“So, you just left and never went back? What about your brother?”

  His eyes hold mine for a beat as he works through his thoughts in that measured way he has.

  “I went back, but things between my father and I were always strained.” He shrugs, focusing on my first question. “So, I went back less and less. I made excuses as to why I couldn’t make the trip. Of course, I regret those decisions now because I know he was trying to teach me how to be the man I needed to be to deal with what life was going to throw at me.”

  “Jack—”

  “No. I deserve the guilt. Sometimes, when you make decisions when you’re young, you stick to them when you’re older even when you shouldn’t so that they weren’t made in vain. Pride can be a nasty bitch. It was in my case.” He takes a bite, and I move my dinner around on my plate because he’s hitting closer to home than I’d like to admit.

  His description of how he felt when he’d visit even more so.

  I think of when I lost the baby. I had been six months along and I was scared and sad and just needed my mom. Sure, I was still new on my adventure with Fletcher, but I was so homesick and so lonely that I’d tried to call her. She picked up.

  Then my dad hung up on me.

  But she never called me back.

  Nursing a broken heart from both the loss of my baby and the official loss of support from my mother, I still spent months checking the missed call logs, hoping maybe she would call.

  She didn’t.

  And I hate my dad for that.

  “He got sick. He didn’t tell anyone until it was too late for anything to be done to save him. My sister called me to come home.” Pain flickers through his eyes as he clears his throat. “I—I was in the middle of a huge deal. A transaction of sorts. I was trying to be the big wig throwing his weight around—”

  “What was the transaction?”

  His attention stays locked on the slow swirl of wine he creates in his glass. “I was buying a ranch, taking advantage of the owner of a small ranch that was going belly up by throwing him a shitty bone from a rich landowner. I knew from the start that the buyer was essentially going to take everything that rancher’s family had worked decades to build and dismantle it.”

  His gaze lifts to meet mine, silently asking me if I understand things he hasn’t even said. I twist my lips, and my hands tighten on the stem of my glass.

  “Yeah, Knox. You heard that right. I was screwing the little guy for the sake of the big guy. I thought I was making a name for myself, so when my dad called, I assumed my sister had fallen off the wagon, and he just wanted me to come home and clean up her mess again.” His throat bobs. “He wasn’t playing.”

  “Oh, Jack,” I say, the break in his voice killing me. The pain on his face is so raw and unguarded that I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. I’m actually surprised that he lets me.

  “When I finally took the call from my sister and she was sober and crying and begging me to come home, I knew it was serious. We talked as I ran through the airport to try to get to him. I made him every promise he asked for just so he’d hold on a little longer, but he died before I could get there. I was young and so stupid to think I was too good for him and his ways . . . and he was old and too stuck in his ways to see that all I needed was a bit of freedom before taking on the responsibility that came with the name Sutton.”

  “Don’t you think he knew? Don’t you think he was proud of you?” My voice is soft, laden with compassion as I voice words I often wonder about my own father.

  He clears his throat and nods. I give him a minute to gather himself before he continues. “He let me roam when I needed to. He let me make mistakes so I could learn without stepping in. He let me live out from beneath his shadow, and I didn’t realize it until it was too late to thank him for it.”

  “And now?” I ask.

  “And now his ranch is mine and Lauren’s, who’s my sister, and we have to figure out what to do with it.”

  “Is that where you’re heading when you’re done here?”

  He nods and takes his time placing his fork atop his knife on his plate. “Yeah. It’ll be the busiest time of the year on the ranch then. The place could run by itself really, but it needs someone to lead it all. That and I promised Lauren I’d be back.” He runs a hand over his jaw and purses his lips. “It’s going to be hard . . .”

  “How so?”

  “I’ll acknowledge the one thing I’ve never really done before—that I am proud to be a Sutton. That I am proud to be his son.”

  I shift in my chair, my feet accidentally bumping his beneath the table, and let the heaviness of the conversation settle.

  “Why here, Jack? Why me?”

  “I told you. A friend of a friend of a friend . . . and because of karma.” His voice is barely a whisper, his eyes taking their time to find mine.

  “Karma?”

  It takes him a moment to respond. “That transaction I brokered didn’t sit right with me. Sure, I made good money off the knowledge I exploited, but when I stepped back, when I went home and looked at how hard my dad had worked for everything just so I could have it one day, it really hit home.” He leans forward and taps his wine glass to mine. “I needed to make right with what I did to the other rancher . . . with a lot of things, really. I needed to help someone save their ranch instead of help the sharks take it.”

  Tears well in my eyes because he has no clue how long I’ve been keeping the wolf knocking on the door at bay or how much I really do need his help, even if I’ve only just admitted it to myself.

  “Hey.” He squeezes my hand, and I draw in a deep breath. “I’m not a bad man, Knox. I’m just trying to find my feet and figure out who I am.”

  “And are you getting closer to figuring out who Jack Sutton is?”

