Chapter Thirty-Four - Diane

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

DIANE

The snow is so deep, the entire ranch hunkers down to wait it out. That means I'm in Westin's house, alone with him.

He doesn't sleep in the bed with me. He stretches his long body out in the chair by the fireplace and closes his eyes. For the first few nights, I wake in a panic, see him in the chair, and my heart slows.

The firelight flickers on his face, and I'm safe again.

For the first time since Nana died, I'm safe.

I'm not sure if it has been a few days or over a week, but one morning, I wake early feeling more normal than I have in months. I shower, using his shampoo because I don't have any. It's the cheap kind, from the gas station, but it feels like luxury after what I've been using. After I'm dried and in his flannel, I go downstairs.

He only has bacon and eggs in the fridge. I'm learning that Westin doesn't care for luxuries. As long as it's functional and neat, he's pleased.

I put the cast iron pan on the stove and start frying. The house is so quiet. He must have taken Billie with him, because she's nowhere to be found.

Quietly, I pad back upstairs. In his room, I open the closet .

This is my first look into the little things that make up Westin Quinn. My stomach flips. Everything smells good, like him.

Inside are a half dozen button down shirts, mostly blue, but one green and the other tan. He wears plain dark blue work pants, and it looks like he has one good belt. It hangs on the back of the door, next to a black hat with less wear and tear than the one he uses every day.

There's a cabinet at the back of the closet. I prop the door open and step inside. My jaw drops.

On one side of the cabinet are several pistols and rifles, all glossy and clean. The other side are…things that make my brows rise to my hairline. A black leather crop that looks like it's never been touched. The collar he put on me, the one I never had a chance to look at that night. My hand shakes as I pick it up, turning it over in my hands.

Soft black leather. Yellow silk inside.

I turn it over, and heat floods my body.

Diane Quinn.

My heart picks up, going wild. Quickly, I put the collar back in the exact place I found it. There are other items—a jumble of silver, black, and the scent of expensive leather—but I shut the cabinet door fast.

I don't think I was supposed to see those words.

At least, not yet.

That's what I get for not minding my own business. I feel like I should be sorry, but I'm not. Instead, I'm warm and restless between my legs.

Maybe I finally feel safe enough for desire again.

I think I hear boots on the walkway outside. I shut the closet door and hurry down the hall. In the kitchen, the bacon is sizzling on low. I run to the cupboard and start taking two mugs out. The doorknob turns, and Westin fills the house with his presence, Billie at his heels.

I turn, offering him a smile. He kicks his boots clean and shuts the door, joining me in the kitchen.

"Come here, darling," he says .

I let him take me by the arm and pull me near. For the first time, I'm in a kitchen where a man's touch doesn't mean something bad.

God, it feels so good.

He kisses me, and then he brushes my hair back, his eyes lingering on my face.

"What?" I whisper.

He shakes his head. "Nothing. You just look pretty."

My mind goes back to his cupboard of guns and sex toys. Diane Quinn—that's what he put on that collar. He really does mean to marry me.

"Want some coffee?" I whisper.

He nods. I make coffee, and he takes his coat off and feeds Billie. He sits at the head of the kitchen table, knees spread, and watches me cook. I find I don't mind cooking for just us. It's cozy.

I set a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast before him. Then, I sit down with my own plate, even though it feels so strange to eat at the main table instead of my room or the back porch.

He takes a sip of coffee. I watch him steadily.

"It's good," he says. "But everything you make is good."

I smile, and it feels so natural, like when he used to visit me at Carter Farms. We eat in silence, just the gas fireplace burning in the living room. Billie lays down at my feet and sighs.

There's a lump in my throat, the good kind.

He sets his plate aside. "What do you like?"

I falter, unsure what he means.

"You like books, flowers," he says. "You like being outside, but out of those, all I can get for you is books. What else do you like?"

I stare at him. "I don't know."

He puts his hand on his thigh. "Come here, Diane."

The way he says it—it's like warm sunshine and whiskey. I go like I'm being drawn by a magnet. He pulls me into his lap and tucks a bit of hair behind my ear.

"Just pick something. Any little thing you like," he says .

I wrack my brain. "In the general store, they have a row of candy on the cash register. I used to get a piece every time I did the shopping for Nana."

His lids flicker. "The general store on main?"

I nod. He clears his throat, like that means something. "What kind?"

I consider it. "I like the Lemon Chews."

His throat bobs. He keeps looking at me like he can't believe I'm here. It's blinding, being at the center of his attention.

"What do you like, Mr. Quinn?" I ask.

The corner of his mouth jerks up. "You, mostly."

I can't bite back my smile. His hand goes around the back of my neck, and he pulls me in, kissing me hard, the way he used to. This time, it's so sweet because I know he doesn't have to leave before the end of the day.

I get him all to myself.

Neither of us feel like talking. Instead, he kisses me until I'm hot under my flannel. His hands are gentle on my waist and neck. His mouth starts out soft, but then it gets harder until I feel his need in every touch.

