Page 132 of Braving the Storm
She nods quickly. “Your hat, your cuff, it’s all yours, baby.”
My pulse triples.
“Holy fuck. You got it straight in that pretty head of yours that I love you, right?” My voice is practically a growl.
Briar nods again, pupils blooming. “You like hearing me call you baby?”
If I wasn’t already feral for this girl, she just sealed our fate. “I love you… remember that for about the next twenty minutes or so, ok?”
“Please.Yes.” Her breath hitches, and she’s already squirming.
Reaching over, I grab my hat off the bench and set it over her glossy curls and this right here iseverything. I take a moment to letit all settle in my veins, rich and nourishing, as I drink her in from head to toe.
My girl, who I’m never fucking letting go as long as there’s breath in my lungs. Scooping her up, it feels like I could float across this damn cabin with how good it is to have her curled into my body.
My lips find her ear, and the shudder roaming through her beneath my hold sets the spark blazing that has been waiting to ignite this whole time.
“Ready to learn something, darlin’?”
Epilogue
Nothing feels as good as being back on this mountain, back in my cowboy’s arms, and returning to Devil’s Peak Ranch.
It’s as if my lungs are able to fully expand once more, and my heart feels lighter than ever in my entire life.
This feels like a brand new beginning in so many ways, and I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face as we drove beneath the hanging steer skull and sign welcoming us back to the top of Devil’s Peak.
Within a heartbeat, I’ve been waylaid by Layla for coffee, who insisted that I join her while Storm got started on the horses he’s working with today. After whisking me inside the house—complete with warm, lengthy hugs and more than a few tears on my part at the relief of being back surrounded by good, caring, kind people—she also let slip details of her little plan she had set in motion.
Turns out Layla Birch is a girl’s girl, a locked vault of epic proportions, and had been keeping our secret for quite some time—since that night when we all went out for dinner, in fact—and had I not been at the cabin waiting for him the other night, she’dorchestrated a plan to make sure Storm was about to get on a plane in order to come and find me.
“City girl, I spent a winter stuck on this mountain with a man I wasn’t supposed to be looking twice at… trust me, I know the signs.”
We spent hours talking, and Layla filled me in on what I’ve missed, with her excitement in full-flight at the news Sage is returning to Crimson Ridge any day now for some final meetings with her new clients, before she relocates at the start of summer.
I can hardly believe I’ve been sitting at the kitchen island of a beautiful ranch homestead making plans for the warmer weather and being able to breathe easily that my life is my own to do with as I please.
I’ve got a future to plan for, and it looks fucking incredible.
Now, Layla has headed off on horseback to her and Colt’s cabin, which is on a more isolated part of the ranch, looking every inch a cowgirl dreamboat. Kayce is around here somewhere, and I’m assuming Colt is, too. However, I haven’t seen either of the Wilder men since arriving today.
Although, I am certainly not complaining about having a private moment to appreciate the sight of Storm hard at work.
Damn, the sight of him in a pair of chaps does something to me I can’t explain.
Am I a chap-slut? A chap-whore? Either way, I would do very questionable things to ensure those make it into the bedroom at some point in time.
“Do you always get this wet watching your uncle work?” Storm is bent over, with a hammer in one hand, holding the hoof of the horse he’s currently attending to in the other. As he speaks, he tilts his head up just enough to flash me bright blue eyes and a devilish smirk.
“Shhh. Oh my god, you can’t say stuff like that here.” My eyes dart around the barn.
“Oh, can’t I?”
“No.” I hiss, still craning my neck to ensure no one is nearby to hear his wickedness.
He quickly snips off the remaining pieces of nail sticking out of the hoof, then rhythmically files the points down to a smooth surface.
The man is wearing a white t-shirt, stretched tight over his broad shoulders, and with each practiced glide back and forth of his tools, I’m treated to a show of straight-up forearm porn.
