Chapter 9
Cade
Fuck, this is the most embarrassing shit I’ve done in a long time.
Sadie’s at the door, backlit by the last threadbare dusk, eyes so wide you’d think I’d just flashed a gun instead of a fucked-up leg and a faded T-shirt. For a second I think maybe she’s going to bolt—leave the bowl in the dirt and just disappear back to her own little cell up the hill.
But then her jaw ticks, once, and she edges inside, boots silent.
Her arms are folded, hands tucked under her ribs like she’s holding herself together. “Do you need help like… now?” Her voice strains.
“Yeah.” I make it sound casual. “I can’t bend my leg right and I feel sick as shit smelling piss like this. I can’t… I just can’t do it without help.”
She looks suspicious.
But she has no fucking clue. I’d never ask someone for help for a task like this, if I didn’t fucking need it.
“Just help me with the jeans, and I’ll be good.”
She eases closer to me, and I get a new view of the situation. I’m on my ass, back against a feed sack, bandaged leg stretched straight out, and she’s got all the leverage. Her gaze doesn’t touch my face. She’s looking at the denim, at the way it’s ripped up to the thigh.
“Make this fast,” I tell her, already bracing as she crouches.
Her knees crack as she does, but she doesn’t have a reaction. The whole barn is quiet except for the pulse of my own blood in my ears and the creak of timber when the wind picks up.
I lay the clothes she brought in my lap. “Fast,” I say again.
“Right.” She nods and sets the casserole bowl to the side. She pulls the jeans off the pile and unfolds them, then inspects them, not quite meeting my gaze. “They might be big.”
“That’s fine,” I grunt, and try to lift my right foot, but the muscles seize. The sweat beads up on my temple. I let it drop and wait for her to do it.
Fuck. I hate this.
I unbutton the top button of my soiled jeans, and then unzip, noticing the blush creeping up her neck. I ignore it. I’ve made women blush before. It means nothing.
But the way her eyes stay focused on her feet is something new.
“I can’t pull it all off,” I mumble, my voice dipping as I unzip them the rest of the way. “I need you to do that. I can lift my hips.”
She audibly swallows, but nods. “Okay.”
She’s going to see my dick. The thought slaps me across the face, and a wave of panic stutters through my body.
Maybe I don’t want to do this.
But her fingers are already on my waistband, the sweet musky scent of her fills my nostrils, and I can see her lips so closely, I can make out the chapped skin.
“Cade?” Her eyes lift, just as her fingertips touch my skin.
I lift my hips, looking away and squeezing my eyes shut. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
The cool air hits my dick and I try to focus instead on the pain searing through my leg. I shiver, fighting the constricting feeling in my chest.
“I didn’t bring new underwear—”
“Just put the fucking jeans on,” I cut her off, my voice sharp.
“Yes sir,” she whispers, and something squeezes inside of me, something I don’t fucking recognize.
But fuck, my abdomen feels tight. I breathe through it.
It’s just the cold. She’s not touching you. She’s not going to touch you there.
Sadie slides one hand under my ankle, her palm warm, and she lifts my leg. With the other hand she opens the leg of the jeans and works it up, careful around the bandage. There’s a patience to her touch, like she’s handled a hundred animals in worse shape than me.
Still, my skin goes cold where her fingers graze it.
She gets the fabric bunched at my calf, and then pauses. “This part might hurt.”
“I know,” I snap back at her, finally daring to look.
Sadie’s eyes are solely on where her hands are. She’s not staring at my erection, which is enough to make my own stomach churn. She’s only focused on the task at hand.
And she keeps moving.
The denim drags over the swollen muscle, and I can feel the heat building under the bandage, but what really sets me off is the way her hands work the fabric, rolling it slow, being gentle, but not soft. She’s got a grip like she means it.
And my body is betraying me.
Disgusting. I’m so fucking disgusting.
The jeans clear my knee, and she pauses to adjust the bandage, making sure the edge doesn’t catch. Then she moves the rest of the pant leg up, folding it back and out of the way, before reaching for the other leg. She does it so matter-of-fact, it’s like she’s changing a fucking flat tire.
Only she’s not.
