Chapter 9 Jack #2
I took her hand and led her to the bedroom. No carrying, no urgency, no press of bodies against walls. Just her hand in mine and the quiet sound of our bare feet on the cabin floor, and the warm pool of light from the bedside lamp she'd left on.
I turned to face her at the foot of the bed.
"Hands at your sides," I said. Quiet. Not a command—an invitation.
Her arms dropped. She stood there in her tank top and sleep shorts, chest rising and falling, watching me with eyes that were wide open and unguarded.
I reached for the hem of her tank top. Drew it up slowly—over the flat plane of her stomach, the curve of her ribs, the swell of her breasts. She raised her arms, and I pulled it over her head, let it drop, and took a step back.
The lamplight turned her skin to gold. She was lean from years of ranch work—strong shoulders, defined arms, a body built for labor and carrying and never stopping.
But standing still, in this light, with her hair loose and her chin lifted and her eyes on mine, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"Don't look at me like that," she whispered, a trace of vulnerability in her voice.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm—" She shook her head. "I don't know. Like I'm something."
"You are something." I closed the distance between us. Put my hands on her waist—just my hands, just the warmth of my palms on her bare skin—and felt her shiver. "You're the most remarkable woman I've ever met, and I need you to stop arguing with me about it."
Her laugh came out shaky. "That's a big ask."
"I'm full of big asks tonight."
I kissed the spot where her neck met her shoulder. Soft, barely there. She tilted her head to give me room, and the gesture—the trust in it, the offering—sent heat pooling low.
I worked my way along her collarbone. Slow. Tasting the salt on her skin, feeling the flutter of her pulse under my mouth. Her breathing went ragged. Her fingers twisted in the sheets.
"Jack…" My name came out thin. Stretched.
I held her tighter. Just a fraction. A grounding presence to ease her. “I’m here."
"I need you to know this isn't just—"
"I know what it isn't."
She swallowed roughly. A shaky breath left her. “And I need you to know I'm scared."
I stopped. Lifted my head. Met her eyes. "Of what?"
"Of how much I want this." Her voice was barely there. "Of how much it's going to hurt when it ends."
"Who says it ends?"
"Everything ends, Jack. Everything I've ever—" She caught herself. Closed her eyes. And I saw it—likely the ghost of a man who said something that broke her heart and had calcified into gospel somewhere deep inside her.
"Look at me, Maggie."
She opened her eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until you look me in the eyes and tell me to go." I held her gaze, letting her see every word land. "And even then, I'd probably argue."
The laugh that broke out of her was wet and real and startled, like it had escaped from somewhere she'd been keeping it locked.
"There she is," I murmured.
I kissed her. Soft. Slow. Felt her melt into it—not collapse, not surrender, but a conscious releasing. A woman choosing to stop bracing for impact.
I eased her shorts down her hips. Let them fall. When she was bare, I guided her onto the bed—not laid her out, not positioned her. She sat on the edge and looked up at me.
I knelt.
Her breath caught. "What are you—"
“Giving you what you want." I put my hands on her knees. Eased them apart. "Lie back, beautiful, I’m gonna make you feel all of it.”
She leaned back on her elbows, watching me. Not closing her eyes, not looking away. Present, the way she'd asked to be.
I kissed my way up her inner thigh, slow enough that she could feel each point of contact. Her breathing went ragged. When I reached the crease where her thigh met her hip, I paused. Let my breath ghost across her skin.
"Jack. Please."
I peered up at her through my brows, hoping she could see that being at her feet was now my favorite place I’d ever been. "Please what?"
She bit her lip, a flush creeping up her chest. “You know what."
"I want to hear you say it."
Her head fell back. Her throat worked. And then, with the voice of a woman who'd spent her whole life never asking anyone for anything: "I want your mouth on me."
I gave her what she asked for.
I took my time. Learned the rhythm of her, the pressure that made her gasp, the pace that made her shake. Built her up slowly, brought her to the edge and held her there, until she was trembling from head to toe and her voice had gone hoarse from saying my name.
I slid two fingers inside her and curled, and she came apart with a cry that sounded like it had been ripped from somewhere she'd been keeping sealed for years. I worked her through it, gentled my mouth as the tremors eased, pressing soft kisses to her inner thigh, her hip.
When her breathing slowed, I looked up.
She was staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, one arm thrown across her forehead. Wrecked.
"Come here," she said. Her voice was sandpaper.
I climbed up her body. Settled over her, weight on my forearms, and she pulled me down and kissed me—tasting herself on my mouth, not caring, her tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that had been fed but not satisfied.
"Off," she said against my lips, tugging at my belt. "These. Off. Now."
I stood long enough to strip. Her eyes tracked every movement, and the way she looked at me made my blood run hot. Not shy. Not embarrassed. Hungry.
"Get back here," she said, and there was something new in her voice. Not the raw pleading of two nights ago, not the desperate surrender. Authority. Maggie Blackwood, the woman who ran a ranch and didn't take orders from anyone, taking charge in the one arena where she'd let me lead before.
I liked it.
I came back to the bed, and she surprised me—pushed up onto her knees, met me in the middle of the mattress, and pressed her palm flat against my chest until I was the one laying back.
She straddled my lap, her knees bracketing my hips, her hands on my shoulders, and looked down at me with an expression that was half challenge, half wonder.
"My turn," she said.
"Maggie—"
"Shut up." She rocked her hips against me—slow, deliberate, a long drag of heat that made my vision go white at the edges.
"You've been running this show. Taking care of me.
