by Nicole Snow
And Holt pulls me close. His hands drift to the small of my back, downright possessive, hotter than that ring of his I can feel through the thin silk, imprinting against my skin.
He’s kissing me now.
Oh my God.
My. Husband. Is. Kissing. Me!
And I’m kissing him back with a force that moves the world.
Because as long as I have Holt, I have everything.
I have my world, my sky, my stars.
I’ll never let anything take him away.
No matter what the rom-com movies say, nobody has a clue how exhausting a wedding and reception really are until they’ve lived through their own.
Or planned someone else’s.
I think Sierra might faint soon.
I’m feeling pretty burned out myself by the time we’re through speeches, toasts, cake, dancing, tossing the bouquet right into Felicity’s clenched hands, and being whirled through everyone who wants to congratulate us, tease us, or give Holt ginormous heaps of crap.
He doesn’t know what to do with it when Blake and the guys tease him relentlessly.
Honestly, it’s adorable.
But I remember one night months ago when Holt told me about how he always felt shut out from his older brother and his friends. Now they’re good friends.
Being part of something big with them and getting accepted into their pack must be kinda jarring in a good way, I guess.
It’s almost evening before we steal away.
We’re supposed to be escaping to our honeymoon.
Everyone pretends to not notice we’re sneaking off behind their backs, piling into Holt’s truck—rickety as it is—in our fancy duds, the whole vehicle tricked out in ribbons and flowers that just make it look even shabbier.
Before we hit the road, we’ve got one more stop.
I get to watch in my wedding dress while Holt and Alaska, both of them in tuxes, break ground with a shovelful of dirt each on the site that will be a new road leading to Ursa.
It’s officially a state-endorsed historical protection site.
So now we’ve got a genuine tourist spot on my property, and guess who’ll be making bank on a revenue share agreement by the time it launches next summer?
We’ll never be afraid of losing our home ever again.
Once that’s done, with handshakes and a few beers from the guys—and you can bet I have one too, skirt gathered up in one hand and can in the other—we’re off again.
This time it’s just us, the wind in our hair through the open window.
Then miles of road between us and Colorado.
I’ve always wanted to try whitewater rafting. We’re taking a river tour honeymoon, but for now, all I care about is us, alone, not even needing to talk.
I’ve never felt more peaceful than I do right now, leaning against Holt with one hand twined in his, watching hours of highway fly past.
Everything’s gonna be all right.
I watch the sun set, and then the stars come out, and up there in the night sky...
I hope you’re watching, Dad.
I hope you know I’m happy.
I hope you know I kept my faith in you till the end.
Maybe I’m imagining it, but the stars seem to twinkle just a little brighter.
I’m half asleep by the time we pull into the tiny one-horse town that’s almost nothing but rental cabins and amenities for vacationers and honeymooners, a resort made up to look like a rustic village.
I let Holt handle checking us in at the main building and getting our keys, and apparently let Holt do the walking for me, too. He pulls the truck’s passenger door open and scoops me out.
“Up we go, my darling bride,” he teases, laughing as I yelp and clutch at his neck.
“Idiot,” I murmur.
He grins because he knows the translation from angry Libby-speak. Idiot means I love you.
And I love, love, love this gorgeous fool of a man who put everything on the line to save me, then helped me save myself.
I can’t take my eyes off him as he carries me across the threshold of our cozy little log cabin.
That moment, that little tradition, ignites something in us both, still shaking off the lazy peace of the drive.
There’s barely a second to admire our surroundings—single room, shadowed in cool and comforting recesses, the bed large and luxurious—before our eyes lock.
That thread of tension stretched tight between us snaps in a single breath.
Curling my hands against the back of his neck, I drag him down.
We meet in the middle in a kiss that blazes hotter than the brightest stars.
You’d think we’d go soft and gentle on our honeymoon.
Our first time as man and wife should be slow, special, savored.
Nope.
We’re like rabid animals. Thank God I’m not attached to this wedding dress because he shears it right off me, seams shredding against my skin and biting into me before giving way.
I’m not wearing much underneath, translucent white lace picked out just for this, a flimsy bra that barely holds up enough to cup my breasts and a pair of panties that doesn’t hide a single thing.
Especially not how much I want him.
I’m practically dripping.
“Honey, fuck.” Holt stares at me like I’m an offering waved under a tiger’s nose, husky growls rising in his throat as he dips me back onto the bed.
I don’t even get to catch my breath before I get his teeth, leaving wet marks on the lace and delicious spots on my skin that burn even after his mouth moves on.
He’s a tornado. Hands wild and everywhere, stroking, caressing, molding me, while I rip at his shirt, his slacks, dragging them off his body like a woman possessed.
I need him.
Need more than just his body.
Need him inside me like yesterday, his flesh as close to mine as my heart is to his.
I don’t know how I peel my husband out of his clothes without committing a felony.
It’s all a blur of sensation, of his touch and his kiss and his taut, tawny skin under my fingers, the hot ripples of his muscles and the fire in his breath every time it meets my skin.
