Chapter 12
Liam
I woke slowly, consciousness seeping in like honey through cloth.
Still mostly asleep, my body was doing inventory before my brain came online.
Warm. Comfortable. The familiar weight of Stephy against me, her back pressed to my chest, my arm around her waist. Her scent—that lavender soap mixed with something uniquely her—filling my lungs with each breath.
Lost in that lavender haze and sleep, I nuzzled my face in her hair, wanting closer.
My hand slid up her body with a mind of its own, finding soft, supple flesh.
I squeezed her through the thin cotton of her tank top.
The weight of her, perfect in my palm, sent signals straight south before my conscious mind could intervene.
I was already half-hard, morning arousal mixing with the proximity of the woman I'd wanted for years.
I brushed my thumb across where I could feel her nipple through the thin fabric. Just the lightest touch, instinctive, the way you might stroke something soft without thinking.
Stephy made a sound—breathy, needy—and pressed back against me. Her ass pushed directly against my hardening cock, and my brain short-circuited. She moved again, a gentle rolling motion, still asleep but responding to my touch, to my body against hers.
Christ.
My thumb moved again, circling her nipple, which was now hard as a pebble under her shirt. She arched into my hand, another one of those sounds escaping her, and her hips rolled back against me with more purpose. The heat of her through our thin sleep clothes was going to kill me.
Running on instinct and want, I pressed against her, my cock nestled perfectly against her ass. She pushed back, creating friction that made me groan into her hair. My hand on her breast became more deliberate, fingers finding her nipple, rolling it gently.
She turned in my arms, slow and liquid, still in that drowsy state where inhibitions didn't exist. Her eyes drowsy and desire-filled. Her lips found my chest first, pressing open-mouthed kisses against my skin, her tongue tasting me. Then my neck, her teeth grazing that spot that made me shudder.
Next thing I knew, she was moving on top of me, her weight settling over my hips, her center pressed against my cock with nothing but our underwear between us.
The heat of her—Jesus, the heat of her—was like a brand even through fabric.
She was moving, rolling her hips in a way that sought friction, sought pressure, sought more.
My hands found her hips, gripping, guiding her movement. Her mouth was on my throat, my jaw, working her way up with sleepy determination. When she finally kissed me, it was hungry despite the drowsiness, her tongue sliding against mine, her hands in my hair.
We were grinding against each other now, her making these desperate little sounds into my mouth, me so hard it hurt, both of us chasing something, lost in the haze of sleep and want—
“Steph." Her name came out rough, and it was like a bucket of cold water. We both froze, suddenly completely awake, aware of our position. She was straddling me, my cock pressed against her center, her hands in my hair, my hands on her ass, both of us breathing like we'd run a marathon.
"Oh God," she whispered, eyes wide.
"Give me a second," I managed, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to think past the screaming need to roll her under me and finish what we'd started. "Just... give me a second.” If she moved, even an inch, there was no guarantee my control wouldn’t snap.
She didn't move, still pressed against me, and I could feel her trembling—arousal or embarrassment, I couldn't tell.
"Okay," I said after a few deep breaths, my hands gentling on her hips, no longer gripping but not quite letting go either. "We need to...we should..."
Very gently, I lifted her off me, rolling us so we were side by side instead of her on top.
The loss of contact was physically painful, but necessary.
We lay there, staring at each other, both flushed and breathing hard.
The air between us was tense, heavy with what we’d just done—and what we hadn’t but obviously wanted.
The tension snapped, and we lunged for each other at the same time. Our mouths colliding like a boom of thunder. Sleep couldn’t be used as an excuse anymore. This was real. This was happening.
And thank fucking God it was.
Stephy’s leg slid up over my hip, and then she was on top of me with the same fluidity she mounted Poet. Her mussed hair slipped down her shoulders like liquid gold, eyes sparkling with awareness and need, her lips kiss-swollen and pink, nipples hard through her tank top.
“Lee,” she panted, hands splayed on my chest. A silent question.
My hands slid along her smooth thighs, over her hips, and up her waist. “I’m here, baby.” I sat up, our noses brushing. “Not going anywhere,” I murmured against her lips.
She kissed me then. Soft, sweet, tender.
Pouring everything that was left unspoken between us into it.
