Page 25 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

carter

. . .

I don’t even remember when he scooped me up, and honestly, I don’t care. One second, I was losing my goddamn mind on the tailgate of his truck, screaming his name like I’d forgotten how to breathe, and the next, I was pressed against his chest.

My cheek rests right over his heart, the soft, steady thud of it is the only thing cutting through the haze still clinging to me.

I don’t try to speak.

I just let him carry me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, because at this point, I’ve been absolutely destroyed in every way that matters. My limbs are jelly, my brain is soup, and all I can do is hold on to the warmth of his body. By the time my vision clears, I’m no longer outside.

The bathroom is glowing, with warm light spilling from the small lamp, casting shadows across the mirror.

The scent of clean soap and whatever the hell masculine cologne Carter wears is already thick in the air, wrapping around me like a second skin.

He sets me gently on the counter, and even after he steps back to start the bath, his hand lingers on my hips.

This whole time he had a fucking bathtub?

I blink, then sit up straighter, ignoring how every muscle in my body screams in protest. “You’ve had a bathtub this whole time?” I screech out. “A sexy-ass tub that looks like it belongs in a damn romance novel, and you never said a fucking word?”

He glances over his shoulder, a smirk tilting in that infuriating way that makes my thighs clench all over again. “Didn’t think you’d survive it, princess,” he mutters, like that’s a normal response to a very real betrayal. “Figured I’d save it for when I made you see stars.”

I stare at him, jaw dropping slightly. “Jesus Christ. You’re lucky I can’t move, or I’d drown you in that tub myself.”

“You’d go first,” he fires back without missing a beat.

He turns the water off, returning to me without saying another word, peeling the clothes from my body one piece at a time, and somehow, it’s more intimate than sex.

Every motion is gentle, a stark contrast to his gruff exterior, like he’s memorizing every inch of skin as he exposes it, and I let him.

Not because I’m weak, or still riding a post-orgasmic high, but because deep down, I want him to look.

I want him to see all of me and still touch me like this—gentle, careful, like I matter.

When I’m bare, he takes one last breath, and helps me into the bath with both hands firm on my waist, guiding me into the tub. The second I sink beneath the heat, my whole body sighs in relief.

He kneels beside the tub silently, as he dips a cloth into the water and wrings it out with slow precision, dragging it over my arm in soft, steady strokes that make my chest tighten.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t crack a joke or tease me about being fucked dumb with just his tongue, which, frankly, is a missed opportunity.

“So,” I say, my voice cracking around the edges even though I try to sound casual, “is this, like, a standard package deal with you? Mind-blowing oral followed by a full spa service? Or am I just that special?”

He lets out a low chuckle, almost impossible to hear if I weren’t this close.

“Only for you, Catalina.”

Only for me? Fuck, what does that mean?

After he finishes washing me, Carter doesn’t say anything.

He just pulls the plug from the tub and waits in silence as the water drains around me, his gaze lingering, which makes my skin prickle with gooseflesh.

When the last bit of warmth disappears down the pipes, he grabs a thick towel and wraps it around me with careful hands, tucking it tight against my chest. His palms move slowly over my skin, drying me with the kind of patience that makes my throat feel tight and unfamiliar.

Once he’s satisfied, he leads me into his bedroom, his hand gentle at the small of my back. I just let him guide me, letting the quiet settle around us like fog, and for once letting my walls take a breath.

He sits me on the edge of his bed and steps between my knees, his brows furrowed as he reaches for a brush on the dresser.

I blink in confusion, unmoving. I sit there patiently, letting him take the reins, letting him touch me in this strangely caring, tender way that I don’t quite know how to process.

The brush slides through my hair slowly.

His fingers graze my scalp in soft, rhythmic movements, and the sensation is so soothing, it almost relaxes me.

There’s nothing sexual about what he’s doing, and maybe that’s what makes it feel so devastating.

It’s intimate in a way I didn’t expect, sinking deeper than any kiss or orgasm ever could, settling into the spaces inside me I usually keep locked up tight.

“I would’ve never guessed this soft side from you,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

His hand stills for just a beat, the brush frozen mid-stroke, and I feel his breath catch before he continues, a little slower now.

