Chapter 34Goldie

Chapter 34

Goldie

T he next morning, the mountain air seems fresher after the heavy rain, even cleaner and crisper than usual, as I follow Ranger into the sprawling garden that takes up the entirety of the front yard.

The night before, after mopping and sopping up all the rainwater the buckets didn't catch, and eating a late supper, we all retired to our spots to read. I had The Body in the Library, chosen for me by Buck, who'd decided to reread the same—they had two copies. He said he thought we could talk about it after we finished, which I thought was super sweet. Luke had his book of quotes. The others seemed to be on a memoir kick. But none of us read for very long—we all dozed off, bone-tired, in the living room, and all woke up in the same places this morning.

Everyone agreed it was the best night's sleep of their lives, but we also agreed to take a break on the cleaning today, to focus on the necessary chores only since we were all still quite exhausted from the previous jam-packed day.

Luke and Ash went back to the roof to try, try again, but they both looked worried. Probably because the temperature dropped significantly overnight, which may just mean the snow Ash mispredicted earlier in the week will be here sooner rather than later.

The cold snap left a delicate frost that shimmers on the last of the season's vegetables.

"I've got some late carrots and Brussels sprouts left mostly," Ranger explains, gesturing toward clusters of green that peek out from the tangled foliage.

I nod, rubbing my hands together for warmth, my breath misting in the air. "I don't know much about gardening, but I'm a quick learner and happy to help…harvest?"

Ranger's smile is quick, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "I'll take you up on that. Here, let me show you how to dig them up without hurting the roots." He hands me a trowel, our fingers brushing in the exchange. A simple touch, but it sends a tiny jolt up my arm.

We kneel side by side at the edge of the carrot patch, the earth soft and damp under our knees. Ranger demonstrates how to insert the trowel into the soil, his movements gentle and precise. "You gotta feel for the right spot," he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Then ease it out."

I mimic his actions, the soft soil yielding under the trowel. With a gentle tug, I free a carrot from the earth, its vibrant orange a stark contrast to the muted tones of the soil. "Like this?" I ask, holding it up for him to see.

"Perfect," he approves, his smile genuine. Our hands brush again as he takes the carrot to inspect it, and this time the contact lingers just a moment longer than necessary. His fingers are rough, the hands of a man used to hard work, but his touch is gentle.

Ranger places the carrot in the basket beside him and turns back to the garden. "Let's get some more of these and then move on to the sprouts."

As we work, I find myself watching him. He's focused, attentive to the task at hand, but every so often he throws a glance my way, as if to make sure I'm still there.

"You seem to know a lot about all this," I comment, gesturing around the unruly garden.

He shrugs, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. "Had to learn, really. Being out here, it's about making sure we can sustain ourselves as much as possible. If a blizzard hits, we might not be able to get down the mountain for weeks, if not longer."

I nod, understanding the weight of responsibility he carries. "It must be a lot, having to ensure everything runs smoothly here."

"It is," he admits. "But it's worth it. This"—he gestures around us—"is home. And it's ours. Makes all the hard work and worrying worth it."

"You must be really worried about the roof," I say gently.

He sighs, but says, "Luke and Ash'll get it patched up."

We continue working in comfortable silence, the baskets slowly filling. I can't help but feel a warmth spreading through me, and it's not just from the physical labor. Ranger's honesty, his dedication to this land and his brothers—it's endearing. I find myself admiring him, not just for his skills, but for the care he puts into every single thing he does.

As we move on to the Brussels sprouts, Ranger gently bumps his shoulder against mine, a playful, light gesture that makes me laugh. "You're doing great," he says.

In this quiet corner of the garden, with Ranger by my side, amid the wild, untamed growth that somehow thrives under his care, I feel a sense of belonging, that feeling of being home that catches me off guard again.

Ranger's light brown hair is pulled back today, and I love that his face is unobscured. I find my gaze lingering on his lips—so full and inviting, stained as if he'd bitten into a ripe, juicy strawberry.

