Page 62 of Braving the Storm

Or maybe, in my case, ruination.

“From the looks of it, you’re gonna have to slide out this side, darlin’.”

Chapter 20

My door is stuck.

Every single rational part of me is screaming, begging on bended knee, pleading with that door to pop open. To give me the excuse I’m searching for.

I shouldwantto escape this man.

No part of me is supposed to feel the call of that beckoning finger of fate, the tingling allure of sliding across that space between us, to willingly get any closer to my uncle.

A girl like me is meant to desire someone else, anyone else. Not the brooding, tattooed, sinfully hot cowboy with startling blue eyes.

Until now, we’ve avoided talking about things that have happened, neither of us seemed at a juncture when we might muster up the courage to figure out what the fuck keeps swirling and developing in the ether. All I know is that my body has pleaded with me all day for this man, at every moment and every turn. Watching him on the ranch, working with their cattle, riding his horse with all the skill and ease of a cowboy who would undoubtedly know how to use those skills in other ways. All while being jostled around in my own saddle until my nerves were frayedto pieces.

I barely held it together.

Now here we are, separated by four feet of bench seat, the very location where we’ve already crossed lines we shouldn’t have once before.

Unfortunately, for my sanity’s sake, my moral fiber, my ability to think clearly about any of this, I can’t bear to consider spending another night in that house, another night sharing a bed lying next to a man who I am agonizingly drawn to, a man I cannot touch, without my lungs bursting.

“Slide over.” His eyes glitter. The way he says those two words makes my pussy clench in memory of what happened the last time I obeyed that same order.

There is a part of my brain that knows what I’m supposed to do in this scenario. Who is implicitly aware of therightcourse of action to be taken in this moment.

I slam the door in that bitch’s face.

The woman inside me who doesn’t give a fuck, who is so sick of being denied what she wants, is a slut for this man.

She willingly does as he instructs.

“Fine.” Trying to sound disaffected, I give in, shifting my weight, inching along to the driver’s side, and get to the edge, he doesn’t move.

The temperature outside may be dropping rapidly, but my entire body feels like it has gone up in flames. I’m trapped here, peering up at him, and my brain feels like it has gone blank.

“Would you have gone home with him yesterday? If he asked you?” The man before me looms large, filling every inch of the open door, both palms flexing at the point where he grips the roof. He leisurely rests both hands, with arms extended above his head, filling and consuming the only available exit, like a god.

Fuck. There’s no way I can answer him honestly, without giving him more fuel to taunt me about mycrush,or whatever this fascination is. So, I settle for petulance by rolling my eyes. “I don’t need to answer that.”

“Briar. Humor me.” He’s gentling me. Giving me that huskyvoice, the one he uses when he coaxes the horses. Still. Not. Moving.

“No. I’m not playing that game.”

I can’t do this push-pull. I can’t play this fucked up version of truth or dare. I’m so messed up in the head that all I want is for this man to show me more than the couple of glimpses he’s given me now of how naturally my body responds to his instruction.

Of course, I’m going to have to find a way to satisfy that craving elsewhere.

Swinging my feet out the door, our legs are entwined, my bent knees brush the front of his shins, and the only option left is to shove past him. All I have to do is duck beneath his arms, to try my best to avoid looking at the perfectly fitted jeans right at my eye level, but as I do so my boots barely hit the ground.

My uncle—the man I’ve quickly become enamored with—circles my waist before I can run away, just like last night, and hauls me back. Spinning me around, slamming my front against the side of the truck, it happens so quickly that I flatten both palms in order to brace myself.

Trepidation, excitement, and delight rush through my veins in a heady concoction of feelings that shouldn’t coexist.

I’m caged in, and definitely, absolutely do not wish to be released.

“Storm.” My voice is breathy and needy; a white plume gusts past my lips with the chilled air temperature now that the spring sun has set.