Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Uninvited Guest
Sawyer
The lone bulb in the stable threw thin shadows across the hay.
Grace shifted in her stall as I brushed her flank, steady as ever after carrying me through another night chasing ghosts.
Horses didn’t care about failed missions or women who slipped away—they only asked for a loosened cinch and a rubdown.
Bruce slapped dust from his gloves, leaning on the stall door. “We’ll get those damned poachers sometime.” He shrugged. “For now? Roper’s. Steak, whiskey, maybe some Texas Hold ’Em something next week.”
I set the brush back on its hook, running my palm once more down Grace’s warm hide.
“You trying to distract me, or yourself?” I asked.
“Both.” Bruce clapped me on the back. “June asked about you. Tried to sound casual, but I know better.”
I snorted. “She asks about every man with a wallet and a pulse that shows up at the bar.”
“Maybe. But her eyes lit up at your name.”
I tipped my hat, hiding my face. “Not interested.”
Bruce shook his head, grinning. “One day you’ll figure out solitude’s not a trait—it’s a habit.”
“Maybe..”
Grace nudged me, and I let her.
His truck door creaked, the engine coughing to life before fading into the distance. The stable quieted, leaving only the soft shuffle of hooves and the smell of hay and leather.
The yard went still, only the pines whispering overhead, when I slipped through the mudroom door of the house. I kicked off my boots, lined them on the mat, and that’s when it hit me—something that didn’t belong.
Not hay. Not mud. Not woodsmoke.
Perfume.
Warm, soft, threaded with vanilla and something darker I couldn’t name. My chest cinched before my head caught up.
Lilly.
The same scent that had clung to my skin after Hawaii, sinking into me so completely that even the ocean couldn’t wash it away.
I froze, every sense on alert. The house had always been my fortress, a place I’d kept sealed off from everyone. No woman I slept with ever crossed the threshold.
Not once.
The kitchen was dark, but not untouched. A half-full wineglass waited on the counter, the bottle beside it capped with a crooked cork. A lipstick smear glowed faintly on the rim, intimate as a fingerprint.
Instead of anger, heat rolled through me, low and steady. My mouth curved before I could stop it.
Lilly was here. And she wanted me to know it.
My hand brushed the banister as I started up the stairs, every tread groaning under my weight.
By the time I reached the landing, I knew where she was.
Up there. In my room.
Instead of bracing for a fight, I felt a sharp and undeniable rush of anticipation spark in my veins.
The bedroom door stood half-open, moonlight silvering the quilt I’d left neat that morning. Only it wasn’t neat now. A shape shifted beneath it—her shape—blond hair spilled across my pillow like it belonged there.
Lilly shoved the blanket down, silk clinging to her curves, pink and naughty. She grinned, eyes daring. “Welcome home, cowboy.”
I froze, breath punched out of me. The nerve of her. The audacity. And damn me, I wanted her all the more for it.
“Lilly,” I said, low, rough. Her name felt too small for the way she filled this room.
She tilted her head, eyes dancing like she’d just bluffed her way into a jackpot. “You gonna stand there scowling, or kiss me like you mean it?”
Heat shot through me, so fast it felt like anger. I crossed the room in three strides, hauled her close, and crushed my mouth to hers. She tasted of wine and trouble, lips parting like she’d been waiting all damn day.
I broke just enough to breathe, muttering, “This is a surprise I could get used to.”
“Then stop talking and prove it.”
“I need a shower first.” My words came out husky and breathless. “Then I’ll come back and show you exactly how much I missed you.”
Her grin widened, slow and knowing, like she’d planned this exact line. She threw the blanket the rest of the way off, silk catching the light, legs bare against my sheets.
“Then I guess I’d better join you.”
I swallowed hard, heat already climbing. Restless, brazen, drunk on her own boldness. That was Lilly.
Me? I was already lost enough to follow her straight into the fire.
She stripped off my leather vest and had my shirt half undone before we hit the bathroom threshold, fingers working the buttons with drunken determination.
I caught her wrists, not to stop her—just to steady her—then slid my hands to her shoulders and eased the silk down her arms. It sighed to the floor, pale as a promise against the tile.
“Impatient,” I murmured.
“Inspired,” she breathed, and tugged my belt free in one clean pull, the buckle clinking like a dare.
I twisted the tap. Pipes thumped. Steam climbed the glass, blurring our reflection into one shape. She stepped in first, hair spilling down her back, water pearling on her skin. I followed, crowding her gently to the warm spray, my palm flattening at her hip to keep her steady.
“Easy,” I said against her temple. “You’ve had too much wine.”
“I’ve had you on my mind,” she countered, turning to face me, eyes bright. “Hold onto something if you have to.”
“I am. I’m holding on to you.”
The water ran over us, a low rush that drowned out thought. Heat slid from my shoulders down my spine as hers rose to meet mine, legs brushing, breath catching. She tipped her chin, offering her mouth like a secret. I took it, slow at first, then not slow at all.
“Miss me?” she asked against my lower lip, voice smug and soft.
“Every hour,” I said, and it wasn’t a lie. “Step back.” I moved her under the spray so it hit the back of her neck, so she’d stay warm, so she wouldn’t sway. She braced a palm to the tile, looking at me with that wicked, look-what-I-did smile.
“Bossy,” she teased.
“Alive,” I said, and kissed the water beading on her shoulder, the line where heat met cooler skin.
