Chapter 5 - Nicole
I lie in the dark, listening to the silence from across the hall, and try to convince myself that what just happened in the kitchen was normal. Friendly. Completely platonic.
I'm failing spectacularly.
*"It hits different when it's you."*
What the hell does that mean?
My heart won't stop racing. My mind won't stop replaying every word, every look, every subtle shift in his expression. The way he said I was important. The way he listened to my stupid dreams about Italy and Ireland like they mattered. The way he looked at me in his clothes like—
Like what? Like he wanted me? Or am I still doing that pathetic thing where I read meaning into basic human kindness?
Probably the latter. Definitely the latter.
Boone Sullivan doesn't want me. He wants someone who fits into his life. Someone who loves this ranch as much as he does. Someone who doesn't dream about escaping to foreign countries because they can't stand their own reality.
Someone who isn't his little brother's best friend.
But God, the way he looked at me tonight. In the truck. In the kitchen. Like he was fighting something. Like he wanted to say more but couldn't. Like he was holding himself back from—
From what? Kicking me out? Telling me the truth about how pathetic my crush is? Explaining that he knows I touch myself thinking about him and it makes him uncomfortable?
I pull the quilt up to my chin and breathe in the scent of his flannel. Woodsy and masculine and safe. Everything I've ever wanted wrapped around my body like a promise.
A promise he hasn't made. A promise he never will make.
Because I want to leave and he wants to stay. Because I'm twenty-two and he's thirty-eight. Because I'm Colt's friend and he's Colt's brother and there are lines you don't cross no matter how badly you want to.
But lying here in his guest room, wearing his clothes, knowing he's right across the hall thinking about... what? Me? The ranch? Anything but me?
It makes me want impossible things.
Makes me want to get up, walk across that hallway, knock on his door, and tell him the truth.
Tell him I've been in love with him for years.
Tell him I don't actually want to leave if leaving means never seeing him again.
Tell him that every dream I have about the future includes him in it, even though I know it's hopeless.
But I don't do any of that. Because I'm a coward. Because rejection would destroy me. Because keeping my pathetic secret is easier than risking our friendship, Colt's trust, and the only stable thing left in my life.
So, I just lie here, aching and wanting, listening for sounds of him across the hall.
Eventually, I hear his bed creak. Hear him shift. Hear him settle.
And slowly, finally, I start to drift.
Next Day
I wake up with my hand inside my panties.
"Fuck," I whisper, pulling my hand away like I've been burned.
I was dreaming. Something intense and vivid and absolutely filthy involving Boone's hands, Boone's mouth, Boone's cock stretching me open while he whispered dirty things in that rough voice.
My pussy is soaked. Throbbing. Desperate for the friction my dream promised but my waking self can't deliver.
Not here. Not in his house. Not when he could walk in at any moment.
Except... would that be so bad? My brain supplies images of Boone opening the door, seeing me touching myself, his expression shifting from shock to hunger.
Of him crossing the room in three long strides, replacing my hand with his, showing me what it feels like to be touched by someone who knows what they're doing.
I squeeze my thighs together and whimper. This is torture. Three years of wanting him, and last night pushed everything to the surface. Now my body won't let me forget. Won't let me pretend I don't need him.
I need to get out of this bed. Need to splash cold water on my face. Need to find some semblance of control before I do something stupid like actually touch myself in his guest room.
I stumble to the bathroom and stare at my reflection. My hair's a mess. My face is flushed. I'm still wearing his flannel, which is rumpled and riding up, barely covering my ass. The sweatpants are twisted around my legs.
I look like I've been fucked.
I wish I had been fucked.
By him. Only him. Always him.
"Get it together," I tell my reflection. "You're being ridiculous."
My reflection doesn't argue, but she doesn't look convinced either.
I use the bathroom, wash my face, try to tame my hair. It doesn't really work, but at least I look slightly less like I spent the night having intensely sexual dreams about my host.
When I emerge, the house is quiet. Too quiet.
"Boone?" I call out softly.
No answer.
I pad down the hallway to the kitchen. Empty. The living room is also deserted: just that worn leather couch, the books, the morning sun streaming through the windows making everything look warm and inviting.
Where is he?
Maybe he went to the main house. Maybe he's avoiding me after last night's kitchen conversation. Maybe he realized how pathetic I am and is already plotting how to get rid of me politely.
Then I hear it. The sound of hoofbeats. Rhythmic and steady.
I move to the window and look out.
And there he is.
Boone's in the corral, riding a massive black horse. He's shirtless. Fucking shirtless wearing only jeans and boots, his body on full display as he guides the horse through what looks like training exercises.
