Page 10

Eight

Emery

I wake up wrapped in warmth and the scent of pine and man.

For a moment, I don't remember where I am. Then Colt's arm tightens around me, pulling me closer against his chest, and everything comes flooding back. The storm. His mouth on me. The way he made me fall apart while staying completely in control.

The way he called himself Daddy and made it sound like a promise.

I should be embarrassed. Instead, I feel claimed. Cherished. Like I've been marked in some fundamental way that has nothing to do with the physical and everything to do with the way he looked at me.

Like I belonged to him.

"Morning, baby girl."

His voice is rough with sleep, rumbling through his chest where my cheek is pressed. I tilt my head up to look at him, and those pale blue eyes are already focused on me with laser intensity.

"Hi," I whisper.

"Sleep okay?"

"Better than I have in months." Usually I wake up three or four times a night, but wrapped in Colt's arms, I slept like the dead.

"Good girl." He presses a kiss to the top of my head, his hand spanning my back. “You sore?”

A massive hand caresses down my side, ending up between my legs with a soft pat.

“Yes. Like a reminder, but not enough to need medical care.”

His chest lifts with a low chuckle. “I’ll have to try harder next time.”

My turn to chuckle. “I don’t think harder is your problem.”

"Not with you around, babe.” He kisses the top of my head. “Storm's over. But you're not going anywhere yet."

“I have clients today,” I answer, making a little circle with my fingers on the broken heart tattoo.

"It’s early. I’ll make sure you get to town on time." His hand slides down my spine. "Right now, Daddy's going to feed you."

Feed me. Not cook breakfast or grab a bite. Feed me.

"I can make something," I offer.

"No." The word comes out firm. "You don't cook in my house, baby girl. That's my job."

Before I can argue, he's sliding out of bed and padding to the dresser. He pulls out a flannel shirt and tosses it to me.

"Put this on. Nothing underneath."

I slip into it, and it falls to mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips. The soft fabric brushes against my bare skin, and I catch him watching the way it drapes over my curves with hungry eyes.

In the kitchen, he moves with easy efficiency, wearing just a pair of those plaid lumberboxers, the outline of his hard cock keeping a smile permanently plastered on my face.

He starts to pull ingredients from the refrigerator. I perch on a stool at the counter, hyperaware of how the shirt rides up my thighs, watching his hands as he works, the smell of fresh coffee already assailing my nose as he grabs two cups.

Not mugs. Cups. Actual china cups.

“Coffee?” he asks, barely turning his head.

“Yes, but—” I’m about to tell him about my dairy allergy when he pulls the carton from the fridge. “You drink vanilla oat milk?”

“Nope. You do, though.”

He pours the drinks and sets one in front of me, and I can’t help the frown on my face.

"You know," I say, taking a sip of the coffee, "most people don't stock up on oat milk they don’t even drink."

"Most people don't plan ahead."

"Is that what this is? Planning ahead?"

He looks up from the stove, something almost vulnerable in his expression. "Hoping ahead, maybe."

My chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to love.

My phone buzzes on the counter, I note the time is 7:15 and I reach for it as Logan's name flashes on the screen.

"I should probably—"

But before I can finish, Colt's hand covers mine, plucking the phone away.

"Logan?" he asks, reading the screen.

"He's probably worried about the storm. I usually check in after a call in the evening."

Colt's thumb slides across the screen, tapping the speaker.

“Girl—” Logan’s voice starts, but Colt cuts him off.

“Sheriff Boone here. She’s busy. I’ll be sure she’s at work on time.” He hangs up. "No more calls from other men when you're in Daddy's house."

"That was rude."

"That was a rule." He sets the phone on the high shelf above the refrigerator, well out of my reach. "I don't like sharing your attention."

The red flag possessiveness should probably annoy me. Instead, it sends a round of warm wetness down into my already sore and battered pleasure zone.

"You can't just take my phone." I screw up my face as she shrugs.

"I can do whatever I want." He turns back to the stove, flipping eggs with practiced ease.

