Page 6

Five

Becca

G rowing up, what my family lacked in love and care, they made up for with wealth and power.

As a baby, I had a huge, fancy nursery all to myself.

My first ‘grown up’ bed was a four-poster.

All my life, I’ve stayed in huge mansions, penthouse apartments, luxury hotels and ivy-clad townhouses, all bustling with servants and other staff—but I’ve never once felt as at home as I do in Jake’s cabin.

It’s small, compared to what I’m used to. Rustic. Simple.

And it’s filled with so much life and love.

The books on the bookcase aren’t first editions and leather-bound reference books for show, like in the Pritchard library—they’re worn paperbacks of crime novels and plant guides, the spines all creased from being read time and again.

The coffee table is clearly hand-carved, but it’s also got padding fixed to the corners and edges, to protect a certain niece that Jake told me all about on the walk over.

There’s a scrawled recipe for peach cobbler pinned to the refrigerator, next to a wobbly crayon drawing of what I think is a spider, but could also be an octopus. Whatever it is, it’s wearing a top hat.

“Love your work,” I tease as Jake stirs a simple stew on the stove, the scent of onions and beef lacing the air. He glances over, eyes crinkling with a smile when he sees the drawing.

“That’s one of Ellie’s.”

“Is it an octopus?”

“Jury’s out. Hunter—her dad—thinks it’s a character from a book. Brooke thinks it’s a hairball. Meanwhile Ellie’s not giving any clues.”

Biting my lip, I smooth down a corner of the paper where it’s starting to curl. It’s crisp beneath my hand, dried out from being pinned in the sunshine.

Jake clearly loves his little niece a whole lot. And picturing this big, gruff mountain man with a toddler, imagining him goofing around with her and padding the corners of his coffee table so she doesn’t get hurt, makes my insides go all fluttery.

Secretly, in my private moments in all those cold, loveless Pritchard properties, I’ve always daydreamed of having a my own brood of laughing, shrieking children.

Not like the buttoned-up, anxiously obedient kids of the elite families I grew up around—more like this absent toddler whose messy crayon drawing has taken pride of place on her uncle’s refrigerator.

It always seemed so silly before. So impossible.

No one I knew had a home life like that; no one got lucky from their family-approved pairing.

I mean, if I had walked down the aisle to Tristan Peters this morning, what are the chances he’d want to finger paint with our kids and attend the school sports day each year? Forget it.

But now, warm from my shower and bundled up in a pair of Jake’s shorts and a gray t-shirt that smells like him, anything seems possible.

“Doing okay over there?”

Feeling Jake’s eyes on me again, I blush.

Truthfully, I haven’t stopped blushing since I woke up from the river and first met this man.

It’s been a non-stop swirl of butterflies in my stomach.

And since he tore my dress open as easily as shredding paper, since he checked over my cuts and scrapes after the shower, his strong hands so gentle on my skin as he cleaned them all and bandaged me up…

Yeah. If the stove fails, the heat from my body could cook that stew.

“I’m good.”

I don’t sound good. I sound strangled as hell. And Jake must hear it too, because his gaze stays on me for a long beat before he turns back to fixing our dinner. Lunch. Mid afternoon meal?

Whatever.

Time today has been warped and crazy. I ran away from the manor house at mid-morning, and who knows how long I was in the river for.

Took my time in the shower, too. Now the sunshine spilling through the cabin windows has gone all buttery and golden, and the shadows outside are stretching longer. My stomach’s rumbling, that’s for sure.

“Bet you’re hungry after nearly drowning.” It’s like he can read my mind.

“I could eat every scrap of food in your cupboards and then some.”

Jake nods approvingly, stirring the stew. “You’re welcome to it.”

Gah. He’s been so kind to me already. He’s such a good man.

And with his dark hair all damp from his own shower, as he stands there barefoot in sweatpants and a faded blue t-shirt, all I want is to lick him all over then curl up to sleep in his armpit.

Want to stay in this cabin, with this man, forever.

Hoo, boy. Nearly drowning has really messed with my head.

I can’t get carried away, though. Jake saved my life, and he brought me back here to rest and recover, but that’s not an indefinite invitation. He’s probably craving his own space back already. Probably hoping that I’ll move along soon—that I won’t take advantage of his hospitality.

Well, he doesn’t need to worry. I’ve had etiquette drilled into me every day since before I could walk.

I won’t overstay my welcome.

* * *

We eat on the deck, watching the birds and chewing peacefully, then stay out there for a while and chat about life.

About Jake’s rowdy high school days, which I find so hard to picture; about all the rich-person hobbies I had to learn and sucked at.

Horse riding, clay pigeon shooting, golf.

One especially sucky summer of synchronized swimming.

The big bowl of stew stops my stomach from growling, but there’s a different kind of hunger gnawing on my insides still, and it gets worse and worse as we chat together, the sun sinking toward the trees. It’s him.

Jake is so close yet so far. Near enough to make out every stupid-handsome detail of his stupid-handsome face, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and few bronze hairs in his beard, but not close enough to touch.

