Chapter 8 Ina
Eight
Ina
Beau’s house sits at the far end of the Redding property, tucked behind a line of oaks. It’s separate from the main ranch house…his own place. And the second I step inside, I understand something about this man that no conversation could’ve told me.
It’s beautiful. Masculine. Sober. Clean lines.
Big leather furniture. Smooth, dark hardwood floors.
High ceilings with exposed beams. And everywhere I look, there are signs of him.
Heavy boots lined up neatly by the door.
A black hat on a hook. A stack of books on the side table… not decorative. Dog-eared. Read.
His kitchen is spotless. Deep counters. Good knives in a block. A cast-iron skillet on a rack that gets used daily. No takeout containers. No clutter. Just a man’s space, kept with quiet pride.
The whole place smells like him. Cedar. Leather.
That warm, clean scent that’s been messing with my head since the fair.
It’s in the furniture, the walls, the air.
Standing in it is like being wrapped in his arms without him touching me.
My body responds before my brain catches up…
a low hum in my belly, my skin prickling, my thighs pressing together.
This is the kind of house built by a man who doesn’t need to impress anyone. Who just wants his space, his peace, and enough room to live the way he wants.
And standing in it, surrounded by his scent and his silence and the evidence of his life, I feel something I wasn’t prepared for.
Safe. I feel safe here.
“You want something to drink?” he asks from the kitchen.
I watch him move through the space…his big body navigating between the counter and the fridge with an ease that says he knows every inch of this house by feel.
His dark shirt stretches across his back when he reaches for glasses.
His bare forearms flex when he turns the tap.
Even the way he holds a glass of water…his thick fingers dwarfing it, his wrist turning slow…
is stupidly attractive. I’m watching a man pour water, and my pulse is elevated. This is a problem.
“Water’s fine.”
He comes back with two glasses. Our fingers brush during the handoff…his rough, mine trembling…and heat shoots up my wrist. He notices. His golden eyes flick to my hand, then to my face. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits down on the long leather couch.
Close. But not touching.
I take a sip and set my glass down. The leather is soft under me, warm, and it smells like him too. Everything in this house smells like him. I’m marinating in Beau Redding and I haven’t even taken my shoes off.
He leans back, his arm stretching across the back of the couch.
His long fingers land near my shoulder not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his hand.
His thighs are spread wide, his jeans pulling tight across his quads.
One ankle crossed over his knee. Relaxed.
Open. Taking up space the way big men do without thinking about it.
Giving me room. Letting me decide.
The quiet between us is heavy. Charged. Like the air before a storm.
“How old are you?” I ask because I need to fill the silence. And because I need this man to understand what he’s getting into. Since mentioning my grown kids and divorce in the truck didn’t scare him off.
He turns to face me. His golden eyes catch the low lamplight and turn almost amber. “Thirty.”
I nod slowly. “I’m thirty-eight.” His mouth curves …just barely, just one corner of his full lips. I arch a brow. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“Any serious relationships?”
He shrugs one broad shoulder. The motion shifts his shirt, pulling it tight across his chest, and I catch the outline of his pecs, the shadow of his collarbone. “Dated. Nothing stuck.”
I study his face. Looking for the lie. The flinch. Something. “Why not?”
He holds my gaze for a beat. Then, quietly: “They weren’t you.”
Oh. My pulse jumps. I shift on the couch, reaching for my water just to have something to do with my hands. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what to do with them.”
He almost smiles. Almost. “You don’t have to do anything with them, Ina. Just hear them.”
The way he says my name. Every time. Like it’s the only word in his vocabulary that matters. Like his mouth was made to shape the two syllables and nothing else.
I take a breath. Try a different angle. “What happened at Cornell?”
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe, that I know. Then it settles. “Tanya?”
“Small town.”
He nods. Leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
His big hands hang loose between his thighs.
His forearms are right there …tanned, veined, dusted with dark hair.
I can see the tendons shift when he flexes his fingers.
