hand tightens slightly at my waist, his fingers pressing into the thin fabric of my shirt, steadying me as the kiss deepens.
The heat builds slower this time—not the frantic, desperate clash from before, but something more controlled.
More grounded. Like he's decided exactly how this is going to go, and he's not in any hurry to get there.
His lips move against mine with deliberate patience.
I can taste the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, the salt from the sweat at his temple.
My hands grip his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle beneath his worn cotton shirt.
He's so warm—ranch-warm, sun-warm, like he's been working outside all day and his body has absorbed the Texas heat.
Logan's teeth catch my bottom lip. Not a bite—more of a hold, a claim. He pulls gently, and a sound escapes my throat that I don't recognize. Something between a sigh and a whimper. My knees go soft, and his grip at my waist tightens, keeping me upright.
"Easy," he murmurs against my mouth, the word more breath than voice.
Easy. Right. I'm a corporate strategist. I negotiate million-dollar deals without blinking. I don't go weak-kneed over cowboys in dusty barns.
Except apparently, I do.
His hand slides up my back, slow and purposeful.
His fingers trace the line of my spine through my shirt, each vertebra a stepping stone.
When he reaches the nape of my neck, his fingers spread, threading into my beach-waved brown hair.
The slight pull against my scalp sends a shiver cascading down my entire body.
He bends my head back, exposing the long line of my throat. The fair skin there feels suddenly vulnerable—thin and unprotected against his mouth. I should be terrified. I'm not. I'm something else entirely.
Logan's lips brush my pulse point first. Just a whisper of contact, barely there. Then his tongue—wet and warm—traces a path from the hollow of my throat up to my jaw. My breath catches, holds, refuses to release.
His teeth follow.
A sharp nip at the tendon that runs along the side of my neck, then a soothing stroke of his tongue over the same spot. The contrast makes my hips jerk forward of their own accord. He does it again—bite then lick, bite then lick—working his way along my neck with agonizing precision.
"Logan." His name comes out breathless, nothing like the commanding tone I use in boardrooms.
He responds by sucking a spot just below my ear, hard enough that I know there'll be a mark tomorrow. A bruise I'll have to hide under my collar. The thought should alarm me. Instead, heat pools low in my belly, and I tilt my head further, giving him better access.
At the same time, he rolls his hips against me.
His cock—hard, thick, straining against his zipper—presses between my legs. The friction through two layers of denim sends a jolt of electricity straight to my clit. I gasp, my fingers clutching at his shoulders hard enough to make him grunt.
"Feel that?" His voice is low, rough like gravel on a dirt road. He grinds against me again, slower this time, letting me feel every inch of him. "That's what you do to me, Quinn."
I can't form words. My breath is coming in gasps now—short, shallow pulls of air that don't seem to contain enough oxygen. He sucks another spot on my neck, and my vision blurs at the edges.
This man has serious skills.
I've been kissed before. I've been touched before. But never like this—never with such deliberate, devastating patience. Logan Wilder isn't just touching me. He's unraveling me, thread by careful thread, and he hasn't even taken off my clothes yet.
My hips move without conscious thought, rubbing against him for friction. For relief. The seam of my jeans presses against my swollen clit, and I moan at the pressure—not enough, nowhere near enough, but better than nothing. I rock against him again, chasing the sensation.
His hand tightens in my hair, holding me still. "Patience, darlin'."
Patience. The word almost makes me laugh. I'm burning up, and he wants patience.