Chapter Twenty Nine
Maeve
I have decided I am never going back to London.
The government will have to deport me if they want me out because this… This is absolute fucking bliss.
The fields are covered in a golden glow, wildflowers sway in the early breeze, and the cattle are nothing more than lazy silhouettes in the distance. Everything is still. Quiet.
Except for me.
Not caring about getting a splinter, I grip the wooden railing tight as Wade drives himself in me over and over again. His hand is tangled in my hair, holding my head up, forcing me to take in the view as I moan for him so loud that I am surprised the whole state of Texas hasn’t woken up.
For the past month, we’ve had to steal secret moments wherever we could. Meaning our morning routine has basically evolved into a sex fest.
Not that I’m complaining. Every morning, I am left with what Iris called the “post-orgasm glow” when I caught her up on the latest updates in The Cowboy Chronicles.
She said I just needed to find someone who could match my energy.
Well,consider that box ticked. I’ve learnt more about my kinks in these past few weeks than in the entirety of my adult life.
Turns out what I like in books translates pretty well to real life. Mostly. Some things can stay between me and the pages.
Wade's grip tightens in my hair, his other hand finding my hip, fingers pressing into my skin hard enough to leave a mark. His breathing shifts—quicker, uneven—and I know exactly what that means. And before I can do anything to help him over the edge, he comes undone in me.
He pulls out without hesitation, turning me to face him. His cum drips down my leg as I look up at the handsome cowboy that, without any warning or permission, has become the best part of my days here.
Wade leans down, kissing me with an urgency that makes me feel irresistible to him. His fingers glide up my inner thigh, coating them in his own release before he pumps in back into me. I gasp, not expecting more from him.
“Angel, this morning you are going to be both the first and last to come,” he growls against my throat.
And he is true to his word.
I dash back inside, taking five minutes to make myself look less like a woman who just got thoroughly fucked, and when I step back out onto the porch, I notice Wade has apparently been busy.
There’s a cup of coffee steaming on the small side table, an oversized gift bag sitting on the floor, and he is sitting on the swing like an invitation I can’t decline.
Collecting my coffee along the way, I plod over to him, tucking myself into the space beside him. His frame is warm, broad, and unfairly solid, and I hate how easily I fit in it.
My eyes drift to the bag. “What's that?”
Before I can get a closer look, Wade cups my chin, his hand covering most of the lower half of my face, guiding me to look at him instead.
Wade holds my gaze, the way he has been doing lately, brushing his thumb along my jaw while giving me one of those soft smiles I’d never though him capable of when I first arrived.
The way we just stare at each other, me leaning into his touch like it’s the most natural thing to do, feels like more than just messing around. It feels intimate.
His smile slowly turns into a teasing grin. “Did I just fuck the brains out of you, or do you genuinely not know what a gift looks like?”
Before I can fire back, the coffee in my hands is replaced by the bag. It’s tall and brown, blue tissue paper spilling out of the top.
I turn it slightly and catch the stamp pressed into the top left corner—Buck's Boots.
This man and his fixation with my footwear. I swear.
Meeting his gaze, again. “Wade. I already bought boots.”
“Just open it, angel.” He commands, and I obey instantly like the weak woman I am.
Making short work of the tissue paper, I let it fall onto the wooden patio before lifting out the box beneath. It’s the same brown colour as the bag, only with a large stamp slapped on the middle of the lid.
Wade’s watching me, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The way he does when he is unsure of something or stressed. Whatever this is, it matters to him.
The silence between us adds to its intensity as I get my fingers under the lid and lift it. And in that moment, my ability to breathe becomes non-existent.
My hands fly to my mouth before I can stop them. My eyes sting from how hard I am trying to keep the tears at bay.
“Wade, no—”
I reach in and pull them out.
The boots.
The ones that I fell in love with the minute Buck had dramatically showcased them during our makeover montage. The one I’d made myself walk away from because I was a broke bitch that could definitely not afford them.
“You like them?” His voice is careful. Watching me.
“Like them?” I have to laugh, because how could he think I just like them? “Wade, I love them. How on earth did you know about these?”
“Saw how you looked at them when I came into Buck's that day. The way your face lit up...” He shrugs like it's obvious. “Kinda hard to forget.”
He remembered.
Back when I was just some girl who came to his ranch mucking up his routine. Back when I was convinced he barely tolerated me. And yet he’d noticed.
Not just the boots, but also me in the moment.
What. The. Fuck.
“I thought you could wear them to the rodeo,” he continues, and then he lifts something and sets it gently on my head. “With this.”
I reach up, feeling the brim of the hat that sits comfortably on my head.
“It’s one of mine,” he says, low and even. “I want to see you wear it, in front of everyone. I want to claim you as mine, even if no one else knows it in the room. I will.”
I lift it off my head, inspecting it. It’s not one of his hats on his standard rotation, but knowing it’s his is enough for me. And for him.
I sit with everything. With the boots in my lap. The hat in my hands. The weight of what it might mean.
Because it’s not just the boots, or the hat. It’s the tightness in my throat. The warmth spreading through my chest.
It’s someone noticing me in all the small ways. The way I take my coffee. The way I go quiet when my mind starts piping up. How I always forget the evenings get cold here, so they keep a blanket on standby.
And it’s fucking typical of me that just when life starts to feel good, I allow my own brain to come right in and snuff it out with my long-time friend—overthinking. Because I will eventually have to leave all this behind.
Going back to a life that will never feel close to the way Wildbrook Hollow does. People here don’t just tolerate me or ignore me. They actually like me, trust me, and hell, sometimes they even need me.
And that’s terrifying because what if it isn't the country air or the slower pace that makes this place feel right?
What if it's the people?
Mrs. Mae. Naomi. Colt. Wade.
What if I've become so attached to all of them that nowhere else will ever quite compare?
It’s starting to feel risky, letting myself become so immersed in something temporary.
Not just this lifestyle, but whatever this is with Wade.
Because I’m feeling things for this stupid cowboy.
Especially given that I knew he was off limits, yet despite my better judgement, I am still fucking.
And then some. The same cowboy who I will have to leave behind when I go back to London.
You’d think I know better considering every goddamned book I’ve read like this ends up exactly where I am now. With someone getting hurt.
A testament that books don’t always make bitches smart; they make them delusional.
“What's wrong, angel?” Wade pulls me closer to him, and I don’t even bother thinking about how at ease it makes me feel.
I think I may be falling for you, you asshole. Fear I have been for a while, before I even knew I liked you. And I don't want to leave because this ranch feels like somewhere I belong.
That's what I want to say.
Instead, I give myself a small, imperceptible shake, pack it all back down, and smile at him. “Thank you, Wade. Genuinely. This might be one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for me.”
I let my eyes drop pointedly to the hat. Then back up to him.
“You know what they say about cowboy hats, don't you?”
He raises an eyebrow, slow and suspicious.
“Wear the hat. Ride the cowboy.”
The laugh that breaks out of him is real and warm and does absolutely terrible things to me.
“I'll hold you to that, angel.”