Page 48 of Open Arms

“Mason!” she cried out, her body arching beneath mine as she came apart in my arms, her walls clenching around me in an exquisite squeeze. My own climax followed hot on its heels, blinding white-hot pleasure coursing through my veins as I pulled out and spilled myself all over her stomach.

We lay there, panting, our bodies still intertwined as we tried to catch our breaths.

“That was . . . ,” Chloe started, her voice still raspy with passion.

“Amazing,” I finished for her, brushing a strand of hair off her damp forehead.

“Yeah, that,” she said with a shy smile, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink.

We lay there for a while longer, our pulses slowing down and our breaths evening out. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so contented. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if I ever had. There was something about Chloe—something special that drew me in like a moth to a flame.

After a trip to the bathroom to grab a washcloth, I cleaned up the mess I made and pulled the covers up over us. Our legs tangled together, her head rested on my shoulder, and I let out a content sigh. This was more than lust or fleeting attraction; it was a foundation we were building, strong and sure.

We lay there, wrapped up in each other, letting the silence speak for us. It wasn’t awkward; it was comfortable, a testament to how deep our connection had grown. I felt it then—something shifting inside me, a door opening to a future I wanted more than anything.

“Goodnight, Mason,” she breathed out, almost inaudible.

“Night, Chlo.” I closed my eyes, feeling her heartbeat against my side. Somehow, despite the odds, we had found each other and let ourselves be open enough to try.

Together, we drifted, her presence a promise of tomorrow, my embrace, her shelter. In the silence of the night, we found our peace.

20

Chloe

Monday cameand I was elbow-deep in potting soil, the earthy scent a sharp contrast to the sterile hospital smell that haunted my dreams. Eryn had ordered dozens of mums to decorate the front of Sunshine Acres. She’d said some of the ranch hands had offered to plant them all, but I was excited to get my hands dirty.

My mind had been distracted by Mason all weekend long. Memories of waking up next to him, of the sweet kisses and soft laughter we shared as I snuck out of his room early in the morning. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he touched me . . . the way hetookme. I’d never experienced anything like it before.

We’d spent the rest of the weekend apart, trying to keep our distance so he could spend some father-daughter time with Abby and not be distracted. It was a good idea, because every part of me knew that if we’d tried to hang out, I wouldn’t have been able to avoid climbing him like a tree.

I caught myself smiling at the image. God, I was turning into such a sap. I dug my hands into the dirt, forcing myself to focus.

A tiny sprout peeked through the earth, tender and green. “Grow strong,” I murmured, as much to the plant as to myself.

“Hey Chlo.”

Pete’s voice, curt, cut through the morning air like a cold front. I glanced up, brushing a stray lock of blonde hair from my forehead with the back of my hand. His shadow loomed before me, blocking out the sun’s warmth.

“Hey, Pete.” My words were careful, measuring the distance that had grown since I turned him down.

“Morning.” His greeting was as clipped as his hair, no trace of the usual friendly banter. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders rigid.

“Something on your mind?” I asked, trying to sound casual while my heart drummed a nervous beat.

“Work.” His one-word answer hung between us, a drawbridge pulled up to keep me out.

“Right.” I turned back to the flowers, focusing on the task at hand. Pete stood there a moment longer, an unreadable statue, then turned on his heel and strode away.

My fingers trailed through the soil, the earthy scent grounding me after Pete’s chilly departure. Then a familiar voice pulled me back to the present.

“Chlo, do we have enough compost for the new flower beds?” Lisa strolled over, her rubber boots squelching softly in the morning dew. Her smile was as bright as the marigolds she tended with such care.

“Yep, just picked up a fresh batch yesterday,” I replied, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease with the simple rhythm of our daily routine. “It’s stacked by the greenhouse.”

“Awesome.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smudging dirt on her cheek. “And Eryn mentioned somethingabout a Harvest Breakfast booth? We’re doing the pumpkin display?”

“Ah, the infamous tower of terror,” I joked, referring to stories I’d heard of last year’s precarious pile of pumpkins. “She wants to go bigger this year. Thinks it’ll be a hit.”

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