Cag
The truck hood ticks under my hand, a rhythmic metallic snap that matches the pulse thudding in my jaw.
The scent of hot engine oil and dust rolls off the Ford, but it’s the magnolia—that sweet, defiant scent clinging to the girl standing three feet away—that’s actually choking me.
The sun is dipping behind the jagged teeth of the mountains, painting the Pine Ridge sky in bruised purples and blood reds.
It’s fitting. Black Aspen just declared war by threatening our water, and I’m standing here looking at the daughter of a man powerful enough to make the situation worse, wanting to do things to her that would make a saint weep.
She isn’t wearing the shredded wedding gown anymore.
Somehow, this is worse.
The simple cotton dress Linda found for her should make Juliette look ordinary.
It doesn’t. Dust marks the hem, and one sleeve has slipped enough to reveal the curve of a ballet-strong shoulder scattered with freckles.
There’s nothing expensive or polished about her now, but I’ve never wanted anything more.
"They’re really going to do it, aren’t they?" Her voice is steady despite the way her fingers twist in her clothes. She isn’t looking toward the men checking the weakening creek flow. She’s looking at me.
"They already did it," I grunt. The word feels like gravel in my throat. My hand moves instinctively to the dashboard through the open window, my fingers brushing the half-finished cottonwood hawk. I’ve carried the damn thing for years, its rough wings waiting for a man who knows how to complete them.
I used to tell myself I didn’t have the time.
The truth is uglier.
Finishing something means admitting I care what happens to it.
But looking at Juliette makes leaving anything incomplete feel impossible.
"You should have let me go," she says, but she doesn't move. She doesn't take a single step toward the road. "If I go back, if I tell him I’ll marry that man, maybe he’ll pressure them to turn the water back on. Your brothers... they wouldn't lose the western quarter. The cattle wouldn't suffer."
The thought of her back in that chapel, putting that ring on, makes my vision go red.
A territorial growl ripples through my chest, deep and animal.
I don't think. I just move. Three strides and I’m in her space, my shadow swallowing her whole.
She doesn’t flinch. Her breath catches, but she keeps her eyes on mine.
"You aren't going anywhere," I growl. My hands find her waist, the soft cotton bunching under my calloused palms. She's soft under there, and warm, and she doesn't shrink from my grip.
There's steel in her too. I can feel it.
"You think I'm the kind of man who trades a woman for a water line? You think any Kramer is?"
"It's your legacy, Cag. It's everything."
"You're here now. That makes you part of it." The words are out before I can stop them. They’re crazy. They’re the thoughts of a man who’s lost his mind to a scent and a pair of eyes.
"You stayed back there. When that surveyor was running his mouth, when he was threatening us... you didn't run. You stood your ground."
I lean in, my face inches from hers. I can smell the mint on her breath, see the way her pulse is jumping in the hollow of her throat. I want to put my mouth right there. I want to feel that heart beating against my tongue.
"You're brave, Juliette," I whisper, the words vibrating between us.
"I'm not," she breathes, her hands coming up to rest on my chest. Her touch is light, but it feels like a brand through my denim shirt. "I'm terrified. I've never done anything like this. I've never even raised my voice to my father until today."
"Being brave isn't about not being scared.
It's about doing the damn thing while your knees are shaking.
" I slide my hands up her back, pulling her flush against me. The contact is electric. My cock throbs in my jeans, straining against the zipper, aching to find the heat hidden under all that lace. She gasps, her back arching, her breasts pressing into my chest. They’re firm and perfect.
I can feel her nipples peaking through the fabric, teasing me.
"Cag," she moans, and the way she says my name—like a prayer, like a plea—snaps the last thread of my restraint.
I slam her back against the side of the truck.
The metal groans, a dull thud echoing in the quiet evening air.
I don't care. I don't care if Andy is watching from the porch or if the ghosts of my past are screaming at me to run.
I pin her there with the weight of my body, my thighs braced around hers.
My hands frame her face, holding her attention on me.
"Stand here with me," I growl, the words carved out slow against her temple. They’re the only thing that makes sense in a world where the wells are running dry and the wolves are at the gate. "You hear me? On my ground. Not his. Not that banker’s. Mine."
