by Nicole Snow
I’m a lazy mess by the time he lets up, my defenses burnt to a crisp. He pulls away with a self-satisfied smile that says he’s got me right where he wants me.
Ass.
But I can’t stay too mad when he gives me that smile and tucks my hair back with coarse fingertips.
“Stay in bed a while longer,” he says. “You work hard enough. I’ll make you breakfast.”
“You’re just trying to spoil me so I don’t put you out.”
“Not quite, but the thought might’ve crossed my mind.” His smile fades, though, his eyes darkening, concerned lines crisscrossing his brow. “You going to be okay on your own here today?”
“I’ll be fine. Those assholes won’t come back. Not in broad daylight.”
“Only if you’re sure.”
I shove my hand into his face, laughing. “Go make my breakfast already.”
“Will do,” he rumbles, his lips moving against my palm and making those hot sweet tingles slice through me.
Damn him.
Damn him all to hell.
I’m still damning him by the time the smell of hand-griddled blueberry waffles drags me out of bed and downstairs.
He’s not a bad cook.
It’s nice sharing breakfast, quiet and easy in between a few jabs at each other ’cause we just can’t resist.
But it’s also different now, not all anger and salt in open wounds.
It’s like a kiss with a sting of pain, that sweetness from the nip of hungry teeth against sensitive lips.
I think I kinda like it.
I’m still thrown off guard at how weird it hurts to watch him walk out the door with an arrogant wave over his shoulder.
Even knowing he’s coming back tonight.
Even knowing the second he walks in that door...he’s going to tumble me onto my back and make me beg for it.
It’s an antsy day without Holt, but I keep busy.
I’ve got kids to teach, and if a few of them ask why I’m riding sidesaddle, well, I tell them I just messed up my back a little and this way’s easier for now.
They don’t need to know my nethers are twinging like I’ve taken a bad jump on horseback, and they sure as hell don’t need to know why.
I get through the lessons, mucking out the stables with the help of the part-time hands I can still afford to pay, then check the sheep’s legs to make sure nobody’s come up wrong on some gopher holes.
It’s good work, satisfying work, despite the heat of the sun making me drip sweat, but the day drags on longer than usual.
I can’t deny the wash of heat that rushes through me—not a damn thing to do with the sun—when I see a beat-up old truck heading toward me in a cloud of dust, framed against the setting sun.
Holt gets out battered and covered in construction grime.
Just how I like him.
We don’t say a single word, drifting toward each other like we’re magnetic.
We barely get a foot inside the house before my clothes are flying off and he’s got his hands cupping my ass, lifting me up to straddle his hips.
Holy hell.
He takes me just like that: mounted on him, standing up, those big hands swinging me up and down on his massive length while he wants to break me.
I grab tight to his shoulders and ride hard, pushing him faster, desperate for more when it’s so good I could scream, losing myself and biting him all over again, leaving love marks up his neck and jaw.
Holt gives it right back, bringing his devil’s tongue to my nipples, pulling softly with his teeth and then grazing his stubble up my throat.
I’m. So. Gone.
And I show it with my hips swiveling, the hot whimpers pouring out of me, the way I say his name.
Yep, the man’s got me begging again.
If I weren’t so far gone, I might be ashamed. But when he drives into me so deep and hard, when he looks at me with that glint in his eye?
Shame isn’t in the makeup of the desperate, sex-crazed creature I become.
He asked for this storm.
He brings out this manic wildness I didn’t know I had.
He makes every part of me clench, burn, and melt into bliss.
Oh, God.
I can’t even last that long before I forget who or what I am.
For now, I’m just a steaming hot puddle for Holt damn Silverton as he growls honey, fuck right in my ear, grinding his pubic bone sweet against my clit.
He brings me off just like that.
It’s all frantic rhythm and sharp hissing through my teeth before I blow apart. Then it’s just ecstasy, raw and real and overwhelming.
My body convulses like I’ve been hit with a current.
Coming!
“Holt!” My fingers sink into his shoulders and my hips might break, ratcheting down on his fullness again and again.
He snarls back. His hands crash against my hips, just the right tart whack! with both hands, and then we’re colliding together in a chain reaction that might rival an atom bomb.
His seed pours into me, so hot and deep, it sets me off again.
I can’t stop until we’re both a spent mess on the sofa, gasping and sweaty and tangled up in a daze before we catch enough air to burst into laughter.
I don’t even know what’s so funny.
Don’t think he does, either.
Maybe it’s just having a reason to feel good for once.
Holt gives me more reasons to laugh as the days pass by.
For a while, it’s almost like I can forget what’s happening to my life, my home, my memories, my family.
It fades in our own secret nights spent defiling each other, tired mornings over breakfast, and now and then when I give in to that urge to see him in the middle of the day.
It’s not like I’m falling for him, okay?
I sure as hell ain’t his little woman.
But hell, we’re sharing space.
He’s keeping an eye on me. I can’t help but want to make sure he gets a good meal while he’s working his britches off day and night. Almost literally.
Not like I’m planning to make it a habit.
So that’s why I’m washing up after I finish a morning run with a few of the horses folks send here for me to train, putting them through their paces on a long lead. I’m sweaty and dusty for my troubles.
