Chapter 51 Ford
Ford
It’s not like me to stay in bed this long, usually I’ve got the ranch on my mind before the sun’s even up. But today?
Today, Stormy’s all I’m thinking about.
I roped Kit into most of the chores since I told him I needed the morning off. Didn’t give a reason. Didn’t need to.
Stormy and I never bothered dressing after last night; we just drifted into sleep, wrapped in sweat and soft kisses. Her fingers trace the patterns of my tattoos.
I clear my throat. My voice is rough from sleep.
“We should probably get up.”
She hums, not moving.
“Yeah … we probably should.”
But then she shifts, just a little, and presses her hips back into me—into the erection I’ve been trying to ignore all morning. It’s been there since I woke up with her in my arms, and now it’s impossible to pretend it’s not.
She tilts her head slightly, voice soft and teasing.
“But first …”
Her hand reaches back, guiding mine down her stomach, with a deliberately slow pace. She presses my fingers between her thighs, and I feel it—the heat, the slickness, the way her body’s already aching for me.
“I’m so wet for you, Ford,” she whispers. “You can’t leave me like this, can you?”
I press a kiss to the back of her neck, letting my hand move with intention now, fingers sliding through the wetness she’s offered me.
“No,” I murmur against her skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She arches into me as I stroke her gently. I do it slowly, savouring every sound and every shift in her breath. Her hand reaches back again, curling around my thigh.
I move against her, my body fitting perfectly to hers, and the world outside the bedroom fades. No ranch. No chores. Just Stormy, warm and wanting in my arms.
I tease her gently. I don’t rush because I want her to feel every stroke—every slow circle around her clit. She gasps, hips bucking, and I tighten my arm around her waist, keeping her close.
“You feel that?” I ask against her skin. “How soft you are for me? How ready?”
She nods, breath catching as I work her slowly, edging her with every pass of my fingers. I kiss her shoulder, her neck, and the curve of her jaw, tasting the heat rising in her skin.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper. “You need more, baby?”
“Yes,” she begs. “Please …”
I ease her hand toward the drawer beside the bed, guiding her fingers to the handle. She opens it, pulls out a condom, and holds it out to me with a shy smile that makes my chest ache.
I take it from her and tear the foil open. She watches over her shoulder as I roll it on, and then I lift her leg gently, hooking it over my arm to open her up.
“Just like that,” I whisper. “Let me in, sweetheart.”
I guide myself to her entrance, sliding in slowly, inch by inch, until I’m buried deep inside her. She gasps, her body arching, and I hold her close, letting her adjust to the fullness.
“You okay?” I whisper.
She nods, voice breathless, eyes fluttering closed.
“… so full,” she sighs, like it’s not just sensation, but surrender.
“God, Stormy … you feel too good,” I murmur, kissing her neck. “So tight. You were made for this, weren’t you?”
She moans, her fingers gripping the sheets, and I start to move in slow, deliberate thrusts that make her whimper with every stroke. I keep kissing her, whispering against her skin.
“Tell me how it feels,” I say. “Tell me what you need.”
“Harder,” she gasps. “I need you … all of you.”
I grip her hip, thrusting deeper now with more demand. Her nails dig into my arm where it’s clasped around her waist, and I feel her body start to tremble again.
“Keep talking,” she whispers.
I smile against her skin.
“That’s it,” I groan softly. “Take me, Stormy. Take all of me.”
I reach between her legs and find her clit, stroking it in circles as I thrust into her, and I feel her start to unravel. “Such a good girl,” I groan, barely holding myself together. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
She cries out, her climax cresting, breaking, and her body tightening around me. I keep stroking her as I guide her through every wave, until I follow her over the edge, groaning against her skin as I spill into the condom. We stay like that—breathless, tangled, quiet.
Then I kiss her shoulder again, softer this time.
“You okay?”
She turns her head, her cheek brushing mine.
“More than okay,” she whispers, voice soft and full of something that feels like wonder.
I grin, nuzzling the curve of her neck before giving it a gentle nibble.
