He didn’t ask again.
We rode back fasterthan we should have. Not reckless, I’d never be reckless with the horses, but urgent, Cassie pickingup on my energy and stretching into a rolling canter on the flats while Brutus kept pace beside her.
Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say that our bodies weren’t already screaming.
I dismounted at the barn and my hands were shaking when I unbuckled the cinch. Graham was beside me in seconds, working Brutus’s tack with an efficiency that told me he understood exactly what was happening and had no interest in slowing it down.
We unsaddled. Hung the tack. Turned the horses into the paddock. My hands fumbled a buckle and Graham’s hand closed over mine, steadying, not taking over, and the contact sent heat straight up my arm.
“My cabin,” I said. All I could manage.
We crossed the yard without touching. If anyone had been watching, they’d have seen two people walking with purposeful calm toward the staff cabins.
They wouldn’t have seen the way my heart was trying to break through my ribs. Or the way Graham’s jaw was locked tight, like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will.
I punched in my door code. Wrong. Punched it again. Right.
The door opened.
I pulled him inside and kissed him before the door even clicked shut.
This wasn’t the lounge kiss, tentative, testing. This was starvation. My hands yanked his shirt over his head while he slammed me against the wall, his mouth on my neck, teethgrazing just hard enough to sting. The scrape of his stubble sent fire racing down my spine.
“Rose—” His voice vibrated against my throat, thick with that accent. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
“If you stop, I’ll fucking kill you.”
He laughed, low and wrecked, then devoured my mouth again, tongue stroking deep while his hands shoved under my shirt, rough palms skating up my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. I arched into him, already soaked, already aching.
We fought belts and buttons in a frantic tangle, denim and leather hitting the floor with dull thuds. Laughter burst between us, breathless, stupid, then died when he lifted me like I weighed nothing, my legs locking around his waist, the thick ridge of his cock pressing right against my clit through thin layers of fabric.
I ground down hard. He groaned into my mouth, hips jerking.
“Bedroom,” I gasped.
He carried me, mouth never leaving mine, navigating by instinct while I clawed at his shoulders. When he dropped me on the edge of the bed, the look in his eyes was pure ruin: pupils blown, jaw clenched, chest heaving.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I said.
He stripped the undershirt in one motion. I forgot how to breathe.
Broad chest, dark hair arrowing down, abs carved from real work, not gym sessions. Scars here and there from mountainsI’d only seen in his videos. I reached out, palm flat over his pounding heart.
“Your turn,” he rasped.
I peeled off my shirt, unhooked my bra, let them fall. His breath punched out.
“Christ, Rose.” His gaze devoured me. Breasts, collarbone, the pale scar on my side.
He noticed it. Brows furrowed. Then he knelt, bent, and pressed his lips to the mark. Soft, reverent.
My eyes stung.
“Don’t make me cry before you fuck me,” I whispered.
He looked up, mouth still on my skin, eyes dark and burning. “I can do both.”
He kissed higher, tongue tracing ribs, then closed over my nipple. Hot, wet suction that shot straight to my core. I arched, fingers twisting in his hair, holding him there while he sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to make me whimper.
