Chapter Six
~ Jojo ~
After dinner, the world outside retreated to blackness, all noise replaced by the soft pulse of rain on the windows and the hiss of kerosene from the lamp. We sat at the kitchen table, our arms close enough that the warmth of his skin reached me in little waves every time he moved.
The baby chicks were peeping in their brooder box by the stove, a steady, happy sound that made the big old house feel less empty and a little less haunted.
I had my notebook out, property maps and the day’s scrawled fence diagrams spread across the table between us. Rawley was in a t-shirt, his tan lines showing up stark against the rough grain of his forearms.
Every time he shifted, the muscles and old scars slid over each other in a way that made my mouth dry out and my thoughts scatter like dry leaves.
I tried to keep my eyes on the notebook, but it was a losing battle. Every time our hands brushed as we pointed to a section of pasture or a bend in the creek, I felt a jolt like a live wire.
He must have felt it too, because he started watching me—not just in the way people watched, but in that predatory, calculating way. Like he was waiting for something to slip, or break.
I leaned over the map, drawing a line where the creek cut through the west field, and my shoulder pressed against his. The warmth was immediate, undeniable. He didn’t move away.
“See here?” I said, forcing my voice steady. “If you start planting clover this early, you’ll have it ready for a second cut in August. The soil down by the creek’s better, stays wet longer. And if you fence it off from the horses, you could graze it down before it seeds.”
He grunted, the sound low in his chest. “You think like a farmer.”
“I want to be one,” I said, before I could think better of it.
He didn’t answer for a long time, just watched the tip of my pencil as it traced the boundary line. The lamp light made his eyes look molten, almost silver.
“I didn’t picture you as a Montana guy,” he said.
I snorted. “I wasn’t, at first. But it’s… real out here.”
He nodded, then reached for the map. Our fingers collided, skin on skin, and I felt my whole body go tense, like the touch was a threat and a promise. Neither of us moved.
He looked up at me then, and there was nothing gentle in his gaze. “You nervous?”
I shook my head, the lie so obvious it hurt. “No.”
He smirked, but it wasn’t mean. “Good. Because you’re the smartest hand I’ve had on this place, and I don’t want you bolting.”
My heart jackhammered in my chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He leaned in, closer than before. “You sure about that?”
I swallowed, forcing myself to hold the eye contact. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
The words hung between us, too heavy for the room, and I had to look away. I focused on the plans, but all I could see was his hand, the way it dwarfed mine, veins and calluses, the lingering heat from that brief contact. My whole body was vibrating, and I wasn’t even sure if it was fear or want.
I made a show of marking the fence line, but my hand shook so bad the pencil snapped. I set it down, felt stupid, but when I looked back at him he didn’t look amused. He looked hungry.
The lamp guttered, making the shadows waver across the wall. The only sounds were the chicks, the stove, and the slow, even draw of his breath.
He didn’t move away.
Neither did I.
If you had asked me what we talked about for the next hour, I couldn’t tell you.
It was just words, cover for everything else—the lines of the fields, the crops, the livestock, the endless, stupid chores that would never get done.
But every time I reached for the map, every time our hands brushed, the charge built higher and higher until it was a miracle the room didn’t catch fire.
At some point, he moved his chair closer, until our knees touched under the table. I could smell him: soap, leather, the ghost of sweat and the warm, unmistakable musk of alpha that made my head swim.
He didn’t say another word for a long time, just watched me, letting the air between us thicken and pulse with things neither of us wanted to name.
I gave up on the maps, eventually, and just stared at the table. I could feel him watching me, waiting for me to make the next move, but I couldn’t. I was too scared, or too hopeful, or maybe just too desperate for him to want me.
It got so quiet that I could hear the blood pounding in my ears.
Then, softly, he spoke. “You got something on your mind, Jojo?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
He reached out and put his hand over mine, firm and steady. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, right over the vein, and I shuddered at the contact.
“You got nothing to be afraid of,” he said, his voice barely more than a rumble.
I looked up at him, and in that moment, I knew exactly what was coming. I knew I wanted it.
I just didn’t know how to ask.
