Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Hazel
Idon't knock.
The cabin is quiet except for the low hum of the overhead light and water running in the sink. Eli stands with his back to me, sleeves shoved past his elbows, hands braced on the counter.
He goes still.
"Hazel." He doesn't turn around. Just says my name like he's testing whether I'm real.
"I need to talk to you."
He turns slowly. His eyes search my face—guarded but open, wary but wanting. The tension in his jaw could crack teeth.
"Okay," he says.
I step inside and close the door behind me. The click of the latch sounds too loud in the quiet.
"Red Fern Stables called," I say. "They want to board three horses. Asked about Fall Classic."
Something flickers across his face. Not quite relief.
"That's good," he says carefully.
"Yeah." I swallow. "Mae said Cole's still pressuring her. But if we prove the ranch works—if the show goes well—she won't have to sell. Which means I need to stay. Through Fall Classic at least."
He waits. Doesn't move. Doesn't give me anything.
"But that's not why I'm here," I say.
His jaw works. "Why are you here?"
"Because I can't promise you forever right now." The words come out steadier than I feel. "I can't tell you I'll never leave, that I'll never get scared again."
I watch his shoulders tense, watch him brace for the blow he thinks is coming.
"But I can promise you tonight," I continue. "And tomorrow. And every day I wake up and choose to be here. I can't give you certainty about next year. But I can give you all of me, right now, without holding back."
He's so still I can see his pulse jumping at his throat.
"Leaving you was the worst thing I ever did," I say, voice cracking. "And I'm not asking you to forget that. I'm asking you to let me choose you now. Fully. Not halfway. Not one foot out the door."
I take another step closer. My pulse thuds everywhere at once.
"That's all I have, Eli. But it's yours if you want it."
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then he shakes his head once, sharp.
"That's not enough."
The words land like a physical blow.
"It has to be," I say. "Because it's all I can give."
"You're asking me to take you knowing you might leave again." His voice is rough, controlled, but barely. "You're asking me to survive that twice."
"Yes."
The word hangs between us.
He turns away, runs both hands through his hair, spins back. "Jesus Christ, Hazel."
I don't move. Don't look away.
"I've loved you my whole life," he says finally, the words sounding torn from somewhere deep. Like he's never said them out loud before. Like saying them now might break him. "And you're standing here asking me to risk it again. For what? For right now? For as long as you feel like staying?"
"Yes," I say again, quieter this time.
His hands flex at his sides. "You can't ask me that."
"I know."
"It's not enough."
"I know that too."
Silence fills the cabin.
He's staring at me like he's trying to see the future. Trying to calculate whether "right now" is worth the inevitable ending. Whether he can survive loving me and losing me again.
I watch him make the choice.
See the exact moment his resolve cracks.
He stares at me. Something warring in his eyes—anger and want and a kind of desperation I recognize because I feel it too.
"Fuck," he breathes. Then again, louder, "Fuck."
He crosses the room in three long strides.
His hands are on me before my next breath, fingers firm at my waist, pulling me into him like restraint has finally lost. His mouth crashes into mine—rough and urgent and unapologetic.
I gasp against him. The sound vanishes into his mouth.
The kiss is all teeth and breath and pressure. Years of almost and not yet and what if pouring out in one collision. His hands slide up my back, over every curve, then down again, gripping my hips like he needs to make sure I'm real.
I don't step back.
I cling to him, fisting his shirt, pulling him closer even though there's no space left between us.
He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead to mine, breath ragged. "I'll take it," he says, voice wrecked. "I'll take whatever you give me. Because walking away from you is worse than surviving you leaving again."
Then he's kissing me again—slower this time, deeper, like he's memorizing the taste of me. Heat pools low in my belly, spreading through my thighs, tightening at my core.
My fingers tug at his shirt and he moves backward, pulling me with him. We stumble toward the bed, his hands never leaving my body, and when the backs of my legs hit the mattress I fall and he follows, his weight pressing me into the springs.