I groaned into the kiss when her hips canted forward.
My muscles tightened with effort not to come and end this before it really began, still keyed up from before.
Her fingers slipped into my hair, mine dug into her hips to drag her against me harder.
“Oh fuck,” she whimpered, head lolling back.
“Love the way you moan for me,” I rasped against her skin. She did it again, and the last semblance of control I had shattered.
I lifted her tank top over her head, her breasts spilling free and leaving her in nothing but hot pink panties that had a dark wet spot where we were grinding against one another.
“So fucking beautiful.” I took in every inch of her, awestruck by the sight of her using me for her pleasure. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, baby. Could watch you forever.”
“Please.” The word came out breathless. “God, please, Liam.”
“Tell me what you need, sweetheart,” I said, trailing kisses down her neck and along her collarbone. My voice was almost unrecognizable. Only having sounded this wrecked once in a penthouse in Austin five years ago.
“More. Give me more.”
For her? I’d do anything.
I lowered my mouth to her nipple and tweaked the other between my fingers.
I licked and sucked and teased the hardened buds until she was quaking on top of me.
Until my scalp stung, she was gripping my hair so hard.
Until she was moaning my name so loud I was sure all of Copper Creek could hear her.
My body writhed beneath hers, driving us both higher. Heat slipped down my spine, pressure pooled low in my belly.
“Yes!” she cried out. “Right there. Oh my—fuck, Lee—right there!” Her nails dug into my shoulders, hips driving against mine harder. The mattress creaked beneath us, the old wooden bed frame rocking with our movements.
Every muscle in my body tightened. My eyes rolled shut with a curse against her breast, right at the edge.
And when she fell apart, I did too.
I lifted my head, looking up at her. She was wrecked. Wrecked but glowing. She bit her bottom lip, and then she started giggling.
"Oh my God," she said between giggles. "We're like horny teenagers."
That broke the tension, and I started laughing too. I lowered my forehead to her shoulder to catch my breath. "Jesus, I haven't dry humped someone since I was seventeen."
"Was it good for you, too?" she asked, still giggling.
I leaned back and tipped my chin to where we were connected. “Ask my ruined boxers.”
She gasped, hands clasped over her mouth. “You did not!”
I couldn’t even be embarrassed. “No man on earth could stop from coming in his boxers with you grinding on top of him, Stephy.”
Her cheeks reddened a little more.
"We should get up," I said, not moving. I didn’t want to move, to leave this moment, but there were chores to be done.
"We should," she agreed, also not moving. But then her stomach growled, loud and insistent.
“Pancakes? After I clean up, obviously,” I added with a chuckle.
The corner of her mouth curved upward. “Always pancakes.”
The rest of the day passed in a haze of sexual tension and studied normalcy. Owen and Louisa stopped by for breakfast, and if they noticed anything different about us, they didn't comment beyond Owen's knowing smile and Louisa's extra-motherly fussing over Stephy.
We worked the ranch—fixing fences, checking water troughs, moving hay—and every accidental touch burned, every shared look held weight. The awareness from the morning hadn't faded; if anything, it had intensified, like a storm building on the horizon.
I was repairing a gate hinge when my phone rang. LAPD.
"Walker here."
"Ranger Walker, this is Detective Harrell. I wanted to update you on the Wilson case."
"Go ahead, Detective.” Stephy tensed from where she was holding the gate steady. I put the phone on speaker.
"I wish I had better news. We've processed all the evidence from the scene, but we're coming up empty. No DNA matches in the system, the surveillance footage from neighboring houses shows nothing useful. Guy knew what he was doing—avoided every camera angle."
"What about the letters? The photos?"
"Generic printer paper, standard ink, no fingerprints. Photos were taken with a telephoto lens, no metadata. This guy's either very smart or very lucky."
"He's still out there," Stephy said quietly.
"Ms. Wilson?" The detective sounded surprised. "Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid so. But we're not giving up. We've increased patrols in your neighborhood, and we're working with the FBI on similar cases. These guys always slip up eventually."
"Eventually," she repeated, hollow.
After I hung up, I watched something shift in her face—not fear exactly, but a kind of weary acceptance.
That evening, we sat on the porch with glasses of whiskey while the sky bruised purple over the western hills.