He squeezed my hand, just a little, and the gesture—so careful, so deliberate—nearly undid me.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “I don’t want to mess this up,” I said, the words escaping before I could stop them.
He shook his head, slow. “You couldn’t, even if you tried.”
I believed him.
For a long minute, we just sat there, his hand on mine, the world reduced to the heat and the sound of our breathing.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows.
Inside, everything else went still.
I thought I’d explode from the wanting.
He must have known it, too, because he didn’t let go.
The silence between us was its own animal, big and hungry, gnawing at the edges of the lamp light. Rawley’s hand covered mine, thumb pressed to my pulse, and I was so conscious of his touch that the rest of my body went numb.
I tried to steady my breathing, but each inhale just dragged more of his scent into my head. I was drowning in it—leather and salt and some unnameable thing that was pure, feral alpha. My own scent went sharp in response, wild and helpless, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t want to care.
He squeezed my hand harder, then let go. I thought for a second he’d changed his mind, but then he grabbed my wrist in both hands and drew me in, not fast, but with the kind of certainty that said resistance wasn’t an option.
He locked his eyes on mine, voice dropping so low it barely made sound. “Enough planning,” he growled.
Before I could answer, he pulled me across the table and crushed his mouth to mine.
The kiss was nothing like I’d expected. It wasn’t gentle. It was hard, fierce, almost punishing—his tongue sliding deep, claiming, invading. My lips went numb from the pressure, but I wanted more. I grabbed at his shirt, desperate to anchor myself, but he was already in motion.
He stood, dragging me up out of the chair so fast I nearly tripped. His hands caught my hips, huge and unyielding, and in one motion he lifted me onto the edge of the kitchen table. My notebook and the property maps went flying, scattering across the floor in a flutter of torn paper.
He didn’t even notice. He stepped between my legs, shoving them apart until my thighs bracketed his waist. I could feel the heat of him through his jeans, the shape of him already thick and hot and straining for contact.
I tried to get my breath back, but he caught my jaw in his hand, tilted my head back, and devoured me all over again. His scruff scraped my chin, making my skin raw, but the pain only made me harder.
He pressed forward, the table creaking under our combined weight. I felt the grain of the wood digging into my ass through my jeans, and it only anchored me more firmly in the moment.
His hands moved from my hips to my waist, then up under my shirt. The calluses on his palms dragged over my ribs, leaving a path of fire in their wake. When his fingers found my bare skin, I almost sobbed.
He broke the kiss, just long enough to yank my shirt up over my head. I tried to help, but he had me pinned so firmly I could barely move. The shirt caught on my left elbow, and he just ripped it free, the fabric popping at the seam.
For a second, I wanted to protest—shirts were expensive, and I didn’t have a lot to spare—but then his mouth latched onto the curve of my shoulder, and all I could do was gasp.
He bit down, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to leave a mark. My head rolled back, the world spinning. I couldn’t get enough oxygen, but I didn’t care.
He moved lower, kissing and biting down my chest. When he reached my nipple, he didn’t hesitate—just closed his mouth around it and sucked, tongue flicking the tip until I nearly cried out. His scruff scratched and abraded, the sensation so intense it was almost too much.
My hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in. I could feel the muscle there, solid and unyielding, like steel cables under skin. I tried to say his name, but it came out as a broken moan.
He moved to the other nipple, biting, then sucking, then biting again. His hand cupped the back of my neck, holding me steady. I arched into him, desperate for more friction, more contact, anything.
He pulled back, just enough to look at me. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. His chest heaved, every breath shuddering with control barely held in check.
“I’ve wanted this since I first saw you,” he said, voice rough enough to sand the finish off the table.
I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, afraid that if I tried to use words, I’d come apart.
He grinned, savage and hungry. “You’re mine now.”
And I believed him.
His hands moved lower, undoing the button on my jeans with practiced efficiency. He shoved them down, dragging my underwear with them. The air hit my bare skin and I gasped, the cold a shock after the heat of his hands.
He stepped back just enough to look me over, his gaze raking every inch of exposed skin. I felt naked, even though I still had one sock on and the ruined shirt hanging from my arm, my jeans and underwear around my ankles.
He looked up at me, eyes softening just a fraction. “You good?”