Chapter 1
Steph
Crawl to me
The weekend at Luke’s ranch with his family is exactly the kind of quiet chaos I need right now.
This week has been a nightmare, back-to-back clients, endless ink, and one particularly grueling eight-hour session today on a guy who wanted a full-back tiger.
The beast sprawled across his skin in vivid reds, deep greens, and blazing yellows, claws extended like it was about to leap off his spine.
Stunning. All my work is. But the client?
He didn’t flinch once. I had to respect that kind of pain tolerance.
Still, my hands ache like they’ve been dipped in fire, and all I want is Nancy’s cooking, whatever she’s got simmering, just shove it in my belly and let me forget the world for a few hours.
I also sketched a few pieces for Layla. She’s been dropping hints about wanting some ink, she asked if I’d do the honors.
Hell yes. I love taking someone’s tattoo virginity, watching that mix of nerves and excitement bloom on their face when the needle first bites.
It’s intimate in a way most people don’t understand.
Dust kicks up under my tires as I pull up the long gravel drive.
There they are: Luke and Cole, leaning against the porch rail, talking low like they always do when ranch business is on the table.
My man stands out even in the fading light—tall, dark, built like he was carved from the Tennessee hills themselves.
Broad shoulders, thick arms that make my lanky frame feel small and weightless when he tosses me around.
God, he’s handsome. The kind of handsome that still catches me off guard sometimes.
I kill the engine and hop out, boots crunching on the gravel.
“Hey, baby,” Luke calls, already striding toward me with that easy, predatory grace.
“Hey, you.” I met him halfway.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask, jumping up to wrap my legs around his waist. He catches me without missing a beat, hands firm under my thighs.
“Barbecue chicken,” he says, voice low and warm.
I lean in, lips brushing his. “What’s for dessert?”
“You,” he whispers against my ear, breath hot.
“Sounds delicious.” I smirk, nipping his bottom lip before sliding down to stand on my own two feet.
We head inside, Cole holding the door with a nod. “Hey, Cole,” I say as I pass, giving him a quick once-over. He’s got that same quiet strength as Luke, but rougher around the edges.
The kitchen table is full; Layla in her seat next to Cole, with little Stella perched on a booster between them, chattering away and waving a plastic spoon like a conductor. John and Nancy at the head, plates already loaded. The smell of smoky chicken and cornbread hits me like a blessing.
“I got some pieces drawn up for you,” I tell Layla, sliding the folder across the table.
“Shut up! I’m so excited!” She claps, doing a little wiggle-dance in her chair that makes Stella giggle and bang her spoon in approval.
I hand it over. She flips through the pages, eyes wide, little gasps escaping every few seconds.
“Steph!” she squeals. “You are so freaking talented. A genius. These are perfect!”
“I’m glad you like them.” I keep my tone casual, but the praise lands warm in my chest.
“Like them? I love them! When can I get them done?”
“I’ll check the books Monday when I’m back at the shop. I’ll squeeze you in as soon as I can.”
“Thank you so much!” She beams, all sunshine and good vibes, reaching over to squeeze my hand across the table.
I wink, but inside, a familiar shadow flickers.
Layla’s the type everyone loves, bubbly, open, impossible to dislike.
The kind of woman who makes motherhood look effortless while running half the ranch errands and still finding time to text me tattoo ideas at 2 a.m. Me?
I get “bitch” or “cold” tossed around. One online review still stings: Great talent, but not very personable.
I scrunch my nose at the memory, tearing into the chicken like it owes me money.
Luke’s thigh presses against mine under the table. I lean closer while the others chatter.
“Do you think I’m personable?”
He chuckles, low and easy. “Uh, yeah, babe. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s something I need to work on. I’m not exactly a schmoozer.”
“You’re straightforward. Blunt. It makes you sexy as hell.” His hand squeezes my thigh, firm and possessive.
I shoot him a side-eye, lips curving despite myself.
“I’m full,” I say after a few more bites. “Want to sit on the porch swing before Layla and Cole finish?”
“Yes, baby.” He wipes his mouth, scoots his chair back. I do the same, and he follows me out, hand settling warm and low on my back—like he can’t not touch me.
The porch swing creaks as we settle in. The sunset paints the sky in bruised purples and golds, the kind of light that makes everything feel a little more magical. A little more mine.
“I missed you today,” I murmur, resting my head on his shoulder. His beard scratches softly against my temple. Those eyes, deep, steady, stare out at the horizon. What does he see out there? What does he think about when the world quiets?
“I missed you too, Steph.” His voice rumbles through me.
“My hands hurt.”
He takes my left one without a word, thumb tracing the engagement ring he put there.
Then he starts massaging, slow circles over my knuckles, my palm, easing the ache like he knows exactly where it lives.
How is he this perfect? Gentle when I need it, rough when I crave it.
He’s made up for everything from back then.
He was just a boy. He’s a man now. And it shows in every careful touch.
“You want to talk about your day?” he asks.
“No.” I nuzzle closer. “I just want to enjoy this moment with you.”
His hand slides up, cupping my jaw, tilting my face to his.
The kiss starts soft, then deepens, his tongue claiming mine, heat pooling low and insistent in my belly.
My fingers trail down his chest, over the hard planes of him, until I reach his belt.
He’s already straining against the denim.
Just from a kiss. Just from us being this close.
God, the way he wants me…
“Let’s go upstairs,” I whisper against his lips.
“Is my dessert ready?” He nips my neck, voice gravel-rough.
I palm him through his jeans, slow and deliberate, then lean into his ear. “If you want dessert, I want you on your knees. Crawling to me.”
A low, guttural groan rips from his throat.
I grin, wide and wicked, biting my lip. He bites his own, eyebrows lifting in that hungry, playful way that makes my pulse spike.
Then I’m airborne, he scoops me up like I weigh nothing, carrying me back through the house and up the stairs, past the soft sounds of family still lingering at the table. My soon-to-be husband is pretty damn hot. And tonight, I’m in charge.