Chapter 15-Micah
The second I hear that water shut off, my heart starts pounding.
Not from fear.
From anticipation.
Nerves.
Excitement.
Hell if I know for sure—I’ve never felt like this. Not ever.
I rake one hand through my damp hair and glance toward the hallway.
The bathroom door stays closed.
For one entirely too long second.
My pulse somehow gets louder.
Christ.
Get a grip.
She's just taking a shower.
The woman survived the worst night of her life.
The least you can do is act like an adult.
The doorknob turns.
Slowly.
The bathroom door eases open.
Sloane steps into the hallway, wrapped in one of my old flannel shirts.
And just like that, I know I’m done for.
It hangs almost to the middle of her thighs, the sleeves rolled twice to keep them from swallowing her hands.
Her damp red hair spills over one shoulder.
Her cheeks are pink from the hot water.
She smells faintly of my soap.
My shampoo.
My cabin.
For one impossible second, she looks like she belongs here.
Like she's walked out of my bathroom a thousand times before.
Every drop of blood in my body forgets where it's supposed to go—and yeah, it travels right to my cock.
My chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.
Fuck. Me.
She's beautiful.
No makeup.
No fancy dress.
Just beautiful from the top of her pretty red hair to her pink painted toes.
Soft.
Real.
Here.
Christ, she really is here. Standing in my home, wearing my clothes—and all I know is I have never wanted another woman the way I want her.
Her eyes meet mine.
There's uncertainty in them.
A little embarrassment.
Maybe even a little vulnerability.
“I...” she says quietly, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the flannel. “I hope you don't mind. My clothes smelled like beer and smoke.”
I swallow hard.
Mind?
Christ.
I may never wash that shirt again.
Because the second she takes it off, I know it's going to smell like her.
And I'm not entirely convinced I'll survive that.
She stands there barefoot on the hardwood floor, damp red hair spilling over her shoulders, wearing one of my old flannels like it was made for her.
She doesn't know it, but she's standing in the middle of every dream I've had about her and this cabin since I started building it.
Not because she's wearing my shirt.
It’s because she's her and she is here.
In my home.
Safe.
Breathing.
Looking at me with those big brown eyes that somehow manage to make a former soldier forget how to string two coherent thoughts together.
“Borrow anything you want. Hell, you can keep it.”
She laughs, and the sound sends electricity spiking through my veins.
“I mean, you look sexy as fuck in my clothes, Princess,” I growl.
The words leave my mouth before my brain has any chance of stopping them.
Her eyes widen.
“I do?”
I nod once, then drag a hand over the back of my neck.
Jesus Christ.
Where the hell did that come from?
“You do.”
The corner of her mouth twitches upward.
“You're blushing.”
“I don't blush.”
“You absolutely blush.”
I grin, but I stop pushing the point because I know arguing with her would only make it worse.
And I don’t want her to be uncomfortable.
I want her to be happy.
But I don't know how to do this.
I don't flirt.
Hell, I barely talk.
People have always been harder for me to understand than computers.
Computers make sense.
Networks make sense.
Firewalls, algorithms, encryption... they all follow rules.
People don't.
Women definitely don't.
The handful of times I've ended up in bed with someone over the years...
It was never like this.
Never emotional.
Never personal.
Just two bodies meeting in the dark, scratching an itch before going their separate ways the next morning.
Easy.
Clean.
Forgettable.
Sloane isn't any of those things.
She's impossible to forget.
Somewhere between watching her unload heavy boxes by herself, changing the filters in her van because I noticed she was coughing, and kissing her behind The Watering Hole...
I'd crossed a line inside myself.
I stopped wanting her just for a night.
I started wanting her for every night, every day, every tomorrow I've got left.
That's new.
And if I'm honest?
It scares the absolute shit out of me.
Because I've never had anything this important before.
I've never looked at another human being and thought, Please don't leave.
Not because I'd be lonely.
Because I honestly don't know who I'd be without you anymore.
That's a dangerous place for a man like me.
Especially one who's spent most of his life believing emotions were liabilities.
Then again, looking at Sloane standing in my clothes, all soft, sexy, and perfect, and I'm beginning to think some risks are worth taking.
She crosses the space between us, and my gaze clocks the sway of her breasts beneath the shirt, and that tantalizing hint of thigh flashing with each step she takes.
“Sloane,” I growl, and it sounds like a warning.
Maybe it is.
“Micah, I’ve been thinking,” she begins, and every part of me zeroes in on her.
Nothing else exists.
Not the cabin.
Not the rain that just started tapping softly against the windows.
