Page 98 of Grumpy Lumberjack’s Secret

I pushed him toward the bed. He let me. That was the thing about Sawyer. He was the strongest man I had ever known, physically and mentally, but when I pushed he let me move him, not because he was weak but because he trusted me. And trust, from this man, was more intimate than anything our bodies could do.

He sat on the edge of the bed. I stood between his knees. His hands came to my hips, instinct, and I took his wrists and moved them to his sides.

“Keep them there,” I said.

His jaw tightened. His eyes burned. But he kept them there.

I pulled the towel away. Knelt in front of him. And the sound he made when my mouth found him, a low, rough groan that he bit off behind his teeth, was worth every minute of the fever and the headache and the day of being helpless on the couch.

I took my time. Slowly. Thoroughly. Using my mouth and my hands and everything I had learned about what made this man come apart. He was so controlled in every other area of his life, so disciplined, so measured, but here, in the dark, with my mouth on him, the control cracked. His hands left his sides. One found my hair, gripping but not pushing, letting me set the pace. His head fell back and the sounds he made, deep and broken and getting louder with each passing minute, were the sounds of a man who did not know how to let go but was learning.

“Chloe.” My name, groaned, a warning. “I am going to…”

I did not stop. I took him deeper, hollowed my cheeks, increased the pace, and when he came apart his whole body went rigid and his hand tightened in my hair and the sound that came out of him was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. Raw. Unguarded. The sound of a man who had been taking care of everyone else all day finally letting someone take care of him.

I stayed where I was until the tremors stopped. Then I climbed up beside him and he pulled me against his chest and we lay there in the dark, breathing together.

“Are you okay now?” he asked. His voice was wrecked. Hoarse.

“Yes,” I said. “And I needed to give a payment for the best nurse in Colorado.”

“I told you. You do not owe me.”

“And I told you it was not about owing.”

He pulled me closer. His hand stroking down my back, gentle, the roughness gone, replaced by the tenderness that he saved for these moments, the quiet ones, the dark ones, when it was just us and the walls were down.

“Go to sleep,” he said. “You are still sick.”

“Bossy.”

“Always.”

I smiled against his chest. Pressed a kiss to the scar on his shoulder, the one from the bullet, the one that was healing but would never fully disappear. He inhaled sharply at the contact but did not pull away.

“Thank you,” I said. “For today. For all of it.”

“You do not need to thank me for being a father. For being a partner. This is what I signed up for.”

“You did not sign up for anything. I showed up at your sawmill with cookies and refused to leave.”

“And I have not been able to get rid of you since.”

“Would you want to?”

“Not for a single second.”

I fell asleep against him. Warm and safe and still a little feverish, with his heartbeat steady under my ear and his arm heavy around my waist and the knowledge, settled deep in my bones like the foundation of a house, that this man would take care of me and our daughter for the rest of our lives, not because he had to but because he wanted to.

And that was the difference between Jonathan and Sawyer. Jonathan had taken care of things to own them. Sawyer took care of things to love them.

I knew the difference now. I would never forget it again.

35

SAWYER

Iwas at the mill when the call came.