“On second thought … maybe we should just stay in bed all day.”
She laughs, low and warm, the sound vibrating through both of us.
“Tempting,” she says, stretching like a cat in the sun. “But if we don’t get up soon, we’re going to end up plastering the bookshop in our underwear.”
I groan dramatically.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She rolls her eyes, then wriggles out of my arms with a playful smirk.
“Come on, Cowboy. Time to face the day.”
I watch her as she walks across the room, bare and unbothered, with her hair in a tousled halo down her back. She disappears into the bathroom and just before she’s out of sight, she glances over her shoulder with sultry eyes and lips curved in a wicked smile.
“Well?” she says, voice teasing. “Are you coming?”
I don’t answer. I just leap out of bed, grabbing the sheet to wrap around my waist as I chase after her, heart thudding for reasons that have nothing to do with exertion.
The bookshop smells of sawdust and fresh timber, but the air feels lighter now.
We’ve cleared the shattered shelves, swept away the debris, and sunlight spills through the newly clean front windows like a quiet promise.
The memory of Will and yesterday hovers at the edges, but it’s behind us now, mostly.
I still want to kill him, but that’s a problem for another day.
Stormy walks in from the back, pausing in the centre of the room like she’s about to make a grand announcement. She’s holding a bucket of plaster mix in one hand and a trowel in the other, like she’s prepping for surgery rather than wall repair.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” she declares, brow furrowed in concentration. And damn if she doesn’t look adorable as hell, standing there with that bewildered expression, like the tools might bite her.
“I Googled it,” she continues. “Watched like six tutorials. Bought all the stuff …” She lifts the trowel like its proof of her commitment. “And I still feel like I’m about to ruin everything.”
I lean against the nearest wall, arms crossed.
“You watched tutorials?”
She nods. “TikTok. YouTube. Even one from a guy named Plaster Pete.”
I laugh.
“Sounds trustworthy.”
She groans.
“Don’t mock me, I’m trying.”
I push off the wall and walk over, taking the trowel from her hand.
“Fortunately for you, Sunshine, I helped build the cottage you’re living in. Including plastering the walls. So, I know what I’m doing.”
Her eyes light up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” I say, dipping the trowel into the mix. “Now pay attention, apprentice.”
After showing Stormy a couple of times what to do, I move behind her, guiding her hand with mine. Our fingers overlap on the handle, warm and steady.
“Gentle pressure,” I murmur. “Like frosting a cake.”
She tilts her head toward me, curiosity illuminating her eyes.
“You bake?”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“Not really. But I’ve stolen enough icing from Mom to know how it works.”
Stormy laughs, soft and surprised, and as I begin to guide her movements, she says, “We should bake sometime.”
I laugh against her ear.
“I mean, I’ll probably be terrible at it. But sure.”
She turns to look at me then; brows lifted like she can’t quite believe I said yes. Like she expected me to pull away and dodge the invitation. I guess she’s not used to people choosing her. But why wouldn’t I? If it means spending more time with her, I’m in.
Her smile blooms slowly, lighting up her face. She turns back to the wall, and I feel the shift in her body. How she lifts and softens at the same time, her shoulders loosening as she leans into the moment.
After a few minutes of working together, I step back and give Stormy free rein. She scoops up a generous glob of plaster and slaps it onto the wall with the confidence of someone who’s watched just enough tutorials to be dangerous.
It doesn’t land how she expects. The plaster splats, then slides down in a slow, tragic slump.
“Okay, that’s rude,” she mutters.
I can’t help it, my mouth twitches into a grin, and I let out a low laugh before I can stop it.
Stormy turns, eyes narrowing. She leans forward, scoops a bit of plaster off the wall with her finger, and flicks it onto my shirt.
“Stop laughing. I’m trying.”
I glance down at the smear on my chest, then raise an eyebrow.
“You sure you want to start something here, Sunshine?” My voice dips into mischief.
She grimaces, already backing away with a grin tugging at her lips.