"Ranger," I say, my voice slightly breathless as we stand close, the basket between us now full of our morning's effort. "I know we've got a lot to get done, but…do you think we can make time for a kiss or two?"

He pauses, his trowel halfway to the basket, and his blue eyes meet mine. There's a moment of silence. Then, he smiles.

"Yes," he replies. "In fact, I think we could make time for three or four. If you'd like."

My heart leaps at his words, and without another thought, I step closer, closing the small gap between us. He doesn't hesitate; his strong hands reach out, resting gently on my hips as he leans down, down, down. I stretch up, up, up, up. Our lips meet somewhere in the middle of his height and mine, and it's a kiss that feels like it could melt the frost off the garden, warm and sweet, deepening as we both give in to the moment.

A surge of warmth spreads through my body, chasing away any remnants of the chill in the air. Every nerve in my body comes alive, tingling with a mix of anticipation and desire, and…what? There's something else there too. A tenderness, an affection.

With each passing second, the kiss deepens, his tongue exploring my mouth and vice versa while his hands explore my curves and my hands explore the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.

In this moment, nothing else matters. It's just Ranger and me, and…something blooming that should absolutely not be. It's not even possible. We just met!

As we finally break apart, a contentment I can't deny washes over me. I sigh without meaning to.

"Was that okay?" he asks, his voice laced with concern.

"It was more than okay," I assure him, my voice a whisper. "It was perfect. I feel good with you, Ranger. I mean, I feel good with all of you, but…I just feel good."

"Well, I'm glad," he says. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"This might be out of line, but do you think you might, not now, but while you're here, do you think I might be able to get you to perform oral sex on me the way you did for Ash?"

He watches me, as if his gaze is searching my face for a sign that what he's said was not out of line. I put him out of his misery. The thought of my lips wrapped around his cock has my mouthwatering.

"Ranger," I say, wrapping my hands around his forearm. I get back up on my tiptoes again and whisper, "Let's do that tonight."

He grins. "I really like this whole friendship and sex thing."

I laugh. "Me too."

"Let's get these vegetables inside," he says.

As we step inside, the warmth of the cabin wraps around me, a stark contrast to the chilly garden air. It smells faintly of woodsmoke and cedar, the comforting scent of home. Before I can set my basket down, Clay comes through the back door, his towering frame filling the space.

"Goldie, just in time." He grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Wanna help me pluck some fruit?"

I hesitate. Knowing Clay, that's a euphemism for something naughty.

"I'm going to need you to be more specific."

"We have a little orchard of sorts out thataway," Ranger clarifies with an arm-sweeping gesture toward the west. Or is it the east? "Clay's going to pick some apples and pears."

That could be fun, right?

"Sure, I'll come with you," I say. "Just let me grab a sweater."

"You don't think I can keep you warm, sweetheart?" he asks.

"I think you're going to be too busy, you know, picking apples and pears," I tell him. Goodness, he's harder to keep in line than all the rest of them put together.

But he gives me a piggyback ride out to the orchard, which is appreciated, because I've been putting a lot of weight on my ankle and it's a little sore again. Not as sore as my pussy or my jaw, but definitely a little sore.

"Where's the ladder?" I ask when he puts me down.

Clay laughs, a deep, resonant rumble of a laugh. "With me around? You don't need a ladder, sweetheart. You've got me. We'll get 'er done faster than a jackrabbit with its tail on fire headed toward the nearest water source. And it'll be fun, I promise."

His confidence is infectious, and I don't doubt for a minute that Clay could make anything fun. Well, maybe not heading to the nearest water source with your tail on fire. But just about everything else.

The apple trees are heavy with fruit, the branches bending under the weight of them. Clay stoops slightly to grip me by the hips, and suddenly I'm soaring up, the world tilting a bit as he hoists me higher and higher until I can actually grasp an apple, so big it takes two hands to hold, and red and shiny as Dorothy's ruby slippers in The Wizard of Oz .