“Yeah, well,” he teases, “don’t go spreading that shit around town.”

A small laugh escapes before I can stop it, lifting my hand to cover my mouth, surprised by the way it bubbles out of me so naturally. When I glance up, his eyes are already on mine, and for the first time since I met him, I see something in them I don’t recognize.

His stare isn’t just blue anymore. It’s deeper than that—oceanic and full of things I don’t understand, flecks of green catch the warm bedroom light, turning his entire expression into something raw and unguarded.

The brush lowers, and he pulls his hands away. And still, I can’t look away from his unreadable expression.

Without saying a word, he crosses the room and pulls out a worn gray t-shirt from his drawer. He helps me into it slowly, guiding the fabric over my shoulders like he’s dressing a porcelain doll instead of a foul-mouthed girl with more emotional baggage than closet space.

The shirt swallows me completely. I should feel ridiculous, sitting here in Carter’s bed in nothing but his t-shirt and towel-dried hair, but I don’t. I feel cocooned, wrapped in something that feels suspiciously like safety, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.

I clear my throat, trying to shake off the intensity clawing at my ribs, lowering my eyes to where my fingers are twisting the hem of his shirt.

“Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?” I ask, my voice sharper than I mean for it to be, the bite unintentional but familiar.

“Is it because you ate me out in the back of your truck like some prize at a goddamn rodeo? Or is this pity? Some fucked-up sympathy thing because I clearly don’t have my shit together? ”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been waiting for the moment I’d lash out to protect myself.

His expression flickers, but I catch it.

He drags a hand over his beard before stepping toward me again.

When he reaches me, he doesn’t argue or deny.

He just cups my cheek in one big, warm hand, his thumb brushing the skin beneath my eye so gently, I almost forget how to fucking breathe.

“It’s none of those things, Catalina.”

The way he says my name hits harder than any explanation ever could.

I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hold onto something solid, as I force myself not to unravel under the weight of him seeing me this clearly.

“Then what the fuck is it?” I demand, irritation bleeding into panic. “You were all over me earlier, real chatty when your face was between my legs. Now you’re staring at me like you’ve seen a damn ghost and forgot how to speak.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.

Of fucking course.

I scoff, standing up, spinning on my heel, and march toward the door, already planning the dramatic exit I absolutely deserve. I want to slam it hard enough to rattle the windows, maybe throw in a muttered insult on my way out, just for flair.

Before I can get there, his hand closes gently around my wrist, enough to stop me. I whirl around, ready to deliver the final, scathing one-liner that’ll haunt his dreams for weeks, but the words die on my tongue the second I meet his eyes.

He looks tired, maybe a little terrified.

“Stay.”

So I stay.

I slip under the covers quietly, careful not to wake him, the cool fabric brushing against my bare legs as I settle onto the massive California king mattress. I sink into his bed without meaning to, my limbs still aching from the bath, from him, from whatever the fuck this is between us.

A storm rumbles outside, the rain tapping a steady rhythm against the windowpane.

I turn toward him, unable to help myself.

Carter sleeps beside me, his tattooed arm’s curled beneath the pillow, as his chest rises and falls with each slow, even breath.

His face—so often drawn tight with irritation—is quiet now.

The lines between his brows have disappeared, and his lips are parted just slightly, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen.

He looks younger like this. Not just peaceful, but unburdened.

I keep staring at him—this man who once looked at me like I was a problem he couldn’t wait to get rid of—and all I want is to memorize how he looks right now and stay in this quiet moment a little longer.

I reach out before I can stop myself, my fingers brushing gently across his chest. My touch finds the edge of the rose tattoo inked into his skin, tracing the petals slowly, following the lines.

His skin prickles under my fingertips, goosebumps rising in the wake of my touch, and when I glance up, his body shifts subtly beneath the sheets.

“You’re not sleeping,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and that southern drawl that always makes my stomach twist in places I pretend don’t exist.

I swallow hard, my voice soft as I answer. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I was… looking at your tattoo.”

He shifts beside me, his body curving around mine as his arm pulls me closer, tucking me against him.