Not the phone sitting forgotten on the counter.
Just her.
She twists her fingers together before letting them fall to her sides.
“Tonight could’ve gone bad,” she says quietly. “Really bad.”
A low sound escapes my chest before I can stop it.
Her eyes snap to mine.
I clear my throat, forcing my face back into something resembling calm.
She doesn't need to know where my mind has already gone.
She doesn't need to know I've replayed the whole thing a hundred times since leaving the bar.
Every second.
Every possible outcome.
Every scenario where I arrived thirty seconds later.
A minute later.
Too late.
The thoughts make something ugly crawl beneath my skin.
Feral.
Savage.
Homicidal.
Those all fit.
Because if I'd found those bastards hurting her?
I don't know if the men I’d laid out on the floor of The Watering Hole would've walked away.
And I don't particularly like the answer that gives me.
So I bury it.
Deep.
She deserves comfort.
Not the darkness living inside my head.
“It didn't go bad, Sloane.”
My voice comes out lower than I intended. Steadier.
“I was there.”
I take one step toward her.
“I won't let anything happen to you.”
The promise isn't dramatic.
It isn't a line.
It's a fact.
One I've already carved into stone somewhere inside myself.
She's close enough now that I can see the tiny freckles scattered across her nose.
Close enough that I catch the faint scent of my soap lingering on her skin.
Close enough that resisting the urge to touch her becomes impossible.
Slowly...
Carefully...
I settle my hands on her hips.
Not to hold her in place.
Just to reassure myself she's really here.
Warm.
Safe.
Real.
She doesn't pull away.
Instead, she looks up at me with those impossible brown eyes.
“I know you were there.”
Her voice softens.
“You always seem to be there when I need you.”
A tiny smile tugs at one corner of her mouth.
“Why is that?”
The question catches me completely off guard.
“What?”
“Why did you help me tonight?”
She searches my face as if the answer might already be written there.
“Why do you stay late every time you come into the bar?”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
She keeps going.
“Why did you change the filters in my van?”
Each question lands somewhere square in the middle of my chest.
One after another.
Stripping away every excuse I'd built.
She lowers her voice until it's almost a whisper.
“Why did you kiss me, Micah?”
My heartbeat stumbles.
She steps closer.
So close, there's barely any space left between us. She’s bare beneath that damned shirt and I know it.
Fuck.
I can feel her soft breasts press against my chest and I wish we were both wearing a hell of a lot less clothing.
Focus, Micah.
Tilting her head back, Sloane studies my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle that's been driving her crazy for weeks.
“I've been trying to figure you out,” she admits. “You barely talk to me.”
A tiny laugh escapes her.
“You hardly look at me unless you think I’m not gonna notice.”
I almost smile.
She noticed.
“I can’t tell if you regret kissing me or if you might be trying to pretend it never happened.”
“What?”
Her words hit harder than any punch I've ever taken.
“I thought maybe I'd imagined it.”
“You didn't imagine it.”
The answer comes out immediately.
Without hesitation.
Without thought.
“Princess, I remember every second of that kiss. If I close my eyes, I can still remember how your lips felt. How you tasted when your tongue slid against mine.”
She goes still.
“So can I.”
Silence settles between us.
Not awkward.
Heavy.
Waiting.
“I don't know how to do this,” I admit quietly.
“What?”
“This.”
I gesture helplessly between us.
“Talking.”
Her expression softens.
“I spend my life behind computer screens, Sloane.”
I huff out a humorless laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“Networks. Encryption. Security. The tech side of ranching. That’s all me.”
“You know more than that, Micah,” she replies..
“Well, I know how to stop people from breaking things.”
My thumbs brush lightly against the soft fabric covering her hips.
“But I don't know what I'm supposed to say to a woman who's been living in my head for months.”
Her breath catches.
“Months?”
I nod.
“Since the first time I walked into your bar,” I continue, unable to stop now that I've started. “I kept finding reasons to come back.”
“You don’t just show up for the burgers?”
I shake my head.
“The beer?”
Another shake.
“What about the music?”
“No.”
A smile begins to bloom across her face.
“Then why?”
I hold her gaze.
Because she deserves the truth.
“You.”
The single word hangs between us.
“I show up and I stay because of you. I can't seem to stay away.” I let out a slow breath, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I changed the filters because I couldn't stand listening to you cough every time you drove away.
I knew your asthma was acting up, and it drove me fucking crazy knowing I could fix it but hadn't.”
Her lips part.
“I kissed you because I'd wanted to for so damn long that saying no to myself stopped being an option.”
The confession settles between us.