Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
LEONORA
“Let me prove you want me to stay.” His voice is black velvet.
“Arlo,” I gasp, head lolling back, hands threading into his hair and beard. Softer than I had imagined. Silk.
His big, rough hands grip the waistband of my jeans, pulling them clean in one sure, brutal tug. Then, he kisses me backward until I lie on the warmed surface of the table.
My eyes flicker to the glow from the hearth. Too many feelings washing over me to process.
But all I want is him.
Somehow, it makes everything else survivable.
Him… when he teases the hem of my panties, a finger running down the swatch of fabric so close to my heat that I tremble.
Him… when he blows heat on the front of my panties, and I realize how wet I am.
He kisses me through the lace. Then, licks over me, heat and anticipation building. Buries his nose, intoxicated by my smell.
I can’t breathe, hips arching when he pulls back the lace like the wrapping of a present, sliding my legs over his bare shoulders and disappearing between them.
My fingers grip the table. Eyelids squeezing shut, whole body throbbing and responding to the way he unravels me. Lapping, exploring, devouring.
“Yes,” I urge, fingers tangling into his locks again. Pressing him into me, greedy for more.
I float away, stars behind my eyes. Body clenching and pulsing until I break around him, free-falling. But he catches me. Big hands working me through it, never letting go until I lie dizzy and jointless.
Arlo swipes a hand over his beard, eyes simmering. For me.
Only me.
“Don’t want to take this further than you’re ready for, Leonora. Tell me what you need from me, Spitfire.”
“Spitfire?” I giggle, still drowsy and spent. But hungry, too.
“There any other name for a woman like you?” he asks, leaning forward to pull me back into him, helping me sit again. “Who brings a knife and a gun to a first date?”
“A first date?” I gasp. “Hardly. You haven’t even brought me flowers.”
His eyes go serious, voice throbbing. He strokes my cheek, whispering, “I’ve brought you my heart. That enough of a start for you?”
“Yes, Cowboy,” I whisper before scrunching my face. “Wait, are you a cowboy at all?”
“Am now. Am for you.”
“Really?” I ask, leaning back to stare into his face.
“Really,” he says, placing his hands on the table on either side of my thighs. “Not gonna lie. The work’s tough. Painful even. But worth it. One hundred percent worth it.”
My arms come up, caressing his muscular shoulders, fingers dancing over silvery seams of scar tissue, piercing thick lines of Marine tattoos. A bull-dog. Stars. An eagle. Valor written in flesh.
“Something tells me you don’t shy away from hard work.”
“Not when it comes to what matters. And that’s you now, Leonora.” He swallows loudly. “More than the badge. More than the job.”
Something cracks loose in my chest at his words, eyes pooling as they meet his. “Good. Because I don’t hate you, and I don’t want you to go. I want to make this work.”
“Me, too.”
“But first,” I say, running my fingers teasingly across his chest, down to his abs and lower, where my touch makes him tremble. “I want you, Arlo, whoever you are.”
He chuckles, forehead creasing. Worried, as he stands before me. “I’m from SoCal. Cop by way of Sacramento. Now, Sheriff’s Deputy, ranch hand, and cowboy, by way of you.”
“Gonna take more than a few rides to prove that,” I tease, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him closer.
“I’ll give you as many rides as you need, Spitfire.” My hand dips back into his jeans, grabbing and pumping him.
His eyes close, breath escaping, dark and untamed.
“I’m clean and on birth control,” I say.
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as his head falls back, revealing it beneath his beard. “Me, too. And I have condoms, if you prefer?”
He lifts his head. One eye opens, pupils blown wide.
“Not tonight. Not after everything… lover.”
“Lover,” he growls, gathering me in his arms. “I like that.”
“But I’m too heavy,” I protest.
“To hell you are,” he gasps, lifting my hips again, settling me down over him. “Need a girl who’s strong and untamable.”
I whimper, gripping his neck as he slides me up and down. Taking his time, giving me more with each pass. Taking more, too.
“Oh, Arlo,” I gasp, our eyes meeting as he finds rhythm, muscles flexing and straining, body unraveling mine all over again.
