Chapter 6
SOLEIL
The cabin smelled like cold stone and old smoke and a wool blanket that had been put away wet a long time ago. The hail landed on the roof, and Treyton stood with his back against the door, looking at me like he was waiting for me to fall apart.
I wasn't going to fall apart. I was going to be cold, and I was going to be wet, and I was going to have feelings about a columbine carved into the underside of a bench four miles up the ridge, but I was not going to fall apart in front of a man who had just held my hand the whole way down from the meadow.
I looked around. The cabin was maybe twelve feet square. There was a stone fireplace built into the far wall, blackened from use. A small pile of split wood stacked next to it. Under the window, a table for two held a folded blanket and a canvas tarp. He'd been here before. He'd stocked it.
“Take your jacket off,” Treyton said. “It's soaked through.” He'd already shrugged off his pack and crouched to unzip it.
I took my jacket off and hung it on a nail by the door that he had clearly hammered into the wall on purpose, at exactly the right height for hanging a jacket.
He moved to the fireplace and started building.
I watched him work the way he'd worked in the shop with the spokeshave.
His movements were careful and intentional, his whole body deciding what came next before he moved.
He struck a match against the stone hearth, held it to the kindling, and waited.
The fire took on the second match. Treyton sat back on his heels and watched it for a moment, then stood and walked over to the table. He grabbed the tarp, shook it open, and spread it on the dirt floor in front of the fire. Then he set the blanket on top.
“There's only one blanket,” he said, stating the obvious.
“I see that.”
“I'm going to be fine. The tarp will keep the dirt off. Take the blanket.”
“Treyton.”
“Take the blanket, Soleil.”
It was useless to argue so I sat down on the tarp next to the fire and pulled the blanket around my shoulders. He sat about two feet away and the quiet settled between us, heavy and solid.
The hail had eased into rain that beat against the roof in a steady pattern. I kept my gaze trained on the orange flames, choosing not to look at his face because I didn't trust myself right now.
“How long do you think we’ll need to stay?” I asked.
“An hour, maybe two. It came in fast. Things that come in fast go out fast.”
“And then we walk down.”
“Yeah.”
I nodded, pulled the blanket tighter, and stared at the fire. I couldn’t get the carving out of my head.
I'd been thinking about it since the moment my thumb found it under the bench. The columbine. The five petals. The spur. He'd carved it because the wood asked for it.
He carved surprises into everything: the chair at the Switchback, the drawer in my cabin, the shelf in his workshop, the bench, the side table going to Aspen, and the soap boxes Gibson’s sister ordered. He carved them and didn't show them to anyone, but he’d shared them with me.
I was sitting two feet from him on a tarp in a rundown miner's cabin, wrapped in his blanket with the fire warm on my face, twenty-eight years old, and I had never once been seen by anyone the way he had let me see him this afternoon. Tears threatened, but I wouldn’t give in.
“I'm scared of making something forgettable,” I said.
He didn't move.
“That's the thing I haven't been able to say to anyone.
The last three books did exactly that. They were bright and loud and forgettable, and I'm tired of being the bright loud one.” I pulled the blanket tighter and stared harder at the fire.
“I don't know how to make a quiet book. I don't know how to make a quiet anything. And I'm tired.”
He was silent for what felt like a long time. “Quiet things last longer.”
I turned to look at him. He was staring at the fire, his jaw set, a smudge of sawdust still on his forearm from the workshop.
I focused on the sawdust because I couldn't look at his face.
It was open. Wide open and holding nothing back.
Seeing him like that did something to my chest I wasn't ready for.
I reached out and brushed the sawdust from his arm. I didn't plan it. His skin was warm and the muscle shifted when I touched him, just slightly, like I’d caught him off guard.
He turned his head and looked at me, giving me his full attention. Studying my face like a man who'd made a decision. Then his eyes dropped to my mouth.
He leaned over, eliminating the two feet between us.
