Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
ARLO
Ilook at Leonora. Really look at her.
Raven curls flying in the wind. Cheeks flushed. Dark eyes rimmed red with tears.
My heart thuds against my ribs. Every cell in my body longs to pull her close, to claim her as mine.
I’ve never said this to any woman before. Because I never wanted to stay.
Until her.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she screams, hands in the air. Then, she darts toward the ranch house, hugging herself. Head down. Shoulders drooping.
Shit.
For a second, I imagine chasing her down—forcing her to hear me out. To see it my way. Because I can’t finally feel this only to have her walk away.
But no.
Never.
She has to want me the way I want her.
She has to choose me.
Christian and the deputies wrap things up. Martin sits in the back of a cruiser. His ranch hands—including Clyde—are already tracked back to their bunkhouse. I shake hands with my boss, promising Leonora and I will come around tomorrow to file reports.
But my stomach knots.
Not my promise to make.
He nods toward the house. “Don’t screw this up, Deputy.”
Easier said than done.
After the horses are settled and the calf fed, I mend the fence. Secure the herd. The chores don’t feel foreign anymore.
The ranch feels less like a workplace.
More like a home.
I hope.
The firefighters roll out. Promises of reports linger in the air. But I don’t know if she even wants to look at me again.
Or whether I’m already locked out.
My throat tightens as I test the knob.
It clicks free, the door groaning open.
I move around the dark house quietly. Unsure if I’m still welcome.
But if I can keep her safe and warm. If I can try to explain, I’ll do that.
I build up the fire until it roars. I don’t turn on lights or sit in front of the hearth like I own the place. Instead, I straddle the bench seat of her kitchen dining table in a darkened corner, posture straight, palms flat on my knees.
Waiting.
And waiting.
Twilight bleeds to ink before I hear the door crack open upstairs. Then the squeak of boards, the thud of heels on the landing.
I smell her before I see her. Sandalwood and rosebuds. And something harder. Steel.
She crosses to me, clicking on one lamp. It fills the room with a golden, diffused glow. The kind that makes my chest ache as it kisses her face.
The first-aid kit lands on the table with a hollow bang. Then her holster and pistol. Deliberate. Controlled.
She lifts her leg, resting it on the bench seat in front of me and pulling up her denim pant leg. Heat curls low as she reveals a curvy calf and an ivory switchblade stashed in her boot, setting it next to the gun. She straddles the seat, facing me.
I pull my shirt free, unbuttoning the black and gray flannel, grimacing at the muscles already stiffening in my shoulders, neck, and back, and the sting of busted knuckles. When I pull my Henley over my head with a grimace, she sucks in a little puff of air. My jeans suddenly fit much tighter.
Don’t even think about it, Kincaid.
But I can’t think about anything else. Haven’t been able to since taking on this assignment and meeting her. Not because I want to possess her, but because I want to be hers.
Her cheeks darken, eyes lighting fires as she takes in my chest.
Scars. Tattoos. The double shoulder holster I shrug out of and place on the table next to her weapons. The extra mag tucked into my pants.
Then I wait.
Because I’d wait forever for this woman.
And now I need to know why.
Silence.
Nothing but breathing for too long to count.
And eyes swirling with everything. Anger, betrayal, heat. Longing.
When she reaches for the first-aid kit and pops it open, I exhale, finally realizing I’ve been holding my breath.
She scoots a hair closer, and my throat tightens, pulse a drumline.
Leonora grabs gauze. Alcohol.
Then my hand.
Her touch sears, need in the tremble of my response. But I don’t flinch or pull away.
“I hate you,” she says, dousing cotton with alcohol and scrubbing my knuckles too hard.
It stings.
I press my good hand into my leg, refusing to react. It pisses her off more. Her face reddens, her lips flattening into a thin line.
“I hate this,” she continues, smearing antibiotic cream into mottled flesh like a mad woman.
Her black eyes lock with mine. “You lied.”
“Yes.”
She adds a bandage, smoothing it down too roughly. “You used me.”
“No.”
“Don’t.”
“I was assigned to you. I stayed for you.”
