Page 73 of Double Bucked

Not from the cold but from the pure, undiluted adrenaline whipping through my veins.

I curl my fingers in his shirt. I inhale deeply.

Earth. Embers. Home.

Riley Ransom is my own personal calming scent. One deep breath and my feet are on firmer ground.

I rest my head on his chest. “I feel like I’m losing my mind,” I whisper.

His thumb rubs against the base of my skull, the pressure dissolving a headache pinching the edges of my vision. “If you lost it, we’ll find it together.”

“James will?—”

“You don’t gotta make any decisions about James right now.” Ransom cradles my head in his hands, and he tilts my chin up gently. Those chestnut eyes look down at me. “You don’t gotta make any decisions at all.”

A strand of hair sticks to my lips. He brushes it off. His hands are so big, and I feel protected in them.

Ransom lets out a sigh. “You carry so much, princess.”

“Someone has to.”

“So let that someone be me.” He drops his forehead against mine. I close my eyes. The air is mixed with autumn and Ransom. His hands drop to my arms, and he squeezes me there. “I’ve got you,” he says, and I believe him.

Oh, God. I believe him.

Before I can second-guess myself, I take his face in my hands and pull him in.

His mouth presses against mine. The prickles of his stubble scratch my cheek. Ransom is hard and rough in every inch of his body.

But…

He’s gentle with me.

He unlocks. Our mouths meet, and I open to him. He’s hot and intoxicating, and when he kisses me, my chest isn’t full of thorns anymore.

My heart is a seed. Planted, rooting in the deep, warm earth that is Ransom.

I crave him. Years of longing crack open inside of me and spill out. I need more of him. I need his heat. His raw body against mine.

The way he kisses me, he needs it, too.

This isn’t the shaking, sweet boy I used to know.

This man is strong, and confident, and he takes what he wants.

Me.

Our bodies crash against the railing, and it’s a miracle the old bones of this gazebo don’t crack underneath us. I rip at his shirt, eager for the hard, warm flesh underneath. His body presses against mine, and I nip at his throat as I run my fingers down those hard, strong muscles, made tight with the backbreaking work he does day in, day out.

But when my hands pull at the buckle of his belt, he stops me, cuffing my wrists in his grip. “Hold up,” he says. “Slow down.”

My throat squeezes. You idiot, Claire.

You’re five years too late.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. My voice hitches on the words.

Something has broken inside of my chest, and it burns the backs of my eyes.

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