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The command in his voice sends a fresh wave of heat through me. I flip onto my stomach, then push up on all fours. His hand runs down my spine, over the curve of my ass, gripping one cheek.

"You're fucking gorgeous, you know that?" Low, raw. "Been thinking about this since you showed up in that dress."

"The dress I destroyed?"

"The dress I wanted to take off you." He positions himself behind me, the head of his cock pressing against me, not pushing in. Teasing. "Since Wednesday, Poppy. Every night. Thinking about you in my kitchen wearing my flannel. Thinking about how you'd look in my bed."

"Stop thinking." My hips push back against him. "Show me."

He drives in.

One stroke, deep, filling me completely. My arms shake. My forehead drops to the mattress. He's big, stretching me, and the fullness is so intense I can't breathe for a second.

Then he moves.

Slow at first. Deep, grinding strokes that hit every spot. His hands grip my hips, pulling me back into each thrust. The angle is perfect, pressure right where I need it, his cock dragging against my front wall with every stroke.

"Harder."

His pace breaks. Faster now, sharper, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. One hand slides around my hip, fingers finding my clit, circling in tight fast strokes while he fucks me from behind.

"You're mine," he says, voice rough, hips snapping. "You hear me, Poppy? You walked onto my farm and now you're mine."

"Yours." The word comes out broken, breathless. "God, yes."

His fingers on my clit press harder. His thrusts go deep, each one driving a sound out of me I don't recognize. The second orgasm builds faster than the first, tighter, sharper, concentrated where his fingers work and his cock fills me.

"Come on my cock. Now."

I come so hard my arms give out. Face in the pillow, screaming his name, clenching around him while the orgasm rips through me in waves. He follows three strokes later, buried deep, his grip bruising on my hips, a groan tearing out of his chest that's the most raw, honest sound I've ever heard from a man.

We collapse. Breathing hard. Sweat-damp. Rain still hammering the roof.

He pulls me against his chest, my back to his front, his arm heavy around my waist. His face presses into my hair. I feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade, still racing.

"Stay tonight," he says. Not a question. A quiet, certain statement from a man who doesn't waste words.

"I was going to whether you asked or not."

His arm tightens. His mouth presses to the back of my neck. "I know. That's what scares me."

I lace my fingers through his. Rough palm against mine, our hands resting on my stomach. Outside, the rain is easing. Inside, the room is warm and dark and smells like him.

This man. This grumpy, stubborn, flannel-giving, cider-pressing, pumpkin-carving man. A week ago, he was standing over me with a knife and an attitude.

Now he's holding me like I'm something he built with his own hands. Something he intends to keep.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand where it ended up during the chaos. I don't look at it. Deck's breathing is slowing against my neck, his thumb tracing circles on my hip.

"Poppy."

"Mm."

"Your mom's texting again."

"She can wait."

His laugh is quiet. Just a breath, really, shaking his chest against my back. But it's there. A real laugh. Small and private.