Chapter 14 Wyatt
Wyatt
Sadie insists on showering first, so I get the water running hot and leave her to it. I pull on my boots and run a quick perimeter sweep. When I return, I make tea for her, coffee for me, and warm yesterday’s biscuits in a towel so they don’t dry out.
I nearly spill the tea I’m pouring when she walks into the living room.
She’s wearing another one of my shirts, her legs bare, damp hair curling around her flushed cheeks.
Jesus.
She’s the most glorious thing I’ve ever seen.
I want to spread her out on the kitchen table and feast on her for hours. Make her beg for my fingers, my mouth, my cock.
Later. Feed your woman first.
“This is… good,” she says softly as she curls both palms around the mug I hand her.
“The tea?” I ask.
“Waking up happy.” She meets my eyes. “I don’t remember the last time.”
“Get used to it.”
We eat on the couch, plates balanced on our knees, Maisie planted loyally at our feet. Sadie tears off a bite of biscuit and hands it to the dog, who swallows it whole and immediately nudges her for more.
After breakfast, I stand to take the plates to the sink. The second I lift my arm, my shoulder twinges with a sharp, familiar tug. I try to hide it, but Sadie catches the wince.
Of course she does.
I give her the old half-smile I’ve been using for years, the one that says old injury, don’t fuss. Most people let it go.
She’s not most people.
She disappears down the hall without a word.
“Dove?” I call after her.
No answer.
A moment later, she returns with a heat pack.
She lifts it slightly. “Can I?”
Something in my chest goes tight, then soft. She’s not pitying me, no “poor broken soldier” anywhere in her face. Only quiet, competent care.
I nod.
She warms the pack under hot water, wraps it in a clean towel, then nudges me toward the couch.
I sit.
I would kneel if she asked.
My shirt rides up a little as she positions the heat pack, exposing the scar at my side. Her eyes flick there—no staring, no flinching. Just awareness.
She kneels in front of me and presses the heat exactly where I was reaching without realizing.
“More pressure?” she asks.
“A little,” I manage.
She leans in, firm and steady. The warmth sinks deep, undoing tension I didn’t know I was holding. My shoulders drop on a long exhale.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she murmurs.
We stay like that for a while, her hand warm on my shoulder, the heat loosening everything winter has tried to lock.
“Tore the muscle around the scar last winter,” I say finally. “Was chopping wood. Didn’t stop when I should’ve.”
The pack cools. She eases it away… and climbs into my lap.
No hesitation. No shyness.
Just need.
She settles with her thighs spread around my hips, wearing nothing beneath my shirt, and every drop of blood abandons my brain.
Her hands trace my shoulders gently, fingers finding the place that still aches.
Then she kisses me slowly, soft and seeking, like she’s relearning my mouth.
I kiss her back, one hand pulling her in, the other cradling the back of her head.
She melts with a sound that hits me harder than any bullet.
Her lips part. I deepen the kiss. She moans—quiet, beautiful—and I know I’ll replay that sound until I die.
When she finally pulls back, she rests her forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“Wyatt…”
I grip her hips and drag her over my hard cock. Her breath breaks against my mouth when she feels exactly what she’s doing to me.
“You sure?” I murmur, though her body is already telling me yes.
She nods, trembling. “I… want more.”
“You’ll get more.” My hands slide under her shirt, palms mapping warm skin. Her breath stutters as my thumbs brush the undersides of her breasts.
She arches. “Wyatt…”
I drag my mouth down her neck, sucking lightly at her pulse point until she shivers. “Tell me what you want, Dove.”
“You,” she breathes. “Just… you.”
I lift the flannel slowly, kissing every new inch of skin—ribs, sternum, the hollow between her breasts. She raises her arms so I can strip the shirt off her completely. Her nipples tighten instantly in the cool air. Her pussy glistens where she’s seated over me, already wet.
My shirt ends up on the floor with hers. I take her hands and place them on my chest. She traces my muscles, thumbs brushing my nipples.
“Beautiful,” she whispers.
I huff a laugh. “Dove, if you keep looking at me like that, this’ll be over embarrassingly fast.”
She smiles, slow and wicked. “Then I’ll make it worth your while.”
Christ.
She leans down and kisses the scar on my side.
My resolve snaps.
I grip her hips, ready to lay her on her back, but she clamps her thighs around my waist and stays exactly where she is.
“Uh-uh,” she murmurs, hands sliding up to cup the back of my neck. “Your shoulder’s sore.”
“Sadie—”
She cuts me off with a kiss. Slow. Deliberate. Her breath ghosts over my lips. “I’ll do the work. You just… hold on.”
Heat flares like a match to gasoline.
I nod.
She tugs my joggers down. My cock springs free, heavy and aching. She shifts, notching the head at her entrance. My whole world narrows to the slow, devastating way she sinks down onto me.
“Oh!” Her head tips back. “You feel… fuller this way.”
I grip her hips, guiding her. She rises and falls, taking me deep. Her nipples drag across my chest, sending jolts straight up my spine. Her slick heat squeezes around me, fluttering as she adjusts.
I stroke her breasts, tug her nipples, watch her fall apart. Her hips stutter. She gasps when my thumb circles her clit.
“Please, Wyatt…”
“That’s it,” I growl. “Let me feel you.”
