I rock. The angle hits that perfect spot, and pleasure sparks up my spine. Logan’s hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit with the same sure rhythm he used the first night. I ride him harder, chasing the heat building fast and bright.
“Beautiful,” he rasps, his voice strained. “So wet. So tight. You’re perfect like this, Sophie.”
His praise lights me on fire. I brace my hands on his chest and move faster. Sweat slicks our skin. The wet, rhythmic sound of bodies fills the room. His fingers circle my clit in sync with my hips.
“Logan… I’m?—”
“Come for me, baby.”
I shatter hard, clenching around him, crying out against his throat. His arms lock around my back, and he pulls me flush as he follows me over with a raw, guttural groan, pulsing deep inside me while he buries his face in my hair.
“Mine.” The word is barely audible, spoken against my skin.
I stay right here, chest to chest, my heart beating against his bruise. Then I lift my head and look straight into his eyes. “Yours.”
His eyes widen, dark and fierce. Something tender and almost desperate breaks across his face.
I press my forehead to his. “You’re mine too.”
He cradles the back of my neck. “Yes.”
That single word sinks into me like warmth after years of cold. He shifts us carefully, slipping out of me. I make a small, reluctant sound at the loss. Logan disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm washcloth. He cleans me gently, softly kisses the inside of my bandaged wrist.
I sit up and kiss his dark bruise in return. He exhales shakily.
We lie back under the quilt, his arm under my head. The river runs beyond the tree line, the same river I’ve been hearing my whole life, but tonight the water sounds like peace.
“I’m yours.” His fingers stroke through my hair. “I’ve always been yours, Sophie.”
And now we both know it.
epilogue
. . .
Sophie
Five months later…
The espresso machine at Roz’s no longer has a grudge against me.
It stopped fighting the morning I used it against Volkov. After that, we reached an understanding. The portafilter locks in true on the first try now. I tap it twice out of habit, not necessity, and I can show Dani’s cousin Becca how to pull a perfect shot without the machine making a liar of me halfway through.
Things change when you stop bracing for them not to.
It’s August, and that means the Lush Hollow Summer Festival has taken over Main Street for three glorious days. Booths line both sides of the road, lanterns glow as evening settles, and the air smells like pie, pine, and grilled corn. Roz and Eli both have booths. Mason and other ranchers and farmers brought truckloads in. Roz pretends she doesn’t care about the pie contest but has strong opinions anyway, whispering critiques to anyone who listens while secretly hoping her entry wins.
I have a booth this year.
Wilde and King Cocktails, the name Eli painted on the sign before I could argue. Logan saw it and grinned. By then it was permanent.
I’ve been training Becca for three weeks. At twenty-one, she’s fast and has the instincts you can’t teach. Her enthusiasm reminds me of myself when I first started behind the bar, eager and determined to get it right.
“More twist,” I tell her, watching her work the citrus peel. “You want the oil to spray across the surface. That’s the whole point.”
“Like this?” she asks.
“Wrist. Use your wrist.”