The low rumble of his voice both sets me at ease and makes my nerves go all jittery with longing. If I crawled into his lap, would he push me away?

Eventually, Jake stands then bends over to pick up our bowls.

“I’ll take those.” My body lurches out of my seat, and I snatch them away clumsily, staggering one step to the side. “You cooked. I’ll wash up.”

Jake steadies my elbow. “That’s not how it works with drowning victims.”

“Psh.” I shrug him off and step past him to the doorway, hoping to hide my frazzled expression.

Honestly, I can’t tell if I’m dizzy because of my time in the river, or if it’s because I’ve spent hours now physically pining for this man.

“I conquered death this morning. Pretty sure I can scrub a few bowls.”

Still, once I’m wrist deep in soapy water, warm steam curling against my cheeks, I sag against the kitchen counter for a second to catch my breath.

My pulse throbs in my ears. I’m hot, and dizzy, and so slick between my thighs I can barely stand it.

My nipples are hard little beads, stabbing into my borrowed t-shirt.

How much longer can I go on like this? A few more hours of torturous arousal and I’ll explode.

It’s just one more reason not to linger here. Need to get moving, and hopefully once there’s some distance between us, my head will clear enough to think straight.

My family will be searching for me. I need a plan.

“Becca, let me help.”

Jake’s low voice behind me makes me jump, water sloshing over the counter to splatter my front. How does such a large man move so quietly? He’s like a panther.

“I told you, I’m fi—”

A hard chest brushes against my back, stealing the words from my tongue. Two strong arms snake around me, plucking the bowl and sponge from my hands, and then Jake’s washing the dishes with me tucked against his front.

“Don’t be stubborn,” he says.

See, this is why I’ve been twisted in little turned-on knots for hours. Does Jake have any idea of the effect he has on me? How his proximity melts my brain?

Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s doing this on purpose.

Maybe this is psychological warfare, baby. Well, two can play at that game.

“You missed a bit,” I murmur, nodding at the bowl. A warm huff of amusement tickles the top of my head, then Jake scrubs the spot in question. Biting my lip, I hold my breath… then reach up and place my hands on his forearms.

Jake jerks, but keeps washing up. There are no words exchanged, but his heartbeat boom boom booms against my back.

Meanwhile, I stroke my way slowly over heated bare skin, feeling the muscles and tendons and bones of his forearms. The softness of his dark body hair, and the pale ridged lines of old scars.

The extra-soft patch of skin on his inner elbows, and the knobby bit of bone around the other side.

Every part of his body is so much bigger, so much more solid than mine.

Behind me, Jake blows out a long breath then presses closer, caging me against the sink. I’m trapped, but I don’t mind. For once in my life, I don’t want to escape.

I’m exactly where I want to be.

The water sloshes and dishes clink together, and the air smells like lemon dish soap and him. This mountain man with his sturdy arms wrapped around me.

A bird flits past the kitchen window, and my breaths tremble as they drag in and out of my lungs.

“You had a rough day.” Jake sounds strained—like he’s lecturing himself as much as he’s reminding me, even as my hands stroke greedily up his arms. “We shouldn’t do anything you might regret.”

No fear.

“I won’t regret it.” My body presses back against his, feeling every dip and hard plane of his muscles. The knobs of his hip bones, and below, the rigid line of his cock. The second it brushes my lower back, my heart speeds up and my lower belly twists with need.

Jake hisses between his teeth.

“You were supposed to get married this morning.”

I scoff, irrationally annoyed that he’s bringing that up when his shaft is wedged against my spine. He tore the wedding dress from my body himself, ripping the silk like tissue paper.

“Yeah, and that’s why I ran. That’s why I jumped in the river, risking my life to get away.”

A shudder rolls through the mountain man behind me. My ass presses back, grinding against his lap, because yeah, he wants me. And I want him.

And Tristan freaking Peters is not gonna ruin this for us. Nuh-uh. No way.

That was no real wedding, and he was not a real groom. But this moment, with our soapy hands and heavy breaths and overheated bodies… this is one hundred percent real.

“Do you want this, Jake?”

I already know the answer, but I need to hear it out loud. Need to hear that someone in this world wants me for me, and not for my family name.

“Obviously.”

He sounds pissed, but I grin and snatch up the dish towel.

“Then let me help things along.”

I tug his right hand from the water, and scrub it completely dry, working the towel between each finger and down his wrist. His bearded jaw rubs against my temple as he watches, bemused.

“What are you…?”

With my free hand, I yank my baggy t-shirt up and place his palm on my bared stomach.

Even though I knew what was coming, my breath hitches and my whole body rolls toward the touch, while Jake makes a wounded noise behind me and crushes me closer to the counter.

His fingertips hook under the waistband of my shorts, and his face presses against the back of my head.

His whole powerful frame trembles with the effort of holding back.

“Are you sure?” The question scrapes out of him, and god, he already sounds ruined. I am, too.

“ So sure.”

His hand slides slowly, so slowly, down my stomach.