Jesse
My stomach fell when I rifled through marketing and invoices and saw the white envelope with clean edges, my name printed neatly. I knew who it was from before I touched it. That freaking investment firm that had been dealing with Lucas.
I stood to read it, boots still on, and read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower, my jaw tightening with every word.
Signed off by Zachary Haines, thanking us for the call and noting the positive conversation with the ranch.
Potential purchasers.
All parties will be contacted once a firm offer was received.
My vision went hot around the edges.
I heard Lucas in the hallway and headed out before my brain was in gear.
“What the hell is this?” I demanded, shoving the letter at his chest.
He glanced down at it, then back up at me, expression already set. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”
“You went behind my back and carried on talking after I told you I wasn’t agreeing to sell.”
“I didn’t go behind your back,” he shot back. “I talked to people who have a legitimate interest in the land.”
“It’s not your land to sell!” I barked a laugh that came out ugly.
His eyes flashed. “Don’t start with that.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” I said, voice rising despite myself. “Do you have any idea how many people work here? Have you ever even asked? Do you even give a shit?”
I stepped closer, crowding him in the narrow hall, and he stepped back. “You think I don’t care?” He sounded horrified.
“I think you don’t give a shit,” I snapped. “Not about the land. Not about the people. Not about legacy. This ranch isn’t a line item—it’s my family’s blood in the dirt.”
“Legacy doesn’t pay bills,” he shot back. “And it doesn’t fix the fact that this place isn’t making enough to fund what I need it to.”
“It’s not bleeding money,” I yelled. “It’s working its ass off and breaking even. There’s a difference.”
He shoved his hands through his hair, frustration sharp enough to taste. “You’re clinging to something that’s already gone. This ranch is being sold one way or another, Jesse. I’m just trying to make it ethical.”
That word—ethical—hit like a slap.
“You don’t get to decide what’s ethical for us,” I said. “You didn’t grow up here. You didn’t watch people break their backs to keep this land alive.”
“And you don’t get to pretend your attachment to mud is enough,” he shouted back. “I’m selling it. With you or without you. So, stop acting like I’m the villain for being honest.”
The hallway was too damn quiet for the amount of noise between us, the air thick with everything neither of us was willing to back down from.
I was so angry I could taste it, copper and heat flooding my mouth, my vision tunneling until all I could see was him.
Lucas stood there in front of me—too neat, too contained, so fucking small in my space for someone causing so much damage—and something ugly reared up in my chest. I wanted to shove him.
Not because I would, not because I ever had, but because I needed him to feel how wrong he was, how badly he was tearing at something he didn’t understand.
My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms, every muscle locked down by sheer force of will.
It was all too much—my dad, him, the letter, the land, the certainty in his voice that I would ever agree—and if I didn’t stop myself, if I didn’t step back right now, I was going to say or do something neither of us could ever come back from.
Lucas lifted his hands slowly, palms out, like I was a skittish horse instead of a man who’d just had his world tilted on its axis. He stepped in, careful, and for half a second, his fingers brushed my arm.
“Jesse,” he said, voice low, coaxing. He even smiled, small and placating, like that would fix anything. “I get that you’re attached to the land—”
“‘Attached’?” The word detonated. “Attached?” I surged forward, and he stumbled back a step. “This is mine. I earned this. I didn’t inherit a balance sheet and show up with spreadsheets and opinions. I worked it. I bled for it.”
He opened his mouth, but I kept going, every word another shove.
“I worked under my dad when he was already hard and mean and breaking me down every damn day. I learned early how to keep my head down and survive him. And the only time I ever got out—ever—was when I could spend time with your grandfather.”
That stopped him. His eyes flickered. “Well at least he wanted to spend time with you.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. If you’d made a single piece of contact, it would have made his entire life!”
“That’s bullshit! He was as hateful as my dad, and it was worse because I was desperate and I needed him—”
“You don’t even give a shit about legacy,” I went on. “Did you know Walter’s buried on this land? Do you even care what happens when you sell off the people buried here?”
