Booted

by Pam Godwin

  Slowing the motion of my hand, I bring her down gently, relishing the twitches in her body and the kicks in her breathing.

  When her lungs catch up, I lift my soaked fingers to my lips and draw them into my mouth, one by one. She regards me from beneath dark fringes of lashes as I savor her taste, torturing myself with her essence.

  Settling on my side, I pull her close and kiss her hair. She doesn’t curl up against me or push me away. She goes still and quiet, her forehead lowered to my chest and hands slack between us.

  The hypnotic tempo of her breaths lulls me into the zone between alertness and sleep. With her skin against mine and my demons at bay, contentment finds me. For minutes. Hours. I don’t know how long I drift before she slips from my arms.

  I lift my head as she sits out of reach and pulls her knees to her chest. Distancing herself.

  “Raina,” I growl.

  “I don’t want to fight.” She stares out into the darkness, her face taut, shoulders hiked, and voice achy. “Please, Lorne. Not tonight.”

  She’s peeled open, defenses down, raw and enticingly vulnerable. If I wanted to hurt her, now would be the time to do it.

  This is exactly where I want her. I only need to reach in, and my fingers would brush her soul.

  I’m not a romantic. My boots stick to the ground, and my heart beats with the rhythm of the land. But a long time ago, I knew how to treat a woman.

  I grab my phone and pull up a song. As I set it aside and stand, Come A Little Closer by Dierks Bentley strums through the speakers.

  Her brows gather as she meets my eyes.

  “Dance with me.” I hold out a hand.

  “I don’t know how.” Her broken whisper cleaves between my ribs like a knife.

  “I’ll show you.”

  She unfolds from the ground and steps forward, wearing a look of tortured uncertainty.

  I remain where I’m at and let her come to me. When her toes reach mine, I hold up a palm. She touches it, and a jolt of awareness crackles across my skin.

  The music guides my body into a slow, swinging cadence that compels hers to do the same. Our hips sway together, hovering around the sliver of space between.

  Her palm rests against mine, joining us by that single point of contact. There’s no urgency. No expectations. No demands. It’s just her and me and the connection of our eyes.

  I lift my other hand to her elbow and whisper my fingertips along her upper arm. She breaks out in goosebumps as I lightly follow the delicate curve of her shoulder.

  My barely-there touches set the footing. My hands move, and she follows my lead. Fingers kiss skin, brushing, roaming, and indulging as we rock gently together in tune with the melody.

  I’m certain she’s never permitted herself to touch a man this way, to caress and explore for her own curiosity and pleasure.

  She peruses me with her eyes, learns me with her hands, and matches my steps with a slow, seductive roll of her hips.

  Each verse brings us closer, and closer, until our foreheads meet, and our breaths mingle. I stroke my nose along hers, my hands gliding down her arms and pulling her in with just the friction of our skin.

  Our caresses tease, light and airy, as if a heavier touch would break the natural rhythm between us. We become one. One dance, one body, caught up in the electricity of closeness.

  She reaches for the back of my neck and idly traces my shaved hairline. I shudder and press in, seeking the pounding reverberation of her heart and taking comfort in the beauty she emits. A beauty that floods my senses with life.

  Her hand slips through my hair, cupping the base of my skull. Her lips float to my cheek and graze the scratchy stubble. Then her head tilts back, offering her gorgeous face, and I touch it, with my hands, my breath, my gaze.

  As the song leads us, we move in exquisite synchronicity, staring at each other, lost in the sensations while cradling the solidarity of our souls.

  This is the most intimate we’ve ever been, yet no part of us below the waist makes physical contact. We embrace without arms, kiss without lips, and fall with the ground firmly beneath our feet.

  “I hear you.” She gazes up at me, her eyes bright and mouth against mine in an almost-kiss.

  “I hear you, too.” I rest my head against hers, swaying to the music, tranquilized by her nearness.

  When the song ends, I walk her back to the house, my fingers woven around hers and my thoughts on the bed that awaits.