One hand slid up the back of my neck under my braid and the other settled at my waist. Then he kissed me like a man who had been biding his time and was done waiting.
He kissed me like he knew exactly what he was doing, and that was what broke me open.
He hadn't snapped or lost control. He had crossed the line on purpose, kissed me intentionally, holding me with hands that were steady and sure, like he’d been thinking about doing this for a while.
I had spent days telling myself if it happened it would be him losing control.
It wasn't that at all. It was him choosing.
I made a sound against his mouth that caught both of us off guard.
He pulled back an inch and looked at me. “This, okay?”
“Yes.” I wrapped my hand around the front of his shirt and tugged him back toward me.
The blanket slipped off my shoulders. He noticed before I did and pulled it back up with one hand without breaking the kiss. His mouth moved from mine to my jaw to the soft place under my ear.
His breath was warm on my throat, and then his voice came out in a low and rough whisper against my ear. “Mine.”
He didn't seem to know he'd said it. His hand slid from my waist to my hip and stayed there, patient, until I put my own hand over his and moved it exactly where I wanted it. Everywhere he touched felt like it had been waiting for him.
He laid me back on the tarp and braced above me on one elbow, the firelight catching the side of his face, his other hand sliding up under the hem of my shirt and stopping at my ribs, waiting for my permission.
I arched into him, giving it without a second thought.
He pushed my shirt up and looked at me the way he'd looked at the table in his workshop. His eyes were dark and intense, and it was the most exposed I'd ever felt with my clothes still on. Then his lips went back to my throat.
“Mine.” The word ghosted against my skin.
The firelight caught the stubble on his jaw, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. His hand was still warm against my ribs, waiting. The weight of his body braced above me, the careful control in every muscle. This wasn’t a man who lost himself. This was a man who decided.
I slid my fingers into his hair and pulled him down until his mouth met mine again.
He made a sound, low and rough like he’d been holding back.
His hand moved higher, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast, still waiting.
I arched into the touch, and that was all the answer he needed.
His palm cupped me, his thumb finding the peak of my nipple through the lace, and the sensation shot straight to my core. I gasped against his mouth.
Treyton pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, focused, like he was memorizing the way my body responded. “Tell me what you want.”
I didn’t hesitate. “You. Like this. Don’t stop.”
A muscle in his jaw tightened. Then his mouth was on mine again, taking me deeper, his tongue slow and deliberate, like he was tasting me for the first time and wanted to get it right. His hand slid under my back, unclasping my bra with one efficient movement.
My bra came loose, and he pulled it free, tossing it aside without breaking the kiss.
His palm skimmed over my breast, his calluses rough against my skin, and I moaned because it felt so damn good, and because I’d been waiting for this since the first time I saw him scowling at a glacier lily like it had personally offended him.
I pushed his shirt up, my hands finding the hard planes of his stomach, the ridges of muscle, the scar above his hipbone.
He let me explore for a second before he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head, his mouth trailing down my throat, my collarbone, the slope of my breast. When his lips closed around my nipple, I arched off the tarp.
He lifted his head just enough to watch my reaction, his breath hot against my skin. “Okay?”
“More than okay.” I tugged my hands free and reached for his belt. “I want to see you.”
He stilled. For a second, I thought he’d stop me. Then he sat back on his heels and pulled his shirt over his head, his movements slow and deliberate. The firelight caught the lines of his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted as he unbuckled his belt, his eyes never leaving mine.
I sat up and pressed my palm to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “You’re overthinking.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” I slid my hand down, my fingers tracing the waistband of his jeans. “You’ve been thinking about this since the workshop. Since the meadow. Since the first time I talked to a flower, and you decided I was trouble.”
His hand closed over mine, stilling it. “I decided you were trouble the second I saw you lying in the gravel.”
I laughed, low and breathless. “Good.”
Then I pushed him back onto the tarp and straddled his hips.
