Mine was a single-story modern farmhouse with clean lines and lots of glass. Stone and wood and metal combined in ways that shouldn’t work, but did.
I kicked off my boots by the door, hung up my jacket, and headed straight for the kitchen. I needed another drink. Or maybe I needed to stop drinking and go to bed like Tryst had suggested.
Instead, I poured myself a glass of wine from the bottle I’d opened last night—a ten-year-old Cabernet—and carried it intothe living room. I flipped the switch for the gas fireplace and dropped onto the leather sofa.
I should go to bed and try to sleep, because tomorrow was going to be a long day. Walking three different vineyard blocks, checking ripeness levels, making harvest plans. All while behaving as if my entire world hadn’t shifted on its axis tonight when I kissed Saffron Hope.
I took a drink of wine and rested my head against the sofa back.
When had this happened? When had Saffron stopped being just a friend—the woman who saved me from Isabel every year at the auction—and become someone I couldn’t stop thinking about?
Or had she always been this to me, and I’d never taken enough time to allow myself to think about it? Like Bit had said earlier, maybe she saw me as the guy who was never around, who spent ten months a year on the rodeo circuit, chasing buckles and prize money and glory. Why would she think I’d stick around a minute longer than I had to? Why would she accept I wanted her for more than just right now?
I closed my eyes and let myself remember the kiss. The way she’d tasted—sweet and warm and perfect. The little gasp she’d made when I deepened it, when my tongue had touched hers, still echoed in my memory. She’d pulled me closer instead of pushing me away—God, that had been heaven.
My cock hardened as I remembered the way her body had felt pressed against mine. Her soft curves against hard muscle. The way she’d risen up on her toes to get closer, to take more, drove me crazy. The little sounds she’d made in the back of her throat had driven me absolutely insane.
Instead of taking the cold shower I needed to cool myself the fuck off, I let myself imagine what would’ve happened if I hadn’tstopped. If I hadn’t demanded honesty and walked away. If I’d kept kissing her, kept touching her.
My hand dropped to my lap, and I adjusted myself through my jeans. I was rock-hard now and aching with want. My mind wandered further, imagining peeling the clothes off her body. What she was wearing should’ve been forgettable, but it wasn’t. From the minute I’d walked into her house, I couldn’t keep my eyes off how it hugged her curves.
I imagined sliding my hands under that Henley and feeling her warm skin. The thought made me groan out loud.
I’d pull that shirt over her head, kiss her neck, and feel her pulse racing under my lips. She’d tilt her head back, giving me better access. I’d take my time, learn every inch of her skin, and find every spot that made her gasp or moan or dig her nails into my shoulders.
My hand moved to my belt buckle. This was a terrible idea, and I should stop. I should go take that cold shower after all. But I didn’t.
I freed myself from my jeans and wrapped my hand around my cock, hissing at the contact.
I imagined her on my bed, spread out on the dark gray sheets. She’d look up at me, equally nervous and wanting. I’d take my time undressing her and savoring every reveal. The curves of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips—I’d memorize every freckle, every mark, every perfect imperfection.
Then I’d put my mouth on her. I’d taste every inch of her skin and learn what made her arch her back and cry out my name. I’d take her nipple into my mouth and feel it harden against my tongue. She’d thread her fingers through my hair again, holding me there, telling me exactly what she wanted.
I’d kiss my way down her stomach and settle between her thighs. She’d be wet for me—I knew she would. I’d taste her, takemy time making her come on my tongue before I ever pushed inside her.
My hand worked over my cock now, and the friction was not enough and too much all at once. I imagined the sounds she’d make when I entered her. The way she’d feel wrapped around me, hot and tight. I’d start slow and let her adjust, even though every instinct would be screaming at me to move, to take, to claim.
But I’d make it good for her. I’d make it so good she’d never want anyone else and never think about anyone but me.
I’d kiss her while I thrust hard, swallowing her every moan and gasp. She’d wrap her legs around my waist so I’d go deeper. Her nails would rake down my back, marking me and claiming me right back.
She’d say my name—not Snapper, but Salazar. The name only my family used, the name that meant something more. She’d gasp it against my mouth as she got close, as I felt her start to tighten around me.
“Salazar, please?—”
I’d give her everything. I’d move faster, harder, exactly the way she needed. I’d reach between us and play with her clit, then feel her fall apart. She’d come with my name on her lips, and that would be it for me. I’d follow her over, bury myself deep, and empty everything I had into her body.
We’d collapse together, sweaty and satisfied. She’d curl into my side and trace idle lines on my chest while we both caught our breath. I’d hold her close and press a kiss to the top of her head. I’d tell her that she was mine and I was hers and nothing else mattered.
I came hard, and my body tensed as release rolled through me. I bit back the groan and rode it out, my hand still moving until the last aftershock faded. Then I slumped back against the couch, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling.
Jesus Christ. I needed to get my head on straight. Yeah, it had been a while since I’d been with a woman. Not that any other woman would do anymore. It was Saffron or nobody. How had that thought gone from maybe to carved in stone?
I cleaned myself off with tissues from the side table and was about to head to the bedroom when my phone buzzed. I almost ignored it, thinking it would be one of my brothers checking in. Instead, when I reached for it, I saw a text from Saffron.
Thank you for wanting to help me. I’m sorry I didn’t say that earlier, before you left.
I stared at the message for several seconds. She was reaching out and extending an olive branch, maybe, or just being polite. I couldn’t tell.
