Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
NAOMI
Four days in, and we've built a routine.
Sully wakes before dawn. I know this because the floorboards creak when he passes my room, followed by the click of the back door, then silence until the coffee machine gurgles to life an hour later.
He does the morning chores while it brews.
Cattle. Fences. Whatever else needs doing on a property this size.
By the time I'm up, there's a full pot waiting and his boots are drying on the mat by the door.
He never asks me to help with the ranch.
But on the second morning I followed him to the south pasture anyway, carrying coffee in two mugs because the man will drink motor oil if left unsupervised.
He stared at me for a long beat, then took the mug without comment.
By the fourth morning, he holds the gate open for me without being asked, and the Herefords have stopped looking at me like I'm a trespasser.
Progress.
We cook dinner together. That part happened organically.
His stew, my sides. Turns out the man can make exactly three things: beef stew, scrambled eggs, and toast. Everything else in that kitchen has been surviving on Gran's autopilot.
So I started filling the gaps. Cornbread from my grandmother's recipe.
Greens sautéed with garlic. A sweet potato pie that made him go silent for a full minute, fork halfway to his mouth, before he said, "You can stay as long as you want," then looked startled by his own words.
We don't talk about the arrangement. Don't talk about Sanctuary Match, or what happens next, or the fact that we're two strangers sleeping twenty feet apart in a dead woman's cabin on a mountain.
We talk about the cattle. The weather. Whether the creek will rise again before June ends. Safe topics. Surface conversations.
Except for the moments that aren't safe at all.
This morning, reaching for a bowl on the top shelf, I turn to find him already there.
Right behind me. His chest close enough that my shoulder blades would touch flannel if I leaned back an inch.
His arm extends over mine, pulls the bowl down, sets it on the counter beside my hip.
The motion puts his mouth level with my ear.
"Could've asked," he says, voice low.
"Didn't need to."
But my pulse is racing. And when he steps back, there's a flush on his neck that wasn't there before. He's out the door in under a minute, coffee forgotten on the counter.
We keep doing this. Orbiting each other in a space too small to avoid contact.
His hand on my lower back when he passes behind me at the stove, automatic, almost unconscious.
My fingers brushing his when I hand him a plate.
The moment every evening on the porch when we both reach for the same spot on the railing, our hands almost touching before one of us pulls away.
Almost. Always almost.
Tonight, though, something shifts.
The storm comes in fast. Mountain weather has no patience for warning. One minute the sky is peach and violet over the peaks, the next it's black, wind slamming the shutters against the cabin walls while rain hammers the tin roof so loud conversation requires near-shouting.
Sully's in the barn checking on a heifer that's been off her feed. I'm in the kitchen finishing dishes when the power cuts. The cabin goes dark so fast I flinch, dropping a glass. It shatters on the floor.
"Shit."
Standing barefoot in a dark kitchen surrounded by broken glass. Excellent.
The back door bangs open. Sully comes in rain-soaked, flashlight in hand, water streaming off his shoulders. The beam swings across the kitchen until it finds me, frozen by the counter.
"Don't move." He's across the room in four strides, boots crunching glass. The flashlight goes on the counter, throwing shadows up the walls. "You cut?"
"No. But I can't exactly go anywhere."
His jaw tightens. Without a word, he steps over the glass, plants himself in front of me, and lifts me off the floor.
Both hands under my thighs. Effortless. Like I weigh nothing, like this body with its full hips and thick thighs is a thing he can carry without thinking about.
My hands grab his shoulders for balance.
The flannel is soaked through, warm underneath from the heat of him, muscles rigid under my fingers.
He sets me on the counter. Away from the glass. Keeps one hand on my hip while the other retrieves the flashlight.
"Stay put."
He sweeps the glass. Gets the broom from the hall closet, works methodically in the dark while I sit on the counter with my heart in my throat, watching the flashlight play across the lines of his back.
Rain has plastered his shirt to his body, outlining every ridge of muscle.
His hair is dripping, darkened, silver at the temples catching the beam.
When he finishes, he leans the broom against the wall. Comes back to the counter. The flashlight sits between us, casting enough light to see his face. Water drips from his jaw. His eyes find mine.
Close. Too close.
"Thank you," I manage.
He nods. Doesn't step back. His hand is still on the counter beside my thigh, knuckles white.
"Naomi."
"Yeah?"
"I'm trying real hard to remember that you came here for a roof."