His mouth leaves mine to trail along my jaw, down my neck. Each kiss deliberate. Claiming. His breath is hot against my collarbone and he pauses there, like he's grounding himself before he loses control completely.
Then his hands find the hem of my shirt.
He lifts his head just enough to look at me. Not asking permission. Confirming what he already knows.
My shaky exhale answers for him.
He pulls my shirt up and off in one smooth motion, tosses it aside without looking. The cool air hits my skin a second before his hands do. His palms skim up my ribs, over the newly bare skin, calloused and warm, and the sound that escapes me is embarrassingly soft.
He exhales like he's been holding his breath for years.
Then he sits back just enough to strip off his own shirt—quick, efficient, like it's in his way.
His chest is broad and solid, muscle earned from years of ranch work.
Fencing. Hauling hay. Breaking horses. His arms flex as he tosses the shirt aside and the sight of him above me makes my stomach twist hard.
He leans down again, his mouth finding my shoulder, then lower. When his lips close around my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, I arch into him with a gasp. His tongue flicks over the sensitive peak and heat courses through me, molten and insistent.
His hands move to my back, finding the clasp of my bra. He unhooks it without fumbling, slides the straps down my arms, and pulls it away. For a second he just looks at me, eyes so dark they're almost black.
"You're beautiful," he says, low and steady.
Then his mouth is on my bare skin. Lips closing around my nipple, tongue working, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp his name. His hand cups my other breast, thumb brushing over the peak in rhythm with his mouth, and I can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.
My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there, and he groans against my skin. The vibration of it shoots straight through me.
His hand slides down my stomach, over my hip, to the button of my jeans. He doesn't hesitate. The button pops open, the zipper slides down, and then he's easing the denim over my hips.
I lift to help him and the way he inhales at that—sharp, controlled, almost pained—sends fresh heat through me.
He pulls the jeans off completely, drops them behind him. His hands return immediately, sliding up my calves, my thighs, tracing the lines of me. His touch is sure but there's a tremor beneath it now. A crack in the control.
His mouth grazes my inner thigh, stubble scraping sensitive skin, and I shudder. He places small kisses up, up, until he reaches the edge of my panties. He kisses me there—right over the fabric—teasing, deliberate, his breath hot.
Then he looks up at me with a grin that's pure sin before he hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls my panties off in one swift movement.
Before I can speak, before I can think, his mouth is on me.
The first touch of his tongue makes my back bow off the bed. My hands fly to his hair, gripping, and he groans against me like this is exactly where he wants to be.
He doesn't rush. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, learning me, remembering me, taking his time like he has all night. Like he's been waiting years for this and he's going to savor every second.
My thighs tremble. My breath comes in short gasps. Heat builds and builds, coiling tighter with every pass of his tongue, every brush of his lips.
"Eli," I gasp. "Please—"
He responds by sliding one finger inside me, then another, curling them just right while his tongue keeps working and I shatter. Everything blurs as pleasure crashes through me, my whole body tensing and releasing, his name breaking from my lips.
Before I've fully come down he's moving up my body, kissing his way up my stomach, between my breasts, along my throat. I reach for him, hands shaking, and he lets me pull him into a kiss. I can taste myself on his tongue and it makes me want him all over again.
He stands long enough to strip off his jeans and boxers in one motion and when he straightens I get my first real look at him.
Holy shit.
He's thick and hard and ready, and the wanting in his eyes when he sees me looking makes my thighs clench.
He comes back to me, settling between my legs, his weight pressing me into the mattress. Bare skin against bare skin. The heat of him makes my whole body arch instinctively.
His hands move up my sides, over my ribs.
He pauses, forehead resting against mine, breath unsteady.
"You're mine, Hazel," he says, voice rough and absolute. "You always have been. Even if it's temporary. Even if it's just for now. I'll take whatever you give me."
