Page 49 of Awaiting the Storm
I look up at the command. “What?”
“We’re going to my cabin. I’ll drive,” he says.
I look around, searching the parking lot. “What about your truck?”
“They can tow it for all I care,” he says.
“Caison …”
“Just give me your keys, Matty. Please.”
I hesitate for half a second, then hand them over. He opens the door, and I slide in first, tossing the file folder still clutched in my hand onto the passenger-side floorboard and scooting across the bench seat. He follows, and once he’s settled behind the steering wheel, he reaches over and pulls me to his side, tucking me under his arm. Like he’s afraid distance will break whatever spell we’re under.
And I let him.
We drive in silence, the hum of the tires on the road the only sound. The trees give way to open highway, then hills that roll and dip throughthe valley. It’s a twenty-mile drive back to Ironhorse, but Caison gets us there in what feels like five minutes.
We pull up in front of his cabin, and he kills the engine, but doesn’t make a move to get out. He just turns to me.
“You sure this is okay?”
I know what he’s asking. He’s not pressuring me. He’s giving me an out if I want one.
But I don’t.
“I’m sure.”
He nods once and opens the door. I follow him out to the porch and wait on the top step as he unlocks the door. When we step inside the cabin, I take in the space—rugged, masculine, clean, and sparse. Wood-paneled walls. A leather couch. A woodstove that smells faintly of smoke and pine. It suits the man. Earthy. Warm.
He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t push. Just takes my hand after we both kick off our boots and leads me across the living area toward the bedroom.
The minute we walk inside, his mouth finds mine again. Clothes begin to peel away slowly. Piece by piece as our hands explore each other.
I tug his shirt loose from his jeans and run my hands under the hem and across his abs. The muscles twitch as my nails graze his skin.
He doesn’t undress me like a man in a hurry. He does it like someone unwrapping a special gift as he unzips my dress and guides it off my shoulders. The denim lands in a pool at my feet. His mouth finds the sensitive spot at the base of my throat, and he sucks gently at my skin as he walks me backward to the bed.
My head falls back, giving him better access. He kisses his way across my collarbone and lower, until his tongue grazes the swell of my breast just above the edge of my bra. His hand cups one plump mound, and he runs a fingertip over my nipple. The feel of his touch and the scratch of the cotton against the tight bud causes my back to arch into him. He grins as he does it again. There’s nothing rushed about it. No frenzied urgency. It’s not about lust, though that’s there too. It’s about connection. About letting go. About surrendering to something that’s been building since he sat beside me in Imma Jean’s café.
He holds my gaze as he scoops me into hisarms and lays me on the bed. Then he leans back, and his eyes slowly drift down my body like he’s trying to memorize me.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel wanted. I’m not Matty Storm, the ranch manager, the hardhead, the fighter. I’m just a woman. A damn tired one. And in Caison’s arms, for this one night, I’m gonna let myself be soft. Be worshipped.
Be his.
Her mouth is fire, and both of us are caught in a whirlwind of heavy emotions and physical longing. I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive this. With other women, I didn’t have a battle of conscience. If I was attracted to a woman and she was into it, I just acted on that feeling, but Matty’s different. I have a profound desire to navigate carefully. To handle her with care.
She’s lying beneath me, her braid sprawled across my pillow like a length of rope I’d gladly let her use to tie me down. Her hands are in my hair, tugging wildly, urging me deeper. Her bare legs wrap around my hips, drawing me closer. The air in the room is electrically charged, and my lungs are fighting to suck it in. She’s all warm skin, soft sighs, and sharp gasps as my hands roam her body. It’s like every inch of her is pulling me under, and I’m a man willing to drown in her.
But I can’t.
She’s not some quick fix for the erection currently straining against the fabric of my boxer briefs. She came here with me, broken open and bleeding, and I don’t want to take from her. I want to give. Something real. Something that might not make sense, not yet, but feels big in a way I haven’t known in years. Maybe ever.
I slow the pace, pulling back just enough. Her lips chase mine as I break our connection to take a breath, and I smile against her mouth, then kiss the corner of it softly. One of my hands is on her hip; the other is tugging at the tie that’s holding her hair hostage.
“Caison,” she whispers, and I nearly come undone at the sound of my name like that—breathy and soaked in want.
“Case,” I say.
