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15

AUbrEY

I wake up with a start, forgetting where I am for a moment, my hand reaching for a gun that isn’t there. But then my eyes adjust to the firelight and I realize what woke me is the sound of footsteps on the stairs, the kind that are trying to be quiet.

I sit then twist around on the rug and look to see Jensen coming down the final step. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says softly.

“Didn’t know I was asleep,” I said, glancing over at the sleeping bag beside me. Last thing I remember was going to the washroom and having a make-shift bath using strong soap and a really cold wash cloth, then crawling into my pajamas. Seems I didn’t even make it into the sleeping bag.

Jensen crosses to the fireplace, crouching to add another log. Firelight plays across his features, throwing his face into sharp relief—all angles and shadows. I should get up, move to my sleeping bag, maintain some professional distance. Instead, I stay where I am, watching him.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask, drawing my knees to my chest. The cabin is drafty despite the fire, and I’m suddenly aware of how thin my sleep shirt is.

“Don’t sleep much these days.” He doesn’t look at me as he says it, focused on the fire. “Not in these mountains.”

Something in his tone makes me study him more carefully. The tension in his shoulders. The careful way he’s keeping space between us. The ghost of something haunted in his eyes when he finally turns to meet my gaze.

“What is it about these mountains that bothers you, Jensen?” I ask, keeping my voice pitched low so to not wake the others are asleep upstairs. “Something happened up here, didn’t it? Something you’re not telling me.”

His jaw tightens. “A lot of things happen in these mountains. Not all of them make for good bedtime stories.”

“Try me.” I hold his gaze, challenging him. “I’ve heard my share of nightmares.”

Lived through them, too.

He studies me for a long moment, firelight reflecting in his eyes, before moving to the kitchen. He pulls out a flask from a cupboard, unscrews the cap, and takes a long swallow before holding it out toward me in offering.

I almost refuse. I should refuse. But something about the night, the isolation, the way he’s looking at me—like he’s seeing straight through my carefully constructed walls—makes me hold out my hand.

He comes over and lowers it to me. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you show a lot of restraint.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I tell him as I take a sip. The whiskey burns a familiar path down my throat, warming me from within. “And a lot I don’t know about you.”

“I reckon that’s safer for both of us.” He reclaims the flask, his fingers brushing mine. Even that brief contact sends a current through me.

I should get up and go use the toilet. Put distance between us. It’s his proximity to me, his presence and heat that’s making it hard to remember why I’m really here. Instead, I take the flask back when he offers it, our eyes locked over the rim.

“Why are you really out here, Aubrey?” His voice has dropped, rougher now. “And don‘t give me that story about your sister. There’s more to it than that.”

The question catches me off guard, because I’m only here because of Lainey.

Aren’t I?

“Maybe I’m running from something,” I say instead. A partial truth. “Same as you.”

“What makes you think I’m running?” he says.

I shrug, looking back to the flames. “Just a hunch.”

Jensen takes the flask, sets it aside. He’s closer now, though I didn’t notice him move. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the pine and woodsmoke that cling to his clothes.

“And what are you running from, Aubrey Wells?” His voice has gone soft, the kind that leads to danger.

My pulse quickens. This is a precipice, and we both know it. I should back away. Should remember all the reasons why this is a terrible idea—he’s hiding something, I’m hiding something, we’re in the middle of nowhere with his crew sleeping above us.

Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn by something I can’t explain or resist.

The same thing that has drawn us together twice before.

“I’m running from my regrets,” I whisper.

His hand comes up to my face, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle against my cheek. There’s a moment where we both hover on the edge, where either of us could pull back.

Neither of us does.

His mouth finds mine in the firelight, and there’s nothing gentle about it. This is hunger, raw and demanding. I respond with equal fervor, months of tension igniting like dry tinder. My hands grip his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath worn flannel.

He pushes me back onto the rug, his weight settling over me, and I gasp into his mouth. The sound seems to remind him of the others upstairs, because he pulls back slightly, eyes dark with warning.

