Page 5 of Montana Justice

Piper

Lachlan’s house sat nestled between towering pines on a quiet street a couple minutes outside downtown, the kind of place that whispered stability and permanence. White siding, dark green shutters, a porch light that cast a warm, welcoming glow.

“Home sweet home,” he said, pulling into the driveway.

I clutched my backpack tighter as we walked to the front door. On the small porch, I spotted hiking boots kicked carelessly beside the entrance and a welcome mat that actually looked welcoming instead of like a cruel joke.

Inside, the house was thoroughly, devastatingly normal.

A leather couch that had molded itself to its owner’s preferences faced a stone fireplace.

Sports magazines shared space with a crossword puzzle on the coffee table—half finished, like he’d been working on it over morning coffee.

The kitchen opened into the living room, and I spotted a single plate and mug in the sink—evidence of an ordinary morning routine.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, following my gaze.

“This isn’t mess.” I set my backpack down carefully, fighting not to wince as the movement pulled at my ribs. “This is what a home looks like.”

Everything about this place spoke of permanence. Of someone who expected to wake up in the same bed tomorrow, who had favorite coffee mugs and a preferred spot on the couch. Who belonged somewhere.

“Can I get you something to drink? Water, soda, beer?”

“Water would be perfect.”

I watched him move through his kitchen with unconscious familiarity, pulling a glass from the cabinet like he’d done it a thousand times before, filling it from a filter pitcher in the refrigerator. Such ordinary actions, but they fascinated me. This was his space, his rhythm, his peace.

The glass was actual glass, not plastic. Heavy and solid in my hands. When he passed it to me, our fingers brushed, and the contact sent electricity shooting up my arm. From the way his breath caught, he felt it too.

“Guest room’s upstairs,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than it had been moments before.

The narrow staircase was lined with framed photos. I caught glimpses as we climbed—formal ceremonies, group shots with friends, moments that told the story of someone who’d chosen his path deliberately.

The guest room was simple but comfortable—a double bed with a blue quilt that looked handmade, a dresser that had the soft patina of age and care.

“Bathroom’s right across the hall. Clean towels are in the linen closet.” He paused in the doorway, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Make yourself at home.”

He was leaving to go to his room. Of course he was. Did I really expect anything but the perfect gentleman out of him? That was why I was here, right? Because I’d known that was what he would do: offer me a place to rest that was safe and clean and warm without any expectations in return.

From anybody else, that would be a godsend. But with Lachlan, I found I wanted more.

I knew this was my last night in Garnet Bend. That after tomorrow, I’d never see him again. The thought should have made me sad, but instead, it made me reckless. Made me want to reach for something good, even if I could only have it for a few hours.

“Lachlan,” I said, taking a step closer, stopping him as he turned. “Wait.”

He studied me with those deep brown eyes, wondering what I would do.

“I…” I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d had sex before, of course, both for good and bad reasons, but I’d never really been in a situation where I was the one initiating things solely because I wanted to be with the man. “Can I stay with you tonight? Not just in your guest room. With you.”

“Is that what you really want?” His voice was deep. Thick.

“Yes.”

“Yes. But I want you to know, we don’t have to have sex. We can just hold each other, if that’s what you need.”

I wrapped my arms around my middle. Maybe he wasn’t interested in sex with me. I couldn’t blame him. “Is that what you want?”

He stepped closer, slowly reaching up and tucking a strand of my awful dark dye job behind my ear.

“I’m a healthy man, and you’re a beautiful woman who has intrigued me—albeit in a different way—since you were a teenager.

All I’m saying is that we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. We can take things slowly.”

No, we couldn’t. Because I’d be gone in the morning. “I want you. Tonight.”

His hands came up to frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with devastating tenderness. The simple touch sent heat racing through my veins, made me lean into his palms like a flower turning toward the sun.

“Piper,” he said, my name rough on his lips.

When he kissed me, the world contracted to just this—his lips moving against mine with patience and reverence. Not taking, but giving. Not demanding, but asking.

