Page 36 of Tempting Wyatt (Triple Creek Ranch #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ivy

I’M DREAMING. I HAVE TO BE.

I’m back in the Third Avenue apartment again, the one we spent a summer in when I was nine. It’s the reason I’m claustrophobic and I freak the hell out if anyone blocks the exits. It’s smoke-filled and hot, and I can’t find Mr. Bojangles anywhere.

My mom had to work late, or maybe she had a date after work—I can’t remember. But she sent Miss Wilson from across the hall over to check on me earlier. Miss Wilson is half blind, but she made me a frozen pizza for dinner. She burned it. But I salvaged what I could because I was starving.

I can still smell it burning.

The smoke fills my lungs.

“Mom?” I try to cry out, but I can’t.

My voice won’t work, and when I open my mouth, smoke pours down my throat, choking me.

The apartment is tiny, but it’s a dark, smoky maze, and I can’t see anything. I run into the wall and feel Mr. Bojangles dart past me.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” I call to him, but he’s gone.

I can’t see. I can’t breathe.

The smoke reaches a scorching hand down my throat, causing me to cough uncontrollably. My chest burns, and my head hurts as I reach out and try to blindly feel my way to the door.

When I finally find it, the small futon that functions as our couch is blocking it.

I got scared before going to bed and moved it in case someone tried to break in.

It wasn’t heavy enough to stop anyone, but I figured it would slow them down, and I could climb out the window.

Now I’m bumping into it while panicking because I can’t get to the doorknob.

Sirens cry out in the distance, but they’re so far away. No one will be able to help me in time.

I can’t find Mr. Bojangles. I had to beg my mom to let me keep the tiny orange-and-black kitten someone had left beneath the fast-food restaurant’s dumpster. I’m still calling out his name and yelling for my mom when the firefighter grabs me.

He tosses me over his shoulder the same way Wyatt did.

Then he transforms into Wyatt as we go up in flames.

And that’s when I wake up. Sweat-drenched and struggling for air, I come to in a quaint but cozy cabin.

Blinking in the dusky light just before sunrise, the apartment fades from my memory. But the smoke doesn’t. It still permeates the air all around me.

I’m not in California. I’m in Montana. Sweaty, trapped in covers I must’ve tangled myself in.

It was just a dream. A nightmare. But the smoke is very real. Thick and cloying, making the air difficult to breathe.

I cough and stand on shaky legs. Is the cabin on fire?

Out the back window, I see flames, and without thinking twice, I run out the front door in a panic.

I’ve barely made it off the porch when I slam into a solid wall of muscle in a flannel shirt.

“Fire. There’s a fire,” I cry out, breathless, more in panic than pain, but the collision knocked the wind out of me so my voice is barely audible.

Wyatt holds me by the shoulders. “Ivy,” he says firmly. “Hey. Look at me.”

I look up at his handsome face, but I’m lost in the past. Trapped in a memory I thought I’d buried long ago.

“I couldn’t get Mr. Bojangles out,” I say, realizing that tears are leaking down my face and wiping them away quickly.

“My mom was . . . she wasn’t home. I was alone.

There was so much smoke. I couldn’t find him.

They never found him.” My voice trails off as I remember everything I tried to forget about that night.

“Just breathe, baby. You’re okay. It’s okay. Breathe.” He pulls me to his chest and holds me there, his big, warm arms providing a safe shelter around me. I breathe him in until my body relaxes.

I whisper my grounding affirmations from therapy to myself. “This isn’t real. It’s a memory. I am safe.”

Wyatt holds me tighter, the safety and security of his arms protecting me from the pain in my past.

I had to go to the hospital for smoke inhalation.

When they couldn’t get in touch with my mom and she didn’t show up when I was discharged, I remained with a social worker for a full day.

When my mom finally did come get me, she wasn’t worried about whether or not I was okay.

She was mad. The apartment had been destroyed, and she blamed me.

Said I should’ve been more responsible, double-checked that the oven was off and noticed the dish towel that Miss Wilson had left trapped in its door.

