Page 61 of Saddle Storm

I don’t think—I just move, hopping up onto the counter without breaking eye contact, my pulse spiking when his hands spread my thighs. The skirt of my yellow dress falling between them. He smirks. “Good girl. I like the way you listen.” My skin sparks under the slow drag of his lips along my neck, heat pooling low as his fingers slide my strap from my shoulder, baring skin like he’s been waiting to claim it.

His kisses are slow, deliberate, like he knows exactly what it does to me. How my pulse jumps for him.

I’m cursed for this man.

Maybe it’s a flaw since childhood.

Maybe it’s a gift. One I might deserve.

I’m betting on the former.

My hands curl into his shirt, my head tipping back as if my body’s already decided this for us.

He pauses to look at me, almost exasperated. “When are you going to let me make the first damn move?”

“Okay.” I inhale and release it slowly. “Your move, hotshot. But it better end with me knowing just what size underwear to get you.”

Amusement softens his face. “Glad to see you’re finally with me.” He flicks a glance at my mouth, before meeting my eyes again. The grin he gives me says he knows exactly what he’s doing. Still—there’s a question. “What happened to my inevitable plans to leave town and never look back?”

I don’t meet his amusement. “That was for Max’s sake. I won’t have the same expectations, Thorne.”

He licks his lips, jaw hardening before lifting to his full height, one hand resting on my thigh uncommittedly. “What are you saying?”

Feeling cold, I sit straight. “I’m saying one night. No questions. No expectations. Just you and me.”

Whatever hold I had on him up to this moment, snaps. And he steps back with a nod of understanding. He cups my cheek and kisses me softly. “Have a good night, Storm.”

20

I wake up to quiet and natural light. A room that feels airy, piney—and not mine.

Right.

It’s Sunday, my day off, and I’m grateful my work alarm didn’t go off. There’s no jolt of panic, no tightness in my chest. Just quiet. I stretch and sit up against the headboard.

Have a good night, Storm.

I don’t know how long I sat up last night, staring into space trying to figure out how one night could sound wrong or insulting to anyone. But eventually, I fell asleep. How could I not, living in this luxury?

The shower was hot and calming. The guest robes, glorious. And the bed—certainly better than anything we’d had in a while.

I’m not upset—even as I sit up and picture his back as he strode to the door, offering a soft wink before closing the door behind him. Don’t get me wrong, it stung. But I’m willing to bet my expectations—or lack of them—stung him deeper.

I pull on the bathrobe and step out the back door barefoot. The porch boards are cool, solid. And the mountains sit wide and familiar in the distance.

I rest my hands on the railing and take a breath. It’s a little after eight judging by the sun and I don’t need to be anywhere—except quietly leaving before anyone thinks I’m taking permanent residence here.

The only reason I came was for you. When I showed up and you weren’t there—I went to your parents’ house.

The words landed, but they didn’t settle right last night. They just hung there, unanswered, unappreciated, unquestioned. Because fear took over.

Fear, anxiety . . . and shame took over the moment Silas asked me who told me he’d left with a cheerleader.

Somehow I’d forgotten four key words—I came for you—and focused on the several scenarios of how my answer, Jasper Hayes, would spiral into Silas finding out the truth.

And shouldn’t he?

Is there a good time to tell him?