Chapter 17 #2
I reach for his flannel, unbuttoning it while he’s distracted. At the last button, he shrugs it off, revealing a torso carved by years of ranch work—muscle, heat, dark hair dusting his chest and trailing down his abs.
My hands skim over him, relearning familiar terrain with new appreciation, my pulse thudding where my fingers linger.
He pops open my shorts and slips his hand inside, beneath denim and cotton. I bite my lip, rocking my hips into his touch, desperate for friction. The contact makes my breath hitch, my control slipping faster than I’m ready for.
He nips my bottom lip. “Patience,” he whispers—suddenly a word I don’t recognize. Not with the way he’s touching me. Not with the way he’s looking at me like I’m something he’s been denying himself for far too long.
I groan into his mouth as he flips us, easing me out of my shorts and boots.
The bed dips beneath our combined weight, the sheets cool against my skin before his body shields me from everything else.
He kneels between my legs, kissing up my thighs slowly—too slowly—until he finally disappears between them.
My hands clutch at the bedding, my body arching without permission, anticipation coiling tight and sharp.
I’m already wrecked.
“Gage,” I whisper into the dark.
He hums against me, and the vibration causes a ripple of pleasure to course through me. I groan as he grips my thighs, burying himself deeper inside me, fueled by his hunger to make me feel good.
He doesn't rush.
I grip his hair tightly in my hand, pressing my hips forward, feeling myself getting closer to the edge before feeling myself fall over it.
There’s no stopping it—no bracing for it—just the sharp rush of release tearing through me.
I keep him close as my climax racks my body, and he helps me ride the wave.
My muscles tremble, my vision going white around the edges as he stays with me, grounding me through it instead of pulling away.
When he comes up to meet me on the bed, I waste no time removing him from his jeans with urgency. My hands fumble, impatient and greedy, like I’m afraid if I slow down he’ll disappear. I want him so bad. He chuckles at my hurried pace but chooses not to comment on it.
The sound only makes heat coil tighter in my stomach.
“You’re beautiful like this, Sloane,” he says softly as he hovers over me, as I tug his jeans down completely, and he kicks them off. His voice drops low, stripped of teasing, stripped of armor.
He stares at me like I’m the only woman in the world, and as I grip him between my fingers and watch him become a prisoner to me, I realize that was always the intent.
Not possession—devotion.
“And you’re handsome when you’re like this,” I reply to him, guiding him inside me, gasping as he groans with me. The stretch steals my breath, the connection immediate and overwhelming, like we finally stopped fighting gravity and let ourselves fall.
He wraps my legs back around his waist and props himself on one arm, his bicep flexing as he starts to thrust slowly and deeply. Every movement presses into something deeper than skin, something emotional and raw. I moan softly, closing my eyes, losing myself in the pleasure he’s giving me.
I meet his thrusts, moving my own hips against him, and he whimpers.
The sound cracks something open inside my chest.
“Sloane, please,” he says, and I open my eyes to see him, staring intently at me, and the gaze is so heated and intense that I feel myself come undone again around him.
There’s no anger there. No fear. Just need and want, tangled together.
“Gage!” I yell out unexpectedly as he groans deeply, his hips stilling as he grips his bedding beside my head. His abs flex and twitch as he follows me over the edge.
The release feels shared, like something we crossed together instead of separately.
He lies down beside me as we both catch our breath. I look over at him, and he turns his head to look at me. I sit up and press my lips to his, and he immediately kisses me back, filled with all the emotions we’ve been harboring—repressed by a pointless hatred.
The night blurs into heat and skin and whispered breaths. By morning, I’m tired and sore—in the best way. I reach out beside me and touch cold sheets. My stomach dips—an old, ugly reflex. He left again.
I roll out of bed and find one of his shirts to put on so I can get dressed, the fabric hanging loose on me, smelling like him, but when I open the bedroom door, I’m met with the aroma of coffee downstairs and the shuffling of nails clicking on the wooden floor.
Bullet? Confusion flickers, then gives way to surprise.
I can’t remember a time when Gage ever let Bullet in the house.
I walk downstairs and sure enough, Gage is in the kitchen in a pair of boxers, looking delicious, of course, a mug in hand. Bullet is in the middle of the room, eating breakfast. On the counter sits another hot mug, and Gage moves to the fridge, pulling out creamer to pour it.
When he turns around, he spots me. “I thought you were still in bed. I was going to bring you coffee,” he says as I walk down the last couple of steps. I cross the kitchen and thread my hands around his neck as his hands find my hips.
This quiet normalcy feels more dangerous than anything else so far has.
“Trust me, this was so much better to wake up to,” I reply, pressing my lips to his in a slow but passionate kiss.
How did I get so lucky? I don’t know, but I hope this doesn’t end.
But even as the thought settles, unease curls low in my stomach.
Someone broke into this ranch knowing exactly what to take. Not random tools. Not easy targets. Equipment tied directly to the water system. To the investigation. To leverage.
That wasn’t desperation.
That was intent.
I press closer to Gage, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, and know—deep down—that what happened tonight wasn’t the end of it.
It wasn’t random.
It was a warning shot.