  “A bit. He’s a man who needs to get back to basics and who needs to remember what his dad taught him—that horses are horses and cattle are cattle and land is land and it isn’t all that complicated so long as you respect them. A man who should have walked away from this place and the woman with a fiery temper and wild streak who lives here but who just couldn’t seem to . . .” The undercurrent that has hummed all night sparks to the surface. “And now doesn’t want to.”

  19

  TATE

  Nerves rattle through me.

  I wash one dish after another, more cognizant of the weight of Jack’s stare than I ever have been before.

  But what happens next? How does one go from a serious conversation at dinner to what we both know is going to happen now that the meal is over?

  “You can at least let me help,” Jack says.

  “You bought the steaks.” I glance over my shoulder to where he’s leaning back, arm over the chair beside him as the finger of his other hand runs over his bottom lip. His shirt is dark with the cuffs rolled up to his forearms. His hair is styled with gel and looks darker than it normally does.

  He cleans up well. Very well.

  “Technically, you cooked since you grilled them too. I didn’t do much, so doing the dishes is the least I can do.”

  “Humph.”

  “And that sound means what exactly?”

  “It means I’m not complaining about the view right now.”

  The sponge I have on the plate in front of me falters, and a nervous laugh falls from my lips. I try to cover its obvious sound with an unladylike snort. “You mean a woman in the kitchen cleaning the dishes? Don’t expect the barefoot or pregnant part, Sutton.”

  “Nah, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the dishes.” There is shuffling at my back. “Just the woman standing there, Knox.”

  I know he’s right behind me. I can sense him before his fingers graze over the nape of my neck and shift my hair to the side.

  When the warmth of his breath feathers over my skin, every part of me freezes.

  And aches.

  And wants.

  “Jack?” His name is a breathless syllable as he reaches around me and turns the faucet off.

  “Hmmm?” he murmurs, and although we aren’t even touching, I can still feel the rumble of it.

  When I turn, he’s inches from me and makes me aware of everything: the nearness of his lips, the wine on his breath, the warmth of his body. The anticipation is almost tangible in the air around us.

  “My name is Tate,” I whisper in the silence.

  “I know what it is.”

  “Say it.”

  His smile is slight, but his eyes are loaded with the same desire that has been rioting through me all night.

  When I opened the front door to see him standing there in a button-up shirt and genuine smile. The expression on his face—eyes wide, lips lax, fingers itching to touch—when he admired the simple maxi dress I threw on.

  When he took the bottle of wine from me, hands closing over mine and holding it there longer than is normal before pulling it away.

  When he eyed me across the dinner table, the conversation giving way to the sexual tension.

  “Is this what you want?”

  I nod.

  “Tell me,” he says, his fingertips trailing down my bare arm, goose bumps chasing in their wake.

  “Jack.” It’s a soft moan as his hand slides to the small of my back.

  Kiss me.

  “Tate.”

  It’s the only word he says before his lips crash against mine and he pulls me flush against him.

  Where the last time I hesitated when he kissed me, this time I dive right in. I allow my hands to run up the plain of his chest to his shoulders to thread through the hair at the nape of his neck.

  My lips take hungry sips against his. My tongue demands more with each graze against his. My nipples harden and ache as his hands find their way to cup my breasts.

  The moan I release is a reflex I can’t help, and I tighten my hands, which are still fisted in his hair.

  “Christ, Tate.” His groan pulls on every nerve in my body to want more, to need more, of him.

  I’d say it’s the copious amounts of wine I drank that has given me this heady buzz, but I know the way I feel has nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with Jack Sutton.

  Absolutely everything.

  Maybe the wine just let me lower my guard so I could relax enough to enjoy the moment.

  And maybe it gives me the courage to say, “I want you, Jack.”

  He nips my bottom lip and pulls on it before he leans back. When his eyes meet mine, they’re a mixture of desire and patience that I’m not sure how he controls because every part of me itches to touch and taste and take more.

  “I’ve wanted you since that first time you threatened to shoot me.” His chuckle rumbles against my lips as they meet mine again with a lot more urgency and a little less finesse than before.

  This time, they tell me they aren’t stopping.

  His fingers grab the fabric of my dress and inch it up until he can slide his hand beneath it and cup my ass.

  Moments pass in an assault on my senses.

  His hips grind against me; his cock hard and tempting. My nails dig into his shoulder through his shirt. His mouth laces kisses down my neck to tease and taunt the soft spot on the underside of my jaw. My hips press against his, needing so much more than a hard dick through soft clothes. His hand yanks my leg up to his hip and holds it there while his other slips beneath the lace of my panties.

  And then he touches me.

  Holy shit.

  My body lights on fire when his fingertips run over the bud of my clit and then slide into the wetness below.

  We both groan when he tucks two fingers into me, and our lips meet again, his tongue darting in and out of my mouth in perfect cadence with his fingers.

  “Fucking hell, Tate,” he groans into my mouth as my fingers work clumsily on the buttons on his shirt.

  It’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the sensations he’s pulling from me, but I want his skin. I need to feel it, see it, run my tongue over it.

  Lose myself in it.

  In him.

  He takes his hands off me to shrug out of his shirt before trying to dive back in again, but I stop him.