"You're in my house, wearing my shirt with nothing underneath, still tasting like me.

Your pussy took me like a champ last night.

You screamed my name like you wanted the entire population of Wildfire to know you were getting good and properly fucked by the town sheriff. Pretty sure that makes you mine."

"Colt," I blow out a raspberry, squeezing my legs together, “cavemen are out, you know. Women want a man that is considerate of their feelings, treats them with respect and as an equal.”

"Yep. I agree. I’m not for everyone, but that doesn’t matter. I’m for you. That’s all that matters, now, eat." He slides a plate in front of me loaded with eggs, bacon, and toast cut into triangles. "All of it."

“My allergies—”

“Dairy free butter alternative. Pure olive oil. Any other allergies I should know about?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“Good. Then do as Daddy says.”

I should argue. But the food smells amazing, and there’s something about his bossy but caring manner that hits me in a secret spot I didn’t now I had.

I want some of this. The way he takes away some of the choices, simplifies things, makes some of the noise in my head go quiet.

And there's something about the way he's watching me, like my eating matters to him personally, that makes me want to please him.

So I eat. And he watches every bite, chomping on toast, sipping his coffee, shirtless, nodding approval when I clean my plate.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise makes my heart flutter and a warm comfort settle over me like a security blanket.

After breakfast, we settle on the couch. The storm has mostly passed, which means eventually I'll have to leave this warm bubble we've created.

The thought makes my chest ache.

"What are you thinking about?" Colt asks, pulling me into his lap. His hands settle on my hips, thumbs stroking the soft skin just under the hem of his shirt.

"Nothing important."

"Don't lie to me." His hand cups my face, thumb stroking across my cheek. "Tell Daddy what's bothering you."

"I don't want this to end," I admit.

"Who says it has to?"

"Reality? I have a job, a life—"

"You have a life here." His arms tighten around me. "With me."

"It's been two days, Colt."

"So?"

"So normal people don't make life decisions based on two days."

"Normal people don't feel like this." His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back. "Normal people don't look at someone and know they're meant to be theirs."

My breath catches. "Is that what you think? That I'm meant to be yours?"

"I don't think it, baby girl. I know it."

Before I can respond, he's kissing me again, slow and deep and claiming. When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"I need to call Logan back," I say weakly.

"No."

"Colt—"

"He can wait." His mouth moves to my neck, finding that sensitive spot that makes me gasp. "Right now you're exactly where you need to be. Where Daddy wants you."

His hands slide under the flannel shirt, fingers tracing up my thighs, and I forget how to breathe.

"Spread your legs for me, baby girl."

I do, and he groans when he finds me already wet for him.

"Christ, look at you. So ready for Daddy." His fingers slide through my slickness, circling my clit with just enough pressure to make me whimper. "I'm going to make you come again. Right here on my couch, wearing nothing but my shirt."

"Colt, please—"

"Please what?" He slides one thick finger inside me, and my back arches off the couch. "Tell Daddy what you need."

"More," I gasp. "Please, more."

He adds another finger, stretching me, his thumb working my clit in slow circles that have me panting his name.

"That's it, baby girl. Let me hear you. Let me know how good Daddy makes you feel."

I'm already close, wound tight from his touch and the way he's looking at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted.

"Come for me," he growls, curling his fingers inside me. "Come all over Daddy's hand."

I shatter, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through me. He works me through it, murmuring praise against my neck until I'm boneless and shaking in his arms.

"Such a good girl," he whispers, pressing soft kisses to my throat. "So perfect for me."

“I have to go,” I moan.

"Actually," he growls, stepping between my thighs, "I think I'll have dessert first."

Before I can respond, he's pushing the shirt up and dropping to his knees. His tongue finds my still-sensitive clit, and I cry out, my hands fisting in his hair.

"Colt, I can't—I just—"

"You can." His voice is muffled against me, vibrating through my core. "Give Daddy another one, baby girl. I want to taste you again."

