"Okay," I say.
"Yeah?"
"Take me home with you."
Something flashes in his eyes, heat and possession and tenderness all tangled together. He helps me into my jacket, grabs the blanket, and guides me outside with his hand warm against my lower back.
The rain has slowed to a drizzle. He helps me into the passenger seat and cranks up the heat.
I doze during the drive. At some point, I feel his hand on my thigh, so warm, grounding, protective. The rumble of the engine and his presence beside me make everything feel solid and safe.
When the truck stops, I force my eyes open. We're parked in front of a cabin nestled in trees, mountains rising dark against the sky behind it.
"We're here," he says.
Inside, he builds a fire while I stand in the livingroom, taking in his space. Exposed wood beams. Simple furniture. Everything neat and orderly in a way that speaks to military precision. But there are small touches that make it his: photos on the mantel, a well-worn book on the coffee table, the scent of pine and woodsmoke that clings to everything.
"Bedroom's through there." He nods down the hallway. "Let me grab you something to sleep in."
He returns with a soft, oversized Henley that smells like him. I change in his bathroom, and when I emerge, the fabric hangs to mid-thigh. His eyes go dark when he sees me, tracking over every inch.
"You should sleep," he says, and his voice is rougher than before.
I cross to him and rise on my toes, kissing his jaw. His stubble scrapes my lips, and I feel his sharp inhale. "Thank you for taking care of me."
"Always," he says.
I slip into his bedroom, into his bed with sheets that smell like his aftershave, and burrow under the covers. Through the open door, I hear him settling on the couch. The creak of leather. His heavy exhale.
He's out there keeping watch while I sleep in his bed.
The thought makes warmth spread through my chest.
I'm in Brooks Maddox's cabin. Wearing his shirt. Trusting him with my safety in the middle of the night.
And tomorrow morning, I'm waking up in his space, in his life, exactly where I want to be.
Except sleep won't come.
The bed stretches too empty. Every creak of leather from the living room pulls at something in my chest.
Footsteps pause in the doorway.
"Can't sleep either?" His voice is rough, low.
I roll over. He's backlit by dying firelight, shoulders filling the frame.
"The bed's too big." My throat works. "And you're too far away."
He crosses to me. The mattress dips under his weight, a full-body shift that rolls me toward him. He settles on top of the covers, fully clothed, but his heat radiates through the barrier anyway.
His arm comes around my waist and pulls me back against his chest. I should feel trapped. Instead, I feel anchored.
I shift deeper into the curve of his body. My head fits under his chin. His chest rises and falls against my back, and after a few breaths, mine syncs to his rhythm.
The aromas of clean sweat and smoke surround me. His heartbeat thuds steadily against my spine, slower than mine, teaching my body how to settle.
His thumb traces a slow circle against my ribs. Once. Twice. Soothing, not sexual, but awareness prickles in my pussy anyway. Awareness of every point where we connect. Of the restraint humming through his muscles. Of how carefully he's holding me.