I want to run my tongue along the inside of his wrist. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“I was good at the work,” he says slowly. “Published papers. Got respect. Had a life people thought I should want.” He pauses. His jaw works. “But I was just going through the motions.” He turns his head and his golden eyes hit me full force.
My chest aches. Because I know that feeling. Living a life that looks right from the outside and feeling hollow in the middle. I lived it for twenty years.
“So you came home,” I say softly.
“So I came home.” He straightens up. His knee shifts and touches mine …warm denim against my bare skin…and he doesn’t move it. Neither do I. “And I stopped looking. Figured whatever was missing wasn’t something anyone else could fix.” His golden eyes find mine. “Then you walked into that fair.”
I swallow. “Beau…”
“And I know this doesn’t make sense to you yet.
” His voice is low and steady. He shifts closer.
Not touching me…just closing the distance.
I can feel the heat of his body in the shrinking space between us.
His scent grows stronger. “I know you’ve got reasons to be scared.
I know some asshole spent years making you think love means getting hurt.
” My breath catches. “But that’s not what this is, Ina.
” His golden eyes bore into mine. “This is everything.”
My eyes sting. I look down at my hands, at the place where my wedding ring used to be. The skin is smooth now. No tan line. No indent. Like I erased it by sheer force of will.
“I barely know you,” I whisper.
“You know me,” he says. “You’ve known me since I held your hand at that fair and you couldn’t let go either.”
I look up. And the thing is…he’s right. Some part of me, some deep, terrified, wanting part, has known since that first touch. Since his rough palm closed around my fingers and my whole body said, there you are. I just haven’t been brave enough to admit it.
So I do something I haven’t done in years. Something I swore I’d never do again.
I reach for him first.
My hand finds the back of his neck. His skin is hot under my fingers, the muscle be thick and corded. I feel the short hair at his nape, the warmth of his pulse under my thumb. I pull him toward me. And I kiss him.
It’s different this time. Not because he’s kissing me…
because I started it. Because I chose it.
My mouth on his, my tongue sliding against his, my hand fisting in his shirt, feeling the hard heat of his chest through the cotton.
He makes a sound…low, rough, almost pained…
like he’s been holding his breath for days, and I just let him exhale.
His hands come up and frame my face. Big palms. Rough skin. Gentle. Trembling. I feel every callus against my cheeks. His thumbs brushing under my eyes. He kisses me back like I’m air and he’s been drowning.
It builds. Fast. His hands slide into my hair. Mine pull at his shirt. He breaks the kiss long enough to yank it over his head, and I press my palms flat against his bare chest.
God.
He’s carved. Not gym-carved…work-carved.
Hard slabs of muscle under warm, tanned skin.
A dusting of dark hair between his pecs that trails down the center of his stomach, narrowing over his abs, disappearing into his jeans.
His shoulders are ridiculous…broad, round, capped with muscle.
His arms, thick and veined. I run my hands over his chest and feel his stomach clench under my fingertips.
His skin is smooth and hot, and he smells even better without the shirt … pure warm skin and man.
“Beau,” I breathe against his mouth. Not a question. Not a protest. Just his name. Because it’s the only thing left in my head.
His hands wrap around my waist and he pulls me into his lap.
I let out a small noise that gets swallowed right into his mouth…
and suddenly I’m straddling him. Thighs around him.
Knees digging into the leather. His jeans, rough under me.
And what’s under the denim? That’s not a belt buckle.
That is thick and hard and pressed right against the soaked mess between my legs.
His hands slide under my top, rough palms on bare skin, making me shiver everywhere.
My breasts are heavy and aching. His tongue strokes mine, slow and dirty, while his hips shift just enough to grind up into me.
I moan into his mouth before I can stop myself.
The friction hits my clit and I’m grinding back like some sex-crazed teenager.
His grip tightens on my waist. He drops his head to my neck…his lips hot, his stubble scraping my throat.
“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s how bad I want you.”
“Jesus,” I breathe.
He bites my collarbone. “Not him. Me.”