Being patient and controlled and—" Another roll of her hips, and I grabbed her waist hard enough to leave fingerprints.
"—and I am grateful for every second of it.
But right now, I want to see what you look like when you stop being in control. "
Christ.
She reached between us. Found me. Lined us up with a precision that made my jaw clench. And then she sank down—slowly, inch by inch, her eyes locked on mine the entire time, watching my face the way I'd watched hers two nights ago.
I couldn't hide it. Didn't try. My head dropped back. A sound came out of me that I didn't recognize—low, guttural, pulled from somewhere deeper than thought. Somewhere only she could reach.
"There," Maggie whispered, and her voice was thick with satisfaction. "There you are."
She started to move.
Slow, like she'd asked for. Rolling her hips in long, devastating waves, her hands braced on my chest, her hair falling around us like a curtain.
I watched her through half-closed eyes—the flex of her stomach muscles, the way her lips parted on each downstroke, the flush spreading from her chest to her throat.
She was magnificent. Powerful. A woman in full possession of herself, taking exactly what she wanted and giving everything back.
I let her set the rhythm. My hands moved to her hips—not guiding, not controlling. Holding. Grounding. “Fuck, Maggie,” I ground out through clenched teeth, trying to hold on so this didn’t end before we were ready. But she felt so good, so right. I squeezed my eyes shut, needing to focus.
"Eyes on me, baby,” she said, throwing my own words back at me. I couldn’t have ignored the request even if I wanted to. When I met her gaze, the connection was so raw, so unshielded, that something cracked open between us that I knew we could never close again.
She moved faster. The slow rhythm building, her breathing going ragged, her nails digging into my chest. I sat up—wrapped one arm around her lower back, pulling her flush against me, the other hand sliding up her spine to cradle the back of her neck.
We were pressed together from hip to chest, her forehead against mine, breathing each other's air.
“And you think you could’ve stopped this—us,” I whispered.
“I was delusional,” she replied, just as breathless. Her head fell back with a long moan that nearly made me come on the spot. I kissed up the column of her neck, along her jaw, and then claimed her mouth like she was truly mine.
Because after this, she was.
I held her gaze and started moving with her—meeting her rhythm, matching her pace, and when I shifted the angle just slightly, she made a sound that went through me like a blade. Her whole body tightened, her hips bucked against me erratically, chasing her orgasm.
“That’s it, beautiful." My mouth against her ear. “Come for me. Let me see it. I’ve got you."
"I know," she breathed. "I know you do."
She came with her eyes open. Looking at me.
Not hiding, not muffling the sound against my shoulder, not turning away.
She let me see every second of it—the way her mouth fell open, the way her body seized and shuddered, the way her eyes went bright and blurred and shattered-wide with something so naked it hurt to witness.
I followed her thirty seconds later, my arms locked around her, my face pressed into the curve of her neck, and the release that crashed through me felt less like an ending and more like an arrival.
We didn't untangle right away.
We stayed like that—her in my lap, my arms around her, both of us breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other's chests. Her hand came up to cup the back of my head, her fingers moving through my hair in slow, aimless strokes.
Minutes passed before either of us said anything.
"I'm not going to make rules tomorrow," Maggie said. Her voice was drowsy, rough-edged. "I'm tired of rules."
"No rules."
"No rules." She pulled back far enough to look at me.
Her eyes were soft in a way I was starting to recognize—post-Maggie.
The version of her that only existed in the dark, in this cabin, in the aftermath.
"But I'm also not ready for… for everyone to know.
Not yet. I need time to figure out what this is before the whole ranch has opinions about it. "
I slipped my fingers in her hair, playing with the soft strands, unable to stop myself. “Take all the time you need."
"You say that like it's easy."
"It's not. But it's yours." I brushed a strand of damp hair off her forehead.
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "I want you to stay tonight. The whole night. Don’t leave before dawn."
"Maggie—"
"I know. I know it's risky. But I'm tired of waking up to an empty bed." She traced her thumb along my jaw. "I want to wake up next to you. Just once. I want to know what that feels like."
I should have said no. Should have reminded her that the bunkhouse was full of ranch hands who'd notice if I wasn't in my bunk at five a.m.
But she was looking at me with those green eyes, bare and brave and asking for something she'd never asked anyone for, and I was not a strong enough man to say no to Maggie Blackwood when she finally stopped being afraid to want things.
"Then I'll stay."
Her smile—slow, real, luminous—was worth every risk.
We rearranged. Sheets pulled up, pillows adjusted, Maggie fitting herself against my side like she'd been doing it for years instead of hours. Her head on my chest. Her hand over my heart. One leg thrown across mine, proprietary, like even in rest she was making sure I couldn't leave.
"Jack?" Barely audible. More asleep than awake.
"Yeah."
"Thank you. For sitting on my porch."
I smiled even though she couldn’t see it. "Anytime."
"And for not knocking."
"I'll never knock."
A smile against my chest. "Infuriating."
"Always."
She was asleep in seconds.
I stayed awake a while longer. Not because I couldn't sleep—because I didn't want to miss this. The weight of her against me. The sound of her breathing. The moonlight through the curtains drawing silver lines across the quilt.
Sully was on the porch. I could hear him shift occasionally—the click of nails, the sigh of a dog settling deeper into rest. Guarding us both.
Tomorrow would be complicated. Tomorrow, she’d have coffee in the main house like every other morning with her mother's knowing looks and a breeding proposal that needed finishing and a ranch full of people who couldn't know what happened behind this door. Tomorrow, she might panic.
But tonight, she was here. Warm and real and mine.
And I wasn't going anywhere.