  She pauses at the door and finds my eyes. I lean in, run my hands around the graceful column of her neck, and sink into the long strands of her hair.

  Then I kiss her. Slow and gentle, our tongues touch and slide together. Breaths stroking, lips curving, it’s a kiss that marks a moment, not the end of one, but the beginning.

  We come up for air, and she steps inside the house. Then she glances back at me.

  If she asks me to come in, I will. I’ll take her to bed and spend the rest of the night inside her.

  But she doesn’t ask. She closes the door and rests a hand against the glass, regarding me from the other side.

  The currents shift between us. Creases fan out from the corners of her eyes, and her expression twists with turmoil.

  She seems to be trying, and failing, to grasp something that will pull her free of this thing between us. I won’t help her with that.

  Her desperation beats against me, and I welcome it. I’ll accept every emotion she offers. Because I want all of her. Every fear and desire, weakness and strength, nightmare and dream.

  But she’s not ready for that. Not yet.

  “Lock the door,” I mouth.

  She turns the lock.

  “No! Absolutely not!” Lorne plants his boots in a wide stance on the front porch, his eyes wildly scanning me before swinging back to Conor. “It’s too risky.”

  Going out for a family dinner wasn’t my idea. After last night, I prefer some time alone to sort the bleeding, ugly mess he made of my insides.

  “Fine. We’ll take a vote.” Conor crosses her colorfully inked arms, glaring at her brother. “All those in favor of eating at a quiet, safe restaurant say Aye.”

  The whole family is here for the intervention, and a chorus of unanimous Aye’s echoes around me.

  I’m the only one holding my tongue.

  He needs to leave the ranch and interact with society, just for a couple of hours. At the very least, he needs to spend time with the people who mean the most to him. His family waited eight years for his return. Their reunion is as important to him as it is to them.

  I can only imagine how hard it is to build those relationships back to what they once were. He’s not that eighteen-year-old kid anymore. But fighting them on something as simple as going to dinner only increases his emotional distance.

  At the same time, I understand his concerns about leaving the ranch. No place is safe right now. He won’t let me stay here alone, and he doesn’t want me in public where threats can’t be controlled.

  Conor doesn’t take her eyes off him. “Those opposed say No.”

  “No.” He towers over her. “My vote is the only one that counts, because she’s my responsibility.” He stabs a finger in my direction. “My decision.”

  “Possessive much?” She arches an auburn brow, and a knowing smirk steals across her lips.

  Yeah, he’s possessive. But he’s also been training me for the day he lets me go. I was never meant to stay here.

  My purpose is to kill John Holsten.

  “I didn’t vote.” I shove back my shoulders and meet his heated gaze. “Aye.”

  Green flames ignite in his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. His anger is so effervescent it thrashes and spits sparks in a deadly dance of intimidation.

  Fury hardens every inch of him, from his square jaw and aquiline nose to the thick muscles stretching the denim on his thighs.

  He stands several feet away, yet his strength and authority press against me from all sides. Chills invade my arms, and I rub m
y hands over the prickles.

  “Get in the house.” His command is a roar with teeth, meant to make me blanch.

  I can’t stop my body’s reactions to him. He terrifies me, but in a different way than he did when we first met.

  Something changed between us last night. Or maybe my perspective of him changed. But as he stands before me, looking for all the world like he’s going to break my face, I know he won’t.

  He would never lay a hand on me out of anger. He isn’t John Holsten. He isn’t like any man I’ve ever encountered.

  He’s worse.

  He broke me apart beneath the stars with his kissing and touching and dancing. I’m still trying to pick up the pieces. Needy, shameful pieces that cry out for him and make me crave things. I want to kneel for him, bend to his will, and put my trust in his capable hands.

  But I won’t.

  I don’t need him to take care of me. I need him to stand at my side when I’m kicking ass and say, I’m with her.

  We haven’t spoken about what happened. In fact, I haven’t seen him all day, because some of the cattle escaped through the fence. He’s been in the pasture for the past ten hours helping the guys gather the herd.

