Chapter 2

Sawyer

I leanagainst the rough bark of an old oak, my gaze snagged on the scene before me. Nora”s out there in the pasture, under the cruel kiss of the midday sun, her figure a silhouette against the blaze of the open sky. She bends over a stubborn weed, yanking it from the earth. Her movements are fluid, like she”s part of the landscape—natural and wild.

Her skin”s got that glow, you know? The kind that comes from days spent under the Texas sun, a rich caramel that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to touch. Nora”s wearing these cutoffs that should be illegal, hugging every curve of her lithe frame in a way that has my blood heating up more than this damn heatwave.

She straightens, sweeping a loose strand of hair from her face, and even from this distance, I can see the sheen of sweat on her brow. It drips down, past her temple, teasing along the gentle curve of her neck. Jesus, what I wouldn”t give to follow that trail with my lips, feel the beat of her pulse beneath my tongue.

She”s like a mirage, all golden and glistening out there, making my throat dry. There”s something about the way she moves, oblivious to the way she”s got this grown man hiding behind trees just to steal a glimpse. A picture of innocence with a side of sin.

Nora pauses, tipping a water bottle to her lips, and I swear I can feel the cool rush down my own parched throat. She”s a vision, all right—a siren call to a man who”s been at sea for far too long. And hell if I”m not ready to crash against her rocks.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to rein in the wild stampede of desire that”s been trampling through my mind since Nora stepped onto my land. It”s a losing battle, and I know it. My gaze tracks her every move, latching onto the slightest sway of her hips as she bends to adjust an irrigation line.

”Get a grip, Sawyer,” I mutter under my breath. But the reprimand falls flat even to my own ears. There”s something about her, some magnetic pull that I can”t seem to shake off. And damn if I haven”t tried.

The heat isn”t helping either. It wraps around me like a second skin, mirroring the heat that simmers low in my belly every time I picture those sun-kissed shoulders bare, free from the constraints of her tank top. My mouth goes dry at the thought, and it ain”t just the summer drought causing it.

I imagine her laughter, light and airy, as I trace the outline of her collarbone with the tip of my finger, dipping lower to explore the valley between her breasts. The fantasy is vivid enough to make my hands shake. I see us tangled in the sheets of my bed, her body arched beneath mine, soft moans spilling from her lips as I?—

”Jesus Christ.” I scrub a hand down my face, feeling the day-old stubble scratch against my palm. This ain”t right. She”s young, innocent, and completely off-limits. I”m supposed to be looking after her, not undressing her with my eyes.

But hell, the heart wants what it wants—or maybe that”s another part of me talking, the one that”s been too long without a woman”s touch. That voice whispers seduction in my ear, painting pictures of Nora splayed out on my desk, her legs wrapped around my waist as I bury myself inside her, claiming her over and over until all she can remember is my name.

”Shit.” I press my knuckles to my lips, trying to stifle the groan that threatens to escape. I can almost feel her underneath me, her nails digging into my back, urging me on.

It”s a dangerous game I”m playing, letting these fantasies take hold. They”re a wildfire in my veins, and if I”m not careful, they”ll burn us both alive. But for the life of me, I can”t turn away—not when the mere idea of her, spread out and waiting for me, has me hard and aching with want.

”Control,” I whisper to myself, a silent plea to whatever restraint I have left. It”s a thin thread, fraying with each passing second I spend watching her from the shadows. I need to cool off, put some distance between us before I do something I”ll regret.

”Tomorrow,” I promise myself, the word tasting like ashes on my tongue. ”I”ll stay away tomorrow.”

But even as I say it, I know it”s a lie. Tomorrow, I”ll be right back here, caught in the gravitational pull of Nora”s orbit, helpless against the tide of desire that”s threatening to sweep me under.

* * *

I slam the door to my study behind me, breathing hard. The heat of the day clings to my skin, but it”s nothing compared to the fire raging inside me. My hands are shaking as I lock the door, a flimsy barrier between the world and my shameful secret.

”Get a grip,” I mutter to myself, even as I stride across the room to the bottom drawer of my desk. It”s a little corner of hell that I”ve carved out for myself, filled with stolen moments captured in still frames.

My fingers curl around the stack of photos hidden there—the weight of them both a comfort and a condemnation. Each snapshot is a glimpse into a life I can”t have, shouldn”t even want. But God, how I want it.

Nora’s face smiles up at me from the glossy paper, her eyes sparkling with laughter in one, her brow furrowed in concentration in another. She’s blissfully unaware of the camera, of my gaze forever etched onto these moments. My chest tightens as I thumb through them, the images blurring as anticipation coils tight in my belly.