He works me with his mouth and fingers until I'm sobbing his name, coming apart on his kitchen counter while he holds my thighs open and devours me like a man starved.

When I finally come down, he's looking up at me with such hunger that it steals my breath.

Every touch sends sparks through me, and by the time we're done eating, I'm squirming against him.

But then, in the quiet moment after, reality starts creeping in.

What am I doing? I have a three-year-old son at home. I made myself a promise after Legend's father—no men, no relationships, not until Legend was older and could understand. Not until I was sure someone wouldn't just walk away when things got complicated.

And Colt... God, when I asked about kids, he said "hell no" like the idea was repulsive. What kind of mother am I, getting involved with someone who clearly doesn't want children? Legend is my whole world. He has to come first.

But then Colt's hand trails up my spine, and his voice is soft against my ear. "What's going on in that head of yours, baby girl?"

I look up at him—this big, protective man who carried me up his steps in the rain, who makes me coffee exactly how I like it, who holds me like I'm precious. The same man who leaves emergency supplies in my car and insists on following me home.

"Just thinking," I whisper.

Maybe I misunderstood what he meant about kids. Maybe "hell no" meant not with anyone else, not no way ever. And maybe... maybe Legend needs this too. Needs to see what it looks like when a man takes care of someone. Needs a strong male figure who won't disappear.

Besides, this is just physical, right? Just this overwhelming need between us. It doesn't have to mean anything more.

"Needy little thing," he murmurs against my ear. "Can't get enough of Daddy, can you?"

And just like that, rational thought disappears under a wave of pure want.

Damn it, I'm a woman with needs. I haven't had sex in almost four years—not since Legend's father. Four years of being nothing but "Mama," of putting every desire on the back burner, of telling myself I didn't need anyone.

But I do need this. Need him. My body is screaming for his touch, and I'm so tired of being responsible all the time. So tired of denying myself everything.

This doesn't have to be forever. It can just be... this. A fling. A few stolen moments where I get to be Emery instead of just Legend's mom. Where I get to feel wanted and desired and completely claimed.

My hormones have officially hijacked my brain, and for once in my life, I don't care.

"No," I admit breathlessly. "I can't."

"Good." His hand slides up my thigh, fingers finding me wet and ready again. "Because I'm nowhere near done with you."

This time he takes me right there in the kitchen chair, his fingers working magic while I ride his hand and fall apart in his arms over and over again until I'm sobbing with pleasure.

By the time we're finally sated, it's past eight in the morning and the storm has completely cleared. I'm thoroughly wrecked and wearing nothing but his flannel. My body feels like liquid, every nerve ending singing with satisfaction.

"I should go," I say reluctantly, checking the time on the phone he finally returns to me. "I have patients scheduled, and you probably need to get to the station."

"Probably," he agrees, but his hands don't stop their lazy exploration of my thighs. "Sheriff duties and all that."

"Colt—"

"I know." He sighs and finally pulls away. "Real world's calling."

Twenty minutes later, I'm dressed and walking to my car on shaky legs, hyperaware of the way he's watching me from his porch. When I slide behind the wheel, he's already heading to his truck.

"Where are you going?" I call out.

"Following you down. Storm like that, there could be washouts, trees across the road." He gives me a look like I should have known better than to ask. "You don't drive these mountain roads alone after weather like that."

Of course he's going to escort me. Again.

The drive down is careful and cautious, his headlights steady in my rearview mirror. True to his prediction, we have to navigate around two small rockslides and a fallen branch, but his truck easily pushes through what my car couldn't handle.

When we reach the main road, he pulls up beside me and rolls down his window.

"Call me when you get to the office," he says.

"You just watched me drive the dangerous part."

"Call me anyway." He leans out and motions me closer until he can kiss me through our windows, slow and possessive. "And baby girl? I'll pick you up at six. We're going back up tonight."

It's not a question.

I drive to work with his taste still on my lips and the absolute certainty that I'm already in way over my head. But for the first time in years, I can't bring myself to care.