Lucas shook his head, breath coming quick. “Jesse, stop—”
“He’d die all over again for what you’re doing,” I shouted right in Lucas’s face. “For you coming in here and deciding this place is expendable because it doesn’t turn enough profit for your cup to buy damn fancy coffees.”
He backed up until the wall stopped him, eyes bright, jaw set. “You think I don’t feel any of this?” he shot back. “You think this is easy for me? Despite the fact I hate him, I’m not trying to erase him, or you, or anyone. But he didn’t give a shit about me, so why should I care about him?”
“Of course he cared about you,” I snarled. “His precious fucking grandson, who he kept saying would visit him one day.”
“Yeah, right; he didn’t want me—I called and he—”
“You never called!”
“I did! You think you had it hard? My dad found out I was gay and threw me out! I was fifteen. I called, I wanted to come here, and my oh so fucking fantastic grandfather told me he didn’t want someone like me anywhere near him!”
What? No. He was the first person I told when I knew I was gay, and he was solid and never once said a bad thing. Hell, he let me vent about my dad. He was a good man.
“He wouldn’t do that!” I said.
“And I’m telling you he did. Maybe you never knew the real man, because he broke my heart into a million pieces, and he gave me this place because he was guilty!”
“He loved you!”
“He didn’t! No one did! No one does!” His voice broke.
We were both breathing hard, and something in his voice mirrored my life so perfectly that it was a knife in my chest. I wanted to hug him, and god, what did I do with that? I could see the regret in his expression that he’d even said that, but the edge to his words made me stop.
The hallway was too damn quiet for us to be shouting at each other, and Lucas stood there, arms crossed, jaw set, ready to argue the world into submission.
He pushed back the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms. Jeez—was he getting ready to fight me?
All five-nine of him, tense and focused.
The light of a lamp cast a warm glow, but it did nothing to soften the hard line of his mouth or the way his blue eyes burned into me as if he were trying to set me on fire.
I should’ve walked away. I knew that. But the way he’d been messing with me and talking to investors and pretending as if I was even included, then blaming his grandfather, had my blood boiling.
My fingers twitched at my sides, my body coiled with the kind of frustration that only came when you were sick of being pushed.
“You don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for this place,” Lucas snapped, his voice low and controlled, changing the subject from the emotional outburst. “You could be a rich man! You’re too damn stubborn to see reason.”
“Your grandfather—”
“No! I don’t need this shit!”
He vibrated with temper, his eyes bright, and maybe I’d regret this later, but I was flooded with compassion. He was wrong about the call. Walter would never have stopped Lucas from coming here, but the way his voice broke when he said no one loved him. Shit.
“No!”
I moved before I could think. I touched his jaw, and he flinched. His skin was smooth under my calloused palm, the faint stubble rough beneath my fingertips. His breath hitched, those blue eyes widening just a fraction—surprise, maybe, or something darker.
“Stop,” I growled.
He didn’t move. “I can’t,” he half-whispered.
And I kissed him, and I meant to be gentle, but my first taste of him was explosive, so it wasn’t gentle or sweet.
It was teeth and tongue and need, my lips crashing to his as if I could fuck the pain in his eyes right out of him.
For a second, he went stiff as a board, his body locked up, and I released my hold immediately—there was no consent here, and I might feel like I was helping in some twisted way, but I could control my libido.
We stared at each other, breathing hard, so much emotion in his gorgeous blue eyes.
“I’m sorry—”
He grabbed me, yanked me down, and kissed me right back. My free hand slid down the front of his chest, feeling the way his heart hammered under my palm. His breath came in short gasps against my mouth, and I swallowed every one of them.
Lust flared, and we were in each other’s space, shoulders knocking, hands shoving as we fought for position.
It was pure instinct, lust spilling over into something physical, neither of us willing to give an inch.
I thought I had him—thought I was the one driving him back—but he twisted, quick and sure, and the world jolted hard.
My back hit the wall with a solid thud, the breath punched clean out of me, his body flush to mine, pinning me there as if he’d planned it all along.
Then—fuck—he melted.