My breath catches. The rain is deafening on the tin above us. His eyes are storm-gray in the low light, locked on mine with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight.
"What if I came here for more than that?"
The words leave my mouth before my brain approves them. Because somewhere between the coffee and the cornbread and the way this man holds gates open for me like it's the most natural thing in the world, I stopped wanting just shelter. I started wanting him.
Sully goes still. Every muscle in his body locks. His hand on the counter curls into a fist, then releases. Then he exhales, rough, controlled, like a man choosing between two versions of himself.
"Then I need you to say it plain. Because I won't take something that isn't being offered."
"I'm offering."
His mouth is on mine before the second word finishes.
Hands framing my face, tilting my chin up, kissing me with a hunger that steals every coherent thought. Rough. Thorough. His tongue sweeps against mine. Both my hands fist the front of his wet shirt, pulling him between my thighs until his hips press against the counter's edge.
He pulls back just long enough to look at me. Checking. Not asking permission. Reading my face, almost as if he’s making sure the ground is solid before he takes the next step.
Whatever he sees makes him groan. Low, deep. The sound vibrates against my collarbone when his mouth drops to my neck, teeth grazing the curve where it meets my shoulder.
"Bedroom," I whisper.
He lifts me off the counter again. My legs wrap around his waist. My back hits the hallway wall once, briefly, because he stops to kiss me there too, grinding his hips against me until the hard length of his cock presses exactly where I need it. Even through clothes, the friction makes me gasp.
We make it to his room. His, not mine, because it's closer.
The bed is unmade. He lays me down, strips his wet shirt over his head, then kneels between my legs on the mattress.
Lightning flashes outside, and for one bright second, every scar and muscle on his torso is visible.
Broad chest covered in dark hair. Flat stomach.
Arms that could hold me down without effort.
My blouse goes next. His fingers work the buttons with surprising patience for a man who just carried me down a hallway. When the fabric parts, his breath catches.
"Jesus, Naomi."
My bra is plain. Nothing special. But his eyes on my breasts above the cotton makes every nerve ending in my body catch fire. He unclasps it with one hand, pushes the straps down my arms. Dips his head to take one dark nipple into his mouth.
The suction is devastating. My back arches off the mattress. His hand palms my other breast, thumb circling, while his mouth works wet and relentless. Every pull sends a bolt straight to my clit, building pressure before he's even touched me below the waist.
He takes his time working down my body. Mouth on my stomach, hands sliding my jeans down my hips, dragging my underwear with them. When he parts my thighs, his exhale is hot against my skin.
"Tell me you taste as good as you look."
Then his mouth is on my pussy, and the question answers itself.
His tongue is broad, unhurried. He licks through my folds like a man with nowhere to be, pressing flat against my clit before circling it slowly, reading every twitch of my hips. Two fingers slide inside me, curling, finding the spot that makes my thighs shake.
"Oh fuck. Sully."
He groans against me. The vibration, his fingers, his tongue working my clit in a rhythm that tightens everything low in my belly. Close. So close so fast because it has been years since anyone touched me like I was worth savoring.
My orgasm breaks through me in waves. My fingers twist in his hair. His free hand grips my hip, holding me in place while I shake apart against his mouth.
Before the aftershocks finish, he's standing. Belt undone, jeans shoved down. His cock is thick, flushed dark, already slick at the tip. He rolls on a condom from the nightstand, then he's over me, one arm braced beside my head, the other guiding himself to my entrance.
Pushing in is slow. Stretching. Full. My fingers dig into his shoulders as he seats himself deep, then holds. His forehead drops to mine. Both of us breathing hard.
"You good?" Low. Strained.
"Don't stop."
He doesn't. Rolling his hips in a rhythm that builds from deliberate to urgent, driving deep on every stroke.
My legs wrap around his waist. His mouth finds my neck, biting the spot that makes me clench around him.
When his hand slides between us, finding my clit with his thumb, I come again so hard my vision whites out.
He follows me over the edge with a groan that sounds like my name, buried against my throat.
The storm rages outside. Rain hammers tin. Thunder shakes the windows.
We lie tangled in the dark, catching our breath, his arm heavy across my waist. His thumb traces circles on my hip, absent, gentle.
"For the record," he mutters into my hair, "Gran's got terrible timing. And perfect aim."
Laughter bubbles out of me, real and warm. His arm tightens, pulling me closer.
The power stays out all night. I don't notice.