THATCHER
Iwish I could stay in bed with her all damn day.
Curled up in flannel and warm skin and the scent of bubblegum and sex, watching her blink slow and sweet in my sheets like she was meant to wake up there.
But the mountain doesn’t give a shit about wishful thinking.
The roads won’t clear themselves, and I still need to assess the generator damage from last night—get some quotes, order parts, double check the wiring on the other outbuildings to make sure we don’t end up with another fire hazard on our hands.
So, I load her into the cab of my bigger truck—the one with the plow rigged to the front—my hands on her gorgeous ass as I help her inside the cabin.
“Seat belt, Baby.”
“Okay,” she replies.
God, I love the sound of her husky little voice.
I squeeze her leg and get in on my side. Then, we head down the ridge toward the mill.
At first, I’m just riding the high.
Her scent lingers on my skin.
My hands still remember the feel of her curves.
My body’s loose in a way it hasn’t been in years, like something I didn’t even know was tight has finally let go.
She’s sitting beside me.
Soft.
Warm.
Mine.
And I’m already halfway planning how I’m gonna have her again—after lunch, maybe.
Tonight, definitely.
After a shower.
Against the wall.
On the damn couch.
All of the above.
I’m so wrapped up in all the ways I want her, I almost don’t notice how quiet she’s gotten.
She’s fidgeting.
Tugging her sleeves.
Wrapping her arms around herself.
Biting her lip like it might hold something back.
It takes me a full mile of winding road to register that she’s not basking in the same glow I am.
