8. Claire

8

CLAIRE

I press my forehead against the cold window pane, watching snowflakes twirl in the grey morning light. The severe winter weather that ruined our Christmas plans has stretched on for a week, leaving me trapped at home, away from the ranch. Away from Brady. My breath fogs the glass, and I absently trace a heart in it before quickly wiping it away.

God, I’m acting like a teenager.

But I can’t help it. Right now, I’d usually be at the ranch, helping with morning feeding. Brady would have already been up for hours, his voice rough with early morning gruffness as he goes over the day’s tasks. We’d move around each other in comfortable silence, sharing coffee and warmth in the barn as we worked.

He’s called every day to check on us, his voice a comfort through the phone, but it’s not the same. Not even close. I miss the physical presence of him—how he fills a room just by being in it, how his hand finds the small of my back when he passes by, how his genuine smiles make my whole day brighter.

The snow falls heavier now, thick flakes obscuring the view of our neighbor’s house across the street. Another day stuck inside, watching the world turn white. My fingers itch to be doing something useful. At the ranch, there would be endless tasks—breaking ice in water troughs, laying extra bedding to keep the horses warm, maintaining the heating systems in the barns.

I hate that I can’t be there to help.

“Claire?” Gran says gently, her voice breaking through my brooding. “How about a game of cards? You’ve been standing at that window for nearly an hour.”

I turn from the window, forcing a smile. We’re safe, warm, with plenty of food. I should be grateful for that, at least. “Sure, Gran. Though I’m not sure how many more card games I can take.”

“Better than counting snowflakes, isn’t it?” she says, already grabbing a deck. “Besides, you still owe me a rematch from yesterday.”

Gran shuffles the deck with practiced ease, the cards whispering as they flow through her fingers. We've played so many games this week, I'm surprised the ink hasn’t worn off the cards.

I try to focus on my hand, but my mind keeps drifting back to the ranch. To Brady. I lay down what I think is a set of threes, but when I do, Gran gives me a concerned look.

"Sweetheart," Gran says, her voice gentle. "Those cards don't match."

"Sorry." I attempt a laugh, gathering them back up. "Guess the cabin fever is getting to me."

"Cabin fever, is it?" Gran asks knowingly. “Are you sure it’s nothing to do with a certain tall, handsome rancher?"

My neck grows hot. “Well, that too.”

“I’m sorry this Christmas didn’t turn out as you hoped.”

“I wish our plans had worked out, too.” I swallow, worry gnawing at my chest. “I keep telling myself it's just a storm, but it feels bigger than that somehow.”

She reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers. Her skin is soft, papery with age, but her grip is still strong. “You’ll be back together before you know it, sweetheart. What you two have, that’s not something a little snow can erase.”

“I hope you’re right.” The knot of worry in my chest tightens. “I just really miss him. I miss him more than makes sense.”

“Love rarely makes sense, dear.” Her eyes twinkle as she draws a card. “That’s what makes it so wonderful.”

“I’m not—” I start to say, but then I realize that I can’t deny it. Tears fill my eyes as I realize the true depth of my feelings for Brady. “Oh.”

Gran smiles and discards a card from her hand. “It’s your turn, hon.”

A few days later, I wake to an unfamiliar sound. Blinking sleep from my eyes, I peer out my bedroom window. The storm has finally broken, pale sunlight glinting off banks of pristine snow. The world looks clean and new, like anything might be possible.

But what is that sound?

And then I see him: Brady, bundled up against the cold, shoveling our walkway. His breath clouds in the morning air as he works, each movement powerful and precise. The sight of him makes my chest ache with overwhelming emotion.

I don’t even think about it. Like that, I’m flying out of the house and running outside in my pajamas, snow crunching under my feet. The cold air bites at my skin, but I barely notice. Brady looks up at the sound of my rushed footsteps, his face breaking into a big, gorgeous smile that warms me straight through.

“Claire—” he starts, but I’m already throwing my arms around him. He’s solid and real against me, smelling of cold air and wool and him. God, I’ve missed him so much.

His arms wrap around me, but then he pulls back with a frown. “Jesus, you’re freezing. Get back inside.”

I laugh, pressing closer instead. “I missed you too, you worrier.”

Brady insists on finishing the shoveling while I get dressed. When he comes in, stamping snow from his boots, Gran already has breakfast waiting. It feels a little unreal, seeing him at our kitchen table, his large frame making everything look smaller. But it feels right, too.

“These biscuits are excellent, ma’am,” Brady says, and I hide my smile behind my coffee cup. He’s so polite with Gran.

“Call me Lorraine,” Gran insists. “And the secret is to use very cold butter. Claire never has the patience to make them properly.”

“Hey!” I protest, but they’re both laughing, and I quickly join them.

After breakfast, I bundle up properly—reassuring Brady that I’m wearing plenty of layers when he asks—and follow his truck back to the ranch in my pickup. The familiar drive looks so different, transformed by the snow into something out of a fairy tale. When I park in my usual spot and step out onto the snow-packed gravel, breathing in the brisk air, something settles in my chest.

And then I realize what that feeling is. It feels like coming home.

Brady and I dive straight into work. There’s plenty to do after days of heavy snow. The horses need extra attention, and Brady and I move from stall to stall, carefully checking on each of them, adjusting blankets, and making sure everyone’s comfortable.

“Hey there, beautiful,” I murmur to Lucky, one of our more anxious mares. She’s wearing the pink blanket I picked out for her, and I smile as I remember how Brady had rolled his eyes at the color but bought it anyway. Now he’s the one who always makes sure she’s wearing it.