“Think you can stay quiet?” The rough edge in his voice sends a violent shiver through me.

I nod, already breathless. “I can try.”

“Try your hardest, then.”

He leans back and removes his shirt, then his pants, his cock standing at full attention and twitching slightly. I stare at it, at the bead of moisture at the tip glinting in the firelight. When I finally tear my gaze away and look up at his face, he’s wearing a smirk, satisfied with my reaction.

Then the smirk fades and he’s at me. His lips are on my neck now, hot and insistent, and any thought of restraint vanishes. My fingers tangle in his soft hair, nails dragging down his back. He groans low in his throat, the vibration of it making me bite back a moan.

He catches both my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head. “What did I just say about staying quiet?” There’s a dangerous amusement in his tone.

“I didn’t—” I start to protest, but he cuts me off with another bruising kiss.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” he mutters against my mouth. “Maybe you want that.”

His other hand slides up under my shirt, finding bare skin, tugging at my pebbled nipples and I think maybe he’s right. Maybe I want everyone to know exactly what I’m doing with this man who makes me forget everything else.

He’s pushing my pajama shirt higher, his mouth following the trail left by his hand. “Jensen,” I gasp, and this time it’s a plea.

He pauses, lips hovering above my skin. “You want me to stop, darlin’?” The words are rough, reluctant.

“No,” I say quickly, arching against him. “I want more.”

His answering groan is almost a growl. He shifts lower, mouth hot on my ribs, my stomach. The anticipation of where he’s headed—the blatant promise in his eyes as he looks up at me—makes my breath catch.

Then he’s there, settling between my thighs with deliberate slowness, and everything else fades away.

“Quiet,” he reminds me again, wicked satisfaction in his voice before he leans in. The first touch of his tongue nearly undoes me completely.

I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out, squirming beneath the unrelenting pressure of his mouth. I thank the Lord I had the foresight to wash myself earlier. Especially as he doesn’t let up for a second, hands gripping my hips to hold me still as he takes me apart piece by piece.

Each stroke sends me higher, pushes me closer to the edge I didn’t know I was so ready to fall from.

When he finally lets me tumble over it, stars explode behind my eyes and I’m moaning his name and I don’t care who hears.

He’s back over me before I’ve even caught my breath, one hand coming up to cover my mouth like he knew I’d be this loud. His eyes are fierce in the firelight, daring me to lose control again.

“Not being a very good girl, are you?” he says gruffly.

Then he grabs my side and with one swift, strong movement flips me onto my stomach. My cheek presses against the rug, the fire crackling inches away. I barely have time to brace myself before he’s lifting my hips, his hand wrapping around my mouth again and pulling me upright just as he positions himself at my entrance.

The first thrust is slow, a gradual stretch that makes me gasp beneath his hand. He pauses like he’s giving me a moment to catch my breath, teasingly still inside of me.

“Stay quiet, darlin’.”

It’s hard to obey when he’s all I can feel, all I can think about. Every nerve in my body is wound tight, every inch of me straining toward him. When he finally starts to move again, it’s maddeningly slow, each stroke precise and controlled.

I wriggle back against him, desperate for more. This time the sound I make is a furious whimper, half-muffled by his palm, and it only seems to spur him on.

The sensation is overwhelming, raw and deep and everything I’ve been craving without letting myself admit it.

He moves with a punishing rhythm, one hand gripping my waist, the other around my mouth. Every thrust pushes a strangled noise from me, and I can’t tell if I’m afraid of someone hearing or desperate for them to.

“You’re even tighter than I imagined,” he growls. His words send a jolt through me; his voice so low and rough is almost enough to make me come again. “You want everyone to hear how hard I’m fucking you?”

I shake my head no—yes—who knows? Nothing makes sense except the two of us on this cabin floor. He shifts his angle slightly, each movement sending shockwaves through my entire body until I’m right on the edge again.

