He doesn’t wait for me to take it.
His mouth is on me before I can breathe. Hot, insistent, devastating. I arch off the bed with a choked sound, fingers knotting in his hair—not guiding, just holding on for dear life. He groans against me, the vibration ripping through my whole body, and I feel every wall I’ve tried to keep up crumble.
“Cole—” It comes out half warning, half plea.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. Lips shiny. Eyes wild. “Say stop. Right now. And I’m gone.”
I don’t say anything.
He rises, sheds the rest of his clothes. When I see him—thick, hard, ready—my breath snags in my throat. Not just because of how he looks, but because of how he’s watching me. Like I’m the thing he’s been fighting and the thing he’s about to lose to, all at once.
He settles over me, pushes in slow. So slow I feel every inch, every stretch, every pulse. My nails dig into his shoulders; I can’t help it. It’s too much. Too good. Too real.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressed to mine. “You feel—”
“Don’t.” My voice shakes. “Don’t make this bigger than it is.”
He rolls his hips once—deep, deliberate. “It already is.”
We move together—hard, frantic, desperate. Like we’re trying to outrun the morning. Words spill out between gasps: “We shouldn’t,” “I know,” “Then stop,” “Can’t.” His hand finds mine, fingers threading tight, pinning it above my head—not trapping, just holding on like I might disappear.
“Look at me,” he rasps.
I do. And in his eyes I see everything I’ve been terrified of, the same want, the same fear, the same helpless slide into something neither of us planned. It shatters me. I come hard, his name tearing out of me, not angry, not doubtful, just his name, like it’s the only thing anchoring me. He follows right after, burying deep, shuddering, groaning low against my neck.
We stay tangled. Sweaty. Breathing like we’ve been running for our lives.
His arm slides around my waist, tentative at first, then firm. Like he’s scared I’ll bolt the second the haze clears. I don’t move. I press my cheek to his chest instead, listening to his heart pound as hard as mine.
The rain has quieted to a soft patter. How did we go from snapping at each other, from tension so sharp it felt like anger, to this? To being tangled together in the quiet, breathing in sync like we’ve done this a hundred times before. I don’t think hate ever existed. Not really. I don’t hate him. I never did. I think he despises how much he feels when he’s around me. I think he hates that I make him feel anything at all.
And I don’t think I’ll ever fully know how this man truly feels. But that doesn’t matter. I remind myself of that. It has to not matter.
I’m only here for a few months.
I carefully reach for my phone on the nightstand, trying not to wake him. The screen lights up softly, and reality slides back in. Multiple emails from my agent, Tina. Gentle reminders stacked with pressure. Deadlines. A hard date circled in red—October 14th. Be back in Seattle. Big meeting. Push the new book. Be present. Be professional.
I want to. I really do.
And God help me, Cole has been a huge creative push for this cowboy romance I’m writing. Every look, every argument, every quiet moment like this feeds the story. My mind spins with ideas even as my body is still heavy with him. So many thoughts running through my head while I’m wrapped up in the arms of an actual cowboy. A handsome, frustrating, impossible cowboy.
He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t loosened his hold.
His fingers flex slightly at my waist, like even in sleep he knows I’m there. Like he’s making sure I don’t disappear. My eyes grow heavy again, the weight of the night settling back overme. And the truth sneaks in, quiet and dangerous, I feel safe. Safer than I ever have. Right here. Right now.
I wake to the smell of coffee and bacon. Real bacon. Not the sad microwave kind. For a second I don’t know where I am, and then I sit up in bed and look out the window. It’s still dark out, the sky just barely starting to lighten at the edges. I squint at the clock on the nightstand.
5:59 a.m.
Oh god. I don’t wake this early ever.
I rub my eyes and slide out of bed, my body pleasantly sore, heavy in that good way that makes me smile before I can stop myself. I’m still in my panties, and I reach for the first thing I can find, Cole’s T-shirt. It smells like him, like soap and something warm and familiar. It’s tight when I pull it over my head, the hem barely covering my waist, but it’s the only thing I could grab fast enough.
My bare feet pad across the hard floor toward the kitchen, following the sound of sizzling. Cole’s at the stove. Of course he is.
Shirtless, hair messy, standing there like he belongs in my kitchen. Or maybe like I belong in his world now, I can’t tell which thought scares me more. He’s flipping bacon like this isa normal Tuesday morning and not the aftermath of us tearing each other apart hours ago.
“Are you making me breakfast?” I ask, my voice still rough from sleep.
