Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
LENA
Twenty four hours.
He asked for one day. That was yesterday at the creek. Now it's sunset on day five, and Tucker Brant is standing in the doorway of the barn watching me walk across the yard with two plates of food because the man forgot to eat lunch again.
"Dinner," I say, holding up the plates. Leftover roast beef sandwiches from the deli in town, chips, two pickles.
He takes his plate. Our fingers don't touch. He's been careful about that all day. Keeping distance. Measuring the space between us.
"You don't have to feed me."
"You skipped lunch."
"Manny brought jerky."
"Jerky isn't lunch, Tucker."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Been eating jerky for lunch for nine years."
"And I've been here five days. Things change."
We eat on the tailgate of his truck because the porch feels too intimate. The sun drops behind the mountains, painting everything gold then pink then purple. Hank collapses at my feet. Dolly stays near Tucker because Dolly's loyalty is absolute.
"Show me something," I say between bites.
"What?"
"Something about the ranch. Something you love that nobody else would notice."
He chews slowly. Thinking. Then he sets down his sandwich, wipes his hands on his jeans, slides off the tailgate. Holds out a hand to help me down. Rough fingers wrap around mine, warm. He lets go the second my boots hit the ground.
The walk takes ten minutes through the east pasture. The cows are settled for the evening, dark shapes against darker grass. Tucker stops at a fence line near the creek and points.
"My dad built this section by hand. Wouldn't let the crew touch it." His voice is quiet. "See how the posts sit? Closer together than the rest. He said if you build it tight here, the water can't undercut the base in spring."
Running my fingers along the weathered wood, I feel where the posts meet the rails. Tight. Precise. The work of a man who cared about things lasting.
"He sounds like you."
"He was better at it."
"At ranching?"
"At everything."
Turning to face him, I lean against the fence. "Tucker, this ranch is thriving. Eight hundred cows, six hundred acres, and you run it practically alone. Your dad would be proud of that."
His jaw tightens. The hazel eyes go bright in the fading light, and he looks at me for a long moment. Really looks. Past the camera bag, past the sundresses. "Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Say things that make me want to keep you."
My breath catches. He steps closer. One boot, then the other, until he's standing right in front of me with his hands on the fence rails on either side of my hips. Caging me in without touching me.
"Your one day is up," I whisper.
"I know."
"Did you think about it?"
"Haven't stopped." His forehead drops to mine. "All day. Checking the herd, fixing fence, doing the feed run. Couldn't stop thinking about your mouth."
"Just my mouth?"
His hands leave the fence rails. One slides into my hair, the other grips my hip, pulling me flush against him. The kiss is nothing like the creek. The creek was slow, careful. Exploratory.
This is hungry.
His tongue pushes past my lips. My back presses against the fence post. Both my hands fist his shirt, dragging him closer, and the sound he makes against my mouth, low and rough, sends heat straight through me. My hips rock forward into his. He's hard against my stomach.
"Come inside," he says against my jaw, his mouth trailing down my neck.
"The house?"
"Yeah."
The walk back takes forever. His hand on the small of my back, firm, guiding. Both dogs trot ahead like they know where we're going. Through the kitchen door. He kicks off his boots. I kick off mine. Down the hallway. His bedroom.
The room is simple. Big bed with a dark quilt, wood headboard, a lamp on the nightstand that throws warm light when he flips it on. Nothing on the walls. Nothing extra.
Tucker turns to me. Cups my face with both hands, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. "I haven't done this in a long time."
"That's okay."
"No." He shakes his head slowly. "I mean I haven't wanted to. Not with anyone. Not until you showed up in those red heels and told me not to clean up."
Reaching up, I take his hat off. Set it on the dresser. His hair is lighter underneath, messed up, soft. Running my fingers through it, I pull him down to kiss me again.
His hands slide down my back, grip my ass, lift me. My legs wrap around his waist. He carries me to the bed, sets me down, follows me onto the mattress. His weight settles over me. Solid. Heavy in the best way.
"This comes off." My fingers find the hem of his henley. He sits back on his knees, pulls it over his head. Broad chest, tanned, a line of hair trailing from his navel down into his jeans. Muscles earned from work, not a gym.
