Page 10 of Oops I Fell For The Rancher Next Door

"I don't own enough stuff to make a mess."

She sets the plate on the table. I get two forks. We eat standing up in my kitchen because neither of us moves toward a chair. Chicken thighs with roasted peppers, rice on the side. She wasn't lying. It's good.

"You didn't have to bring this."

"You've been feeding me firewood for two weeks. Consider it payback." She leans against my counter, fork in hand. Comfortable in a way she wasn't a week ago. Still careful, still watching, but the edges have softened.

"I thought about you," she says. Direct. Eyes on mine. "The last three days. I tried not to, but I'm not great at lying to myself."

The fork goes still in my hand.

"And I keep trying to talk myself out of this because my track record with men is a disaster." She sets her fork on the counter. "But you're not what I'm used to. You don't talk unless you mean it. You fix things without making me feel broken for needing them fixed. And when you look at me..."

She stops. Swallows.

"When I look at you what?"

"You look at me like I'm worth being patient for."

My chest splits open. This woman who flinches when people show up unexpected, who sleeps with her doors locked, who bled her own pipes rather than ask for help. Standing in my kitchen telling me she's been thinking about me for three days.

The plate gets pushed aside. I'm across the kitchen in two steps. My hands find her waist, her hips filling my palms. She tips her head back. Those dark eyes are wide and certain.

"I'm gonna kiss you," I tell her. "And then I'm gonna take you to my bed. If that's not what you came here for, tell me now."

Her answer is her fingers hooking into my belt loops, pulling my hips against hers. "I came here for this."

I kiss her. Deep, unhurried, my hand cupping the back of her neck. She opens for me, tongue meeting mine, a sound in her throat that goes straight to my cock. My other hand slides under the hem of her sweater. Warm skin. The curve of her waist, the soft give of her belly, the lace edge of her bra.

She tugs my shirt up. I pull it over my head. Her palms go flat on my chest, fingers spreading across the muscle. She looks. Really looks. Drags one finger down the center of my stomach.

"Jesus, Cade."

"Your turn."

The sweater comes off. Black bra underneath, simple, pretty against her skin. She's flushed from her chest to her throat. I trace my thumb along the lace edge where it meets the swell of her breast. Her breath catches.

I reach behind her. Unhook the clasp. The bra drops. Full breasts, heavy, dark nipples already tight. Beautiful.

My mouth finds the curve of her neck. Her collarbone. The slope of her breast. When I close my lips over her nipple, she grabs the back of my head, fingers digging into my hair. A sharp inhale. I suck, tongue flat, then flick until she arches into me.

"Bed," she breathes. "Now."

The bedroom is ten steps down the hall. She walks backward, pulling me by the waistband of my jeans, and sits on the edge of the mattress. I drop to my knees on the hardwood floor.

Her eyes widen. "What are you doing?"

"Taking my time." My hands find the button of her jeans. She lifts her hips. I peel the denim down, taking the underwear with it. Black cotton, matching the bra.

She's naked on my bed. Curves for miles. Soft thighs, rounded belly, dark hair between her legs. My hands settle on her knees, easing them apart, and her breath goes shaky.

I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh. Slow. Trailing upward. She grabs the quilt beneath her. When my breath hits her pussy, her hips jerk.

The first stroke of my tongue is slow. Base to clit, flat, tasting her. She's wet. Her thighs tense against my palms.

"Cade. Oh God."

I take my time. Long, deliberate strokes. Working her with my tongue, learning what makes her hips roll. When I seal my lips around her clit and suck, she moans loud enough to echo off the bedroom walls. My cock is straining against my jeans. Doesn't matter. This is about her.