Chapter 9
BLAKE
“Goodnight, honey,” Mama wishes, sweeping my hair back.
“Night, Mama,” I wish back, smiling up at her from my soft pillow.
Mama pulls the covers up so they rest under my chin. She steps toward the door and stops. “Oh, you forgot your bear.”
A tightness sharpens in my chest, but I keep my smile in place as she tucks him in bed with me.
“Sleep tight.”
I hear the front door shut as Mama leaves for work at Main Street Diner. I really like the lady there. Mama’s boss. She’s nice to me and always gives me extra strawberries with my breakfast.
Heavy footsteps move down the hall, and I hold my breath. I send up a silent prayer to God. Maybe he’ll hear me this time and answer. The back of my neck tingles as the footsteps get closer.
I close my eyes and throw the blanket over my head.
I’m not brave. I never will be.
I hear the slow clicks in my doorknob as it turns. A cold sweat builds up on my forehead, and I feel like I could throw up.
“Blake,” he gently calls me. “I know you’re awake. Let’s play our little game.”
My buzzing phone rouses me from the ugliness of my unconscious.
Thankfully.
Ignoring the notifications, I sit up to find myself in bed alone. On the nightstand are two small pills, a glass of water, and a note with three phone numbers.
I had to take care of a few things on the ranch. Be a good girl and take the ibuprofen. Make yourself at home. If you need anything else, call me, Levi, or Walker.
I didn’t have any expectations from Santiago after multiple mind-blowing orgasms last night. I like it when there aren’t any strings.
So why do I have this itch to see Santiago again?
Possibly because I’ve been in love with him forever, but I’d rather not dwell on that right now. That’s a can of worms for another day.
For now, I’ll do what he said. I’ll make myself at home.
I don't think he'd appreciate me reorganizing his kitchen cabinets, but everything else feels fair game.
Standing from the bed, I drape the silk sheet around myself like a towel. I pad across the cold hardwood floor and peek inside the first door a few feet away from me.
Shelves of cowboy hats, hangers filled with flannel shirts and thick coats, and drawers full of denim.
Dropping the sheet, I slide my arms into thick wool sleeves and button from the top down. The shirt hangs nearly to my knees, smelling faintly of cedar, laundry detergent, and whatever cologne Santiago wears. Warm. Earthy. Comforting.
I wander into the hallway.
Last night, I hadn't noticed much beyond Santiago himself.
Today, I finally take it in.
The entire house feels like him.
Exposed timber beams stretch across the ceiling.
Stone surrounds the massive fireplace downstairs, and every piece of furniture looks sturdy enough to survive another hundred Wyoming winters.
Leather. Worn wood. Iron fixtures. Family photographs tucked onto bookshelves beside old branding irons and framed rodeo buckles.
I meander back into his bedroom and find the bathroom.
I swear I can hear angels singing.
It’s huge.
Much like his…Okay, maybe the multiple orgasms didn’t satisfy me last night. Or maybe Santiago’s dick has turned me into a randy succubus.
I wander across the black slate tile, past the reclaimed-wood double vanity and the free-standing deep tub big enough for two people.
The countertop is spotless. Every towel is folded with military precision.
His toothbrush sits beside a bottle of beard oil and the world's largest bottle of ibuprofen.
The man is either incredibly organized or has the mentality of a child.
Opening the medicine cabinet, I search for absolutely nothing in particular.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Hidden behind a bottle of sunscreen sits a charcoal face mask. I stare at it, then the empty bathroom, then back at the mask.
Naturally, I slather it all over my face.
If I’m making myself at home, I might as well commit.
I spend the next twenty minutes snooping without actually snooping.
I inspect every beard product he owns.
Judge his cologne choices.
Open exactly one drawer, then immediately shut it, because that crosses a line.
By the time I’m done, the face mask has dried so tight I can barely move my mouth. Looking around the bedroom, I spot the television mounted across from the bed.
Perfect.
I climb back beneath the comforter, prop every pillow behind my back, and grab the remote. One episode of a home renovation show turns into two.
Then somehow three.
Apparently, watching couples argue over backsplash tile is exactly the kind of drama my brain needs this morning.
By the end of the third episode, my face feels like concrete. I peel myself out of bed and head back into the bathroom. The shower practically calls my name.
I twist the handle, and the rainfall showerhead comes to life overhead, steam curling through the room.
Just as I reach for the buttons on Santiago’s flannel, my phone starts buzzing from the bedroom.
Dashing back toward the sound, I answer without looking at the screen. “What’s up, babe?”