We didn’t have oven mitts, so she’d used it instead to remove my pizza.

“You’re safe, sweetheart. It’s a controlled burn,” he says calmly. “The wind shifted and blew the smoke in your direction, so I wanted to check on you.”

I nod against his chest because I do comprehend what he’s saying and understand that there’s no immediate danger, but I’m hyperventilating, and I can’t get control of it.

“Sorry,” I gasp. “Stupid nightmare.”

Like an enemy from my past, the smoke seems to be reaching for me, as if it failed to get me back then, so it’s returned to finish the job.

Wyatt keeps his arms around me and tucks me under his chin. When my panic attack subsides, he lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing and carries me like I’m a bride down the path toward his cabin.

I inhale his scent, grounding myself in the safety of his solid presence. I rest my head on his shoulder, burying my face in his shirt as the embarrassment settles over me. I haven’t had that nightmare in over a decade. The farther we get from my cabin, the easier the air becomes to breathe.

But the hotter my humiliation grows.

I’m in a threadbare, old concert T-shirt and nothing else. As if I haven’t shown my ass enough already.

I groan in his arms.

“Are you hurt?”

I shake my head against his chest. “Just a little embarrassed. And, um, I don’t have pants on,” I tell him.

An odd sound rumbles through his chest. “You can borrow some when we get to my place.”

I pull back and look up at him. “They’ll probably fit perfectly.”

His dark eyes meet mine. “They’ll swallow you whole, but at least you’ll be warm.”

Like the gentleman that he is, Wyatt sets me down on his front porch and holds the front door open for me. When he doesn’t follow me inside, I tug my shirt down as much as I can and turn to face him.

“Pants are in the bedroom in the bottom dresser drawer,” he says, working hard to keep his eyes north of my exposed thighs. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to go check on the guys, see how the burn is going.”

Vulnerability crashes over me again. I don’t want him to go. I don’t want to be alone.

My whole life, I’ve been alone. And I was fine with it—or I learned to convince myself I was. But right now, I feel like I’ll dissolve into a puddle if he leaves.

“Do you have to?”

He looks confused by my question. “Do I have to what?”

A lump forms in my throat. “Go. To help with the burn.”

He stares at me for what feels like forever. His jaw flexes.

He’s torn, and I want to tell him it’s fine if he needs to get back to work. But it’s not fine. I’m not fine. I need him.

Damn, I never meant to need him. Or anyone.

But here I am.

My eyes plead for him to stay, but my heart expects him to leave.

I start to close the door. “I get it. A rancher’s work is never done.”

Wyatt’s hand and boot stop the door from closing. “Get some damn pants on before I lose my fucking mind,” he growls on his way inside.

I want to do a happy dance, but being as my butt cheeks are already mere centimeters from exposure, I restrain myself.

We make our way to the bedroom, and he yanks a drawer open, pulls out some dark gray sweatpants, and tosses them to me.

I catch them and grin. “Relax, rancher. You act like you’ve never seen a half-naked woman before.”

He arches a brow. “If a woman gets half naked around me, she’s getting the rest of the way naked and all the way fucked.” He moves into my personal space. “You looking to get fucked, Hollywood? Is that what you came here for?”

I scoff. “You carried me here, caveman.”

It wasn’t exactly like I sauntered over, looking to ride his dick.

“To Montana, Hollywood. Did you come out here, looking for a cowboy to ride?”

I contemplate telling him what led me here. But he’s seen enough of my messy life for today.

“No,” I say, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. “But I’m sure Isaac would be more than happy to help if I did.”

He smirks.

The next thing I know, I’m airborne and bouncing on the enormous mattress that smells exactly like him. I inhale deeply before I can stop myself.

When I glance up to see if he caught me sniffing his bedding like a weirdo, I meet his gaze. There are flames dancing in his eyes. Not from the controlled burn.

There’s nothing controlled about him right now. He stalks to the edge of the bed, and I realize what’s happened.

