That should soothe me. Instead, it makes something fierce flare inside me because I've spent my life being told to calm down, to wait, to be careful, to stay in my lane.
I don’t want careful with Tex. I want chosen.
I shift again, straddling him more fully, feeling the hard length of him through his jeans, and my breath catches.
Tex’s eyes close briefly, as if the sensation hits him hard. His hands grip my hips, tight enough to anchor, not tight enough to bruise.
“Jane,” he warns.
I lean closer, mouth near his ear. “Tell me no.”
His breath stutters. He doesn’t say no. “Bedroom.”
The word lands like a command and a promise at the same time.
My heart flips.
I nod and slide off him on shaky legs.
Tex stands slowly, as if he’s trying to stay in control of his body. For a second, he just watches me, eyes burning. Then his hand closes around mine, and he leads me down the hallway.
When we reach his bedroom door, he pauses, turning to face me, his gaze searching my face. “Last chance.”
I don’t look away. “I don’t want you to treat me like something fragile.”
His jaw tightens. “You are not fragile.”
The way he says it—flat and certain—makes my eyes sting. I blink hard.
Tex’s gaze drops to my mouth. “You’re a virgin.”
My face heats. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, but it is. Like my body is a secret I haven’t been brave enough to share.
I lift my chin. “Yeah.”
His voice goes lower. “Is that what you want? Today?”
My pulse pounds as I nod, slower this time. “With you. Yes.”
Tex’s hand slides up my neck, his thumb brushing my jaw. “Then we do this my way.”
“Which is?”
“Slow,” he says. “Careful. Honest.”
I swallow. “And if I want not slow?”
His eyes flash, and the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Then you tell me. And I decide if I’m lettin’ you.”
Heat floods my body. God, that voice. That control. It’s like he’s taking my chaos and giving it a container that doesn’t feel like a cage.
I nod, breathless. “Okay.”
Tex opens the door and pulls me inside.
His room is clean, spare, and ordered, mirroring the rest of the cabin, but the bed looks rumpled. A worn flannel blanket is folded at the end. A book rests on the nightstand. A glass of water sits nearby. Everything in its place, as if he maintains control by managing the edges of his world.
I absorb the details in an instant, my brain cataloging them when I’m overwhelmed. His boots neatly lined by the closet, the absence of clutter, and the faint scent of cedar and soap on the sheets. It’s him, distilled into a room: controlled, careful, yet lived-in. Real.
