Chapter 7
The cabin had gone quiet.
Reagan stood at the window, watching the last light fade over the lake, her pulse still racing from the trucks that had passed without stopping.
Close. Too close. And Channel hadn't moved from his position the entire time—just watched the headlights climb and disappear, his body coiled with a stillness that made her skin prickle.
Now the danger had passed, and the adrenaline had nowhere to go.
"You should eat something." Channel's voice came from behind her. "There's protein bars in the—"
"I'm not hungry."
She turned to face him. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching her the way he'd been watching her since the moment he walked into her store. Like she was something valuable he'd found in a junk box. Like she was his.
The claiming language. The possessive touches. The way he said mine like it was fact instead of fantasy.
She was tired of waiting to find out if he meant it.
"Reagan." His voice dropped, something shifting in his expression. "You're looking at me like—"
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to do something we can't take back."
"Maybe I am."
She crossed the cabin in four steps. He didn't move—didn't retreat, didn't advance, just watched her come with those dark eyes that saw everything. She stopped inches from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Tell me to stop," she said.
"I'm not going to do that."
"Then stop holding back."
Something cracked in his expression. The careful control he'd been maintaining since the bluff, since the store, since the first moment he'd touched her—it fractured, and what came through was raw.
His hands found her hips and pulled her against him. Hard. She gasped at the contact, at the evidence of exactly how much he'd been holding back, and then his mouth was on hers.
Not gentle. Not careful. This kiss was a claiming, his tongue sweeping past her lips, his hands fisting in the back of her shirt. Reagan grabbed his shoulders and held on, giving back everything he was giving her, drowning in the taste of him.
He spun them, pressing her against the counter, his body pinning hers. She could feel every inch of him—the hard planes of his chest, the tension in his thighs, the heat of him burning through their clothes.
"Tell me what you want." His mouth moved to her neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. "Tell me and I'll give it to you."
"Everything."
"Reagan—" His voice cracked. "If we start this, I'm not going to be able to stop."
"Who asked you to stop?"
He growled against her throat—actually growled—and then his hands were under her shirt, sliding up her ribs, his fingers rough and demanding against her skin.
She arched into his touch, wanting more, wanting everything, nine years of keeping everyone at arm's length shattering under the pressure of wanting this man.
His thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts and she moaned. Her head fell back against the cabinet, and she felt his mouth curve against her collarbone.
"Sensitive," he murmured.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
She grabbed his face and kissed him, swallowing whatever smart response he'd been planning. Her hands dropped to his belt, fumbling with the buckle, desperate to feel more of him.
His hand caught her wrist.
"Not here." His breathing was ragged, his eyes almost black with want. "Not against a kitchen counter like some quick—"
"I don't care where—"
"I do." He pressed his forehead to hers, both of them panting. "When I have you, it's going to be in a bed. Going to take my time. Going to make sure you remember every second."
"Then take me to the bed."
"Reagan—"
"Channel." She held his gaze. "Take me to—"
Headlights swept across the window.
They both froze.
More headlights. Multiple vehicles, grinding up the bluff road. Not passing this time. Coming.
"Fuck." Channel released her and moved to the window in one fluid motion. His hand went to his weapon. "They found us."
Reagan's body was still throbbing, still aching, still desperate for what they'd been building toward. But the trucks were getting closer, and the look on Channel's face had shifted from want to war.
"How many?" she asked.
"Can't tell yet." He was already pulling out his phone. "Get dressed. Grab the bat. We're about to have company."
Reagan looked down. Her shirt was rucked up to her ribs. Her hair was a disaster. Her lips felt swollen from his mouth.
Thirty seconds ago, she'd been ready to give him everything.
Now she was reaching for a weapon.
"This isn't over," she said, pulling her shirt down.
Channel looked at her—one hot, hungry look that promised everything they'd been interrupted from.
"No," he said. "It's not."
Then the first gunshot echoed across the bluff, and there was no more time for promises.