Page 21 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

"That’s it, Juliette," he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. "Give it to me. Everything you’ve been holding back. Give it to me."

And I do. I scream his name as the first wave of my orgasm hits, a violent, beautiful explosion that makes my vision go white. My internal muscles clench around him, milking him, and the sensation of him being trapped inside me as I shatter is the most intimate thing I’ve ever felt.

Cag lasts only a few more strokes before a broken sound tears from him and he drives deep one final time. I feel the hot burst of his seed filling me, a thick, branding heat that marks me as his in a way no wedding ring ever could. He collapses onto me, his heart hammering against mine, his skin slick with sweat.

We stay like that for a long time, tangled together in the dark. The lantern eventually gutters out, leaving the loft dark around us. The smell of us—sex and sweat and magnolia—lingers in the air, a new scent to add to the history of this loft.

Cag shifts, rolling onto his side but keeping me tucked firmly against his chest. His hand traces the line of my spine, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.

"Here," he murmurs, keeping me against his chest. "Stay here with me."

"I’m not going anywhere," I say, my voice muffled against his chest. I reach out, my fingers finding the cottonwood hawk on the floor beside the cot. One wing is smooth beneath my fingertips. The other still holds the rough grooves of Cag’s knife.

“You haven’t finished it yet.”

His arm tightens around me. “No.”

I turn the carving carefully between my fingers. “But you will.”

Cag looks at the unfinished wing, then at me.

“I will,” he says, and the words carry the weight of a vow.

"And I’m not walking away from the rest. Your father, Black Aspen, the water rights—I’ll face every part of it. I don't care what it takes. They aren't taking you back. They aren't taking this ranch."

I look up at him, the moonlight from the small loft window catching the hard lines of his face. He looks like a man who has finally found something worth fighting for. And for the first time in twenty-seven years, I feel like more than a name on a contract. I feel like a woman who is loved.

"They can try," I say, a spark of my old sass returning. "But I’ve got a feeling they aren't ready for a Kramer when he’s finally decided to finish what he started."

One corner of Cag’s mouth lifts, and my heart skips. He leans down and kisses my forehead, a gesture so tender it brings tears to my eyes.

"Damn right," he mutters.

We lie there in the silence of the barn, two broken people trying to build something new out of the scrap wood of our lives. The world outside might be falling apart, the wells might be running dry, and my father might be preparing for war, but in this loft, with the scent of saddle oil and the weight of Cag’s arm around me, I finally feel like I’m home.

I think about the unfinished cabin in the back pasture, the skeleton of a future Cag abandoned three years ago. I haven’t seen it yet, but I’ve heard the pain beneath every mention of it. Maybe one day he’ll trust me enough to take me there. Maybe one day we’ll decide together what it becomes. That’s the thing about a man like Cag. He doesn't just promise things. He builds them. Beam by beam.

And I’m going to be the one who helps him finish the rest.

I close my eyes, drifting off to the sound of his steady heartbeat. Tomorrow, we’ll have to answer whatever Black Aspen sends next. Tomorrow, the fight over the water will continue, and my father’s response may finally reach the gate. For tonight, I let the unanswered questions wait outside. Cag’s arm stays around me, and this time, remaining here is my choice.

And that is more than enough.

6

CAG

The scent of magnolia and sweat clings to the rough beams of my loft, mixing with saddle oil and old wood and telling me last night wasn’t a dream. I lie still, my heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs. Beside me, Juliette is a warm, soft weight. She’s tucked into my side, her breathing rhythmic and shallow, her chestnut hair a wild silk spill across my chest.

Mine.

The certainty sits deeper than thought, fixed somewhere beneath bone. It’s the pulse in my throat. Three years I’ve used work and wood to keep the empty parts of my life quiet. With Juliette beside me, none of them feel empty this morning.

I don’t deserve the way she looks right now. Pale morning light filters through the high window, catching the freckles scattered across her shoulders. She fits under my arm like she was cut to the shape of it, but I know better than to mistake that for soft. I’ve felt the strength in those ballet-trained muscles. I’ve heard the bite in her voice when she stands up to the world. She’s a runaway, a designer, the daughter of an oil tycoon—and she’s tangled in my grease-stained sheets like she belongs here.

I shift, trying not to wake her, but my body is a cage of tension. I want to pull her back under me. I want to stay here with her and refuse every demand waiting outside. But I can hear the ranch waking up below us. The distant clang of a gate. The low, guttural rumble of Andy’s diesel truck. Reality is scratching at the door, and reality is a thirsty beast.

Juliette stirs. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, and then those deep brown eyes are on me. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look for an exit. She reaches out, her hand tracing the scar along my jaw.