Page 20 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze

"You don't need to explain," I tell her.

"I do, though." She takes a deep breath. "Since my brother died, it's been lonely. Not just the normal kind of lonely, but the kind where you're surrounded by people who need you to be strong, to have answers, to keep everything from falling apart." She looks up at me. "Everyone wants a piece of me, but no one sees how hard it is to keep giving when you're running on empty."

The raw honesty in her voice hits me like a physical blow. I recognize that emptiness she's describing. I've felt it for years.

"I get that," I say quietly. "Everyone wanted a piece of Blaze. No one cared about Blake Nelson."

Her eyes widen slightly at my real name, and I realize this is the first time I've said it aloud since arriving in Mustang Mountain.

"Blake," she repeats, testing it out.

"That's me. The real me, underneath all the bullshit." I gesture vaguely at myself. "The guy who grew up with nothing, who built himself into something, and then watched as everyone took what they wanted until there wasn't much left and I didn't care about any of it."

"I care," she says simply.

Two words. Just two words, but they land with the weight of a thousand. I stare at her, searching for any sign she's just saying what she thinks I want to hear. But all I see is honesty, and something else, something warm and dangerous and inviting.

"Grace--" I start, not sure what I'm going to say.

She reaches across the table and places her hand over mine. Her palm is warm from the coffee mug, her touch light but deliberate. I turn my hand over, our palms meeting, fingers intertwining.

Neither of us speaks. We don't need to. Everything that matters is in the way she looks at me, in the slight tremble of her fingers against mine, in the way she leans forward just a fraction.

This time, when our lips meet, there's no hesitation. No pulling back. Just a soft, questioning touch that quickly deepens into something more urgent, more necessary. We turn toward each other, and in the blink of an eye, she is climbing into my lap, the blanket falling forgotten to the floor as she presses against me.

"Are you sure?" I murmur against her lips.

“I made myself a promise when my brother died that I’d live with no regrets. I’ve regretted it all night that I didn’t kiss you. The more I thought about it, the more turned on I got,” she whispers against my lips before she kisses me harder.

Her hands slide into my hair, holding me to her like she's afraid I might disappear if she lets go. When she rocks her hips against mine, I groan, holding her tight.

Standing, I move us toward the bed and lay her down.

As I lower Grace onto the bed, every sense heightens. The cabin, once cold and drafty, now feels warm and intimate.

As we shed the last pieces of clothing it’s like a layer of armor discarded, revealing not just skin, but the scars and stories beneath. Grace's fingers trace the faded tattoo on my shoulder, a remnant of a past life. I can see the questions in her eyes, but she doesn't ask. Instead, she leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the ink, accepting it. Accepting me without words.

I explore her body with an attention to detail that I didn't know I possessed. Each curve, each line, is a testament to her strength and resilience. She's real, and perfect for me which is so much better. Her breath hitches as I run my fingers along her side, finding a ticklish spot. She squirms, laughing softly, and the sound is more beautiful than any music I've ever played.

"Ticklish?" I murmur, grinning.

"Don't," she warns, but her eyes are sparkling with amusement.

I lean down, replacing my fingers with my lips, kissing the spot gently. "Wouldn't dream of it," I say against her skin, feeling her shiver.

This isn't just sex. It's not a quick fix or a mindless release. It's a conversation, a give and take, a silent confession of need and desire. When she looks at me, her eyes hold a universe of emotion: fear, hope, and longing. I want to be the man who deserves that look, who can hold her fears gently and turn her hopes into reality.

I reach for my wallet and pull out a condom, quickly rolling it on before I'm back over her.

As I lower myself onto the bed, covering Grace's body with mine, I feel a shiver run through her that has nothing to do with the cold. Her eyes meet mine, wide and vulnerable, and I can see the fears and hopes warring within her. I want to chase away the fears and magnify the hopes. I lean down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, and then the corner of her mouth.

"Blake," she whispers, her voice barely audible as I line my cock up at her entrance. The sound of my real name on her lips sends a thrill through me. It's been so long since anyone has called me that, since anyone has looked at me like this. Like I matter. Like I'm more than just a means to an end.

Her hands are in my hair, on my back, pulling me closer. Her legs wrap around my hips, urging me on. But I don't rush. I can't. This is too important. She is too important. I want to savor every moment, to commit every detail to memory.

When I finally enter her, it's with a slow, deliberate movement. Her breath catches, her nails dig into my shoulders, and her eyes never leave mine. It's intense, overwhelming, and perfect. Each thrust feels so damn good I know I won't last long. I reach between us to rub her clit.

"Come for me, baby. You feel so damn good I'm not going to last long," I plead.

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