Page 19 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

catalina

. . .

M averick dropped the girls off at their hotel like a man barely surviving the aftermath of a bachelorette party gone feral. Layla fought him the entire way, swearing she could out-chug a frat boy and demanded to stop at a gas station for a corn dog.

Amelia, shockingly, didn’t put up a fight.

She slid into the passenger seat of his truck like it wasn’t the same man she constantly threatens to stab with her tattoo needle.

I saw the way he looked at her, too, like she was something holy he didn’t think he deserved. And the way she didn’t pull away?

That’s when I knew we were all in deep, messy trouble.

Now it’s just me, Carter, and the silence inside his truck that’s thick enough to strangle me.

He hasn’t said a word since we pulled out of the club lot.

Not a single grunt, curse, or snide remark.

He’s gripping the steering wheel so fucking hard his tattooed knuckles look like they’re losing color, and I’m trying not to squirm in my seat from the ghost of his hands still lingering on my hips .

My entire body is pulsing with leftover adrenaline.

I can still feel the strobe lights in my chest, still hear the music pulsing in my ears.

But most of all, I can feel him. The way he pressed his hard cock against me on the dance floor, the way his breath scorched my skin, the way he told that guy to back the fuck off like I was his.

Daddy issues in full effect for an older man I barely know, but I don’t give a FUCK.

We finally roll up to his ranch, the headlights of his truck cut across the quiet pasture, too bright and sharp against the darkness of the night. He kills the engine, and the silence is quite literally deafening.

I shove the door open and stumble outside, trying to shake the tension off like it’s something I can walk away from.

The cool air hits my skin and does nothing to calm the nerves still brewing under the surface.

I take the porch steps two at a time, swaying slightly as the leftover tequila mixes with the burn of everything I’m trying not to think about.

My balance is fucking trash, and I wobble at the top, catching myself on the wooden railing with a muttered curse.

Carter says nothing behind me, but I can feel him watching. The heat of his stare never leaves me—not in the club, not in the truck, especially not now as I push open the front door and march into the house like I’m not unraveling one step at a time.

I shove off my rhinestoned boots in the entryway, one lands sideways, the other slams into the wall.

I don’t bother fixing them, not even sparing them a glance.

My head is spinning, my hands are shaking, and I need something to cool the fire roaring inside me before I vomit all over his precious wooden fixtures.

I stumble into the dimly lit kitchen, the only light being emitted is the soft glow of the fridge light when I yank it open.

I grab a water bottle and down half of it in seconds, hoping it’ll douse something.

My thirst, my nerves, the feeling that I might explode if he says one more thing in that gravelly, southern drawl.

God, his voice is so fucking hot.

The cold water doesn’t fucking help, because, I know he’s still standing in the doorway. I can feel his eyes on me like a touch I never asked for but crave anyway.

I turn my head slowly, expecting him to look away.

He doesn’t.

He’s watching me with that unreadable expression, the one that makes my skin prickle and my stomach flutter with butterflies. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful, and his hands are flexed at his sides like he’s trying to decide if tonight’s the night he finally snaps.

“Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me all night?” I ask, tossing the half-empty bottle onto the counter, turning to face him fully.

His lips twitch as he looks at me like I’m both the problem and the only possible solution.

“What do you want me to do, Catalina?” he finally says, shoving his hands deep into his jean-clad pockets.

I take another long swig from the water bottle, the coolness sliding down my throat. The alcohol haze starts to thin, but the thoughts it was supposed to drown out only come back louder, one thought in particular.

Dark, brooding and standing ten feet away from me like a fucking warning sign flashing brightly in his kitchen.

I set the bottle down on the counter with a soft thud, dragging the back of my hand across my mouth as I turned to face him.

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice light and laced with heat. “ Why don’t you stop playing the morally superior cowboy and show me how you’d fuck the attitude right out of me.”

He stiffens immediately, every muscle in his massive body locking tight. His arms lock rigid at his sides, and there’s a flicker in his eyes—a split second where the fire leaps behind the stormy blues and I know, without a doubt, he’s finally going to snap.

