Page 39 of Bucked By Love

“I got second.”

“That’s great, Bear.”

I can see the smallest hint of a smile through the hedges.

“I want to do it,” she says. “Tonight.”

My heart jumps. I don’t have to ask. I know what she means. It. Us. That unspoken heat every time we’re together. “Tonight?”

Through the leaves, I see Claire’s fingers work to free the top buttons of her shirt. She opens it down her chest and uses her hand to slide apart the fabric. I can see the barest bit of pink through the hedges.

My mouth goes completely dry.

“Tonight,” she confirms. “Meet me in front of the gate at eleven. Daddy will be in bed and I can slip out.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

There’s that smile again. Swiftly, she rebuttons her shirt and then turns on her heels, vanishing back inside that monster of a house.

I need a second.

Holy…goddamn.

32

CLAIRE

Ican’t wait for Daddy to fall asleep.

As if he knows I’m getting up to trouble, he seems to spend forever in his office. I leave my door cracked open, straining to listen, until I finally hear him shuffle out of his office, cross the hall, and go to his bedroom. His door clicks shut and?—

It’s time to move.

Quietly, I slip out of my room, tiptoe downstairs, and very gently open and shut the front door behind me.

It’s a warm, balmy Kentucky night.

I let my flats hang from my fingertips at the heels. I like the way the sharp gravel feels under my feet as I cross the parking lot and walk quickly towards the black, iron gate.

Each step sends a rush through me. This is the opposite of an out-of-body experience—it’s an in-body experience. For the first time, I enjoy being anchored to my bones. The gravel bits cling between my toes. The air kisses the bare skin of my arms. My flesh feels like it’s been stripped to the last layer; I can feel everything so clearly now.

There’s a new, skin-tingling freedom in everything I do.

I want to run. I want to say yes to everything. I’m greedy for the experiences I’ve denied myself. I want to gorge myself on life.

I’m ravenous.

I punch in my code and, as the mechanical gears take their time whirling the gate open, I slip out between the crack. Sure enough, there’s Ransom’s truck. It’s engine gurgles lowly as it waits patiently for me.

The driver door opens. Ransom hops out. He comes around to my side, takes his Stetson hat off his head, and opens the door.

He gives me a wide smile.

“Your chariot, Ms. Preacher.”

Fuck, he’s cute.

I approach. I slide my fingers across his chest. I play along: “Your steed sounds sickly, monsieur.”

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