My eyes burned.
“I don’t need perfect timing,” he continued. “I don’t need perfect circumstances. I just need you. Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I said before he’d even finished the last word. “Yes.”
He slid the ring onto my finger, stood, and kissed me like the world had just righted itself.
There was cheering. Laughter. Someone whistled. Dusty flicked an ear like he approved.
Wyatt didn’t let go of my hands. Instead, he drew me closer, forehead brushing mine, and started to sway—slow and easy—right there on the sidewalk with a horse, a crowd, and absolutely no music at all.
He leaned in and hummed softly against my ear, low and warm, some half-remembered tune that felt more like feeling than melody. I laughed once, breathless, and followed his lead without thinking. We moved together, unguarded, like we’d done this a hundred times before.
I flashed back to my first night in Charleston—to standing on the edges of things, watching people dance easily, freely, wishing I knew how to exist in my body like that. Wishing I belonged to the motion instead of observing it.
And now I was.
Dancing in the street. Being held. Engaged to be married. Letting myself be seen.
I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around it—this life, this joy, this man humming into my ear like the world wasn’t watching.
I loved that this was my life.
We rode back to Dominion Hall together, me in front of him in the saddle, his arms bracketing mine, the rhythm of the horse steady and sure beneath us. The wives met us at the stables, already hugging me before my feet touched the ground. The brothers clapped Wyatt on the back like he’d just won something he’d been chasing for years.
I suppose he had.
That night, in the suite, the world quieted again.
He set his hat on the dresser. I picked it up.
He smiled. “You look good in that.”
“You’re biased.”
He stepped closer, fingers sliding along my waist. “Put it on.”
I did.
He exhaled slowly, eyes darkening. “Actually,” he murmured, voice rough with heat, “I want to see you in nothing but the hat.”
A shiver raced down my spine, warm and electric. I nodded, my pulse already quickening as his hands moved to the hem of my shirt, lifting it slowly over my head.
The cool air of the suite kissed my skin, but his gaze burned hotter, tracing the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist, like he was seeing me for the first time all over again. He unhooked my bra with gentle fingers, letting it fall away, then knelt to slide my jeans and panties down my legs in one smooth motion. I stepped out of them, naked now except for his cowboy hat perched on my head, the brim casting a shadow over my eyes.
Wyatt stood back for a moment, just looking, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. “God, Soph,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “You’re gonna be the death of me. My fiancée. Mine.”
The word—fiancée—sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I reached for him, tugging at his shirt buttons until I could push the fabric off his shoulders. He kicked off his boots, shucked his jeans and boxers, and then he was bare, too—strong, beautiful, already hard as a rock for me.
He pulled me close, skin to skin, and kissed me softly at first, lips brushing mine like a promise. His hands roamed my back, my hips, cupping my breasts with a tenderness that made my knees weak. “I love you,” he murmured against my mouth. “Can’t believe I get to keep you, forever.”
“I love you, too,” I breathed, fingers threading through his hair. “Always have.”
He turned me, guiding me to the bed until I was on my hands and knees, the hat still on my head, tilting slightly as I looked back at him over my shoulder. Wyatt’s eyes were dark with desire, but his touch was reverent—palms sliding up my thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin there. He positioned himself behind me, one hand steadying my hip, the other reaching around to trace slow circles over my clit.
“You ready for me, babe?” he asked, voice low and loving.
“Yes,” I whispered, arching back toward him. “Take me, cowboy.”
