She blinks hard but doesn't move.
I lower my finger and press my lips against hers.
It's not gentle. It's a violent thunderstorm with seven years of anger, lust, and unfinished business crashing between us.
Her gasp melts in my mouth as I deepen the kiss. My tongue sweeps against hers, claiming her the way I always did.
She tries to fight it, but only briefly. Her hands fly to my chest, pushing me, then gripping the cotton of my shirt. She drags me closer, as if she hates herself for needing it but can't stop.
I press her harder against the wall, my thigh slipping between hers. She arches into me with a soft, desperate moan that shreds my control.
My hand slides into her hair, yanking her head back just enough to drag my mouth down her neck. I push her blouse to the side, exposing the curve of her collarbone and kissing her skin.
"Damn you, Wyatt," she breathes, barely able to speak.
"I've already been damned, sugar," I growl against her throat, teeth grazing just enough to make her tremble. "Might as well enjoy the fire."
I kiss her again, harder this time, vowing to make her remember this moment every time she tries to pretend she's over me.
She kisses me back with the same fury, her nails digging into my shoulders, hips grinding against mine, and I swear she wants to set me on fire and burn with me.
Her breath comes in sharp gasps when we finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, our bodies still tangled in heat.
"I hate you," she whispers, lips swollen, eyes glazed with want.
"No, you don't," I murmur, brushing my thumb over her mouth. "You hate how badly you still want me."
She doesn't deny it, and that's the real danger.
This kiss isn't just heat.
It's a warning shot.
"Still think we're finished?" I taunt.
She closes her eyes.
I mumble against her lips, "We're far from finished, sugar." I kiss her again, then step back. "I'll see you in a few days."
She tilts her head in confusion, still breathing hard.
"I'm staying at Jax's to train. I'll see you at the rodeo," I tell her, then exit her office before she can argue.
For the next few days, sharp stings cut through my thighs the second I swing my leg over the gate and land on the other side. My muscles scream. My back tightens. Every step I take fans the flames licking my insides.
"Damn, Jax," I curse under my breath after every ride.
He's been working me harder than I ever remember. Every morning, predawn drills. Every afternoon, drills. Every night, drills. Mounting, dismounting, balance training, core work, strength exercises, repetition until my muscles tremble and the ice bath feels like heaven and hell rolled into one.
It still doesn't touch the soreness.
Sooner than I know it, Whispering Junction's Boots, Bucks & Mistletoe Rodeo is in full swing. The holiday lights flicker against the clear, bitter air. The packed arena rumbles with laughter, shouts, and the unmistakable boom of country music vibrating throughout the grandstands.
The limp I caught two days earlier is more pronounced tonight, but I force myself to keep moving.
I shouldn't even be here, but there's no way in hell I'm letting those cocky riders near Willow without me around.
And I'm not losing my opportunity to prove to Willow I'm worth her time and effort—professionally or personally.