I’m on my back, still pants-less, with my legs slightly parted.

Thank goodness I shaved earlier. Being bared to him like this sends a thrill through my entire body. He looks like a rabid wolf, about to eat me alive.

A girl can dream.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he says between gritted teeth. “Not right now, when I have to get back to work soon. But you had a bad dream, and I can make you feel better.”

As deflated as I am at his declaration, I’m curious about the second part of his statement.

I let my legs fall open a fraction wider. I still get a thrill from riling this man up. “And how do you intend to make me feel better exactly? Gonna read me a bedtime story?”

Strong fingers shackle my ankles and yank me to the edge of the bed. Where he drops to his knees, nearly giving me a stroke.

This powerful, commanding man on his knees for me almost makes my heart stop dead in my chest. Before it takes off like a hummingbird.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly while spreading my legs and suctioning his hot, wet mouth to my inner thigh. “It’s about the big bad wolf.”

He open-mouth kisses the flesh on my left thigh, then repeats the action on the right one.

“Wyatt,” I whisper, pleading. Needy.

My clit throbs as he places gentle kisses all around it while trailing a long, masculine finger gently between my seam.

“Perfect fucking pussy,” he says low against my skin. “Always so wet and ready for me.”

I whimper at the sensation of his warm breath against my sensitive flesh.

“You like that, angel?”

“Yes,” I call out.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, um, sir?” I amend.

Who knew he’d be so commanding in bed? Me. I knew. Or my ovaries knew the minute they saw him holding that axe.

“Good girl.”

I don’t even have time to comment about him calling Mittens that before me because he lashes a long, languid stroke of his tongue from my slit to my clit, and I writhe beneath him.

“Wyatt, please.”

I get a little smack on my swollen pussy.

“Please, sir,” I beg. I don’t even know what I’m begging for. To come, to be fucked, to be devoured.

He licks my clit hard and fast, up and down, then left to right, before plunging his tongue roughly inside me.

Over and over again. The pattern repeats, then grows erratic as my back bows off his bed and I rock my pussy against his beard.

It chafes my thighs in the most delicious way. Just like I suspected it would.

The onslaught of sensations is an intoxicating combination.

For a second, I wonder if I’m still asleep and my nightmare has morphed into a dream. But no dream could be this intense. I can feel every single cell in my body where he touches me.

The room spins around us as I cling to the comforter for dear life. My back arches off the bed, and noises escape my chest as I call out for him, for mercy, for release.

A thick finger presses inside me, spreading my inner walls apart. “So fucking tight. My cock is going to tear you in half, baby.”

Yes, please.

I can no longer form words, only nonsensical sounds of pleasure.

“Fuck my face, sweet, dirty girl. Come all over my tongue,” he growls against my slick skin, then sucks my clit into his mouth.

When he adds a second finger inside me, I fall apart.

It’s messy and intense.

Which pretty much describes my feelings for this man perfectly.

My thighs clamp tightly around his head, my juices run down his fingers, and my clit pulses rhythmically against his tongue. I ride out my release slow and hard, mewling like an animal in heat. Every muscle in my body tenses and tightens before melting into jelly.

I hear myself panting, but I can’t settle. My wild eyes meet his fiery gaze as he brings himself onto the bed beside me.

I’ve had orgasms before, but not like that. Never like that.

He manhandles me into his arms like I’m a lifeless rag doll. I’m trembling, coming down hard and fast from the adrenaline.

He breathes a sigh of relief, like he’s been waiting a lifetime to do that. But the outline of his enormous erection is visible through his jeans.

Damn. It’s always the quiet ones.

I press my body against it. “I could . . . we could . . . ”

“Go to sleep, angel,” he says in a gravelly voice.

“Are you sure? Wyatt, I want to—”

“Sleep, baby. You need sleep,” he interrupts.

Too weak to argue and feeling safe for the first time in as long as I can remember, I snuggle against his solid chest and drift off, lulled to sleep by his steady heartbeat.