“Catalina,” he warns.

I don’t back down, I step closer like I’m testing a wild animal, like I want him to bite.

Because I fucking do.

My pulse slams in my chest as I rise onto my toes, sliding my arms around his thick neck, closing the space between us until there’s barely room for air. My breath fans hot against his ear, and I whisper, each word a match struck against gasoline.

“All bark and no bite,” I purr. “I fucking knew it.”

His jaw clenches so hard I see the muscle tick beneath his beard. For a second, I think he’s going to pull away, play the good guy again, and feed me some righteous line about how I’m tipsy and he’s not that kind of man, and how I’m his best friend’s daughter, blah blah blah.

“Don’t play with me, Catalina,” he growls, “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m fucking asking for,” I bite back, brushing my lips along his beard, not kissing, just torturing. “But like I said… no bite. All that build-up, and nothing to show for it.”

I press into him shamelessly, letting myself grind on him, every aching inch of my body’s pressed into his jeans. I feel it the moment I hit him—hard, thick, and unmistakably turned on.

His cock strains against his zipper, and the second it pushes into my lower belly, my breath catches, heat floods down my spine and straight between my thighs.

The air thickens, humming with tension, with hunger, with the unmistakable electricity of two people about to do something stupid .

Tilting my chin up, I watch him like I’m daring him to make the next move, and I catch the exact moment something in him breaks. His gaze flicks down to my lips like he’s seconds from claiming them, then they trail back up to my eyes.

God, my whole body fucking aches for him.

Just one taste of him, one .

There’s a flicker of hesitation on his face, like he’s still trying to convince himself to be the better man. But that version of him doesn’t stand a chance anymore.

It’s impossible to hide it now, not with the way I’m looking at him as my gaze burns holes into his face.

And not with the way my body is pressed so close to his that he could count the beats of my heart, one by one, as if they already belong to him.

His hand grabs me quickly, pulling me closer to him, closing what little space we had left. Our bodies slam together, the contact overwhelming in a way that makes it hard to think.

One hand cups my jaw, not gently, but with purpose, like he needs to feel something real. His thumb moves slowly across my cheek, a quiet contrast to the way he’s holding the rest of me so tightly. His gaze pins mine, one last warning flickering through those stormy blues.

This is your out, princess.

I imagine him saying, but nothing escapes his lips. I don’t move, not even a fucking flicker of hesitation.

He dips his head lower, and the second his mouth finds mine, I come undone in ways I can’t take back.

His lips part against mine, as his tongue slips between them, stroking deep with a slow drag that sends a hot pulse of need through my entire body.

It’s messy, breathless, and our tongues slide together with friction that makes my knees buckle.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and a low groan vibrates in his throat when I suck lightly on his bottom lip before biting down just hard enough to make him curse under his breath.

I can taste him—peppermint with a hint of bourbon.

A moan slips out before I can stop it, and he groans against my lips. He pulls back just enough to catch his breath, then presses his face into the curve of my neck, his breath hot and uneven against my skin as he trails kisses down the tender curvature of my throat.

“Fuck, Catalina,” he rasps, hot breath skimming my skin before his tongue follows it, swirling slowly against the sensitive slope of my throat like he already knows how to make me melt. “You taste like trouble.”

“And you taste like frustration,” I pant, my hips grinding up into his thigh without a single ounce of shame. “Bet you’ve been dying to do this since the first time I called you an asshole.”

“I’ve been dying to shut you the fuck up,” he growls, his hands sliding down to grip my ass, his fingers digging in like he’s two seconds from losing control completely. “But not like this, not with your smart little mouth begging for it.”

“Then do it,” I whisper against his jaw, letting my teeth scrape lightly against the scruff of his beard. “Prove it. Show me what all that control’s been hiding.”

He crashes his mouth against mine again, deeper this time, kissing me like he’s furious I make him feel this much. His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to control the angle, while his other hand grips my waist, slamming me into the wall.