When it's over, he collapses over me, his ragged breath in my ear, his weight pinning me to the mattress.
He carefully unties my wrists while kissing my neck. As soon as they're released, I wrap my arms around him.
Wyatt's sly grin widens as he catches his breath, his sweaty hair falling over his eyes. He skims it back, revealing a boyish sparkle in his eyes that makes him look eighteen again instead of the sin-soaked man who just ruined me.
"Damn, sugar," he drawls, low and ragged, gaze roaming every inch of me like he's etching me into his memory.
I nervously laugh. "What?"
"It's official. I'm adding a warning label on you:Too Hot to Handle Without Fire Insurance." He waggles his eyebrows.
I let out a loud laugh that bubbles through my exhaustion. "Fire insurance?"
He shifts so his weight presses me deeper into the mattress. "Yep. And maybe a waiver of liability. Pretty sure you broke my hip." He winks.
I snort, my chest shaking with laughter. "That's rich, Houston. You're the one who nearly split me in half."
He plants a quick, hot kiss on my lips, charming mischief twinkling in his eyes. Then he glances over his shoulder at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock.
The humor drains from his face. He groans, scrubbing his forehead. "I don't want to leave, but I've gotta get out to the barn."
I blink, every muscle twinging with a satisfied, spent ache. I whine, "Noooooo! Stay in bed with me." I wrap my arms tighter around him.
He chuckles and ducks out of my grip. He slides off me and then rises. "Sorry, sugar. Gotta earn my keep. Can't let your daddy think I'm freeloading."
I prop myself up on my elbows, hair spilling around my face like a curtain. "Don't be silly. Stay in bed. My brothers can handle everything."
He slips into his worn jeans, tugs a T-shirt over his head, then leans down, bracing a hand on either side of my head. His gaze, a mix of stubbornness and hunger, sears into mine. "That's exactly why I need to go. I'm not hiding from them. It's best if they get used to us sooner rather than later."
I want to argue, and pull him back into bed so we can hide under the covers until the rest of the world ceases to exist. But his tone is too adamant, and I know him too well. So I groan loudly, pouting, "Aw. You're no fun."
He chuckles as he leans over to kiss me. "I'll show you who's no fun later." He grazes the tip of his finger over my nipple.
I whine louder.
"Get some sleep, sugar," he orders, then slips out the door, his boots pounding on the wood down the hallway.
I drop back onto the bed, rolling to his empty side. I inhale his scent on the sheets. It doesn't take long before sleep drags me under again.
But I don't sleep long. It's only a few hours before I wake up smiling, throat dry, and muscles deliciously sore.
I get up, go to the window, and peek across the snowy yard, but I can't see the barn from where the Butterfly House sits.
I wonder how my brothers are treating him.
Doubt they've gotten over it.
I glance at the clock. Breakfast isn't for another two hours, so I throw on yesterday's jeans. I dig into Wyatt's unpacked duffel and pull out one of his long-sleeved thermals. Putting the shirt on, I slip into my boots and then run my fingers through my locks.
I glance in the mirror. My hair's still a mess, but there's no time for a fashion show on the ranch. I step out on the porch.
The bitter cold bites at my cheeks. The snow's crusty surface sparkles under the sharp sun. Frost glitters on the barn roof, giving the impression that diamonds hide beneath the thick blanket. Holiday lights still glow, as the darkness hasn't completely faded.
I make my way across the ranch, heading toward the barn. As soon as I step inside, warm air tinged with the scents of hay and manure flares in my nostrils. My brothers' mocking laughs rumble in my ears.
My irritation sparks. Wyatt can handle them, but it's not fair that he takes all their wrath on his own. And knowing my brothers, they'll try to make him pay for his lifetime of sins that don't even have anything to do with me.
I turn the corner to see Wyatt holding a pitchfork. He scoops horse shit into a wheelbarrow. His dark hair's damp with sweat, sticking out in spikes past the brim of his cowboy hat. His wornT-shirt, covered in dirt and God knows what else, sticks to his torso.
