Page 67 of Forbidden Rancher's Return
"No," I agree. And this time I don't fight it. This time I understand. The stream is where things broke. The house is where we rebuild them.
"Inside," I say.
He takes my hand. We walk back through the dark trees.
Inside, the house is warm. He closes the bedroom door.
We stand in the moonlight for a moment. Just the two of us and the pale light through the curtains and no distance left between who we were and who we are now.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt.
He watches me do it. Still. Patient. His jaw tight with the effort of letting me lead.
I push the shirt off his shoulders and put my hands flat on his chest.
"My turn," I say.
His eyes darken. "Your turn."
"Sit down."
He sits on the edge of the bed. Looking up at me.
The man who has been in charge of every physical moment between us since the fence line, now waiting for me to tell him what happens next. I like the way it looks on him. The patience. The trust.
I step between his knees. His hands come up to my hips, and I push them back down.
"Not yet."
His breathing changes. His fingers curl against the mattress.
I unbuttoned my own shirt. Slowly. Watching his face the whole time. The way his jaw tightens with each button. The way his hands grip the sheets like he's holding himself to the bed by sheer will.
"You're enjoying this," he says. His voice is rough.
"Very much."
"That's cruel."
"That's payback for every time you've called me sunshine."
His laugh comes out low and strained and I grin and let the shirt fall and his hands are on me before the fabric hits the floor. So much for waiting.
I don't mind. I got what I wanted. Three full seconds of Rowan Cade unable to hold still.
What follows is different from every time before. Not the raw desperation of the shed. Not the tender exploration of the first night in this bed. This is playful and confident and unhurried because we both know where it's going and neither of us is afraid of getting there.
I push him back on the mattress. He lets me. I take my time. His hands grip my hips, and I set the pace and he follows it with a discipline that cracks when I lean down and press my mouth to the place below his ear that makes him lose words entirely.
He flips me onto my back so fast the breath leaves me laughing. His mouth moves down my body with the focused attention of a man who just got permission to be thorough and intends to use every second of it.
My hands find his hair and my back arches, and I stop laughing because what he's doing stops being funny and starts being the only thing in the world.
"Rowan."
"Quiet. It's my turn now."
I am not quiet. Not even close.
