Page 9 of Wrangle Me

CHAPTER 8

MAISIE

I’m curledagainst Callum’s chest. I don’t know how much time has passed, but I never want to move. I’m tucked into the crook of his arm like I was made to fit here. I’ve never felt more beautiful or cared for.

His heartbeat is steady under my cheek, and the rise and fall of his chest lulls me. His skin is warm. His breath is even. I think he might be falling asleep. But there’s no way I can doze off now. My body has only just stopped trembling.

The shock of having Callum inside of me settles into a slow, molten, desperate ache for more. Every nerve I have feels rewired. I’m humming with the memory of him. Every time I close my eyes, I feel his hands on me and his lips on mine. I think of the way he whispered my name like a promise, and I’m ready for him all over again.

I’ve spent years wondering what my first time would be like. I’ve fantasized and built it up in my head. I wondered if I’d feel different afterward. I had no idea what to expect. Would it be like a movie with flowers? Chocolates? Candles? No. It happened in a barn, and it was more than I could have ever imagined.

Callum is raw and real. He holds me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. I could stay like this forever… half-dressed and wrapped up with him in the back of a hay barn. I close my eyes… But then I hear it.

There’s a sound I can’t ignore. It’s faint at first. I lift my head toward the noise and focus until I make out a tiny, scratchymeow.

I freeze. There it is again.

“Callum,” I whisper, running a finger up his rock-solid chest.

But he doesn't stir.

Then the sound comes again. It’s closer now, and it's definitely a kitten. I wriggle out of his arms carefully. Just as I’m slipping my shirt back over my head, Callum’s hand shoots out, wrapping around my waist like a lasso.

“No,” he murmurs, voice rough and sleep-raspy. “You’re mine now. I’m not letting you go.”

God help me, that does something dangerous to my heart. I lean down, kiss him softly on the mouth. “I love the way that sounds.”

He grins, but his eyes are still closed. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. I hope he’s already dreaming about us.

“But, Callum…” I hesitate, listening again. “There’s a kitten. I think.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap open. “What?”

I nod toward the corner of the barn where the hay is piled higher. “I keep hearing something. Little meows. It sounds like a tiny kitten. I want to go see.”

He sits up, adorably tousled and shirtless. Callum squints toward the sound. “You sure it’s not Rump Roast trying to guilt-trip us?”

“She moos, Callum. This is definitely a meow,” I laugh.

Another faint cry echoes from the hay pile. We look at each other. Then, without another word, we are on our feet andtiptoeing toward the sound. He’s half-naked and I’m barefoot. We probably look like a couple of lunatics, but there’s no one in the world I’d rather be crazy with.

“It’s right back there.” He points to the far back corner.

I pull my clothes on, brushing stray bits of hay from my shirt and jeans. Then I step carefully toward the pile where the tiny sounds are coming from. My heart pounds, half from lingering adrenaline, half from the soft, high-pitched cries still echoing through the quiet barn. That’s when I catch sight of him. It’s not a clear picture, just a flash of a fluffy tail.

“Callum,” I whisper, crouching low. “I see him. He’s right there.”

Tucked between two bales of hay and barely more than a puff of fur is a kitten. His little body trembles as he presses deep into the shadows like he’s hoping I’ll just go away. But there isn’t a chance of that happening.

“Hey, baby,” I coo, keeping my voice low and soft. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

I reach out a hand, trying to coax him closer. The kitten hisses in response. It’s a fierce little snarl that’s more squeak than threat.

“It’s a tiny baby,” I say, glancing back at Callum. “Oh! And look at that mark on his head. He’s a little Harry Pawter.” I stretch my fingers forward. I’m just about to touch him when he lunges and sinks his tiny teeth into my hand. I yelp, more startled than hurt, and draw back.

Callum chuckles behind me, deep and amused. “That’s no Harry Pawter,” he says, stepping beside me. “That’s Lord Pawldemort.”

I stifle a laugh even as I cradle my hand, still stinging. “Hedoeshave the mark.”

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