Holy mother of God.
I've seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times. But never like this. Never backlit by morning sun, muscles flexing and rippling with every movement, sweat glistening on his skin like he's some kind of goddamn Greek god come to life.
His chest is broad and defined. His arms are thick with muscle, biceps bulging every time he adjusts the reins.
His stomach is ridged with abs I didn't even know existed outside of magazines.
And his back… Jesus Christ, his back is all powerful shoulders and carved muscle tapering down to a narrow waist.
He moves with the horse like they're one creature. Every shift of his hips, every flex of his thighs gripping the saddle, every roll of his shoulders... It's mesmerizing.
I watch him circle the corral, watch him lean forward to stroke the horse's neck, watch sweat drip down his spine. My fingers itch to follow that path. My mouth waters thinking about tasting the salt on his skin. My pussy clenches around nothing, desperate and empty.
This is wrong. I shouldn't be standing here watching him like a creep. Shouldn't be fantasizing about licking every inch of that body while he's just trying to work.
But I can't look away. Couldn't if my life depended on it.
He brings the horse to a stop and slides off. His jeans sit low on his hips, showing the V of muscles that disappears below his waistband. There's a dark trail of hair leading down from his navel, and I want to trace it with my tongue until I reach—
Stop. Fucking stop.
But I can't. Because now he's running a hand through his sweaty hair, making it stick up in every direction. Now he's reaching for a water bottle on the fence post and tipping his head back to drink, throat working, water dripping down his chin and onto his chest.
I'm going to die. Actually die. My heart can't take this.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and turns toward the cottage. I jump back from the window so fast I nearly trip over my own feet. Shit. Did he see me? Please God, don't let him have seen me.
I scramble to the kitchen and busy myself with the coffee maker, trying to look casual and failing. My hands shake as I measure out grounds. My face is on fire. My panties are absolutely ruined.
The back door opens.
"You're up." His voice is rough, breathless from exertion.
I don't turn around. Can't. If I look at him all sweaty and half-naked, I'm going to combust. "Yeah. Just... making coffee. Hope that's okay."
"Of course it's okay. You don't have to ask."
I hear him moving closer. Smell sweat, horse, and leather.
"Sleep okay?" he asks.
No. I spent half the night lying awake thinking about you and the other half dreaming about fucking you. "Fine. You?"
"Well enough."
Liar. I heard him tossing and turning.
The coffee maker gurgles. I focus on it like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Like I'm not aware of the massive half-naked man standing a few feet away.
"I should shower," he says. "Get cleaned up before breakfast."
"Okay." Please leave before I do something stupid.
He doesn't leave. Just stands there, and I can feel his eyes on me.
"Nicole."
I turn slowly, keeping my eyes on his face. His sweaty, gorgeous face with those brown eyes looking at me like he wants to say something important.
"Yeah?"
"Are you... okay? Really okay? After last night?"
He's asking about the party. About Jason. About being locked in that bathroom terrified.
Not about the kitchen conversation. Not about the loaded silence. Not about whatever this tension is between us that's been building for three years and reached critical mass last night.
"I'm okay," I tell him honestly. "Better than I expected to be. Thanks to you."
"You sure? Because if you need to talk about it, or if you need anything—"
"I'm sure." I offer him a small smile. "I promise. I'm tougher than I look."
"I know you are." He runs a hand through his hair again, and I watch the muscles in his arm flex. "I just... I want you to know you're safe here. For as long as you want to stay. No pressure, no expectations. Just... safety."
"Thank you."
"And if you want to talk to someone professional, someone who deals with trauma, I can help you find someone. Or if you want to report what happened, I'll go with you. Whatever you need."
God, he's perfect. Too perfect. And I'm going to lose it if he keeps being this considerate while standing there half-naked and glistening with sweat.
"I'll think about it," I say. "Right now, I just want coffee and maybe some breakfast and not think about Jason at all."
"Fair enough." He backs toward the hallway. "I'll be quick. Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen."
Then he's gone, and I can finally breathe again.
I pour myself coffee with shaking hands and lean against the counter. He's across the hall in the shower. Naked. Wet. Soap sliding over all those muscles I just watched working in the corral.
My hand slides down to press against my aching pussy through the sweatpants before I can stop myself. The shower turns on. I hear the water running, hear the bathroom door close.
I could touch myself right here. Right now. Could bring myself off while he's just yards away, could imagine it's his hands instead of mine, could finally ease this desperate ache.
But I don't. Because I have some shred of self-control left. Some tiny piece of dignity.
Instead, I drink my coffee and try to think about anything other than Boone Sullivan naked and wet and soapy.
I fail spectacularly at that, too.