Not all at once, but bit by bit, his body relaxing, his lips parting just enough to let my tongue in, and he moaned.
I moved him, bending my knees a little so we were the same height, and then huffing at how they ached.
In two steps, I lifted him and pinned him to the wall.
By the second step, it was perfect. He tasted like coffee and chocolate, and I groaned into his mouth, my hand dropping lower, fingers digging into the hard plane of his stomach before slipping between us.
His cock was already hard, thick, and heavy behind his zipper, and when I palmed him through his jeans, he made this sound—half gasp, half whimper—that went straight to my dick.
My jeans were too tight, the rough denim scraping my aching erection.
The friction was brutal, the way I needed it, and I could feel him responding in kind, his hips jerking forward as if he couldn’t help himself.
His hands came up, gripping my shoulders, his fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt to hold on.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice rough, desperate. “Jesse—”
I didn’t let him finish. I kissed him again, deeper this time, my tongue fucking into his mouth.
I owned the kiss, and I owned him. I stroked him through his pants, my thumb pressing the head of his cock hard enough to make him shudder.
He was trembling now, and I could feel the way his pulse raced under my touch.
“Stop talking,” I muttered, my lips brushing his as I spoke. My voice was low, rough, the kind of sound that came from deep in my chest when I was too far gone to pretend I was in control. But I was in control. Right now, he was mine, and he knew it.
His breath hitched, his hips bucking into my touch. “Fuck you,” he gasped, but there was no heat in it, only need, raw and aching.
I smirked. “That’s the idea.”
I kissed him again, harder, nipping at his bottom lip before soothing the sting with my tongue.
My hand kept moving, stroking him in time with the roll of my hips, our cocks rubbing together through the fabric, the friction rough and desperate.
He was panting now, little whimpers spilling out of him every time I twisted my wrist just right.
His touch moved down my back, nails digging in through my shirt. “Jesse, please—”
I didn’t know what he was begging for, but I gave it to him anyway. I kissed him as if I was starving, my mouth bruising, my tongue claiming every inch of him. I worked faster, and I could feel him getting closer, his body tensing, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
“Come on,” I growled. “Let go.”
He groaned, his hips stuttering, his cock jerking in my grip. I could feel him right there, on the edge, and I pushed him over with a rough twist of my wrist.
He came with a choked-off cry, shuddering against me, his cum hot and wet through his pants.
I didn’t stop kissing him, didn’t stop grinding, my own cock throbbing, aching for release.
His hands clenched in my shirt, his breath coming in ragged gasps as I kept him pinned, my mouth on his, my grip holding him up.
When he sagged, spent and trembling, I pulled back enough to see his face. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark and dazed, his cheeks flushed. He was wrecked. Perfect.
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t need to.
I kissed him again, slower this time, tasting and claiming him. My hand still moved between us, stroking him through the mess he’d made, my cock pressing hard and insistent against his thigh.
He was pliant now, his hands resting on my chest, and I could see the questions in his eyes, the confusion, the way his mind was racing, but I didn’t give him time to think.
I kissed him until he forgot how to breathe. Until the only thing he knew was the feel of my mouth on his, my hand on his cock, still pinning him to the wall.
And when I pulled away, his lips were red, his eyes wide.
“Lucas?” I murmured, my voice rough, my cock still hard.
He swallowed, his gaze flickering between my eyes and my mouth. “I—”
I kissed him again before he could finish, pressing my hands to his throat, my thumb on his pulse. He gasped, his body arching into mine, and I knew—he wasn’t thinking about the ranch anymore. He wasn’t thinking about anything but this. Us.
And for the first time in a long damn time, neither was I, as my orgasm hit me so hard I saw stars.
The air between us turned to ice.
He went stiff with realization and horror. He shoved me back so hard I stumbled, and he scrambled away, his shirt still unbuttoned, his belt undone, his cock still wet with the proof of what we’d done.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice raw, his blue eyes wide and wild. “Fuck, fuck—”
I didn’t smile, I was suddenly horrified I’d done this, scared, confused.
Shit.