She laughed—a low, pleased sound that sank straight through my ribs—then pushed me down. As I dropped to my knees on the hard tile, the steam tightened around us. The glass fogged completely. Water drummed a steady cadence down my back while our breaths refused any rhythm at all.
Lilly spread her thighs wider, greedy for my mouth, and I gave it to her, my tongue tracing slow circles that made her gasp and clutch the shower rail.
"I've got you," I told her, looking up past the curve of her stomach, past her breasts heaving with each ragged breath.
"I know," she whispered, that last word unraveling into a moan when my tongue slipped inside her, then back to that swollen, sensitive spot that made her thighs tremble against my shoulders.
Her fingers fisted in my hair, pulling almost painfully, then smoothed, then fisted again as I sucked gently. She was all slick heat and salt-sweet taste and desperate little sounds.
I adjusted, sliding two fingers deep inside her, the water running hotter, our movements slowing and sharpening at once.
“Say my name,” she said, eyes on mine, lashes wet.
“Lilly.”
“Again,” she demanded.
“Lil lee.” The syllables tasted like something I’d been rationing.
She tipped her head back, lips parting, a tremor moving through her that I felt in my own bones.
I stayed with her, my tongue relentless against her swollen nub, letting her ride the edge she’d chased me to. When she broke—quiet, tight, a gasp swallowed by steam—I held her there, my fingers buried deep inside her, told her she was fine, told her she was with me.
“Yeah,” she breathed, smiling around it. “With you.”
As I stood, her forehead touched my shoulder. The shower sang around us. I closed my eyes for a beat and let the sound drown out the rest of the world.
“Turn,” I murmured after a moment. “Hands here.” I pointed.
She obeyed, palms flattening to the tile, cheek turned so I could see her smile flicker and settle. I followed, positioning myself behind her, the head of my cock pressing against her slick entrance.
I pushed in slowly, careful as a man on black ice, finding that punishing balance between what I wanted and what I’d let myself take. Heat built, relentless. Control answered, just as relentlessly.
“Look at me,” I said without breaking my rhythm, catching her gaze over her shoulder. “Stay with me.”
“Harder,” she whispered, pressing her hips against mine.
When the edge hit me—hard, fast, shaking loose more than muscle—I braced a forearm to the wall beside her head, bowed into the spray.
Moaning, I pulled out and finished where the water could carry it away. My breath sawed out. The glass blurred. The world narrowed to a few square feet of heat and the woman leaning into me, satisfied and soft.
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. The shower did the talking—thrum and hiss, the tiny clicks of hot expanding metal, the quiet storm.
She reached back blindly and found my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. “Welcome home,” she murmured, the same words as before, but gentler now.
I pressed a kiss to her damp knuckles. “You break into all the homes you welcome people to?”
“Only the ones worth the trouble.” She turned, swaying a little. I steadied her with both hands at her waist. “Yours was unlocked.”
“Still a choice,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” That mischievous curve slid back onto her mouth. “Good one, too.”
I shut off the water. The sudden quiet felt like a held breath. Steam spilled out when I opened the glass, curling into the cooler air. I reached for a towel, wrapped it around her first—always her first—then another for myself. She shivered once, like the heat had let go reluctantly.
“Head up,” I said, toweling her hair. She made an appreciative sound, eyes drifting heavy-lidded. The faint scent of her perfume—amber-warm beneath the clean soap—knotted with something that would haunt my pillow later.
“You’re very gentle for a bossy man,” she teased, voice gone drowsy.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
She smiled without opening her eyes. “Would ruin your reputation.”
I slid an arm under her knees and another at her back. “Come on, trouble.”
She looped her arms around my neck, trusting as a sleep-drunk cat, and let her head fall to my shoulder. “I like it when you call me that.”
“What, trouble?”
“Well, yes,” she whispered, so softly I almost missed it.
The word landed low in my chest, sharper than I was ready for, brushing against scars I kept hidden.
I swallowed it down—not here, not now—and carried her from the bathroom.
I set her on the cool sheets in my room and drew the covers up.
She sighed, curling into my pillow like its scent was enough to hold her.
Her eyes opened halfway, green and slow. “You’re staring,” she murmured.
“Getting my house rules in order.”
She smiled, lazy and satisfied. “Pretty sure I rewrote those tonight.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Pretty sure you did.”
Her lashes fell. A breath later, her body grew heavy with complete, boneless trust. I set my towel aside and stood, allowing the room to settle around the shape of her beneath my covers, the faint perfume, the soft sound of her sleeping.
I crossed to the window, bare feet whispering over the floorboards. Outside, Lucky Ranch stretched endlessly under the Montana night, fences running like ribs across the dark fields, the security light throwing a soft glow into the yard.
The sight should’ve grounded me. Instead, it dragged me backward. To another night halfway around the world, another set of hands, another promise I couldn’t keep.
Intensity had always been easy—raw, reckless, blazing hot. Sticking. Staying. Letting someone close enough to see every scar and shadow I carried. That was the fight I never won, and no matter how much I wanted her, I couldn’t believe she’d ever really be mine.
I braced a hand against the window frame, breath fogging the glass. Lilly was already past every line I swore no woman would cross again. And the hell of it was, I wasn’t angry about it. I wanted her here. In my bed. In my house.
That was the problem.
I forced myself to turn back, to look at her one last time. Curled beneath my blanket, silk negligée in a pile in the bathroom, she looked like a secret I couldn’t keep if I tried.
And I knew then: whatever came next, I was already too far gone for turning back.