My shirt hit the floor. Her palms pressed flat against my bare chest, and I felt her exhale—a long, shuddering breath, like she'd been holding it for two days and finally let it go.
"I reorganized the supply shed because of this," she murmured against my collarbone. "Because I couldn't stop thinking about what you feel like under my hands."
"And?"
She traced the line of muscle down my ribs, watching her own fingers move across my skin. “Way better than the supply shed."
I couldn’t stop my laugh. "High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head."
I caught her chin. Tilted her face up. "Too late."
I kissed her then—deep and slow, the kind of kiss that had a destination but was in no hurry to get there. She made a sound against my mouth, her hands gripping my sides, and I felt her body press into mine—deliberate, full-length, nothing between us but her tank top and the thin cotton of her shorts.
I pulled back just enough to look at her.
"Tell me what you want tonight, beautiful."
Her eyes searched mine. "I want to feel it. All of it. I don't want to be so lost in the rush that I can't—" She paused, choose her words carefully. "The other night was incredible. But it was a hurricane. I want to be present this time. I want to remember every second."
The idea of taking my sweet time with Maggie made me throb. "Then we go slow."
"Slow," she repeated, like she was tasting the word. Testing whether she trusted it.
"Come here."
I took her hand and led her to the bedroom. No carrying, no urgency, no press of bodies against walls. Just her hand in mine and the quiet sound of our bare feet on the cabin floor, and the warm pool of light from the bedside lamp she'd left on.
I turned to face her at the foot of the bed.
"Hands at your sides," I said. Quiet. Not a command—an invitation.
Her arms dropped. She stood there in her tank top and sleep shorts, chest rising and falling, watching me with eyes that were wide open and unguarded.
I reached for the hem of her tank top. Drew it up slowly—over the flat plane of her stomach, the curve of her ribs, the swell of her breasts. She raised her arms, and I pulled it over her head, let it drop, and took a step back.
The lamplight turned her skin to gold. She was lean from years of ranch work—strong shoulders, defined arms, a bodybuilt for labor and carrying and never stopping. But standing still, in this light, with her hair loose and her chin lifted and her eyes on mine, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"Don't look at me like that," she whispered, a trace of vulnerability in her voice.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm—" She shook her head. "I don't know. Like I'm something."
"You are something." I closed the distance between us. Put my hands on her waist—just my hands, just the warmth of my palms on her bare skin—and felt her shiver. "You're the most remarkable woman I've ever met, and I need you to stop arguing with me about it."
Her laugh came out shaky. "That's a big ask."
"I'm full of big asks tonight."
I kissed the spot where her neck met her shoulder. Soft, barely there. She tilted her head to give me room, and the gesture—the trust in it, the offering—sent heat pooling low.
I worked my way along her collarbone. Slow. Tasting the salt on her skin, feeling the flutter of her pulse under my mouth. Her breathing went ragged. Her fingers twisted in the sheets.
"Jack…" My name came out thin. Stretched.
I held her tighter. Just a fraction. A grounding presence to ease her. “I’m here."