"Yes," she whispers, her eyes blowing wide, the pupils swallowing the brown until they’re nothing but black pits of need. "Yours."
I wreck her mouth.
There’s no finesse in it. No gentle wooing.
It’s a collision. I taste the salt of her skin and the sweetness of her mouth, swallowing the moan that breaks from her.
She tastes like everything I’ve been starving for.
She tastes like a future I didn't think I was allowed to have.
Her hands fly to my hair, pulling me closer despite the denim and ruined silk still separating us.
She groans into my mouth, a soft, vibrating sound that goes straight to my balls.
I shift my weight, grinding my crotch against her.
I want her to feel how much I want her. I want her to know exactly what she's done to me. The friction of her cotton dress against my jeans is almost too much. I’m hard as a fence post, throbbing with a need so intense it feels like a physical blow to my gut.
I hook my fingers beneath the hem of her dress and drag it higher. The cotton scrapes across my knuckles as I search for the warm skin beneath it. I don’t have the patience to be gentle with fabric. I just need to get to her.
I find the skin of her thigh—soft, warm, and trembling.
I let out a jagged breath, my head dropping to the crook of her neck.
I bite the sensitive skin there, leaving a bruise that will tell anyone who looks that she belongs with me.
She cries out, but it’s not in pain. Her hips jerk upward, seeking more, seeking me.
"God, Juliette," I rasp, my voice sounding like I’ve been swallowing glass. "You have no idea what you're doing to me. I’ve spent three years feeling like a ghost. And then you climb into my truck and suddenly I can’t breathe without wanting to consume you."
"Then do it," she pants, her hands moving down my back, gripping my ass, pulling me harder against her. "Consume me, Cag. I don't want to be an asset anymore. I want to be yours."
The honesty in her voice is a knife to my chest. It peels back the layers of my own trauma—the memory of the empty aisle, the whispers of the town, the feeling of being something that was easily discarded. She isn’t pulling away. She’s holding on like she made the choice herself.
I slide my hand higher, my fingers grazing the edge of her lace panties. She’s wet. I can feel the dampness through the thin fabric, a slick heat that makes my head spin. I let out a guttural sound, my fingers hooking into the lace, pulling it aside just enough to find her.
She’s perfect. Soft, swollen, and dripping for me. I find her clit with my thumb, circling it with a pressure that has her head snapping back against the truck. Her eyes flutter shut, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"That's it, princess," I mutter, my mouth finding her ear. I lick the lobe, my teeth grazing the gold hoop there. "Show me how much you want this. Show me how much you want me."
I increase the rhythm, my thumb working her, my other hand reaching down to grasp my own cock through my jeans.
I need to come. I need to explode. But I won't. Not like this.
Not against a truck with the world falling down around us.
I want her in a bed. I want her in the loft, surrounded by the scent of wood and oil, where I can take my time and map out every inch of her.
But my body isn't listening to my brain. My body is running on pure, unadulterated instinct. I start to grind against her again, the friction of my cock against her thigh through the layers of our clothes sending white-hot sparks through my nervous system. She’s moving with me, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me into the cradle of her hips.
The bunched cotton skirt is the only thing between my cock and the slick heat of her. I can feel her through the fabric, the restless movement of her hips asking for more.
"Please," she sobs, her face buried in my shoulder. "Please, Cag. I need... I don't know what I need, but I need it now."
"I know," I groan. "I know, princess."
I’m spiraling. Possessiveness claws through my chest. I want the ruined dress gone and her beneath me on Pine Ridge ground, claimed so completely that neither her father nor that banker could mistake where she chose to stay.
I’m so close. The pressure in my balls is a dull ache, a heavy weight that demands release.
I move my hand faster, my thumb buried in her slickness, my fingers sliding just a half-inch inside her.
She’s tight. So goddamn tight. The sensation of her wrapping around my fingers almost sends me over the edge.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her hair is a mess, her lipstick is smeared, and her eyes are glazed with a pleasure so pure it makes my chest ache. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And she’s mine.
"Nobody’s ever going to put a price on you again," I say, my voice thick with emotion and lust. "You hear me? Not him. Not anybody."