I’m not making myself look cute or any crap like that for him.
That’s what I tell myself as I shower off and then brush out my hair.
But maybe my little off-the-shoulder ruffled blouse shows an inch more cleavage than it needs to.
And maybe I’m fine driving out to the Paradise Hotel site in the valley in my little cutoff jeans.
Holt hasn’t been the least bit shy hiding his feelings about my legs.
Maybe I’m a bit of a tease.
When I pull up outside the site, though, with a wicker basket piled full of good home cooking, I’m surprised at all the activity going on. Holt’s always made his work crew out to be a small thing, but I see a good two dozen men swarming around the crater where that charred-up hotel used to be.
I hardly recognize it now.
They’ve cleared out the mess and even ripped out the foundation, starting over from scratch. Men climb high on scaffolding as they erect framing, cranes moving big beams into place.
Holt stands on the edge of it all, somehow managing to radiate authority even though he’s as dirty and gritty as the rest of them, wearing the same workman’s coveralls.
I linger in my truck, watching him.
It’s the first time I’ve ever gotten to look at him without him knowing I’m watching, taking him in on his home turf.
Dear Lord. If we’d met this way first...
I’d have fallen for him a lot sooner.
He’s got this way about him.
His body language is calm, confident, strong.
Not arrogant, just plain reassuring. Like you can trust him to have your back.
I
’m not sure when I started trusting him to have mine.
But watching him like this makes my heart beat just a little too fast.
It takes me a second to pull myself together and stop acting all fluttery before I grab the basket and slide out of the truck.
As I do, his head comes up, and his eyes lock on mine.
Even over the distance, I feel how his gaze warms.
How he rivets me in place like I’m in a spotlight, captured in his eyes.
I’m not gonna blush, dammit.
I’m not.
It’s this dumb summer heat, that’s all, swarming around me as I tread over the dusty ground.
Holt’s with a big, older guy, the kind of thick-bearded, long-haired behemoth that makes you think of Viking warlords, though his hair’s black.
Never caught a name other than “Alaska,” though I know he moved here around the same time as Holt and it seems like they’re friends.
He offers me a friendly smile now, completely at odds with the smoldering way Holt’s eyes dip over me, lingering on the low neckline of my blouse and trailing down to my legs.
“Afternoon, Miss Potter,” Alaska says. He’s got one deep old voice all right, and this slow, kind way of speaking. Almost fatherly. “Not expecting to see you on-site today.”
He elbows Holt then, and Holt blinks, clearing his throat and tugging at the neck of his coveralls before offering a grin. “Hey, Libby.”
“Hey yourself,” I answer, holding up the basket. “Lunch. ’Cause for all I know, you’re greasing up at Brody’s every day.”
That grin turns sheepish. “Shit, you’re psychic?”
“Nope. I know men, and I know you. You’re hopeless.” I dip my head to Alaska. “Present company excluded. You seem like a decent sort. Better than your boss, anyway.”
“I’m plenty decent.” Holt laughs, but he’s still looking at me, mischief dancing in those whiskey eyes that won’t stop drowning me in heat.
“You don’t even know the word,” I retort, while Alaska grins.
“So now I know why you keep showing up with your coveralls zipped up to the neck.” He hooks a finger in the high collar of Holt’s coveralls and tugs it down, revealing a line of marks I left behind. “Looks like you two had fun duking it out, huh?”
“Goddammit, Alaska!” Holt swipes his hand away.
I clear my throat and studiously avoid the giant’s eyes.
Look, I ain’t ashamed that I get a little rowdy in bed.
But I don’t wanna have a conversation about it with a man I just met.
Holt makes a half-annoyed, half-resigned sound and steps closer, his hand curling against my arm as he nudges me a few steps away.
“Don’t mind him,” he says. “He means well. He just spent so much time around fucking polar bears and arctic wolves up in Alaska that he never socialized like a human being.”
“I heard that,” Alaska grunts.
“You were supposed to,” Holt tosses over his shoulder before turning his smile on me again. “So what’s for lunch?”
“Chicken salad and fresh-baked bread with homemade cheese.” I pull the cloth back over the basket to reveal the saran-wrapped containers inside. “Nothing fancy, but I figured it’d keep until you have time to stop.”
Holt lights up like a little boy as he leans in to peek. “You baked me bread?”
“Um, yeah. And the cheese has been curing for a while. Horses aren’t all I do, honey.”
He grins at the pet name I throw back at him.
“A woman of many talents.” He whistles softly, then nudges my arm. “Stay and eat with me?”
I blink. “Sure, but do you have time for that? Y’all seem pretty busy.”
“We are, but it’s about time to call it anyway. Don’t want anyone having a stroke in this heat.” He leans away from me and slips two fingers between his teeth, then lets out a piercing whistle before raising his voice.
“Lunch break, boys!” he calls, his clear, strong voice ringing over the site with a warm authority that just makes him seem like a different person. “We’ll pick up in an hour and a half.”
The atmosphere instantly changes—from the ordered, methodical movements of men at work to a flurry of casual activity.
