Page 11 of Frosty in Flannel
The air between us shifted, and I knew I should step back. Should keep this professional. Should do anything except what I was doing, which was standing here staring at him. “Cook sent you some breakfast.” I set the food on a hay bale. “And coffee.”
“I need to wash up. Pour me a cup?”
“Sure.” I opened the thermos trying not to be obvious in watching him. What was wrong with me? I was acting like a hormonal teenager about to climb into the backseat of a boy’s car on prom night. But the sight of him, muscles moving so fluidly, even beneath his damaged skin made my body ache. I wanted him to touch me.
I closed my eyes briefly. Not going to happen. He didn’t need to say the words to me to know he wasn’t looking for a quick roll in the hay. He was just as damaged as Wildfire. Scared. Unwilling or unable to trust.
He dried off, putting a brown flannel shirt. He was eyeing me with a frown on his face as he walked over. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I pasted a smile on my face. There was no way I could tell him where my thoughts had wondered. I handed him the coffee and picked up the box with his breakfast inside. “You need to eat.”
He gave me that look again. The one that said he was trying to peel back the layers and see the woman beneath.
I didn’t know what to tell him. I was an uncomplicated woman. I wanted him, plain and simple. But that was something I couldn’t tell him.
Chapter Four
Beckett
I’d been awake for close to twenty-four hours. The mare had given birth with no complications. I should have been calm. But I wasn’t.
Why? Because of her. Libby James. The woman who had come into my life without any warning.
She was standing in the foaling shed like a sunrise I hadn’t asked for—soft sweater clinging to her curves, hair pulled back with a few wild strands framing her face, eyes bright and curious. All week, she’d been a steady voice in the round pen, coaxing Wildfire like only she could. She’d been in my head, the scent of apples and hay clinging to my memory.
I’d held the line. Kept my hands to myself. Told myself she was here for the horses, not me. Told myself I was too old, too scarred, too set in my ways.
Then she’d walked in with my breakfast, her hands trembling just a little as she poured coffee, and every one of my excuses burned up like dry straw.
I tried to focus on the mare. Make sure everything was alright, but she and her foal were doing fine. It wasn’t the first horse I’d delivered and wouldn’t be the last. I made it a point to stay with the mares when they were getting close. That was a language I understood—waiting in the dark with nothing but your own pain for company.
I’d spent endless nights on patrol, body aching, eyes burning, waiting for something I couldn’t name. Combat had trained me for sleeplessness. Loss had taught me how to live with it. But nothing in my past had prepared me for a woman like Libby walking into my quiet.
“You okay?” I heard myself ask because I didn’t know how else to break the silence.
“Yeah. Fine.” She smiled, but it wobbled at the edges. Her breath caught when she handed me the coffee, and our fingers brushed.
That sound was my undoing.
I set the cup on the hay bale. Took one step. Another. She didn’t move. Just stood there, waiting.
“Libby.” Her name came out like a prayer I hadn’t said in years. I lifted my hand to her cheek. Warm, soft. She leaned into it, just enough to tell me she wanted this too.
All the walls I’d built around myself cracked.
I should have stepped back. Should have put distance between us before I did something I couldn’t undo. But when she tilted her face up to mine with that flushed, wanting look, every ounce of restraint I’d built since she’d stepped onto the ranch shattered.
Her mouth was soft and sweet, and she gasped in surprise, fingers curling into my shoulders, nails biting lightly into my skin. I pressed her back against the stall door, careful even in my hunger not to scare her. She fit against me like she’d always been meant to be there—curves giving where my body demanded, heat blooming between.
Her scent—sweet and warm—went straight to my head. Straight to my cock. Under my palms she trembled, but she didn’t retreat. She tilted her chin, inviting me closer. Years of holding myself back, years of being nothing but control,unraveled with the simple press of her body to mine. Sliding my hand to the small of her back, I arched her closer.
She made a sound—half-whimper, half-challenge as I deepened the kiss. She wasn’t timid. She met me stroke for stroke, soft mouth opening under mine, tongues tangling.
I remembered the last time I’d been this close to someone—months after the blast that left me burned. It hadn’t ended well. Pity in her eyes. A polite retreat. Since then, I’d sworn off soft touches. Sworn off wanting. But Libby wasn’t looking at me with pity. She was kissing me like she meant it, scars and all.
When I broke away, it wasn’t because I wanted to. It was because if I didn’t, I was going to forget every reason I’d told myself to stay away.
We stayed there, mouths barely apart, both of us breathing hard. My thumb stroked the corner of her mouth, memorizing the tremble there.
