Chapter 4 - Joseph
four
Joseph
I can't stop thinking about her mouth.
Three days since the zombie incident, and I'm obsessed. The way she kissed me back like she was drowning and I was air. The little sound she made when I touched her breast. How she looked when I pinned her against the barn wall—flushed and wanting and completely mine for that moment.
Right up until she pushed me away.
I need more time, she'd said.
So I'm giving it to her. Even though it's killing me.
We've been dancing around each other ever since. Polite conversation over meals. Careful distance while working. But the tension is there, humming between us like a live wire every time we're in the same room.
She's been throwing herself into ranch work with determined focus, like she's trying to outrun what happened between us. But watching her gentle a skittish calf or correctly diagnose Bertha's hoof problem makes something warm and possessive unfurl in my chest.
She belongs here. She just doesn't know it yet.
"You're staring again," Rebecca says without looking up from the fence post she's trying to set.
"I'm supervising."
"You're staring. There's a difference."
She's gotten better at the ranch work, I'll give her that. Still jumps when Bertha gets too close, but she's not afraid anymore. Treats the animals with the careful respect they deserve while maintaining the authority they need to see.
It's sexy as hell watching her figure it out.
"Post needs to be deeper," I tell her.
"I know."
"Want help?"
"No." She wipes sweat from her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt across her cheek. "I've got it."
She doesn't have it. The post is crooked, too shallow, and about to fall over. But she's so determined to prove herself that I don't have the heart to take over.
Instead, I lean against the fence and watch her work. She's traded her torn city clothes for some of my old shirts and a pair of jeans that are too big but functional. The shirt clings when she bends over, and I have to actively work not to stare at the curve of her ass.
I'm failing spectacularly.
"Joseph." She turns around, catching me red-handed. "Seriously?"
"I'm admiring your technique."
"My technique at fence building?"
"Among other things."
She blushes, which just makes her prettier. Three days of good food and regular sleep have put color back in her cheeks, and she's starting to look less like a refugee and more like the woman who had the guts to try stealing my horse.
The woman who kissed me like the world was ending.
The woman who pushed me away before we could finish what we started.
"I should finish this," she says, but she doesn't turn around.
Neither of us moves.
The silence stretches, full of tension and possibilities and the memory of what happened against the barn wall. I want to kiss her again. Want to find out if she still tastes the same, if she'll make those little sounds when I touch her. Want to finish what she stopped.
But I said okay. And I meant it.
"Rebecca," I start.
"Work first," she says quickly, turning back to the fence post.
Right. Work first. Because she needs more time, and I'm giving it to her.
Even if the waiting might actually kill me.
The post slides into place with a satisfying thunk, and she steps back with a triumphant grin. "There. Perfect."
It's not perfect. It's crooked and wobbly and won't last a week. But her smile is so proud, so genuinely happy, that I don't have the heart to tell her.
"We should head back to the barn," I say. "Storm's coming in."
She looks up at the clear blue sky, then back at me with raised eyebrows. "What storm?"
"Trust me."
The first raindrops fall without warning.
One second the sky is clear. The next, it opens up like someone flipped a switch.
"Barn!" I shout, already running.
Rebecca sprints beside me. By the time we stumble through the door, we're both soaked through.
She's laughing, breathless, water streaming down her face. Her shirt is plastered to her body. I force myself to look away while I grab towels from the supply cabinet.
"Here." I hold one out.
She takes it, our fingers brushing. The contact sends heat up my arm.
We dry off in silence. The air between us feels charged, dangerous. Three days of careful distance, and now we're trapped in here together with nothing but the sound of rain hammering the roof.
"Joseph," she says softly.
I look at her. Her hair's dripping, her shirt clinging to curves I've been trying not to think about. She's staring at me with an expression I recognize because I've been wearing it for three days.
Want. Need. The same hunger that made her reach for my belt before she pushed me away.
"Yeah?"
She crosses the space between us in three steps and kisses me.
No hesitation this time. No pulling back. Just her mouth on mine, urgent and sure, like she's made a decision and this is it.
I respond instantly, backing her against the supply cabinet, my hands finding her waist. She makes that sound again—the little gasp that's been haunting my dreams—and I deepen the kiss.
Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair. When she tugs, I groan against her mouth.
"Touch me," she whispers.
I don't need to be told twice.
My hands slide under her wet shirt, finding warm skin. She arches into my touch, her breath catching. I palm her ribs, her sides, learning the shape of her while rain drums overhead.
Somewhere in the fumbling urgency, shirts come off. Her hands explore my bare chest while I kiss down her neck, her collarbone. When I cup her breast, she moans into my mouth.
"Joseph—"
I take her nipple in my mouth and she gasps, her back arching off the cabinet. I work her with my tongue while my hand finds her other breast, and the sounds she makes are better than anything I imagined.
Her hands fumble with my belt.
This time I don't stop her.
The buckle gives way. Her hand slides inside my jeans, wrapping around me through my boxers, and I see stars.
"Jesus, Rebecca—"
A crash of thunder directly overhead makes us both jump.
The lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.
The barn plunges into darkness except for the occasional flash of lightning through the cracks.
We freeze, breathing hard, still pressed against each other.
"Power's out," I say unnecessarily.
"I noticed."
Another flash of lightning illuminates her face. She looks flushed, disheveled, beautiful.
And uncertain.
The moment's broken. We both feel it.
"I should..." She gestures vaguely toward the house.
"Yeah."
Neither of us moves.
"I'm not scared," she says. "Of this. Of you. I just—"
"I know."
And I do. She needs to be sure. Needs to know this is more than just apocalypse proximity and three days of tension. Needs to know she won't regret it when the haze clears.
I step back, giving her space. Find her shirt in the dark and hand it to her.
She pulls it on. I do the same. The spell is broken but not gone—just banked, waiting.
"Joseph?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not making this hard."
I bark a laugh. "Oh, it's hard."
She swats my arm, and we both crack up, the tension breaking into something easier.
We make a run for the house through the rain, and when we get inside, soaked again, she kisses me once more at the bottom of the stairs.
Soft this time. Sweet. A promise of more when she's ready.
Then she heads up to shower, and I stand there dripping on the floor, counting the hours until she decides enough time has passed.