I pulse and shake, holding back, then losing control, giving myself so completely that I no longer know where he ends and I begin. And only then, when my fingernails dig into his back and I spasm around him, does he release with a few more deep, deliberate strokes.
Heat fills me in waves, his head dipping to rest in the nape of my neck. I pull him closer, holding him as if my life depends on it. “I’m so sorry about everything you lost today,” he whispers. “I should’ve told you sooner.”
“No,” I say, stroking his bearded cheek and making him look at me. “This is the beginning. Not the end.”
The fire crackles. His hand comes up, picking something out of my hair. “Ash.”
Ash. It all washes over me again, and I gasp.
“What?”
“The animals. I have to make sure everyone’s okay.”
“Leonora—”
“No, seriously, Arlo. A ranch doesn’t run itself, and the last thing I need is—”
“The last thing you need is riding into the middle of the night up to the winter pasture. I handled everything. The herd. The stables. Even the chickens and rabbits.”
I press my lips into a firm line, forehead knitting.
“What? You don’t trust me?”
“Not that,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to see them with my own eyes.”
“Everybody’s fine,” he murmurs. “I promise.”
My eyes drop to his too-kissable lips, hands stroking over his gorgeous red beard. “I need to see the calf. Feel like a rancher again… despite everything.”
The stable feels warm and cozy after so much chaos. Scented with clean straw and the nutty molasses sweetness of feed. Warmed by thick walls and happy livestock. Tails swish softly, breathing low and relaxed. Smells and sounds I’ve loved since childhood.
A single lamp illuminates the stall overhead, giving off warm light as Arlo and I sit in the hay, calf between us. “You hold that bottle like a pro now. A true adopted cow mama.”
“Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” he says, cocking his head with a boyish grin.
I grab his cheek, leaning across the calf for a kiss. “It’s a very good thing.”
“So, I passed the test… though you still don’t care for my saddle skills?”
“They could use some work. But the mucking? You’ve got that down.”
“Glad to know I’m good at shoveling shit.”
“A natural,” I tease, fingers threading playfully into his hair. “But you’re a lousy ranch hand.”
“How’s that?”
“There’s no way I’m letting you stay in the bunkhouse—ever.”
He chuckles darkly. “Good, because after today, there’s no way you’re keeping me out of your bed.”
“That right?”
“Yes, Ms. Spitfire. That’s right.” He pauses, green eyes warming to dark emerald pools. “I asked for this assignment because I wanted something real. Something I could feel to the marrow of my bones. But I almost turned it down, got cold feet, considered a transfer…”
My stomach knots. “And now?”
“Now, I don’t want to transfer. And I don’t want to rescue you, Leonora. I want to stand beside you.”
The words settle between us like something solid. Like a fence post driven deep.
My eyes blur, words and feelings rising that I thought I’d never say.
Because I’d given up… at least on the thought of someone staying.
I lean closer, grounding myself in his pine and old leather scent.
Like a home I didn’t know I needed. “I don’t need saving.
But I don’t want to keep fighting alone. ”
“Then don’t,” he says.
Simple. Final.
He kisses the top of my head, fingers coming up to comb through my hair. He wraps an arm around me, pulling me closer, and the calf shifts between us, nuzzling my jeans and settling. Contented.
“You remember those bunnies?” he asks quietly.
I glance at him. “From the day we met? Of course.”
His jaw shifts beneath my fingers. “Never thought they’d make it.”
He looks down at the calf, then back at me.
“Him, either. After my service, my injury… I thought I was like that.”
My heart stutters. “Like what?”
“Cold. Shocked. Beyond saving.”
His thumb traces the calf’s ear absently.
“You brought them back.”
His eyes meet mine.
“And you did the same thing to me.”
“You weren’t dead, Arlo. You were just waiting to be warm.”
My eyes blur, warm streams sliding down my cheeks. I turn, burying my head in his jacket, sinking into his strong arms.
He doesn’t act upset or nervous. Doesn’t draw back or get testy, beg for an explanation.
Instead, he says gruffly, “Tough day.”
Nothing more.
All I need, because he feels it with me.
For the first time since the fire, I don’t feel like something’s been taken from me.
Something’s been given.
Because he stays.