She’s got her hands on me, and I don’t have a single fucking say in it.
Sadie gets both legs of the jeans up, and now it’s time for me to sit up and pull them over my hips. I grit my teeth, plant my hands, and push, refusing to watch her get that close to my dick.
My torso comes up, but the effort sends a flash of white pain up my spine. I bite off a curse and let my head hang for a second.
Once I’m upright, she helps me shimmy the jeans over my hips. When they’re up, she lets go. And she backs away.
The moonlight gleams off the sweat beading up across her forehead. She doesn’t look at my crotch, where my cock is bulging and throbbing from the close proximity. Instead, she reaches for the shirt.
“Do you want help with this, too?” Her eyes meet mine, and they’re fucking warm and painfully inviting.
And I fucking hate her for that.
But my head nods before I can tell her to fuck off.
Sadie gets it unfolded. It’s an old gym shirt, probably from a state fair or something, the kind that still smells of whatever detergent she uses.
She bunches the hem in her fists and holds it out.
I try to raise my arms, but only the left goes up clean—the right shoulder stabs with an old pain, and I have to move slow.
“I’ve got it.” She doesn’t wait for me to tell her what to do.
She leans in, slides my old shirt off, and helps me slide my left arm into the new one, then the right, and then she’s got to pull the shirt over my head.
Her face is maybe a foot from mine, and I catch the scent of sweat and dryer sheets and that feminine musky scent. She’s so goddamn close to me. Her arms bracket my head for a second, and I don’t think I can fucking breathe at all.
I don’t know if it’s panic or pure primal rage.
But I wish it’d fucking stop.
She pulls the shirt down, careful not to brush the raw line of my bullet graze. She sees the wound but doesn’t comment. Sadie just wipes her hands on her own jeans, like she’s dusting off something sticky. She starts to stand.
My hand moves before I can check it. I grab her wrist.
She stops cold—a whole-body freeze, like a dog that’s been hit and trained not to fight back. For a full second, neither of us moves.
Then I open my grip and let go, like she might burn me. “Thank you.” It comes out rough, and I don’t want to look at her when I say it.
She holds my gaze anyway, just for a moment, and then disappears from the barn.
The silence she leaves behind is a vacuum. My cock is unwantedly throbbing. The scent of Sadie is still everywhere. I want to chase her down, and choke her out, so she never comes close again.
But instead, my hands slip beneath the denim and pull my dick out.
I don’t stroke it. I just hold it, feeling a surge of shame and disgust.
I try to think about the road. About the sheriff.
About how many hours of daylight there are before someone figures out that I’m alive and hiding a hundred yards from the back porch.
I try to do the mental math of how long it’ll take to get the swelling down, whether I could take her husband if it came to that.
None of it fucking works.
My brain keeps going back to the way her hands felt on my skin. The way she didn’t ask questions. The way she froze when I grabbed her wrist but didn’t pull away. The way she left. The way she smelled.
I’m so goddamn hard, and I can’t bring myself to let go of my cock.
I stare at the ceiling, still fisting myself.
I try not to imagine her stripping her sweaty T-shirt off and showing off a sheen of sweat layering her breast, but it’s impossible.
She’s everywhere—in the press of her palm, in the line of her jaw, in the dark look in her eyes when she says she’s done something she can’t undo.
Fuck. Sadie. Fuck.
My hand moves. Sweat rolls down the side of my face as my glutes squeeze.
I fucking hate you, Sadie. I hate you.
I pump harder, my wrist aching as my jaw goes slack and a groan slips out. I know the intrusive thoughts are going to come. I know whose dark eyes I’m going to see when I crest over the peak.
A sob racks my chest as I get closer, my eyes tightly shut, the scent of Sadie still here. Please just get this over with. Please. Please. Please.
I roll my hips, preparing to release off into the darkness.
My body stutters. The image of Sadie falters. And I see him.
“Fuck!” I shout, instantly dropping my hand away from my dick, cum leaking out and onto the soil.
‘Your mom told me you’d be a good boy for me.’
‘See, I can make you feel so many things, Cade.’
My hands fly up and cover my ears, as if it’ll stop the voice from tormenting me. But it doesn’t work.
It never fucking does.