  We should both go inside and talk, but I’m not ready for that. Certainly not in his current mood.

  “You’re outvoted.” I gesture at Conor and the others. “We’re going to dinner, with or without you.”

  “Is that why you’re dressed like that?” He sneers at my legs in the jeans I cut into super short shorts. “Are you hard up for male attention? Maybe the waiter will give you something to swallow for dessert.”

  My heart folds in on itself.

  How can the same mouth be so clitorally pleasurable and emotionally painful?

  Jarret steps forward, hands clenched, as Conor shouts, “Take that back!”

  “I don’t know what’s going on between you two.” Jake gives Lorne a baleful glare. “But Raina’s been good to you. Good for you. As small as she is, it takes grit to put you in your place. A woman like that deserves admiration, not disrespect.”

  Lorne’s hateful lips bow into a deep scowl.

  Beneath the ache in my throat simmers a comforting sense of embracement. I feel like I’m part of something, a member of a six-person unit. It’s so staggering and precious I don’t want to let go of it.

  As I zip up my hemorrhaging emotions behind a blank expression, Lorne zeroes in on the ragged hitching in my chest.

  “Raina…” Regret tempers his tone, but he won’t retract the accusation.

  He’s too desperate, too willing to do whatever is needed to keep me here, including hurting my feelings.

  I close the distance with unhurried steps, lift my hand, and slap his viciously handsome face.

  He glares at me, nostrils pulsing.

  The urge to run burns my legs, but I lock my knees and confront his temper head on.

  A wordless argument follows. His eyes snarl and demand. I remain icy and resolute. We’re at an impasse, and I’m not backing down.

  “Who I am riding with?” I walk toward the parking lot.

  “You can ride with us.” Conor falls into step with me, glancing behind her.

  “Maybe will ride with you.” Lorne stalks past her. “Raina and I are with Jarret.”

  Damn him and his hot-and-cold, back-and-forth bullshit.

  He’d rather eat barbed wire than go with us, but he would never stay behind while I go. He’s putting his need to protect me over his anxiety of public places.

  No one has ever made me feel as safe as he does, yet so incredibly vulnerable and reckless at the same time. He’s a paradox of extremes. Temptation and aversion. Protection and danger. A slow burn and a quick fuse. There’s no middle path with this guy. He’s either all in or all asshole.

  He follows me into the cab of Jarret’s truck, wedging me in the center. After checking the glove box for Jarret’s pistol, he settles into brooding silence.

  It’s a miserable ride.

  An hour later, the six of us sit in a fine-dining steakhouse several towns over.

  For a restaurant that’s only been open for a month, I expected it to be busier. Only half the tables are occupied, each one draped in linens, silver, and soft-glowing candlelight.

  Conor chose it for its lakeside view and raving reviews.

  The servers don black suits and pour water into stemmed glasses, and the scent of seared meat permeates the air. It reminds me of the places John used to take me. He liked to wear me on his arm and mingle with the upper-class like he was one of them.

  Lorne sits beside me, hands on his lap, stiff and motionless. His eyes move frequently, watching everything and everyone around him. That is, when he’s not watching me.

  I feel that green gaze like a kiss. His kiss. It caresses my skin, seeking and finding erogenous zones I didn’t know I had until last night.

  He watches me through courses of soup, salad, and fancy little appetizers. When the guys order beers, he drinks water and continues his vigilance, speaking only when prodded and smiling only at his sister.

  But he doesn’t offer dimpled smiles. He’s too on edge.

  I’m still mad at him and refuse to give him my eyes or any compassion for his discomfort.

  Until he leans across the two-foot distance between us.

  “Move closer.” He grips the seat of my chair. “Please.”

  It’s the Please that reaches through my resentment and shakes me.

  I lift my weight and let him slide me to his side. The position doesn’t look odd, seeing how the other four are already paired off in the same way.