His hands came to my waist, his thumbs brushing the skin just above my jeans. “Soleil.”
I leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, my hips rolling against his. He groaned, his fingers digging into my skin, but he didn’t rush. He let me set the pace, let me take what I wanted. I unbuttoned his jeans, my fingers brushing the hard length of him, and his breath hitched.
“Fuck.”
I smiled against his mouth. “That’s the idea.”
He flipped us in one smooth movement, pinning me underneath him again, his body heavy and solid. His hand slid down, slipping under the waistband of my leggings. “Last chance to tell me no.”
I lifted my hips, helping him pull my pants and underwear down my legs. The cool air hit my skin, but I didn’t care. I was too busy watching him, the way his eyes darkened as he looked at me, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding himself back.
Then his hand was between my legs, his fingers finding me wet and ready, and I gasped. He didn’t tease. He didn’t play. He touched me like he knew exactly what I needed, his thumb circling, his fingers sliding inside me, slow and deep.
“Treyton—”
“You’re mine,” he said again, his voice rough, his mouth against my ear. This time, he knew he was saying it. This time, it was a choice.
I clung to him, my nails digging into his shoulders, my core tightening around his fingers. “Yes.”
He didn’t let up. His fingers moved in a rhythm that had me trembling, his thumb pressing just where I needed it, his breath hot. “Come for me.”
I shattered. The orgasm rolled through me, wave after wave, and he didn’t stop, didn’t let me catch my breath, his fingers working me through it until I was boneless.
“More,” I said. “I want to feel you inside me.”
He closed his eyes. “I don’t have anything with me.”
“When’s the last time…” I didn’t really want to know, but I needed him.
“I’m clean if that’s what you’re asking.” He rolled to his side and propped himself up on an elbow. “It’s been a long damn time for me and it’s never…”
“What?” I cupped his cheek, urging him to go on.
“Hell, Soleil. It’s never been like this.” His eyes met mine and I saw what that admission had cost him.
“It’s never been like this for me either.
” I reached for him, wrapping my hand around his thick, hard cock.
“It’s okay. I’m on the pill and I haven’t…
” I wasn’t about to kill the mood by admitting I’d had sex exactly one time before this.
One awkward, uncomfortable time that lasted all of thirty seconds.
“If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
He nodded then was back over me, his weight braced on his forearms, his eyes locked on mine.
“I’m going to make you mine,” he said, and this time it wasn’t a claim. It was a promise.
I wrapped my legs around his hips and pulled him down. “Please, Treyton. Make me yours.”
He pushed inside me in one slow, deep thrust, and I gasped at the stretch, at the way he filled me, at the way his body fit against mine like we’d been made for this. He stilled, giving me time to adjust, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged.
“Still with me?”
I rocked my hips against his. “All the way.”
Then he moved. It wasn’t fast or frantic. It was careful and deliberate, every thrust measured, every touch intentional. He kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth, his hands sliding under my back, holding me like I was something precious, something he didn’t want to break.
I met him stroke for stroke, my body tightening around him, my hands gripping his shoulders, my mouth against his ear. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He couldn’t. His control was slipping, his breath coming faster, his movements losing that careful precision. I could feel him getting closer, feel the way his body tensed, the way his hands gripped me tighter.
“Soleil—”
I kissed him, swallowing the sound of his name on my lips as he came, his body shuddering against mine, his breath ragged in my ear. I followed him over the edge, my own release crashing through me, my nails digging into his skin, my mouth pressed to his shoulder to muffle the cry.
He collapsed next to me, pulling me against him, his arms wrapping around me like he was afraid I’d disappear. The fire crackled, the rain still pattered against the roof, and for a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing, the way his heart pounded against my cheek.
Then his mouth was in my hair, his voice quiet. “Six weeks.”
I tilted my head back to look at him. “What?”
His thumb brushed my bottom lip. “Six weeks until Labor Day.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. The way his arms tightened around me said it all.