The physical labor feels good after being cooped up for so long. Breaking ice in water troughs, hauling extra hay, clearing paths between buildings—it’s hard work, but satisfying. Brady and I fall easily into our rhythm, moving around each other like we’ve done this for many years more than we have.

It all feels so right. It’s not just the way we work together, anticipating each other’s needs and sharing the load. It’s deeper than that. Brady sees me—really sees me. He values my opinions about the horses, trusts my judgment. When I suggest a different approach to his usual method, he listens.

The hours fly by as we work side by side. At one point, I catch myself watching him lift a heavy feed bag, admiring how his muscles flex beneath his winter gear. He catches me watching him, and I just smile at him, not looking away. I love the play of muscles in his arms, the strength in his shoulders. I love how those powerful hands of his can be so gentle when needed.

I love him .

By the time we finish our outdoor work, the sun is setting and we're both ready to warm up. Brady's house welcomes us with the crackle of the wood stove and the lingering scent of coffee from this morning.

Brady heads upstairs to change, telling me he’ll be right back. As I peel off my layers of snow-dusted clothing, I look over at the way his boots and mine now sit paired together by the door, and my heart squeezes tight.

And then something else catches my eye—the leather journal I gave him for his birthday, lying open on the kitchen counter. I pause in the middle of unwinding my scarf, struck by the sight of it.

My heart swells at the sight. His handwriting fills several pages, ink flowing across the cream-colored paper. I don’t peek at what he’s written—that’s private, none of my business—but just knowing he’s using it, that he’s found value in my gift, makes me feel even closer to him. Brady’s not a man who opens up easily. This small evidence that he’s trying, that he’s letting his walls down bit by bit, means everything.

I head to his bedroom, finding him shrugging out of his own winter gear. My eyes trace the strong lines of his back, admiring how his thermal shirt clings to his muscles. When he turns, his eyes are warm, locked on me in a way that feels deliciously possessive.

Without hesitation, I cross the room to meet him, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders. He pulls me close, one large hand spanning my lower back.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he murmurs against my hair.

“Missed you more.” I press closer, breathing him in. “Let’s not do that again.”

His chuckle rumbles through his chest. “You could always stay here for good.”

There’s a lightness to his tone, but something in the way his arms tighten around me suggests he means it more than he’s letting on.

Brady dips his head down and his lips find mine. The kiss he gives me starts slow and tender, but quickly gathers heat. Days of separation have left both of us starving for each other. I press against him needfully, savoring the size and strength of him.

I’m so lucky to be able to call this man mine.

Brady’s cock throbs against me, huge and brutally hard. My pussy aches for him as he slides his broad palms down to my hips, guiding me back toward the bed.

He sits on the edge, and I settle onto his lap, my curves fitting against his solid frame. Our kisses deepen, tongues sliding together. Brady’s hands roam my body with reverence, silently telling me how much he adores every inch of me.

In his hands, I feel cherished. I feel desired for being exactly the way I am.

We undress each other slowly, neither of us in any kind of hurry. When Brady’s hands cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my hardened nipples, I arch into his touch with a needful moan. His mouth follows, hungrily sucking on my tits as his fingers drift lower, finding me already soaking wet for him.

His touch is sure and knowing, drawing moans from me that no one else would ever be able to. He knows my body so well now, knows exactly how to touch me, how to drive me wild. And I know him, too—know how he likes when I run my nails lightly down his muscular back, know the spot behind his ear that makes him growl when I kiss it.

“Brady,” I whimper as he slides his thick fingers in and out of me. “Please. I need you inside me.”

He sucks my juices off his fingers before wrapping his hand around his throbbing cock and guiding himself into me. I gasp as he stretches me and fills me deep.

“Better now, honey?” he rasps as he pushes all the way in.

I nod and tip my forehead against his. “Perfect. God, you feel so good.”

“ You feel so good. Jesus, you make me so fucking hard.”

I laugh and steal a kiss. Then I look deep into his eyes and my heart starts pounding harder than it ever has before.

“I love you, Brady.”

He stills, his hands tightening on my hips. For a moment, he just looks at me with those gorgeous steel-blue eyes of his.

“I love you too, Claire.” His voice is full of raw emotion as he cups my face in his hands. “When I think about the future, all I can see is you. I picture us building a life together. Being married. Having babies.”

I nod, emotion rising in my throat. “That’s what I want, too.”

We move together, our bodies naturally finding the perfect rhythm. Brady fills me deep, each thrust sending a surge of pleasure through me. His hands caress my body like he’s memorizing every curve, every sensitive spot. When his thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his thrusts, pleasure builds tight in my core.

“That’s it, beautiful,” he says, voice strained with need. “Let me feel you come before I fill you with my seed.”

“Brady,” I choke out. “Oh, God. Harder .”

His cock pistons in and out of me, covered in my cream. My mouth drops open as an orgasm swells inside me. I cry out with pleasure and he keeps driving into me, his thrusts becoming more and more ragged as he nears his own climax.

One more thrust and I unravel, crying out his name as I come. Brady is right there with me, shooting hot ropes of cum into me as I’m riding out my orgasm. Gasping for air, I cling to him, and his strong arms hold me steady as he pumps his seed deep into my womb.

“I love you, Claire,” he says, his voice deep and tender. “I love you. I love you.”

And I realize, with a swell of blissful disbelief, that my wild fantasies about our future together very well might come true after all.