  Lorne stretches an arm along the back of my chair, and his fingers sink into my hair. As he idly strokes the strands from roots to tips, his entire demeanor relaxes. He sits back, muscles loosening and breaths slipping into silence. The slow, rhythmic slide of his hand through my hair is so palliative and trance-inducing I could curl up on his lap and fall asleep.

  The serenity of nightfall blankets the lake beyond the wall of windows and spills into the dining room. Muted whispers, soft clinking china, and dark wood furnishings add to the ambiance.

  The servers bring out the main course, and everyone digs into their steaks, chops, and roasts. The tender meat melts in my mouth, the vegetables buttery and crisp. The food is as comforting as the atmosphere.

  As Conor and Lorne talk about her veterinary practice, it becomes apparent that he finally stopped by to see it today. At least he’s doing something right.

  My stomach pinches. I shouldn’t judge him too harshly. He has a strong constitution and a courageous heart. He survived prison, hasn’t turned to alcohol, and here he is, sitting among strangers without losing his shit. I’m proud of him.

  When he isn’t being a jerk.

  Jarret orders another beer, and Jake teases Maybe about the critters that died under the farming machines that harvested her salad. By the time the plates are scraped clean and desserts are ordered, the mood has lifted into easy conversation and content smiles.

  Lorne’s hand returns to my hair, his attention on his family. “When are you getting married?”

  “We’re waiting for things to settle down.” Jake pointedly looks at me.

  My shoulders tense. What does he mean? Are they waiting for John Holsten’s death? Or is he implying something else?

  “We’re kicking around the idea of one wedding.” He brushes away an auburn lock from Conor’s cheek.

  “You would share your wedding days together?” I glance between Conor and Maybe.

  “Sure.” Conor turns into Jake’s palm, touching her lips to his scar. “We could go small. Just our family in the backyard.”

  “Or we can do it in Sandbank,” Maybe says with a grin, “and invite the whole town.”

  A shadow caresses Lorne’s face before a flicker of candlelight chases it away.

  “Which would you prefer?” he asks.

  My breath stutters when I realize he directed that question a
t me. “Why would it matter what I—?”

  “It’s hypothetical.” His fingers clench in my hair. “Breathe.”

  I draw air through my nose as everyone at the table stares at me.

  “Now tell me.” His hand trails down my back. “Do you want a big wedding or a small one?”

  His hypothetical inquiry is making me hypersensitive to the invasive, unwavering way he’s observing me.

  “I don’t know.” I go still beneath his eyes. “I’ve never thought about it.”

  A week ago, I didn’t even like men. Not enough to willingly attach myself to one.

  The server appears with our desserts, saving me from further scrutiny. Lorne ordered the Grand Marnier soufflé for me and a coffee for himself.

  I scoop out a spoonful of jiggly orange pastry and offer him the first bite.

  He shakes his head and stares at the table.

  Is he thinking about the jab he made about me swallowing waiter’s dessert? Or the question about the wedding?

  Maybe he’s just appreciating the coffee cupped between his huge hands.

  Sometimes I catch him drifting off in thought while holding something so seemingly inconsequential, such as an ink pen, a television remote, a cup of coffee, or the necklace he’s never removed from his wrist. The little things people take for granted are the things he values most. The things he didn’t have access to in prison.

  I take a few bites, savoring the creamy goodness while watching him in my periphery.

  “You okay?” I lower the spoon.

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Lorne?”

  He blinks, and his head jerks up. His body goes rigid, and his eyes dart around the dining room, searching every exit and window. Then he looks at me, and an odd grunt sounds in his throat.

  His shoulders relax, and he returns his attention to the cup in his hands. “I used to make my dad’s coffee before I went to school.”

  Across the table, Conor stiffens.

  “The smell…” His eyebrows knit over pensive green eyes. “It’s nostalgic, in a good way.”

  “I have good memories of him, too.” She smiles sadly. “It’s okay to miss him, Lorne. I miss the man who lived at the ranch. When he moved to Chicago…” Her expression shutters. “That wasn’t Dad.”