"I love you," I whisper against his mouth. "I loved you when you gave me your flannel. I loved you when you smiled at lunch for the first time. I loved you when you pointed at that ridge and told me about your great grandfather."
"Stay."
"Tucker, my life is in Sacramento."
"Bring it here."
"That's not how it works."
"Why not?" He pulls back enough to look at me. Those hazel eyes are steady now, clear. "You work freelance. You bring your camera, your laptop, your equipment. Shoot from here. Sacramento's three hours away for client meetings. Your mom wants me for Sunday dinner. I'll drive."
"You'd drive three hours for my mother's tamales?"
"I'd drive thirty."
Laughing through tears, I grip his shirt tighter. "My family is loud. Five kids. Organized chaos."
"Good. This house has been too quiet for nine years."
"I rearrange everything. Josie warned you."
"Kitchen's already better since you got here."
"Tucker." Pulling back, I cup his face in both hands. Silver rings against his jaw, rough beard under my palms. "Are you asking me to move to a cattle ranch in the middle of Nevada?"
"I'm asking you to come home."
Home. The word breaks something open in me. Something that's been looking for a place to land since my last boyfriendtold me I was too much. Since every apartment lease expired and I packed for the next city. Since I started photographing other people's lives because mine never felt full enough to document.
"Yes."
His mouth covers mine. The kiss deepens. My back hits the cabin wall. His hands slide down to my ass, gripping, lifting me. My legs wrap around his waist. He carries me to the bed, follows me down onto the mattress, his weight settling over me.
"The flannel stays," he says against my throat.
"It's been mine since day two."
"I know." His mouth moves down my neck. "Looked better on you than it ever looked on me."
Clothes come off fast. His henley over his head, thrown to the floor. My tank top, my shorts. He unclasps my bra with one hand, tosses it. His mouth closes over my nipple, tongue circling, sucking hard enough to make my hips jerk against him. Both hands cup my breasts, thumbs dragging across my nipples while his mouth travels between them.
"Tucker. Please."
He strips off my underwear, settles between my thighs. His mouth drags up my inner thigh, beard rough against sensitive skin. Then his tongue presses flat against my clit, slow, firm. Two fingers slide inside me, curling forward, pumping while his mouth works.
"Oh God. Right there."
His free hand presses flat against my stomach, holding me still while his tongue circles, flicks, sucks. The orgasm builds fast, tight, electric. My fingers twist in his hair. His fingers curl harder, mouth sucking my clit, and I come apart, thighs shaking, his name on repeat.
Before the aftershocks finish, he's rolling on a condom from the nightstand. Pushing inside me in one deep stroke that makesus both groan. He braces on his forearms, forehead to mine, eyes open.
"Look at me." His voice is wrecked.
My eyes lock on his. Hazel, warm, full of everything he spent nine years locking down. He starts to move. Deep, slow, grinding strokes that hit every nerve. My hips rise to meet each one.
"Harder."
He shifts his angle, hooks one arm under my knee, opens me wider. The pace picks up. Deep, steady thrusts that rock the bed frame against the wall. His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing tight circles.