"Got one!" I exclaim, a little thrill of victory running through me.

"Chuck her in the basket over there," Clay says, his voice rich with rumbly laughter. I hurl it down and grab a couple more, repeating the process. Then his grip loosens and I feel myself slipping. A scream slips from my lips and he's got me again, secure around the waist with both arms. "Hey," he says. "Hey, it's okay. I was just playing."

"Oh fucking shit. I thought you were going to drop me."

My heart is racing as he sets me down. His hands linger on my waist just a moment too long, and our eyes meet—his usual joking manner fades, and something serious, intense, replaces it.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I was playing. I didn't mean to scare you. You know you can always count on me to take care of you, right?" His tone is earnest, a rarity for him.

I nod, touched by the sincerity, the gravity in his usually jovial voice. "Let's just…not do that again, okay? I have no doubt you'll catch me, but the feeling of free-falling is not something I'm going to ever enjoy."

"Got it. Ready to go up again?"

"Well, there are still apples up there, and pears after that, right?"

"That's the spirit," he says.

I laugh, the sound light and free, but as we continue picking apples, Clay lifting me up and down…each touch, each moment shared, it's almost as if I can feel the connection between us growing. The feelings inside me growing.

Sex and friendship, Goldie. Sex and friendship . I don't know why the hell my heart seems to be malfunctioning, but if I can't keep it to sex and friendship, I need to leave right now. No heartbreak. No one gets hurt.

I made the rules. I have to obey them.

After a while, when we have baskets full of apples and pears, he spreads a blanket on the grass and lowers me very gently onto it. Then he pulls out a pocketknife and flips out the blade.

"Uh, I'm getting some mixed signals here. Are we going to have a romantic moment or are you going to carve me like a pumpkin?" I ask.

He doesn't just laugh—he chortles.

Plucking an apple from the basket, he wipes it off on his shirt, then slices into it. Kneeling next to me, he offers the chunk he's just cut out to me.

"Taste. It'll be the best apple you've ever had, I swear," he says.

There is something really fucking intimate about the moment as I take a bite out of the fruit he's holding, my lips grazing his fingers. Sure, it's not as sexy as being fed a strawberry would be, but the apple is…so juicy, so full of sweet, crisp flavor…I let out a moan.

"That," I say, after I finish chewing, "is orgasmic. What kind of apple is that? Did I taste a hint of cinnamon?"

"You certainly did. It's called a Moonspice," he says.

I take another bite. Oh my soul. "I've never heard of it."

"Probably because it doesn't exist anywhere outside these trees. We cultivated this variety ourselves."

I shake my head. I need to dislodge some wax from my ears or something, because did he just say… "Did you…are you saying you and your brothers created your own apple?"

He shrugs as if it's no big deal. "Well, we created a few, but this was the first winner."

He tosses the apple into the air and catches it, turning it so I can see the side he didn't cut into. "We named it Moonspice, because see, the velvety crimson skin with streaks of shimmering gold…makes it look like it's glowing under the light of the moon. And the cinnamon undertones give it a little bit of a spice, right?"

I'm too awestruck to say anything. They make their own apples.

"But," he says. "I want to see if it tastes as good as you say it does."

He puts away the knife and presses gently down on my shoulders until I lie back. Then, maneuvering himself so his body is hovering over mine, not putting his weight on me but allowing his muscles to skim my curves, that Rapunzel hair curtaining us from the world, he puts all jokes aside and kisses me with a tenderness that I feel in my soul. In my clit too, but definitely in my soul. In my heart. In my…oh, shit. In my heart.

"Mmm, my, my, yes," he whispers, pulling away just for a moment, his crystal-blue eyes staring into mine. "Delicious. So goddamn delicious."

Then he dives back in, his lips capturing mine with a heat and fervor that nearly sets my body on fire. This isn't just a kiss. It's molten lava, a supernova explosion, the big bang recreated between our mouths.