I stalk towards her, wiping the plaster from my shirt with two fingers. She squeals and ducks just as I lunge, but I catch her around the waist, pulling her close.
She thrashes in my arms, laughing breathlessly. I lift my hand in front of her face, and she shakes her head frantically, trying to dodge.
But I’m faster. I swipe a thick streak of plaster down her cheek and onto her neck.
“Ford!” She squeals my name through a high-pitched laugh in delight.
“Now we’re even,” I say, but the look she gives me says otherwise.
Within minutes, the room is filled with laughter, rogue plaster, and chaos. Her hair’s streaked with white; my arms look like I’ve been mauled by a rogue paintbrush, and she’s doubled over, laughing so hard she can barely breathe.
And I can’t stop grinning.
We settle onto the floor with our backs pressed against the freshly patched wall. It’s uneven, streaked in places, and a little lumpy in others, but somehow, it’s perfect.
Not because it’s flawless. But because Stormy did it.
She worked at it, laughed through it, made a mess, and made something that’s hers.
Sure, I could probably smooth it out, tidy the edges, and make it look more professional. But the truth is, I don’t want to.
I glance over and catch Stormy studying the wall.
Her eyes are soft with quiet pride. She’s still flushed from laughing and working, but the way she looks at what she made lights something up inside me.
She’s proud, and that makes me proud. So no, I won’t fix it.
I won’t change a thing. Because in this moment, it is perfect.
Stormy leans her head on my shoulder, her smile gentle and fond.
After a beat, I glance down at her, brow furrowed, my thoughts replaying every moment I’ve spent around her. One word keeps surfacing, something Missy and Stormy have tossed around more than once. I know it’s book-related, obviously, but I’m completely clueless.
“What’s ‘Bookstagram,’ by the way?” I ask.
She pulls back slightly, amusement dancing in her eyes as she looks up at me.
“Wait, you’ve never heard of Bookstagram?”
“Nope. Is it like Tinder, but for people who read?”
She laughs.
“No, although that would be a great idea. It’s the book community on Instagram. People post about what they’re reading, review books, and share recommendations. It’s amazing. You can talk freely and openly about stories that matter to you. You make friends and it brings people together.”
I nod slowly. “So … it’s like a book club, but with hashtags?”
“Exactly,” she says, eyes bright. “That’s the kind of thing I want for this shop. Not just a place to sell indie authors’ books, but a space where people connect. Where stories bring people together. Where someone can walk in and feel seen.”
I look around at the half-renovated space, the patched walls, and the stacks of books waiting to be shelved.
“Books were my escape,” she says softly. “When things were bad at home, when my dad was … when I needed somewhere to disappear, I’d hide with a book. It was the only time I felt safe. Like I could breathe.”
I don’t speak. Just let her keep going.
“And later, with Sam, when I felt like I was vanishing, books reminded me I still existed. That I mattered. That there were worlds where people were kind … where girls like me got to be strong and loved and free.”
She looks back at me.
“That’s why I want this shop to be more than just shelves and sales. I want it to be a refuge. A place where someone can walk in and find a story that makes them feel less alone.”
I reach for her hand, threading my fingers through hers.
“You’re building that,” I say. “Not just for them. For you too.”
Her smile wobbles, then steadies.
“Yeah. I think I am.”
I think back to the months since Stormy showed up.
I kept my distance, didn’t want her here, didn’t want the mess she stirred up.
Thought it’d be easier if she just left.
But she didn’t. She stayed. Worked. Built something out of nothing.
And now, sitting in this half-finished shop, hearing what it means to her … it hits me.
She’s poured herself into this place. Every patched wall, every stacked book, it’s her. Her strength. Her heart.
She’s amazing. Strong in ways most people never learn to be. Kind, even when the world hasn’t been kind back. Sweet, stubborn, and beautiful inside and out.
After everything she’s been through, she still shows up. Still tries.
She deserves to be treated right. And I’m going to be the one who does that. No more screwing things up. No more keeping people at arm’s length. Stormy’s a priority now.
And I’ll make damn sure she knows it.