My shirt goes next. Then my bra. His eyes travel down my body. Slow. Reverent.
"Christ, Lena."
He lowers his mouth to my breast. Tongue circling my nipple, then sucking, his hand cupping the other, squeezing. My back arches off the mattress. His mouth moves to the other breast, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. My hips grind up into his.
His hand slides down my stomach, unbuttons my jeans, pushes inside. Two fingers press against my clit through my underwear, rubbing slow circles. My thighs fall open.
"Wet." His voice is rough. He pulls my jeans down, then my underwear, tosses both off the bed. Settles between my thighs. Looks up at me with those hazel eyes, then lowers his mouth.
His tongue drags flat up through my pussy. Slow. Then again. My fingers twist in his hair. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open while his tongue circles my clit, flicking, sucking. One finger pushes inside me, then two, curling forward while his mouth keeps working.
"Tucker. God."
He groans against me. The vibration sends a shock through my core. His fingers pump, his tongue presses flat against my clit, and I shatter. The orgasm rolls through me in waves, my thighs clamping around his head. He doesn't stop until I push at his shoulders, oversensitive, gasping.
Kissing his way up my body, stomach, ribs, breasts, throat, jaw, he reaches into the nightstand drawer. Condom. He strips off his jeans, rolls it on. He's thick. I watch him stroke himself once, eyes on me, and the sight makes my stomach clench.
He lines up. Pushes inside me in one long, deep thrust. Full. Stretched.
"Fuck." His forehead drops to my shoulder. "You feel incredible."
My nails dig into his back. He starts to move. Long strokes, slow at first, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in. My legs wrap around his waist, heels pressing into his ass, urging him deeper.
"Harder."
He braces one hand on the headboard. The pace shifts. Deep, steady, punishing. The headboard taps the wall. My breasts bounce with every thrust. His free hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks me.
"Right there, don't stop."
"Wasn't planning on it."
The second orgasm builds fast, tighter than the first. His thumb presses harder. His hips snap forward. My back bows off the bed, everything going white and tight and perfect, and I come around his cock with his name on my lips.
He follows two strokes later, burying himself deep, face in my neck, groaning my name against my skin. His body shudders, then goes still.
We lie there. Breathing hard. His weight half on me, half on the mattress. My fingers trace lazy lines across his shoulder blades. His mouth presses against my collarbone. Once. Twice.
"Do you have to leave tonight?" he asks barely above a murmur.
"Wild horses couldn't drag me out of this bed."
A real smile. Against my skin. Full, warm, unhurried.
Later, he makes scrambled eggs in the kitchen wearing only his jeans, no shirt, while I sit on the counter in his flannel. The blue one. My flannel now. He doesn't argue the point.
"I called Josie," he says, sliding a plate toward me.
"About what?"
"Told her the brand project is good. That you're doing good work." He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. "Told her I want you to stay the full two weeks."
My heart hammers. "What did she say?"
"Fourteen exclamation points."
Laughing, I steal a bite off his plate. He lets me. "Tucker."
"Yeah?"
"I'm falling for you. You know that, right?"
He sets down his fork. Steps between my knees where I'm sitting on the counter. Cups my face. Kisses me soft, slow. His thumbs trace my jaw.
"Yeah," he says against my mouth. "I know. Because I fell first."
My phone text alert goes off, and he growls as I turn to reach for it.
Mama he asked me to stay the full two weeks
My mother's response comes in four seconds.
Mija I already told your father. He says bring the cowboy for Sunday dinner
He's a rancher Mama
Bring the rancher for Sunday dinner. I'm making tamales
Grinning at my phone, I curl into Tucker's side on the couch while both dogs sleep at our feet. His arm wraps around me, pulling me close. His chin rests on top of my head.
"Your mom?" he asks.
"She wants you for Sunday dinner."
A pause. Then, quietly: "I'd like that."
Outside, the coyotes howl across the valley. The ranch house creaks in the wind. Tucker's heartbeat is steady under my ear, strong, unhurried. And for the first time in my life, I don't want to be anywhere else.