Her hand comes up, balled into a fist, and she socks my shoulder. Face livid. It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t even sting. But the pain behind her gaze does.
“You stayed because you had to. Not because you wanted to.”
She says it like it’s unforgivable… like she believes it.
She shouldn’t.
Not for one minute.
“I’m here because I want to be.”
“Don’t lie to me anymore, Arlo,” she hisses, raising her hand to hit me again.
My hand comes up, snagging fingers in her belt and drawing her to me.
She gasps, her eyes untamed and swirling with too many emotions to count.
Chest to chest.
Exchanging breaths.
“Never again,” I promise.
Her eyes lock with mine. “You should go.”
“Why?”
“Because…” she bites her bottom lip, gaze dropping to the ground, then back to my face. “Because I’m not worth the risk.”
“You don’t get to decide what I risk.”
“And you don’t get to decide for me.”
Silence.
Breathing.
My newly bandaged hand comes up, thumb brushing over her jaw.
She doesn’t move away.
My eyes search hers. “I almost told you before the fire.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But why?”
That’s when I claim her hard, unrepentant. My mouth covers hers, answering what words alone can’t communicate.
Angry. Passionate. Hungry.
She moans against my mouth, lips parting, and I’m on her, in her, with a frantic swipe of my tongue. Needing her more than I need air.
My hands grip her desperately, heart unfurling with heat. Stolen breaths between kisses. Never wanting to pull away.
Her hands ball into fists on my chest. Like she’ll punch me again. This time, I brace. Because the more I give myself to her, the more she can hurt me.
But the next moment, her fingers slide into my beard, locking onto my cheeks and pulling me closer. Into her. Until our teeth clang and our hearts throb.
Time stops.
When we finally pull apart, gasping for air, I rest my forehead on hers, breathing her in.
“You don’t get to leave me,” she breathes.
“I told you, Leonora,” I say, bringing a hand up to palm her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She stops, pupils blown, scrutinizing me.
Her hands flatten against my chest, not pushing me away. Testing.
“Prove it.”
That’s all I need. I stand, sliding everything on the table to one end with a sweep of my arm. Then I lift her, setting her down on top.
“What are you doing?” she gasps.
“Choosing you,” I murmur, lips finding hers again, pulling her by her hips to the edge of the table, where she straddles me. I devour her all over again, lost in the velvety heat of her mouth.
She arches against me, panting, as I grind between her legs, letting her feel me for the first time. Her boots hit the floor.
“You’re so big,” she exhales, and I can’t even find words. Because there’s no blood left in my head.
When I can’t fight her floral button-down cowgirl shirt anymore, I rip the last few buttons free, hearing the tink of pearl hit the floor. Her eyes round, and I manage, “Sorry,” eyes dipping to her lacy purple bra and ample breasts.
“No, you aren’t.”
“No, really,” I grunt, taking her longer and harder now. She melts in my arms like wax, like my heart in my chest.
But then, I catch myself. “You still okay with this?”
“Quit talking, Arlo Kincaid.”
“Never thought you’d say that.”
“Never thought I would, either.” Before I finish the last sentence, her bra sags unfastened to the floor between us, and her eyes ignite. Pure fire as I dip my head, sucking a rose-tipped nipple between my teeth.
“Yes,” she moans, legs wrapping tightly around my waist, hips arching toward me as I tease and please her. Learning how to set her body on fire.
Smoke still lingers in the air. Pure incineration when her hand slides beneath the waist of my jeans and boxer briefs, finding my girth.
“God,” I groan against the heat and softness of her hand. “Won’t be able to hold on much longer.”
“Don’t,” she whispers, dark and dangerous. “Give me everything.”
“Everything?” I ask, voice thick with need. Firelight flickers over her face, so beautiful I could die like this. Her hand squeezes and slides over me again. And I’m a goner.
But no. Not like this.
Instead, I pull her hand free, placing both of them palms down on the table.
“Don’t move,” I order as I unbutton and unzip her jeans.
She whimpers, and I throb.
“Let me make this right. Let me prove I’m not going anywhere.”