Chapter 2 - Boone
I should not be noticing the way her tits rise and fall with each shaky breath.
I should not be noticing how her jeans hug every single curve of her ass, or how that tight little tank top leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
I should not be thinking about any of this while she's sitting next to me, traumatized and scared, still shaking from what that piece of shit tried to do to her.
But I'm noticing. God help me, I'm noticing all of it.
The shame burns hot in my gut, mixing with the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. What kind of fucking monster looks at a woman who just escaped a fucking asshole and thinks about how goddamn perfect her body is?
Me, apparently.
I'm that monster.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel with my free hand, keeping the other locked with hers because letting go feels wrong. She needs the contact. Needs to feel safe. And if holding her hand keeps her grounded, then I'll hold her fucking hand until my fingers fall off.
Even if it means fighting every instinct I have to pull over and—
No. Stop. Not going there.
"Where am I taking you?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "Your place?"
She lives in a shitty little apartment above the hardware store. I know because Colt's mentioned it. Because I've driven past it more times than I care to admit, looking up at her windows like some kind of creepy stalker.
"I don't want to be alone tonight," she whispers.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"Okay." I clear my throat. "I can call Colt. He'll—"
"No." Her hand squeezes mine. "Please don't tell Colt. Not yet. He'll lose his mind and do something stupid, and I just... I can't deal with that tonight."
She's right. Colt would absolutely lose his mind. Would probably hunt Jason down and beat him to death with his bare hands, which would land him in prison and destroy everything we've built at the ranch.
Also, I don't want to call Colt. I don’t want to hand Nicole off to my little brother and go back to my empty cottage and spend the rest of the night thinking about what almost happened to her.
"My place then," I say. "Guest room. You'll be safe there."
"Thank you."
She sounds so small. So tired. Nothing like the confident, sassy bartender who gives shit to drunk cowboys and doesn't take crap from anyone.
I hate it. Hate what that asshole did to her. Hate that she sounds broken. I especially hate that even scared and shaking, she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Her short blonde hair is messy, like she's been running her hands through it.
I've always loved her hair. Love that she keeps it short when most women grow it long.
Love how it shows off her neck, that vulnerable curve where it meets her shoulder.
Love imagining what it would feel like between my fingers while I—
Stop. Jesus Christ, I need to stop.
But I can't. Because now I'm looking at that neck, at the exposed skin above her tank top, and thinking about how I'd kiss along that path. How I'd make her forget every other man who's ever touched her. How I'd show her what it means to be worshipped the way she deserves.
My cock starts to harden and shame floods through me so intensely I actually feel nauseous. This is Nicole. Colt's best friend. The girl I've watched grow up. The woman I have no right to want.
Except she's not a girl anymore. Hasn't been for years. She's twenty-two, fully grown, with curves that would make a priest reconsider his vows and a mouth that's starred in more of my private fantasies than I'll ever admit.
And that body. Fuck, that body.
I've always preferred curvy women. Always liked having something to hold onto, something soft and real instead of sharp angles and protruding bones. Give me thick thighs and a round ass and tits I can actually grab, and I'm a happy man.
Nicole has all of that and more. She's built like every wet dream I've ever had. Soft where women should be soft, curved where women should be curved, with an ass that I've imagined gripping while I—
*Stop thinking about her ass, you sick fuck.*
But I can't stop. Can't stop noticing how those jeans are practically painted on, hugging every inch of her lower half.
Can't stop remembering the glimpse I got when she bent over at the ranch last month, how the denim stretched tight across her perfect ass and I had to excuse myself to the bathroom like a teenager.
Can't stop wondering what she'd look like bent over in front of me now, hands gripping the dashboard, that ass pushing back against—
"Boone?"
I snap back to reality so fast I nearly swerve off the road. "Yeah?"
"You okay? You're breathing kinda heavy."
Fuck. Because I'm thinking about fucking you six ways from Sunday while you're sitting here traumatized.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just... still pissed off."
Not entirely a lie. I am pissed off. Furious, actually. But that's not why my breathing is labored and my jeans are getting uncomfortably tight.
"You didn't have to hit him," she says softly. "I know you did it for me, but... you could get in trouble."
"Worth it."
"Boone—"
"He deserved worse." I chance a glance at her and immediately regret it because the dashboard lights cast shadows across her face that make her lips look even fuller, even more kissable. "He deserved everything I wanted to do to him but couldn't because I needed to get you out of there."
"What did you want to do to him?"
Break every bone in his hands so he'd never touch another woman. Shatter his jaw so he'd never talk to one again. Make him feel every ounce of fear and helplessness he made her feel, then double it.
"Things that would've landed me in prison," I say instead.
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "I've never seen you like that before. So... violent."
"Did it scare you?" Please say no. Please don't be afraid of me.
"No." Her thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, and that simple touch shoots straight to my cock. "I felt safe. Even though you were terrifying, I felt... protected."
"You are. Protected. Always."
"Because I'm Colt's friend?"
The question catches me off guard.
"Because you're you," I say. "Because I give a shit what happens to you. Friend of Colt's or not."
She makes a small sound that might be a laugh or might be a sob. "You're a good man, Boone Sullivan."