Then his mouth is on mine again and he's right there, pressing against me, and I can feel how much he wants this. How much he's been holding back.
"Please," I whisper against his lips.
He enters me slowly. Inch by devastating inch. The stretch of it makes me cry out, makes my nails dig into his shoulders. He pauses, letting me adjust, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.
"Yes. God, yes."
He pushes deeper, filling me completely, and we both groan. For a second he doesn't move, just stays buried inside me, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first. Rolling his hips in a steady rhythm that has me gasping. Each thrust deliberate and deep, like he's trying to memorize exactly how I feel around him.
His mouth finds my throat, kissing and sucking the sensitive skin there. One hand grips my hip, holding me in place while he moves. The other slides up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple in time with his thrusts.
"You feel so good," he breathes against my neck. "So fucking good."
I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle, and he groans, thrusting deeper. The new angle has him hitting something inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
"There," I gasp. "Right there—"
He adjusts, hitting that spot with every thrust now, and I can't think anymore. Can only feel. The stretch of him inside me. The weight of his body. The heat building again, faster this time, sharper.
His rhythm changes. Faster. Harder. The bed frame creaks with every thrust and I don't care. All I care about is this. Him. Us.
My hands slide down his back, feeling his muscles flex under my palms. I dig my nails in and he hisses, hips snapping harder.
"Hazel," he groans. "Fuck, Hazel—"
I pull him down into a kiss, messy and desperate, and he responds by shifting his weight, one hand sliding between us to where we're joined. His thumb finds my clit and I break the kiss with a cry.
"That's it," he says against my mouth. "I want to feel you come around me."
The combination of his thumb circling, his cock driving deep, his voice in my ear—it's too much. The pressure builds to an unbearable peak and then I'm coming again, harder this time, my whole body clenching around him.
"Fuck," he groans, and his rhythm falters. "Hazel, I—"
"Don't stop," I gasp. "Please don't stop."
He doesn't. He keeps moving, keeps thrusting through my orgasm, prolonging it until I'm trembling and gasping beneath him. Then his whole body tenses, his grip on my hip tightening, and with one final deep thrust he comes, his groan muffled against my shoulder.
We stay like that for a long moment. Both of us breathing hard. Both of us trembling. His weight pressing me into the mattress, his face buried in my neck, his heart pounding against mine.
Finally he lifts his head, kisses me once more—slow and soft this time—and carefully pulls out. I feel the loss of him immediately.
He rolls to the side, pulling me with him, tucking me against his chest. One arm comes around my waist, possessive and sure. His other hand finds mine, threading our fingers together.
The world settles slowly.
We're tangled together, sheets twisted around our legs, his arm heavy across my stomach. My cheek rests against his chest, skin cooling. His heart is still working its way back to steady, the thud of it deep beneath my ear.
I should move. I don't.
My fingers trace idle patterns on his ribs—lazy, absent. Not asking. Not promising. Just touching because he's there and I can.
"I can't promise I won't get scared again," I say quietly. The words feel necessary, even now. "Or that I won't wake up one day and panic."
His chest rises under my cheek. Falls.
"But I'm not leaving tonight," I continue. "Or tomorrow. I'm here. And I'm trying."
His hand moves, thumb brushing a quiet line along my ribs.
"That's more than I had yesterday," he says finally.
I lift my head enough to look at him. His eyes are closed, expression softer than I've seen it in days.
"Is it enough?" I ask.
He opens his eyes then. Meets mine without flinching.
"It has to be," he says.
Something tightens in my chest—gratitude and guilt and something more dangerous I won't name yet.
I settle back against him, fitting into the space like muscle memory. He pulls the blanket higher, tucks it around my shoulders, his touch careful in a way that feels dangerous all on its own.
Outside, the ranch is quiet. No urgency. No future pounding at the door yet.
Just this. Just us.
His breath evens out. Mine follows.
I tell myself this is all it is—heat and comfort and a night we won't name.
But my body already knows the truth.
It always has.