As our tongues tangle, I'm aware of nothing except his body and mine and every point where they connect. His chest brushes against my erect nipples with each breath. One of his hands cradles my face, thumb stroking my cheek with a gentleness that contrasts deliciously—yes, delicious will be the word of the day—with the passion of his kiss.

I rake my fingers through his silky hair, reveling in its softness, as Clay's other hand skims down my side, making me quiver. When he reaches my hip, he gives it a squeeze that makes me gasp into his mouth. I swear I can feel his heartbeat thundering in time with mine. I arch myself up against him, parting my thighs, pressing myself into his erection.

The kiss deepens, grows even more urgent. It's like he's trying to devour me, to crawl inside my skin and make a home there. And you know what? I'd let him. I'd roll out the welcome mat, bake him a casserole, and hand over the keys to my heart.

Wait. What?

My first instinct is to push him off me, get up, and tell him we need to take a beat. We need to put some distance between us, like miles, because this is supposed to be just friendship and sex.

Sex.

Sweet Lord, I want this man. In a right here right now sort of way.

He seems to be thinking the same thing, because one of his hands has wandered down to the button on my pants.

"Goldie," he rasps, my name full of questioning. "Can I—"

"Please." I wriggle beneath him, which I realize isn't exactly helping him get me out of my pants. But somehow we manage to get me out of mine and him out of his while still kissing each other frantically.

A condom seemingly appears out of nowhere.

"Foreplay?" he asks.

"We've been there and done that, let's go," I say.

We don't even bother with taking our shirts off. He rolls me onto my side and positions himself behind me.

"If I look at you while I'm inside you, I'm gonna fall in love."

"Clay!" I cry.

"I swear it," he says.

"Clay," I say again. "No, you won't."

He's joking. He's joking.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks.

"Clay," I say again, and this time I'm begging. My pussy is gushing for him. "Please, please, I want you."

He doesn't penetrate me. He doesn't ease into me. He doesn't take me. He plunges into me with no further warning, fucking impaling me with his massive cock. His hands grip my hips tightly, pulling me against him firmly as he fucks me. He's pounding into me so hard I think if he wasn't holding on to me, one thrust'd send me rolling right down the mountain.

I hear myself screaming his name, but it sounds far away, like I'm underwater.

His mouth trails hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jawline and neck. And one of his hands releases its hold on me—oh, crapshit, I hope the next thrust doesn't send me rolling right down the mountain. But then that hand he's freed up snakes over my hip, between my thighs, and I'm trapped between his cock working my cunt and his finger working my clit and oh my God, I'm going to die. Can you die from pleasure? Is that a thing? My body is bucking and he's grunting—wait, no, that's me. I'm grunting like a wild and possibly rabid forest creature and I'm going to die from pleasure. I should probably tell him that I'm going to die, but I can't find words, I can't catch my breath.

But no, I realize, I'm not dying—I'm coming, coming apart and he's coming with me. Our bodies are literally convulsing together and I don't think it's ever going to end. Like I'm just going to keep orgasming forever, like that girl I heard about that had the hiccups for twenty-eight years or whatever. I'm going to be orgasming for the next twenty-eight years.

And then I swear I must've blacked out for a minute, because the next thing I know, I'm empty. He's not inside me anymore, but he's got his arms wrapped around me from behind and he's holding me tight against him and we're both panting. It takes a few minutes before he says anything.

"Goldie," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, "I don't want you to be just another notch on my bedpost. You're…you're…I want you to be my whole damn bed."

I can't speak. I mean, I literally can't speak because he's fucked the breath and the words out of me. But I need to utter some sort of protest.

"Make a joke," I say, finally.

"This is no joke, Goldie. This is the realest thing I've ever felt."

"Clay."

"I know, sweetheart. It's just friendship and sex. You're out of here in two weeks. I know."

I close my eyes, which, for some reason, fill with tears.