He turned from Goldie to see Kip sucking her fingers and licking the grease from them, oblivious to the effect it was having on Trace. All Trace could do was imagine how it would feel to have her lips wrapped around his cock, cheeks flushed from something bigger and deeper.
Her yelp of pain brought him back to reality. By the way she fanned her mouth, the hot chocolate had burned her tongue. Knowing it wasn’t hot enough to scald, he asked, “Can I kiss that better, too?”
With the cutest damn blush he’d ever seen, she nodded. “If you want to.” She said with the cutest damn blush he’d ever seen on a girl’s cheeks.
Never let it be said he wasn’t willing to do anything to make his Little girl feel better.
His “doctoring” took another fifteen minutes, but it was time well spent.
They walked hand in hand to retrieve the tree. He used the axto strip off the lower branches so it would be ready for the tree stand when they got back to the lodge. She never took her eyes off him. He loved the way her hair danced free in the breeze. “Your smile is a lot more relaxed when you’re not running.”
She ducked her head, hair falling across her face again. Her pulse throbbed at her throat. “I don’t know if I can stop.”
For the first time, the fear she would run didn’t choke him. “Smilin’s way easier than runnin’, little fox. Besides, if you run, I’ll catch you. And we both know what that would mean, don’t we?”
He backed her up against the lone aspen in the grove, her face tucked against his neck and her back flush against the smooth bark. He pinned her hands above her head and waited for her to give him her eyes. Once she was looking at him, he said, “I’ll always come for you, Foxy. Always.”
The words hung between them as the wind dusted them with snow from the pines above them. He leaned in to seal his words with a kiss, when bark exploded off the aspen beside her head, showering her hair with splinters and snow that stung like needles. A slice of wood grazed her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. A split second later, the unmistakable crack of a rifle shot echoed off the trees, making it near impossible to tell where the shot was coming from.
He moved on instinct, hooking one arm behind her knees, he lifted her bridal style and raced to the truck. Crouching, he carried her to the passenger side and put her down on the floorboard. Goldie followed, snarling with her hackles a white ridge. She jumped in the truck and lay on the seat behind Kip.
Another shot, this one closer, pinging the front fender with a metallictingthat vibrated bone-deep. “Son of a bitch!”
Trace’s fury ran white-hot. When he got his hand on whoever was shooting at them, he was going to kill them. Goldie went berserk, barking to wake the dead.
“Goldie,” he called out. “Quiet!” Not that it helped.
Goldie kept barking but shielded Kip, as best she could.
When Kip tried to move to the seat beside Goldie, he ordered, “Stay down!”
There was no way he could gentle his tone. Everything in him was pure steel, edged with fear. He shoved her to the floor of the truck, where she curled on the floorboard into herself, knees to her chest.
Trace scraped the key into the ignition, firing the engine with a cough of blue smoke. At first, the tires spun on the frozen snow, catching with a lurch that slammed Kip’s head against the bottom of the seat. “Fuck! Sorry, babygirl.”
That was going to bruise, damn it. “Head down, little fox. Don’t move till I say.”
Frozen gravel spat like buckshot, pinging the undercarriage. The tree slid halfway out, branches dragging and needles scattering. Kip held on for dear life.
She’d bitten her tongue at some point, and her blood trickled down her chin. The heater blasted, drying the blood on her face.
His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, but he couldn’t stop.
Suddenly, Dodger burst out of the pines ahead of them as fierce as a demon. Right behind him, Tanner rode a four-wheeler. He barreled down the trail, face twisted in rage, and his rifle raised. He was headed straight toward Trace’s truck.
Another shot rang out from behind them. It was wild, smashing Trace’s side mirror, the bastard. Dodger shot past them. Trace swerved into a rut, fishtailing the truck. His tires dug into the trail for purchase, making just enough room for Tanner to get by. Tanner blew past them as well, firing in the general direction of whoever was shooting at them.
Trace continued away from the shooting until the ridge disappeared and one of their hunting cabins broke the horizon. It stood like a squat log beacon half-buried in snow, smoke curling like salvation. He skidded to a stop and killed the engine. He parked sothe passenger side door faced the cabin. The truck made a shield for their move into the cabin.
Wrapping his arm around Kip’s waist, he hauled her out after him. The other held the rifle he’d grabbed from behind the truck seat. Goldie jumped down, circling and growling low.
“Inside.” He was drawn tight as a bowstring, and his voice showed it. He guided Kip through the door as gently as he could, kicking it closed behind them. He wanted to cradle her in his arms, but his first priority was ensuring her safety.
The cabin smelled of smoke. Looking around, Trace saw a small fire burning in the fireplace. The potbelly stove crackled with orange flames against the rough walls. Someone had been here. He returned to the door and secured it with the iron latch, which slid into place with a sharp click.
Pulling out his phone, he hit the one number that mattered right then, his breath still coming in sharp bursts.
“Boone,” he barked as soon as the call connected. He needed to calm down. His voice rang with raw fury. “I’m on the north ridge, at the cabin closest to the blue spruce grove. I’ve got shots fired. Three, maybe four. Tanner’s still out there on a four-wheeler looking for the shooter.”
