Page 50 of Dallas Rivals
“Then sleep,” he says, voice softer now. “We’ll probably be stuck here till morning. God knows what kind of work’s waiting for us out there.”
I want to tell him no—that I’m fine—but the fear, the exhaustion, and the unexpected warmth between us pull me under.
I close my eyes.
And let go.
Oliver Walker’s heavy hand rests on my stomach.
It’s still dark; the stable’s without light.
But I can see his face—just enough.
The faint glow through the cracks in the wood traces the lines of his jaw, rough with a few days’ beard.
His nose, strong and straight, the kind they’d carve into marble.
And those lips… perfectly balanced, full but not soft.
He looks peaceful—something I’ve never seen on him before.
The storm’s gone, and so is the constant tension he carries.
A strand of straw is tangled in his dark hair.
Without thinking, I reach out and brush it away.
His eyes open.
Sharp. Focused.
On me—and only me.
Right. The man who said he doesn’t like to be touched.
And here I am. Doing exactly that.
Nice one, Cala.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “There was… straw in your hair.”
“What is it about your hands, Cala Saint-Clair?” he murmurs, voice low and rough from sleep.
“Calluses?” I say, half a smile tugging at my lips.
He lets out a quiet laugh, deep and soft, and then his mouth is on mine again.
No warning. No hesitation.
This time it’s slower—hungrier.
His lips move against mine like he knows exactly what he’s doing, confident and sure, tasting me like I’m something he’s been denying himself for too long.
Every muscle in my body wakes up at once.
My hands stay frozen at first, trying to remember how to breathe, how to think, how to not melt completely.
But his shoulders—God, his shoulders—broad and solid under my fingertips.