”Damn,” I groan, my voice low and rough. The pictures spread out before me fan the flames of desire until it”s all-consuming, devouring every shred of decency I pretend to have.

I sit heavily in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. The image of Nora bent over a fence post, sunlight painting her curves in a golden hue, has me gripping the edge of the desk. I”m panting now, heart thundering like a stallion”s hooves against the ground, each beat echoing my need, my craving for release.

”Shit, I”m in deep,” I confess to the silent room, to the walls that hold my secrets. Sweat beads on my forehead as I fight the gnawing guilt, the part of me that knows this isn”t right. But the raw hunger drowns out the voice of reason, leaving only the primal urge to claim, to possess.

”Fuck control,” I hiss, giving in to the darkness that”s been hounding my steps, stalking me like a predator. Every cell in my body screams for relief, and I”m too damn weak to deny it any longer.

I tear my gaze from the images scattered across the desk and focus on one in particular—Nora, her hair a wild mane framing her face, cheeks flushed with exertion. Her lips are parted, as if calling out to me, begging for something only I can give. My hand moves to my belt, unbuckling it with practiced ease.

”God, Nora,” I groan, my voice a mere whisper as I free myself from the confines of denim. The cool air hits my heated skin, contrasting with the heat that”s pooling in my groin. I wrap my fingers around myself, my grip firm, just like I imagine hers would be. The fantasy sends a jolt straight through me.

”Would you touch me like this?” I mutter, thumbing through the pictures with my other hand. Each image is another note in the symphony of my desire, every curve and shadow a melody that drives me closer to the edge.

My movements are rough, needy, as I stroke myself in time with the visions dancing in my head—Nora beneath me, her body arching into mine, those sun-kissed legs wrapped tight around my waist. I picture her whispers, her moans, all for me, as I take her in the soft hay of the barn loft, where the scent of earth and desire mingle in the heavy air.

”Damn, girl, you”re gonna be the death of me,” I rasp. My strokes become more erratic, faster, as I chase the pleasure that threatens to consume me whole. I”m close, so damn close, riding the razor”s edge between control and utter abandon.

”Ah, fuck,” I grunt as I feel the pressure build, a crescendo of need that has no outlet but this. The thought of her soft curves yielding under my hands, her gasps and cries filling the room, it”s all too much. I”m teetering on the brink, sweat slicking my skin as I barrel toward release.

And then, it crashes over me—a wave of ecstasy so powerful it whites out my vision. ”Nora!” Her name bursts from me, a raw shout that echoes off the walls of my study. Pleasure racks my body, my muscles clenching and unclenching, as I spill myself with a shudder of satisfaction that leaves me breathless.

For a moment, there”s nothing but the sound of my ragged breathing and the soft crackle of paper under my hand. The tension that”s been winding tighter all day snaps, leaving me drained but sated, the relentless craving momentarily quelled. I lean back in my chair, letting the afterglow wash over me, basking in the silence that follows the storm.

My panting slows, though my heart is still a wild drum in my chest. I”m coming down from that high, the rush of release ebbing away, and fuck, it leaves room for something else to seep in—guilt. It coils around me, heavy and tight, squeezing until I can barely think.

”Shit,” I mutter to myself, my voice a rough whisper in the quiet room. The pictures of Nora are scattered on my desk, her eyes staring back at me from each one. They”re innocent snapshots, but I”ve tainted them, turned them into fuel for my own burning desires. My gut twists because she doesn”t know. She can”t know how far I”ve gone.

I swipe a hand over my face, feeling the sticky residue of sweat and self-loathing. Gaze dropping to the photos, each one is a reminder of the line I”ve crossed. Nora, with her sun-kissed skin and smile that could light up the darkest places in me, deserves better than to be an object in my twisted fantasy.

”Get your shit together, Blackwood,” I scold myself, the sound of my full name a slap to pull me out of this spiral. I gather the pictures, my hands careful not to crumple them, not after what they”ve just been through. Each image is a confession of my obsession, and as I stack them neatly, I can”t help feeling like I”m trying to put my soul back in order.

With every picture I slip back into the hidden compartment in my desk, there”s a promise to myself. Be the man she thinks you are, not this...not this guy who gets off to stolen moments.

”Control,” I breathe out, the word a mantra. It has to mean something again. Control over the ranch, control over my damn self.

Photos tucked away, I lock the compartment with a decisive click. It”s done. The evidence of my shame secured once more, where it can”t hurt anyone but me.