I'm really not. A good man wouldn't be thinking about sliding his hand up her thigh right now. Wouldn't be imagining what sounds she'd make if he did. Wouldn't be wondering if her tits are as soft as they look, or if her nipples are hard under that tank top, or what she'd taste like if he—
I force my attention back to the road, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.
We're almost at the ranch. Almost to the safety of my cottage where I can put her in the guest room and lock myself in my own room and take a very cold shower while hating myself.
"Can I ask you something?" Nicole's voice is small again.
"Anything."
"Why did you come so fast? When I called?"
Because the thought of someone hurting you made me lose my fucking mind. Because I would burn down the world to keep you safe. Because I've been in love with you for three years and the idea of anything happening to you is physically unbearable.
"You called," I say simply. "That's all I needed to know."
"But you didn't even ask questions. You just... came."
"What questions did I need to ask?" I pull onto the long driveway that leads to Promise Ranch. "You were scared. Someone was threatening you. Everything else was noise."
"Colt always says you're the noble one. The white knight." She laughs softly. "I always thought he was exaggerating."
"Colt talks too much."
"He loves you. All of you. But especially you." She squeezes my hand again. "Says you're the one who keeps everyone grounded. The one who believes in love when the rest of them are too cynical."
I do believe in love. Saw it in my parents before they died—that all-consuming, ride-or-die devotion that survives everything. Wanted it for myself since I was old enough to understand what I was seeing.
I found it three years ago when I looked at Nicole and realized she wasn't just Colt's friend anymore. She was *the one*. The woman I'd been waiting for my whole life.
And I've spent three years hating myself for it.
"Love's worth believing in," I say instead of any of that.
"Have you ever been in love?"
Yes. Right now. With you.
"Once," I lie. Well, half-lie. I dated someone seriously years ago. Thought it might be love. Then she fucked a close friend and I realized what I'd felt was just a pale imitation of the real thing.
"What happened?"
"She cheated. Decided I wasn't exciting enough." I shrug like it doesn't matter. It doesn't, really. Not anymore. "Worked out for the best."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Taught me to wait for the right person. No point settling for someone who doesn't give a shit about keeping their promises."
"Is that what you're doing? Waiting?"
My heart pounds. "What do you mean?"
"You never date. Colt jokes about it all the time. How his big brother could have any woman in three counties but never brings anyone around."
Because none of them are you.
"Haven't met the right person yet," I tell her. "When I do, I'll know."
I already know. She's sitting right next to me, hand in mine, wearing jeans that should be illegal and a tank top that's going to fuel my fantasies for weeks.
We pull up to my cottage, a small log structure on the east side of the property, far enough from the main house for privacy but close enough to hear if anyone needs help. I put the truck in park but don't let go of her hand yet.
"Home sweet home," I say. "Nothing fancy, but it's clean and safe."
She looks at the cottage, then at me. "Thank you. For everything. For coming to get me, for protecting me, for... for being you."
Don't look at her lips. Don't think about how close she is. Don't imagine what it would feel like to lean across the console and—
I clear my throat and release her hand, immediately missing the contact. "Let's get you inside."
I come around to help her down from the truck. She's shorter than me by a good eight inches, and when I grip her waist to steady her, my hands span almost the entire width of her body.
"Sorry," I mutter, releasing her too quickly. "Didn't mean to—"
"It's fine." Is her voice breathier than before? Or am I imagining it? "I'm fine."
We're both liars.
I unlock the cottage and hold the door open for her.
She steps inside, looking around with obvious curiosity.
I try to see it through her eyes. The worn leather couch, the wood stove, the simple kitchen.
Books stacked on every available surface because I read to quiet my mind.
Horse tack hanging by the door because I can't seem to leave work at work.
"It's nice," she says. "Very you."
"Very me meaning what?"
"A little rough around the edges but warm underneath."
I don't know how to respond to that, so I don't. Instead, I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water. "Drink this. You're probably dehydrated."
She takes it, and I try not to watch her throat as she swallows. Try not to imagine my mouth there, tasting her pulse.
Failing spectacularly.
"Guest room's through there." I nod toward the hallway. "Bathroom's attached. There's towels in the closet if you want to shower. I'll find you something to sleep in."
"Okay." She sets down the empty glass. "Boone?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you stay close tonight? I don't want to be alone."
Fuck. How am I supposed to survive this?
"I'll be right across the hall," I promise. "You need anything, you just call out. I'm a light sleeper."
She steps forward and wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her face against my chest.
"Thank you," she whispers into my shirt. "Thank you for being my hero tonight."
I'm not a hero. Heroes don't get hard when the woman they're supposed to be protecting hugs them. Heroes don't feel her tits pressed against their stomach and must fight every instinct to grab her ass and pull her closer.
Heroes definitely don't imagine spinning her around, bending her over the kitchen counter, and showing her exactly what kind of man they really are.
But I wrap my arms around her anyway because the alternative is pushing her away, and I'm not that strong. My cock is fully hard now, pressing against my zipper, and I angle my hips back so she won't feel it.
"You're safe here," I tell her, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will. "I promise."
She stays in my arms for another moment, then pulls back. When she looks up at me, her brown eyes are wet with unshed tears.
"I'm glad I called you," she says. "I'm glad it was you who came for me."
Me too. Even if it's torture. Even if I'll spend the rest of the night lying awake, aching, wanting things I have no right to want.
"Go shower," I say gently. "I'll leave clothes outside the door."