His lips moved against mine—questioning, reverent—giving me every chance to pull away.
The way his mouth brushed mine—soft, warm, coaxing—made something low inside me melt. And when I opened for him—just the slightest parting of my lips—he answered with a slow glide of his tongue, tasting me like he was relearning the shape of us.
The first stroke of his tongue against mine was careful, almost hesitant…and then deeper, firmer, stealing my breath and replacing it with heat.
I pressed closer, my hand splayed against his chest, feeling the strong, wild rhythm of his heart under my palm. His heartbeat wasn’t steady—it kicked hard, fast, a thrum against my skin that matched the mounting pulse between my legs. That’s when I felt him hard and solid against my lower belly, hot through denim, shocking in its honesty.
A soft, involuntary sound slipped out of me—need, surprise, want—and his breath hitched against my mouth, as if the sound shot straight through him.
Hands roaming, he cupped my ass, pulling me harder against him. He made a low sound in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—but it slid through me, leaving warmth blooming everywhere his body touched mine…and everywhere it didn’t.
My body went loose, a pulse starting low and insistent, answering his without hesitation—wetness gathering, heat flooding, the kind of need I hadn’t felt in years, not like this, not with anyone else.
He kissed me like he remembered everything we’d ever been…and my body reacted like it wanted everything we’d ever denied.
“Wyatt,” I panted against his lips. Boundaries be damned, I needed more. Needed things he couldn’t give me with all these people around.
“I know,” he rasped, hiking my leg over his hip. Even through the thick denim, I felt him. Felt every hard inch press right where I craved him.
He gripped my hip, dragging me against him. Rough and slow. The friction sent my eyes rolling back, and my jaw dropped on a breathy moan.
“Shh, darlin’. Gotta stay quiet for me.”
I nodded and bit my bottom lip, my hands curling in his shirt. “More,” I whispered, not caring how desperate I sounded. Or how this went entirely against us being just friends.
As if that were ever a possibility.
Wyatt reached between us, tugging on my jeans. His skin was hot against mine, fingers sure as they slipped past my panties. A small gasp left me. My grip on his shirt tightened, pulling his mouth back to mine.
His pace quickened, pressing harder on my clit. His kisses grew hungrier and rougher with every stroke of his tongue against mine. I was certain everyone knew what we were doing, but I couldn’t care. The only thing that existed to me in this moment was Wyatt and how good—how right—it felt to be with him like this.
Pressure built low in my belly, climbing with every swirl of his fingers. My toes curled in my boots. My veins flushed with heat. I buried my face in his neck, hips bucking into his hand as he worked my body to perfection.
Before I knew it, I was coming. My body shook against his, riding the waves of pleasure crashing into me. Wyatt hummed, low and content, against my temple, whispering how good I was while I fell apart.
When we finally broke apart, breath mingling in the cool night air, he rested his forehead against mine. The stars wheeled above us, endless and bright, and for the first time in forever, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
"Friends don't do stuff like that," I pointed out, breathless.
"No," he agreed. "They don't."
"So what are we doing?"
"Finding our way back. Or forward. Maybe both."
He pulled me against his chest, and I curled into him, his warmth chasing away the cold. We didn't kiss again, but we held each other under those stars, my head on his chest, his arms around me, both of us pretending this was just about warmth.
I fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, feeling safer than I had in fourteen years.
Saturday dawned bright and perfect, the kind of morning that made you believe in fresh starts. We moved the herd the final fifteen miles to the summer pasture, everyone working in easy synchronization. By evening, we were back at the ranch, tired and dusty and satisfied in the way only hard work could bring.
"Good job, everyone," Owen said as we unsaddled. "Couldn't ask for a better crew."
"Same time next year?" Clay asked me, grinning.
"We'll see," I said, but I was smiling.
That night, I fell into bed exhausted but happy. My body ached in the best way, and my heart felt full. Wyatt and I had found something—something real and good and worth protecting.