I’m greeted by the voice of my best friend, Savannah Foster, whom I had to leave back in New York. “Just calling to see how it’s going.”
I respond as I make my way back toward the shower. “Good.”
“How is–Where are you? Are you in the shower?” Savannah asks.
“I’m about to be, but I’m at a guy’s house.” My response is vague, but that doesn’t deter her.
Her pause is loud. “Are you being held against your will or something? Cough once if you’re in danger, and twice if I need to ride in guns blazing.”
I chuckle in amusement. “What? No. I’m fine.”
“Then why are you still there?”
A valid question, but one that I’m actively trying to avoid.
“What do you mean?” I return, my tone as innocent as a fox in a henhouse.
Savannah scoffs. “Uh. Girl. Your creed is: hit it and quit it.”
“Hey!” I exclaim, affronted.
“I’m not slut-shaming,” she reassures me. “Nothing wrong with two adults consenting in a night of…pleasure. I know you don’t make promises you can’t keep. But…” she trails off.
“But?” I question with a raised brow.
I can feel her fidgeting through the phone, like she’s uncomfortable with the confrontation. “You’re usually gone by now. You don’t stick around for morning pleasantries, let alone a shower.”
“I woke up in bed alone, and he left a note telling me to make myself at home, so that’s what I’m doing,” I explain like my behavior is perfectly logical, which it is for any other human being on the planet.
But not me.
“By taking a shower?” Savannah questions further.
“Uh huh.”
“Are you by chance delaying your leave so you can see him again?” I can hear the gears turning in her head.
“No…” I answer.
Savannah gasps. “Oh, my God! Blake Jennings! Have you caught feelings?” Her screeches just about burst my eardrum. I pull the phone away from my ear, saving myself a trip to the ER. “Who? Is it one of your dad’s friends? The ones you told me about?”
“No.” My response is too clipped, too fast. She instantly knows I’m lying and squeals.
“Which one? Tell me, please. I want all the details.” She talks so fast that her words become one long sound.
Not ready to confront the questions she’s asking, I do the only thing I can think of.
I fake connection issues.
“What—I—you—can’t—” I end the call and drop my phone on the counter.
Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirrors and glass. Thankfully. I don’t want to see my distressed face right now.
Instead, I strip off Santiago’s shirt and slip into the massive walk-in shower. The hot water glides over my muscles, and I suddenly realize how sore I am from last night.
Talk about a workout.
I wash my hair with the only shampoo and conditioner in here, quietly reveling in the fact that I’m going to smell like Santiago.
The thought causes my core to ache, and just like that, I’m buzzing with need—deep, intense need.
I glide my hand over my wet, smooth skin, skimming my nipples.
I gasp, needing more. With one hand, I cup my heavy breast, and with the other, I slip two fingers in my folds and circle my bud.
I lean against the tiled wall behind me for support, ignoring the loud crash from the shampoo bottle falling to the floor.
Pinching my stiff peak, I slip a finger into my core.
When I find that spot inside me that makes me explode, I sigh at the sensation.
I sink to the floor and onto my knees, stroking and twisting, trying to push myself over the edge.
I’m so lost in the race to climax that I don’t hear the bathroom door open.
A blast of cold air across my skin interrupts my bliss.
“Blake?”
I scream, surprised to hear a deep voice.
When I open my eyes and look up, I find Levi standing on the tile with the shower door open, and I’m struck by his beauty.
Levi is made up of clean lines and solid muscle. A strong jaw dusted with permanent stubble. Even in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, he looks like he stepped out of the pages of an outdoor clothing catalog.
His mouth hangs open as his eyes roam my naked body. His gaze lights with heat when he notices where my hands are, then he lingers on the ink etched on my hip.
The shock passes, and I jump into action, attempting to cover myself. “What are you doing?” My question comes out as an accusation.
“I thought I heard…” Levi’s sentence cuts off as his gaze finds the fallen bottle. “Oh.”
“Unless you plan on joining me, please leave.”
I mean for my words to sound more like a taunt or make him uncomfortable so he leaves. But as soon as they’re out, I realize what I’ve just done, and I find that I don’t hate it.
My pussy is a greedy whore. Very greedy.
I shouldn’t want this. I can’t want this.
I already have to accept that Santiago just wanted one night. I can’t do the same with Levi.
Maybe I can be happy with the memory.
Memories don’t keep you warm at night. Memories sting, memories burn. But this memory might give me some measure of comfort.
It’s hard to think straight with this gorgeous as hell man in front of me, and the fact that I’m touching myself in front of him.
His hands go to the collar of his shirt and pull, sweeping the fabric over his head. “If you insist.”