Page 15 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

“You’re still shivering.” Each word comes out rougher than the last.

“I’m cold.”

He crosses the room, stopping near enough for me to absorb the heat radiating off his bare torso, close enough that I look up to meet his eyes. His hand comes up, palm cupping my jaw. His skin is furnace-hot against my cold cheek. “You’re freezing.” It’s an observation delivered with a focus that makes me the only person in the world. His thumb traces along my cheekbone, a slow sweep that sends heat straight to my pussy. “Come here.”

He leads me to the couch, wraps a thick blanket around me, and heads into the kitchen. He returns with tea and presses the warm mug into my hands. The ceramic is hot, but the burn is good against my numb palms. “Drink.”

I drink. The tea is sweetened with honey and herbal notes I can’t name. It burns all the way down my throat, settling in my stomach like liquid warmth. Eli sits next to me, his thigh against mine through the blanket. We listen to rain hammer the roof in sheets.

“Thank you for helping with the chickens. For this,” I say after the shivering subsides.

“Stop thanking me.” The words are softer now, almost teasing. His hand finds mine under the blanket. His fingers lace through mine, and the simple contact sends my pulse skyrocketing. “I got a voicemail today.” The confession spills out before I can stop it. “From my old supervisor. The hospital wants me back. They’re offering me nurse manager. Day shifts. Everything I worked for.”

His hand tightens on mine. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t call back.” I stare at the fire. “She said I’m too good to waste on chickens.”

“That’s bullshit.” The vehemence in his tone makes me look at him. His eyes are locked on my face, fierce and certain. “You’re not wasting anything. You’re healing.”

The word lands in my chest and splits something I’ve been holding together. Healing. Like I’m not broken beyond repair. Like walking away from the hospital wasn’t failure but survival. “What if I don’t know how to be anything except a nurse? What if that’s all I was, and without it I’m just—nothing?”

“Jessie.” He sets his mug down and turns to face me fully. Both hands cup my face, tilting it toward his. “You survived fifteen years facing life and death every single day without losing your compassion. You drove three days to escape the thing that was killing you. You chase chickens in thunderstorms and laugh while you’re doing it.” His thumbs stroke my jawline. “You’re everything. You just forgot for a while.”

Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink hard, but one escapes, rolling down my cheek. He brushes it away with his thumb, and the tenderness breaks me completely. “I’m scared. What if I stay here and I’m still not enough?”

“You already are.” His forehead rests on mine. “You are already, and you can’t see it.”

The blanket drops from my shoulders. The mug tilts in my hand, and he takes it, setting it aside without looking away from my face. We’re near enough now for me to see a small scar near his ear and the way his eyes have darkened with need.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Each word sounds strained, like it costs him everything.

The simple, terrifying truth sits on my tongue. “I want you to touch me like I’m something worth keeping.”

His eyes close. When they open again, they’re heavy with want. “I can do that.”

He kisses me slowly, deliberately, a claiming that starts soft and builds with devastating patience. His mouth moves over mine like we’re the only people in the world, like he’s memorizing the shape and taste of me. When his tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open for him with a gasp.

His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, then down to span my waist. The shirt, his shirt, is thin enough that I feel every scar on his palms. When he grips me and pulls me closer, I go willingly. My hands find his bare shoulders, mapping muscle and heat and how his skin twitches under my touch.

He breaks the kiss to drag his mouth down my jaw and throat, resting on the hammering pulse point beneath. When his teeth graze there, I arch into him, my pussy aching with need. He tightens his grip hard enough to bruise.

“Eli.” His name is a plea.

“I’ve got you.” He pulls back to look at me, and what I find in his face stops my lungs. Hunger, yes, but underneath is reverence. “Let me see you.”

My arms move automatically to cross over my body, to hide the soft curves and dimpled parts of myself I’ve spent years being ashamed of. But he catches my wrists gently, his touch firm without forcing. “Don’t.” The single word carries the weight of a command and a prayer. “Don’t hide from me.”

He guides my arms down to my sides and steps back just one step, just enough space to look. His eyes track down my body with an intensity that makes my skin flush from collarbone to navel. The shirt has ridden up, bunched around my hips, and I’m exposed in ways I haven’t been in years. Soft belly visible. The plush curve where my thighs meet. Breasts heavy beneath thin fabric, nipples peaked and obvious. Every part of me that I’ve learned to minimize, to apologize for, is on full display.

He curls his hands into fists at his sides. His jaw goes tight. A muscle jumps in his temple. He forces himself to control his breathing. “Every curve.” Each word sounds wrecked. “Every inch of this body. I’ve been going crazy.”

The words are heavy with need. Not judgment. Not disappointment. Hunger. Awe. Like my body is exactly what he wants, not despite its softness but because of it.

“You don’t have to—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“I know I don’t have to.” He closes the distance again. This time when he finds my waist, his hands slide up under the shirt, palms hot against my bare skin. “I want to. I’ve wanted to since that first day in the meadow.”

He maps my body’s curves and soft spots. When I tense, trying to pull away, he holds me still. “Breathe. Just let me.”