Sweet, sweet hell.
In the shadows of the cabin, he’s a feral beast, hulking over me, eyes glowing in the dark like how a golden latte steams.
I’ve always thought he was too beautiful to be real, to be human.
No man should be the freakish kind of hottie Holt Silverton is with that perfectly sculpted, swarthy tanned body and the inky blackness of his hair, his beard; that stone of a face cut in handsome planes of sinful grace.
No, I don’t think he’s the devil incarnate anymore—except when he gives me his tongue.
But he’s real.
He’s human.
And now I see deeper.
The powerful heart beating inside that strong, broad chest, just as perfect as the rest of him.
Maybe he’s brash, arrogant, and still has the worst sense of humor I’ve ever known.
But he’s kind. He’s good. He’s faithful. He’s brave.
He’s utterly mine, and I can’t even fathom being anybody else’s again.
Best of all, tonight he’s totally with me.
I slide my thighs against his hips and spread my legs. I open, giving myself to him, surrendering to the wildfire building between us, to this wild animal on top of me, the only man I’ve ever met who’s as relentless at life as I am.
And it’s more than perfection as he jerks my hips up, as he grasps on tight with a heady, growly possessiveness.
As he fits himself to me.
As he whispers “Libby” with all the love and passion in the world.
As he drives into me so deep, so hot, that I can’t help screaming his name to the rafters, the moon, the stars.
There’s no mercy in this man.
Not when his body surges over me, in me, rampaging through my helpless insides with heat and pleasure. His cock’s f
riction moves faster in deep, claiming strokes, a low frenzy on his lips.
God, it’s savage—as savage as the story of our love, and it has the perfect ending.
If I could stay like this forever, twined with Holt, locked in this passion, I don’t think heaven itself could ever hold a candle to this.
And if I have my way...
I will.
This is us. This is everything I’ve needed.
Not just insane pleasure, but someone who can go head to head with me without backing down. Someone I can trust to have my back, through thick and thin.
Someone who can weather the storm.
I’m not standing on my own anymore.
I’m not carrying everything by myself.
For the first time in my life, I have a man I can lean on.
A hero who’s been there for me, no matter what.
“Holt,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his jaw, his throat, then his mouth, breathing in his scent, rising up to meet him, gasping as he lifts me and holds me like I’m something precious, even as he fucks me like a beast. “Holt...Holt, I love you.”
He stops—our bodies locked so tight together, those dark bearish eyes nearly scouring.
His mouth traces over mine, taking my lower lip gently, like he can taste those words on my lips.
“Really, Mrs. Silverton?” he breathes, and I shiver to hear it said out loud for the very first time. “Then it’s a damn good thing I’ve loved you since the moment I set eyes on you.”
I can’t speak.
It’s too overwhelming.
Too much.
He’s too much and somehow always just enough.
And you’d better believe he’s more than I ever wanted when he pins me down, picks up where he left off, and thrusts me right over the cliff into a screaming, shuddering tsunami.
Before my senses give out, before he growls his heart out, I hold fast to Holt, to our love, to this shared explosion as we crash together, driving into the sweetest ecstasy I’ve ever known. Judging by the roar in his throat, I think it might be his best ever, too.
My world’s officially upside down.
Tonight and forever.
Not just my body, as I spasm and pant and surrender to my husband.
Thanks to this unshakable man, the void’s been filled forever with light and laughter and so many kisses.
With Holt by my side, my dark knight, there’ll always be stars, and this life of ours will never be empty again.
Thanks for reading No White Knight!
Can't get enough of Holt and Libby?
See how full of life and love their ranch is years later in this fun flash forward short story. - https://dl.bookfunnel.com/yguyvtf0wr
Then read on for a preview of Holt's fierce brother, the broody fire chief of Heart's Edge, Blake Silverton in No Damaged Goods.
No Damaged Goods Preview
All for a Lark (Peace)
You know, I don’t normally question my decision-making skills.
If I did, I wouldn’t be me.
My dad used to call me a flower on the wind.
Maybe I’m small and soft and fragile and have a hippie name—
But that just makes me light enough to move with the breeze, soar high, drift into the sky, and let every gust take me to new horizons and beautiful things.
That’s what sent me jetting out of Oahu.
What sent me flitting through New Orleans, St. Louis, Nashville, Chicago, and lately Denver.
What put me on the road to Vancouver, too, for my next big adventure.
…and what’s currently left me stranded on the side of the road on a remote mountain looking out over a town called Heart’s Edge.
Freezing my butt off, with no way to warm up except for my old clunker of a van.
Which is currently on fire, belching plumes of thick, dark smoke up into the sky.
Yep.
Sometimes when you’re a flower on the wind, you find yourself adrift on a beautiful sea.
And sometimes you land face-first in a burning garbage fire, desperately flailing to alter course but sinking deeper anyway.
It’s my own fault.
I’m the only one who decided I needed to go for a drive after dinner, packing up my van like I’m part of Scooby and the gang, gearing up in the Mystery Machine.