“Jensen,” I gasp out against his palm, unable to stay quiet like he wants. Like we both know we should.

“Can’t even follow simple instructions,” he says with a dark chuckle, but there’s no real reproach in it.

He releases my mouth, and I fall forward like a ragdoll, digging my fingers into the rug as he drives into me faster than ever. The fire blurs with the rest of the room until nothing exists but the heat he’s building inside me. My body is clenching around him, demanding more, more, and then I’m coming again, harder than before.

Jensen lets out a rough noise of satisfaction and pounds into me, dragging out every last tremor until I’m sure I’ll split apart. Finally, he’s pulling out only to thrust back in, deep and hard, and I can feel when he reaches his own breaking point. His fingers grip me like a vice as he shudders through it, staying inside until we’re both too spent to move.

For a moment, the cabin is filled with nothing but our ragged breaths and the crackle of the dying fire. He collapses beside me on the floor, yanking me against him without undoing his hold on my waist. It’s possessive and inevitable—like him—and I melt into it despite myself.

“Just as I thought,” Jensen murmurs against my hair. There’s a teasing edge to his voice that has my heart knocking against my ribs. “You’re as stubborn as Angus.”

“I take orders well when they suit me,” I mutter, but I’m grinning like an idiot.

He laughs softly and pulls me closer, his heartbeat steadying under my ear as we lie tangled together. I’m not sure how long we stay like that before he finally shifts to look at me, his expression serious.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he says finally, voice low and rough. His eyes search mine in the firelight, looking for understanding, for agreement. “You know that, right? I mean that it can’t.”

I push up on one elbow to look at him, studying his face. The harsh planes and shadows, the careful distance already returning to his gaze even as his body remains pressed against mine.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, cowboy,” I answer as casually as I can muster.

He meets my eyes, and for once, I think I’m seeing the real Jensen McGraw—not the mask he wears for the world, but the man beneath. Complicated. Haunted. And running from something, the same as I am.

“When morning comes, we go back to business,” he says. “We keep searching for your sister. We don’t talk about this.”

I should feel used. Should feel angry at the dismissal. Instead, I find myself nodding. Because the truth is, I need the distance as much as he does. Whatever this was—release, connection, momentary weakness—it can’t happen again. Not if I want to keep my focus. Not if I want to find Lainey.

“Agreed.” I reach for my discarded clothes, suddenly needing the armor they provide.

Jensen watches me dress without moving, firelight playing across his bare chest. I can feel his eyes tracking every movement, memorizing. When I’m finished, I glance toward my untouched sleeping bag.

“Get some sleep,” he says, already pulling on his jeans. “Dawn comes early in these mountains.”

I nod, retreating to my sleeping bag, putting physical distance between us even as my body still hums with the memory of his touch. Tomorrow we’ll be guide and client again. Professional. Distant. Guarded.

But as I slip into the bag, watching him move around the cabin with that fluid grace that first caught my attention, I know one thing with absolute certainty: whatever just happened between us was real. Raw. Honest in a way nothing else has been since I arrived at Lost Trail Ranch.

“Jensen,” I say softly as he heads for the stairs.

He pauses, looking back at me over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Words fail me. What am I even trying to say? That I shouldn’t want him? That despite everything, I can’t bring myself to regret what just happened?

“Nothing,” I say finally. “Just…goodnight.”

Something flickers in his eyes. A softness. “Goodnight, Aubrey.”

He climbs the stairs without another word, his footsteps fading into silence. I stare at the ceiling, listening to the crackle of the fire, feeling the weight of all the things we didn’t say.

In the morning, we’ll pretend this never happened. We’ll avoid each other’s eyes over breakfast. We’ll keep our distance.

But the memory of his hands on my skin, his voice rough in my ear, the way he looked at me like he was drowning and I was both the water and the air—those things will follow us. Into the mountains. Into whatever dangers await us there.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.