Page 49 of Death Valley

He studies me for a long moment, firelight reflecting in his eyes, before moving to the kitchen. He pulls out a flask from a cupboard, unscrews the cap, and takes a long swallow before holding it out toward me in offering.

I almost refuse. Ishouldrefuse. But something about the night, the isolation, the way he’s looking at me—like he’s seeing straight through my carefully constructed walls—makes me hold out my hand.

He comes over and lowers it to me. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you show a lot of restraint.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I tell him as I take a sip. The whiskey burns a familiar path down my throat, warming me from within. “And a lot I don’t know about you.”

“I reckon that’s safer for both of us.” He reclaims the flask, his fingers brushing mine. Even that brief contact sends a current through me.

I should get up and go use the toilet. Put distance between us. It’s his proximity to me, his presence and heat that’s making it hard to remember why I’m really here. Instead, I take the flask back when he offers it, our eyes locked over the rim.

“Why are you really out here, Aubrey?” His voice has dropped, rougher now. “And don‘t give me that story about your sister. There’s more to it than that.”

The question catches me off guard, because I’m only here because of Lainey.

Aren’t I?

“Maybe I’m running from something,” I say instead. A partial truth. “Same as you.”

“What makes you think I’m running?” he says.

I shrug, looking back to the flames. “Just a hunch.”

Jensen takes the flask, sets it aside. He’s closer now, though I didn’t notice him move. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the pine and woodsmoke that cling to his clothes.

“And what are you running from, Aubrey Wells?” His voice has gone soft, the kind that leads to danger.

My pulse quickens. This is a precipice, and we both know it. I should back away. Should remember all the reasons why this is a terrible idea—he’s hiding something, I’m hiding something, we’re in the middle of nowhere with his crew sleeping above us.

Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn by something I can’t explain or resist.

The same thing that has drawn us together twice before.

“I’m running from my regrets,” I whisper.

His hand comes up to my face, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle against my cheek. There’s a moment where we both hover on the edge, where either of us could pull back.

Neither of us does.

His mouth finds mine in the firelight, and there’s nothing gentle about it. This is hunger, raw and demanding. I respond with equal fervor, months of tension igniting like dry tinder. My hands grip his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath worn flannel.

He pushes me back onto the rug, his weight settling over me, and I gasp into his mouth. The sound seems to remind him of the others upstairs, because he pulls back slightly, eyes dark with warning.

“Think you can stay quiet?” The rough edge in his voice sends a violent shiver through me.

I nod, already breathless. “I can try.”

“Try your hardest, then.”

He leans back and removes his shirt, then his pants, his cock standing at full attention and twitching slightly. I stare at it, at the bead of moisture at the tip glinting in the firelight. When I finally tear my gaze away and look up at his face, he’s wearing a smirk, satisfied with my reaction.

Then the smirk fades and he’s at me. His lips are on my neck now, hot and insistent, and any thought of restraint vanishes. My fingers tangle in his soft hair, nails dragging down his back. He groans low in his throat, the vibration of it making me bite back a moan.

He catches both my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head. “What did I just say about staying quiet?” There’s a dangerous amusement in his tone.

“I didn’t—” I start to protest, but he cuts me off with another bruising kiss.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” he mutters against my mouth. “Maybe you want that.”

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