Chapter 2
two
. . .
Judy
I can't believe I'm here. A real ranch with acres of open land stretching in every direction, and a bedroom—all to myself—with clean sheets that smell like sunshine.
But it's him that makes me feel truly safe.
Wayne. The way he filled the doorway when he let me into the house, tall and broad, with those piercing green eyes that seemed to see right through me.
His voice, deep as thunder, rumbling through my chest when he called me "angel.
" I shouldn't notice how his jeans fit his powerful thighs or how his forearms flex when he crosses them.
But I do. I notice everything about him.
Dinner was quiet. He doesn't talk much, just watches me with that steady gaze while I ate the stew he made—actually made himself. A man who cooks. Who would've thought? And the way he smiled, just barely, when I took a second helping…I felt warm all over.
Now I'm sitting on the edge of the bed—my bed, at least for now—running my fingers over the quilt. It's handmade, with faded colors and neat stitching. Did he make this too? Or was it someone else's? A woman's? The thought makes my stomach twist in a way I don't understand.
From the open window, I can hear night sounds—crickets, the occasional whinny from the horses in the barn, the creak of the windmill turning slowly in the evening breeze. So different from the city noises I'd grown used to. Safer. Like nothing bad could find me here.
I unpack my meager belongings—two changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a dog-eared paperback, and the photo of my mom from before. Before everything went wrong. I tuck it inside the drawer of the nightstand. Can't look at her face right now. Not when I'm still running.
The floor creaks outside my door. Wayne. I freeze, holding my breath. Is he checking on me? Coming in? My heart hammers against my ribs. But his footsteps continue down the hall to his room, and I exhale slowly, unsure if I'm relieved or disappointed.
I change into my sleep shirt—an oversized tee that barely covers my thighs—and slip under the covers. The sheets are cool against my bare legs. I turn off the lamp and lie in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, replaying the day.
You're safe here, angel. His words echo in my head. Angel. The way he said it, rough and tender at the same time. No one's ever called me that before. No one's ever looked at me the way he does, like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once.
I shift, suddenly too warm despite the cool night air flowing through the window. There's a feeling building in me, low in my belly. A tightness. A heat. I press my thighs together, trying to ease it, but that only makes it worse.
Wayne's face floats in my mind—the sharp angle of his jaw beneath his short beard, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he almost smiled, the way his hands, so big and rough, handled his fork and knife with surprising gentleness.
What would those hands feel like on me?
The thought ambushes me, sending a jolt of heat straight between my legs. I gasp, pressing my hand to my mouth. What am I doing? He's letting me stay here out of kindness. He's twice my age. He probably sees me as some pathetic kid.
But I can't shake the image—his broad palms skimming up my thighs, his calloused fingertips tracing patterns on my skin. My nipples tighten beneath my shirt, and that ache between my legs grows more insistent.
Before I can talk myself out of it, my hand slides down my stomach, hesitating at the edge of my panties. I've never…not like this. Not really thinking about someone specific. But tonight, I can't help it.
I slip my fingers beneath the cotton, shocked at how wet I am. So this is what it feels like to really want someone. To burn for them.
You're safe here, angel. His voice again, rumbling through my memory. I circle my finger against myself, finding the spot that makes my breath catch. So soft. So slick. My back arches slightly off the bed.
What would he think if he could see me now? Would he be disgusted? Or would those green eyes darken with approval?
I work my finger faster, adding a second one, spreading the wetness up to the bundle of nerves that sends shocks of pleasure through my entire body. My other hand slides under my shirt, finding my breast, pinching my nipple between finger and thumb.
Good girl, I imagine him saying, his voice deep and gravelly. Such a good girl for me.
The words, even just in my imagination, make me whimper. I bite my lip to stay quiet, terrified he'll hear me through the walls, but I can't stop now. My hips rock against my hand, seeking more pressure, more friction. Something is building inside me, a tension coiling tighter and tighter.
"Wayne," I whisper, so softly I barely hear it myself. My fingers move faster, circling, pressing. My thighs begin to tremble.
And then it happens—a wave of pleasure so intense I have to bury my face in the pillow to muffle my cry. My body pulses around my fingers, again and again, each wave slightly less intense than the last, until I'm left boneless and panting, my hand still between my legs.
I've never felt anything like that before. Never.
As my breathing slows, reality creeps back in. I just got myself off thinking about a man who's giving me shelter. A man more than twice my age. A man who probably only sees me as a charity case.
But the warmth spreading through my limbs makes it hard to feel ashamed. Instead, I feel…powerful. Like I've discovered a secret.