I melted into him, fisting my hands in his shirt as longing flowed over me like a tide. This was what I’d dreamed about during those endless nights when violence echoed through thin walls. This connection, this feeling of being wanted instead of used.

He slid his hands into my hair, tilting my head back so he could deepen the kiss. I gasped into his mouth, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my knees weak.

I pressed closer, feeling the hard planes of his chest against my breasts, the evidence of his arousal against my core.

My hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging upward, desperate to feel skin against skin.

I ignored the twinge of my ribs and the soreness of my lip from where Ray had hit me.

I wasn’t going to let any of that into this room.

He broke away from my mouth, trailing kisses down my throat while I worked his shirt over his head. When I finally got it off, I ran my hands over his chest, memorizing the feel of warm skin and lean muscle.

“God, Piper,” he breathed against my neck, his hands skimming down my sides to the hem of my sweater.

He lifted it slowly, his fingers trailing fire across my skin as he exposed my stomach, my ribs. When the fabric cleared my head, his eyes darkened as they took in the simple white bra I wore.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his hands settling on my waist.

He traced the edge of my bra with one finger, making me shiver. Then his hands were on my breasts, cupping them through the thin cotton, his thumbs brushing over my nipples until they peaked against the fabric.

I arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips. He reached behind me, unclasping my bra with practiced ease, and when it fell away, he groaned low in his throat.

“So beautiful,” he said again, his hands replacing the fabric, skin against skin now.

The sensation was overwhelming. I’d never been touched like this—with reverence, with desire that felt clean instead of dirty. When he bent his head to take one nipple into his mouth, I gasped and threaded my fingers through his hair.

He lavished attention on my breasts, his tongue and teeth making me writhe against him. Heat was building low in my belly, an ache I’d never felt before. When he slid his hand down to cup me through my jeans, I nearly came apart.

“Lachlan,” I breathed, my hips moving against his palm.

He popped the button of my jeans and slid the zipper down slowly. He slipped his hand inside my panties, and when his fingers found me wet and ready, he groaned against my breast.

“Christ, Piper. You’re so wet.”

One finger slipped inside me, and I cried out at the sensation. He added another, his thumb finding my clit in a way that almost made stars explode behind my eyelids. I was grinding against his hand now, chasing a release I’d never experienced with another person.

“That’s it,” he murmured against my ear. “Let go for me.”

His fingers moved faster, deeper, and when he curled them just right, I shattered completely, my body convulsing around his hand as pleasure crashed through me in waves.

I was still shaking when he kissed me again, his fingers slipping out of me to work my jeans down my legs. He lifted me and carried me into his room, laying me on the bed, his hands everywhere—skimming over my ribs, trailing down to remove my panties.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rough with desire but his eyes serious. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. At any point you want to stop, just say the word…”

Instead of answering with words, I reached for his belt buckle. His sharp intake of breath when I freed him from his jeans made heat pool between my legs again.

He eased back to grab a condom from the nightstand, rolled it on, then moved back toward me, almost predatory in nature, but in the best way.

When he stopped suddenly, gaze glued to my torso, I knew he’d spotted the purple bruising along the side and back of my ribs on the right side.

“What happened?” His fingers hovered over the marks.

“I’m clumsy,” I said, the lie coming automatically. “Fell down some stairs a few days ago.”

He studied my face for a long moment, and I could see him processing, questioning.

“I promise, I’m fine. A lesson in not trying to carry too many bags of groceries at once.”

Evidently, that lie had enough detail to make him think I was telling the truth. Finally something my father taught me coming to good use.

I wrapped my hand around him, and any lingering concerns he had seemed to dissolve under the heat building between us.

He moved over me, once again kissing his way down my body.

This was different from anything I’d experienced before.

He touched me like I was something precious, his hands and mouth worshipping every inch of exposed skin.

When he finally slid inside me, I gasped at the exquisite feel of him stretching me. I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. He groaned my name, his forehead pressed against mine as he moved inside me with slow, deliberate strokes that built heat low in my belly.