Honestly, my ride’s probably even older than that technicolor beast in the cartoon, but it’s served me well.
Until now.
I’d been puttering along just fine, listening to some local radio station and this really weird little show.
At first, I thought it was a variety show, but it turned out to be some kind of call-in advice line. The guy hosting it had a warm, kind voice, deep and sort of gritty with a weathered edge.
He sounded like he laughed a lot. And he’d sure as hell been laughing when someone called in looking for advice on what to do if a woman caught her husband stealing her underwear—to wear them.
He’d been gentle as he’d said, “Maybe get used to sharing, ma’am, or maybe get him his own.” I’d been able to hear the grin in his voice as he’d said it. “We ain’t quite made to fit in the front of them lacy things, and he’s gonna stretch yours plumb out. Whatever floats his boat, though.”
Most guys would’ve made fun of the guy and his wife. Oh, poor gal, that kind of thing.
This guy, though...
He’d just laughed like it was no big deal, live and let live. It made me feel better even though it wasn’t even my call or my issue.
I’d been giggling too, feeling kind of warm inside, as I’d listened to him say “Next caller...”
But I missed out on what the call was about, because right then my van decided it was hotter for this guy’s voice than I was.
And it just blew.
Spontaneously combusted.
Big old boom that split the night like a gunshot, sending smoke and plumes of flame spewing out from either side of the flower-painted hood.
Good thing I was going slow, I guess, being extra careful with the snowy roads and steep slopes.
Still, it must’ve been the scariest thirty seconds of my life while I wrestled the burning van over to the side of the road, grabbed my things, and scurried out.
The funny thing is, I can still hear the radio going, while whatever’s under the hood crackles and burns.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Advice Guy’s saying. “I mean, you ask me to pick between football and sex and UFO sightings...”
Someone else at the station guffaws. He sounds older, heartier. “Oh, c’mon. I know which one you’ll pick, and so does everybody else. You’re dang-near the last single man standing, Blake. Everybody wants a slice of that in this town. Bet you’re getting a piece every night.”
There’s an odd pause. Weird, heavy.
And when Advice Guy speaks again, it’s almost...melancholy, even if there’s still a smile in his voice. “Guess so,” he says. “You know me. Real heartbreaker.”
Ouch.
I wonder what happened to make him sound like that.
There’s real pain living in his voice. The kind of buried agony that has teeth.
Pain is something I know in my line of work.
And I know what it sounds like when someone’s got a heart that’s taken a direct hit from a sledgehammer.
Listen to me. Sitting here worrying about this guy, when I should be taking care of myself.
I’m a warm-weather girl. Even bundled up in a thick coat, I’m about to shiver my toes off, and the clear night sky looks heavy.
I need to get off the side of the road before another storm comes down.
And, you know, before my van explodes into stabby confetti.
I fumble my phone from my pocket with half-numb fingers and dial 911. I’m hoping I did the call routing right.
It’s always a little iffy with the way I travel. Never know whether 911 will route to the office closest to the nearest cell tower or will try to hit the 911 for my old Ha
waii zip code. I’ve never needed to test it much, except one night when I got mugged in Chicago.
But I’m in luck because after a couple of rings, a drowsy, thick male voice slurs, “Langley.”
I blink.
I’m used to 911, what’s your emergency?
But after a moment I say tentatively, “Um...is this the police? The Heart’s Edge PD?”
“Sure is. Sheriff Langley at your service, Miss, and I’m guessin’ you’re one of the out-of-towners if you don’t know that.”
“Yeah.” I smile wryly. “Listen, my van broke down and it’s kind of on fire—”
“Fire? I ain’t the one you need, then, but lemme get you right on over to the main man.”
I don’t even get to protest Wait! before there’s a weird buzzing sound.
It’s like...the line’s not disconnected, but he’s not there.
I wait a second, listening to the idle murmur of voices from the radio. There’s a rattling, a clicking, and a different male voice comes on the line.
“Fire and rescue.” Deep, crisp, business-like. “What do you need?”
Wait.
Why do I hear his voice twice?
The second time, it’s coming from my van in this weird half-second delayed echo.
But I try, “Um, hi, my name is Peace and my van broke down and caught fire.”
Now I’m hearing it again.
The echo, only this time...
Oh, crap.
That’s me.
And it’s coming from the radio inside the van.
I’m live on the air with the advice line guy, who’s apparently also the emergency responder for the town’s fire team.
“Um,” I fumble again, then continue, “I called the sheriff’s office and the second I said fire, he routed me to you.”
“Where? How much fire we talkin’?” the man snaps off quietly—Blake. I think that’s what the other guy on the radio said his name was.
His friendliness is gone, replaced by an authoritative calm. His tone eases a little knot of nerves I hadn’t even realized I was holding on to until it started to relax.
“I’m not sure...a little flame, a lot of smoke.” I don’t like the echo of my voice coming from the radio, when I sound way more scared than I really want to be, but I’m kind of stuck here. Helpless. “I’m from out of town, and I was just driving around to check out the woods and mountainsides—”