  I’m crazy for doing it because I can feel my body already burning the fuse and lighting its way to detonation . . . but I put my hands on his shoulders and just look at him.

  The toned torso. The sun-kissed skin. The scar running over his left pec. The happy trail at the base of his abs.

  “Tate?” he asks in a husky voice as he tucks a piece of hair behind my ear.

  Forcing a smile to work through my sudden nerves and insecurities, which are running rampant, I focus my attention on unsnapping the button on his jeans.

  Then tugging down his zipper.

  And then on the size of his cock when he shoves his pants down and it springs free.

  It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve been with a man, not since Fletcher died, and I hate the riot of emotions that try to fight their way to the surface.

  I don’t want to acknowledge them or think about them because they have no right to appear in this space and time.

  So I reach out and encircle his dick with my hand as I press my lips to his, using Jack to help me through this.

  To take something I want—to have sex with a handsome man. A moment where I don’t have to think about anything other than him or my own need.

  His groan that I swallow with my kiss is a good start.

  The way Jack pulls my dress over my head in one fell swoop a close second. How his eyes scrape over every curve of my body, the swell of my small breasts now bared for him, and the blue lace underwear I miraculously found in the back of my panty drawer an even better third.

  But it’s the way he spins us around and clears the few things left on the kitchen table with a swipe of his hand before laying me back onto it that wipes all thoughts from my head.

  “It’ll take too long to find the bed,” Jack says as his lips find mine again, his smile curved on them.

  His lips taunt me as my hips lift to beg him for more. His tongue slides down my neck as his fingers skim up the inside of my thigh, my breath hitching when he pulls my panties off. His mouth sucks on my nipple as he pushes apart my legs, the cool air hitting my most sensitized of skin. He only stops touching me long enough to put a condom on, something I didn’t even think of but find oddly sexy watching.

  Then his gaze fuses back to mine as his hands grip my hips. “Now, where were we?” he asks playfully and pulls me to the end of the table so that my thighs are parted around his hips and his hard length is lined up perfectly to me.

  “Mmm,” I murmur as I reach out and scrape my fingertips over that delineation of muscle in the V at his hips. His abs flex at my touch, his dick jerks slightly, hitting my inner thigh.

  “Tell me what you want, Tate,” Jack says as he presses the head of his cock into me. My body stills, my breath catches, my muscles tense, and we both groan, moan, whatever you want to call it so that it’s the only sound that fills the room like a soundtrack for us to begin this intimate dance to.

  My eyes close. My hips lift.

  “Tell me what you need, Tate.”

  You.

  This.

  Me.

  Now.

  But I don’t speak. I can’t. I’m swamped with emotions as Jack Sutton bottoms out within me and then stills there as my body accepts and wraps around him.

  When the sensation overwhelms me, it’s my mewl that tears through the room, matching the pleasurable, burning ache that’s rioting through my body.

  It’s my hands finding his where they are on my thighs and grabbing on to them.

  It’s my hips that lift to tell him to move. To pull out. To push back in. To grind against me until it feels so good I can’t think. I can’t speak. I can’t open my eyes because all I want to do is absorb every single damn thing he’s making me feel.

  The nerves I had are obliterated by the sensations Jack is battering me with. One after another as his lips and teeth move along my collarbone and his hips and dick work between my thighs. And the noises he makes—the guttural groans and hisses of pleasure—are an aphrodisiac in and of themselves.

  “You feel incredible,” he murmurs, breath heating the skin beneath my jaw as his fingers possess and grip my legs before he pushes himself up.

  My eyes flash open as he brushes his thumb over my clit, a strum to ignite the embers he left smoldering there. But there’s something about meeting his eyes like this—in the dim light of the kitchen with his dick in me and fingers on me and his gaze telling me he wants more—that unnerves me in a way I can’t describe.

  Too honest.

  Too real.

  So, I close my eyes and tell myself to let the heat building within me take hold. I want to let Jack overpower my shyness and command that surge of energy and pleasure and bliss to ride through my veins and slam into me so hard that it knocks the breath from me.

  “Jack.”

  And it does.

  My hands grip the edges of the table.

  “Jack.”

  My back and neck bow.

  Like a battering ram I run whole-heartedly into.

  “Jack!” I moan as every part of my body is struck hard and fast by relentless lightning.

  I tighten my legs around him as my body shudders, my breath turns to a pant, and my world goes white hot. I pulse around him until I hear my name on his lips . . . until it turns into a groan.

  Until Jack is struck by the same damn lightning.

  20

  JACK

  Look at me, Tate.

  I grunt as I punish myself. One pull-up after another. The damn refrain a punishing cadence I keep tempo to.

  Look at me.

  The words that filled my mind with each grind into Tate’s body. The same one I repeated with each pull out.

  Look. At. Me.

  Then all thoughts were lost to the orgasm that tore through me, wave by obliterating wave.

  But I think of the words now, of my need for her to see me, watch me, and connect with me. Sure, she moaned my name, but she wouldn’t fucking meet my eyes. I hate that I wonder if her eyes were closed because she was thinking of Fletcher as I was fucking her when all I wanted was for her to be thinking of me.