Page 119 of Wild Sanctuary

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do. A gentle rumble. Very distinguished.” I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at him. The sheet has pooled at his waist, and the expanse of his chest and shoulders is frankly unreasonable in the early morning light, broad and tan with dark hair that narrows to a line below his navel.

Last night I woke him when I traced that line with my mouth and felt his whole body go rigid, and the memory of it sends a flush crawling up my neck. “Like a bear in a very respectable cave.”

“You’re comparin’ me to a bear?”

“A handsome bear.”

He pulls me down before I can say anything else, one arm hooking around my waist as his other hand slides into my hair and tips my face to his to cover my mouth with his.

His mouth is warm and sure, and when his tongue slides against mine, I make a sound that would embarrass me if I weren’t already past the point of caring. His hand on my thigh tightens and slides higher, dragging the shirt up with it, and I arch into his touch because my body already knows the map of his hands.

I shift on top of him, straddling his hips, and the feel of him hard beneath me through the sheet makes us both go still. His hands settle on my hips, fingers pressing into the soft skin, and he looks up at me with those green eyes gone dark and half-lidded.

“Hi,” I whisper, tugging my bottom lip between my teeth with a sharp inhale when he pumps his hips upward into me.

“Hi.” His thumbs trace circles on my hipbones, and his gaze drops to where his shirt hangs open on my frame, the collar slipped off one shoulder and the hem barely covering my thighs. The way he’s looking at me right now could power a small town. “That’s my shirt.”

“It is.”

“Looks better on you.” He sits up in one fluid motion, both arms wrapping around me so I’m in his lap with my legs around him, and presses his mouth to the exposed shoulder where the collar has fallen. His lips are warm, his stubble scrapes lightly against my skin, and I shiver despite the heat building between us. “Looks a hell of a lot better on you.”

I tilt my head to give him access, and his mouth trails down my neck to my collarbone, open-mouthed and slow, taking his time. His hand slides up my back under the shirt, palm flat against my spine, pulling me closer until there’s no space left.

“Wyatt.” Breathless and low. The version that’s his alone.

“Yeah, baby.” He swivels those hips again, making me gasp.

“I want⁠—”

A truck horn blares from the driveway.

We both freeze. His forehead drops to my shoulder, and the groan he lets out is so tortured it borders on theatrical.

“Ignore it,” I whisper.

“Can’t.” Despite that, he doesn’t move. His arms stay locked around me and his face stays buried in the curve of my neck, and for three glorious seconds I think he might actually choose this over whatever fresh crisis has arrived at his front door.

Then Colt’s voice carries through the open window, loud and cheerful in a way that can only be intentional, and the reality of ranch life floods back in.

“Mornin’, sunshine! Rhett’s got thirty head on the county road—they pushed through the east fence overnight and Brennan’s already called twice about ’em blockin’ his feed truck. Also, someone backed into the squeeze chute gate and it’s hangin’ off one hinge, and I need the keys to the equipment shed because apparently I’m the only person on this ranch who can weld. Oh, and West called. He’s stayin’ an extra day in Billings. That mare he went to see needs more time before she’ll trailer.”

Wyatt exhales against my neck. A long, measured breath that sounds like a man counting to ten and getting stuck at four.

“I’m goin’ to kill him.”

“You can’t kill him.” I try and fail to keep the smile from my voice. “He’s just too useful.”

“Watch me.” But he’s already easing me off his lap with the careful reluctance of someone setting down something precious. His hands linger on my hips, thumbs pressing lightly before he drops a kiss to my lips.

Then he stands up and pulls on jeans without bothering with underwear. The view is medically inadvisable for my heart rate, and I press my thighs together, keeping my mouth shut, because if I open it right now, Colt’s heifers are on their own.

He grabs a flannel from the back of the chair and shrugs into it without buttoning it, then turns back to me, one hand braced on the doorframe. The morning light catches the hard lines of his shoulders and the strip of bare chest between the open flannel in a way that confirms God does indeed have a wild sense of humor.

“Don’t move.”

“Where would I go?” And I realize as I say it, I’m not being cute. I genuinely can’t think of a single place I’d rather be.