People shut down machinery and stow tools, moving in friendly clusters to get their lunch kits. A few pile into their cars, probably heading into town to Brody’s, no better than Holt himself.
Eh, not my problem.
I’m only here for one man.
And he gives me an easygoing smile, tossing his head toward my truck.
“C’mon. Sit and have a bite with me.” His eyes sparkle. “I’ll grab us drinks from the cooler.”
A minute later, I’m sitting on the tailgate of my truck, snuggled against Holt’s side and nibbling on little slices of sharp orange cheddar while he swigs from a condensation-dripping bottle of lemonade.
The sun’s bright, the sky’s clear, and Holt feels too good.
Especially when he’s flattering me over the bread.
It’s nothing special, but maybe it is to him because I made it for him. Or maybe that’s just my wishful thinking.
We’re quiet as I lean my head against his shoulder, sharing the basket.
I wonder...am I seeing what I want to see with Holt?
Am I so desperate for some stability and hope in my life that I’m seeing him as someone he’s not?
Am I already praying after we’ve gone back to normal, maybe he’ll want to stick around for more than a few hot nights?
16
Four Horsemen (Holt)
It’s more than a little intimidating walking in through the back of Ms. Wilma’s kitchen and coming face-to-face with all four of our hometown heroes.
It’s late on Friday, long after the old woman’s gone to bed. A plate of dangerous smelling oatmeal cookies she’s left out casts a strange contrast with four huge guys who’ve got their war faces on.
Sure, I’m used to them individually, but like this?
Goddamn.
I’m lucky that the last time they were saving Heart’s Edge, they were only up my ass as a suspect for a little bit.
“I’m thinking Blake already gave you boys the rundown?” I say, sliding into a seat next to Leo, an overgrown beast who looks like he could pick up Alaska with one hand.
“We wanted to hear it from you,” Warren tells me, taking a loud chomp off a cookie. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of this Declan fuck or any of his buddies. Hay told me he checked out of his room the other day with Sierra, and nothing since.”
Fuck. I don’t like it.
Doc Caldwell notices the way I stiffen, clearing his throat, those emerald eyes of his as sharp as jade knives behind his glasses. He shoves them up his nose in this way he has.
“We’re wasting precious time,” he whispers. “Every day that slips by with this man missing could mean he’s bringing reinforcements. You said he had a full crew the night they paid Miss Potter that unsavory visit?”
“About a dozen men. All dudes he probably charmed into service if the stories I dug up online are true.” I scratch my chin, blood going hot because there’s zero doubt about what I read.
This asshole’s repeatedly proven he’s dangerous. It’s just a question of how long his fuse is before he blows up again and hurts Libby, hurts Sierra, hurts the town.
“What about the tax problem? The bank?” Leo rumbles, taking an earth-splitting bite out of two cookies pinched between his thick fingers.
Warren gives him the stink eye. “Easy. Grandma’s trying to sleep, and so are my wife and kids next door. Bet folks can hear your shit across town when you’re eating like a bear.”
I resist the urge to play peacemaker in a damn cookie feud between two guys I wouldn’t want to take on any day.
“We’re working the protected land angle to stall things out. I’ve got the papers drawn up, just as soon as we have some supporting documentation for the city council and the governor�
��s office,” I say. “Trouble is—”
“The dead dude. I filled them in, bro,” Blake says, flashing me a not-so-helpful wink across the table. “Your bigger problem’s dredging up enough proof to get the request taken seriously, like you said. Let me ride out there. Take a look around. A fresh set of eyes could turn up something.”
“I don’t like it,” Leo growls, flexing with his arms crossed. That mess of ink and scars stamped on his skin forms fierce dark whorls like storm clouds. “While you’re digging around in this ghost town playing detective, the trucker and his men could hit us anytime. Catch us with our damn pants down. We need defense so you’ve got time.”
“You’re certain you don’t want us on guard duty, Holt?” Doc asks, ninja swiping a cookie off the still-warm pile and taking a civilized bite compared to the others.
“Libby wouldn’t have it, and neither would I. You guys have been through the grinder more times than anyone can count. I’m not pulling you away from your women and kids to watch over a pile of bones and some dusty buildings.”
“Better there than on our doorstep,” Leo says. Those strange violet-amethyst eyes of his glitter in the dim light. And people think my eyes are weird. “We sit around waiting forever, he’s bound to go after something or somebody in town. Hit hard and create a ruse before he comes for Ursa.”
Fuck.
My jaw tightens, my brain sifting through the many ugly possibilities he’s conjured up.
“He’s right. We’ve made the same mistake too many times, sitting back and manning our fort.” Warren strokes his chin, looking past me, out the window at the sleepy, idyllic night grounds of Charming Inn. “We need to flush his ass out.”
“Can’t be that easy, War,” Blake chimes in. “Holt said this guy’s crafty. If he’s really that sly, he’ll see it coming from a mile away.”
“No, wait,” I say. “There’s one way we can do that, and one way only—Sierra Potter.”
Four heads swivel toward me, eyes tense in the moonlight, slowly blinking.
“You really think she’d flip on him?” Blake asks weakly. “From what you said, the poor girl’s smitten with this clown. She’d—”