Her rhythm falters, body trembling. Her climax hits fast. She cries out and curls forward, clenching so hard around me I see stars.
I grit my teeth, holding on. Barely.
“Wyatt,” she whispers shakily as she comes down, “I need you to move. Please, I need—”
I kiss her. “I know. Come for me again first.”
“I don’t—Wyatt, I can’t—”
“Oh, you can,” I murmur, sliding my middle finger through her slick folds and teasing her back entrance. “You will.”
Her breath shatters. “Oh! Oh, fuck. What—”
“Good girl… breathe, Dove.”
I give her small pumps of my hips while my fingertip presses just enough to tip her over again. She shudders, nails biting into my shoulders.
When she breaks, soft and breathless, I hold her through every tremor.
She opens her eyes, dazed. “I’m supposed to be doing the work,” she whispers, then kisses me and starts to move again.
She sets a pace that’s rough, deep, and devastating. I look between us to where we’re joined, watching her pussy swallow me greedily, over and over… and I lose the battle.
“Come for me, Saint,” she demands. “Give me everything.”
That’s all it takes.
I erupt with a groan that’s half her name, half surrender.
Minutes later, when my body finally returns, she’s draped over me like a warm blanket, one hand stroking the back of my neck, the other resting over my scar.
She may not erase the old wounds, but she’s easing the deeper ones already.
“Wyatt?” she murmurs, voice dreamy.
“Hm?”
“You’re right.”
“About what?”
“You’re really good with your hands.”
I huff a laugh into her shoulder. “And my mouth?”
She blushes so hard I feel it against my throat. “Shut up.”
“Never.”
She flicks my ear. I nip her collarbone. She squeaks.
We end up laughing, tangled up in warmth and each other.
We eventually peel ourselves off the couch because both of us are overheated, sweaty, and completely useless for anything other than staring at each other like fools.
Sadie pads toward the bathroom first, my shirt clutched to her front, her rounded ass and legs bare. She glances over her shoulder once—just once—but it’s enough to wipe out what little restraint I have left. I nearly follow her, but she gives me a soft, warning smile.
Your shoulder’s still sore, that look says. Behave.
I behave for exactly ten minutes—long enough to tug on my clothes and for her to shower.
When she comes back into the living room, her cheeks are flushed from the hot water, her damp hair curling at her jaw. She looks soft and undone and freshly rebuilt all at once, and I’m pretty sure I forget how to breathe.
“Tea?” I ask because my brain has rebooted to caveman simplicity.
She takes the mug, wraps her fingers around it, and tucks her feet under her on the couch. Maisie hops up beside her, planting herself like a furry bodyguard. Sadie strokes her ears absently.
Her gaze lifts to mine. “Wyatt… do you ever get scared?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s strange, but because of the way she asks it. Small. Honest. Not fragile, just uncloaked.
I sit beside her, one arm draped behind her shoulders. “Yeah,” I answer truthfully. “More now than I used to.”
She turns her head slightly, studying me. “Because of me?”
I slide my hand into her damp hair and tuck a strand behind her ear. “Because I have something to lose.”
Her breath trembles. “Tex is still tracking?”
“Yeah. Tex is sweeping west every night. Tank is running extra perimeter checks around his cabin and putting cameras higher up the ridge.”
Her brows lift slowly. “All of this… for me?”
“No,” I correct softly. “For us.”
Her eyes flash with fragile hope, blooming like warmth under frost.
Before she can respond, my phone buzzes on the table.
Tex: Saint. Update. Drone picked up a scrape line behind east tree line. Boot print. New.
Someone was definitely there last night. Alone. Moving light. We’re on it.
I clench my teeth and slide the phone facedown.
Sadie’s fingers drift to mine. “Tell me.”
“Someone’s been scouting the tree line again.” I run my thumb along her knuckles. “But they’re not getting close. We’re tightening the net.”
She inhales slowly. “Wyatt… I don’t want people getting hurt because of me.”
“That’s what men like us are for,” I say simply. “Keeping the danger aimed at us instead of you. It’s not a burden, Dove. It’s what we do.”
“But—”
“No.” I cup her face gently. “Listen to me. You’re not a weight. You’re not a problem to solve. You’re someone worth protecting.”
Her lashes tremble. She leans forward until her forehead touches mine. “I still don’t understand how you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make fear feel survivable.”
My hand slides to her waist, thumb stroking the warm skin beneath her shirt. “Maybe because I’m feeling the same damn thing.”
Her eyes fly to mine.
“I’m scared too,” I admit softly. “Because I care. Because you’re under my roof. Because you slept in my arms last night and my whole chest hasn’t felt the same since.”
“Wyatt…”
I tilt her chin up. “We’re in this together. You and me. And we’re not going to break.”
She nods. “Okay.”
We sit like that for a long moment; the fire crackling in the hearth, snow drifting against the windows, Maisie asleep at our feet. The world outside feels cold and far away.
Sadie exhales, leans into my side, and whispers, “I don’t think I remember what it feels like to belong.”
I wrap my arm around her, pulling her closer until her head rests against my chest. “Then I’ll remind you. Every damn day.”
Her hand curls lightly in my shirt.
Like she already believes it.
Like she’s already home.