He has to do some repair work on the barn. I clean up breakfast, and he goes upstairs for a bit. It's a minute later, and he comes back down to kiss me before going out. When I head back to the bathroom in the hall, I find a little bag of toiletries: a bottle of women's shampoo, a bar of flowery soap, a metal razor, a pack of tampons, a nail file. It's not much, but I know he'll get me more when the snow melts.

I take a luxurious bath. I finally have time to kill and nothing to do.

No dishes to wash. No floors to scrub.

It's heaven.

Instead, I take my time scrubbing my skin until it's soft. I shave and file my nails until they're smooth and oval. I haven't felt this kempt before in my life.

Maybe when he goes into town, he can get me a little bit of makeup .

I dry off and stand before the mirror in the bedroom. My body is thin. There are oven burns on my forearms. That's not the worst part, though.

The worst part is how hollow my eyes are.

I wrap my arms around my body. It's fragile, but inside, I think I could be strong again. If he keeps me safe like this for a few months, I can bounce back.

I know I can.

Thomas beat me down, but he didn't break me.

I still want to live.

In the bathroom, I find some lotion. I take my time rubbing it into my skin. Then, I pull on his flannel again and go downstairs to find a distraction.

I rummage in his pantry and freezer. I find canned chicken and vegetables, enough to make soup. While it simmers, I start rolling out pie crust. The butter is frozen solid, but I manage to warm it enough to use. By the time he comes in, smelling like ice and horses, there's a canned cherry pie on the counter.

He stops short, his jacket in his hand.

"You don't have to cook, darling," he says.

I nod once. "I know."

He kisses me. We don't talk during dinner, but I swear he doesn't take his eyes off me the entire time. The soup is thin because I couldn't find everything we needed, but it's warm and the broth is good. Afterwards, he sends me upstairs and tells me he'll clean the kitchen.

In the bedroom, I have to take a moment. The air in the house is thick with tension. When I sat across from him, it crackled like a summer storm.

It's only going to get worse when he comes up to sleep in the chair.

I brush my teeth then crawl into bed in just his flannel. I don't have anything else to wear. After a while, he comes up and goes into the bathroom. I curl up on my side and pretend to close my eyes, but I watch the strip of light under the door.

My heart beats— thump, thump, thump .

The gas fireplace is on low. Through the window, stars hang low in the velvet sky. I swear, there's a little bit of old, dark magic at Sovereign Mountain. Sometimes, at night, it feels like something out of a storybook.

The bathroom light turns off. The door opens.

Fuck, he looks good.

Oblivious, he goes to the chair and sits, stretching his legs out and leaning back. My eyes trail over the line of hair, the V of his lower abs, down to the band of his sweatpants.

Between my thighs, I ache, empty and sensitive and wet. I shift my hips, squeezing my legs. Pleasure ripples.

I think I might need him.

I push the covers back and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. He turns his head, but it's too dark to make out his expression.

"Darling?" he says.

Instead of answering, I climb onto his lap in the chair and straddle him. He inhales sharply, his hands sliding over my hips.

I pull the flannel over my head and toss it to the floor.

"Goddamn," he says reverently.

Up until now, sex with him was a guilty pleasure. We did it quickly, knowing he had to leave or with the heavy cloud of Thomas over our heads. For the first time, our bodies touch, and there's no one but us in the room.

No guilt, no fear, no shame.

"Do you remember when you said you like when I called you sir?" I whisper.

"Yes." The words are hoarse.

I slip my hand down over his naked chest, scarred, with short, coarse hair. Warm and so safe.

"Please, fuck me," I say aloud. "Sir."

I can't see his face, just the glint of his eyes. He spits into his hand and slips it between my thighs. Rough fingertips touch where I ache. My head falls back, and a moan works its way out. Then, he pushes down the front of his sweatpants .

He's hot and hard against my sex. I wrap my hand over his, around his length.

He feels like life.

Together, we guide his cock between my legs. I gasp, and he swears under his breath as the head slips inside. I'm soaked, but it still twinges as he stretches me to take him.

"Take me, darling," he says, voice dropping to a rasp.

My hands move to his chest, nails digging in. He takes me by the waist and fucks up into me until every inch of his cock is buried in my pussy, until I swear I feel the head of his cock stroking against my cervix, giving me a hint of pain with my pleasure.

He makes me want that edge.

"What does it feel like for you?" I gasp.

He rocks me on his length. "Inside you? You feel like velvet. Warm, tight, so wet."

My head falls back, and the ceiling swims.

"Grip me, darling," he tells me.

I obey, tightening my muscles around him. He groans, fucking harder. High with pleasure, I reach between our bodies. He slows, letting me explore where we join together.

My pussy is soft, and it wraps around his hard, veined cock. Our heartbeats thump as one. My fingers come away wet. He catches my wrist, licking them clean.

"You taste so sweet," he rasps.

He takes me around the waist and lifts me. Still inside, we move to the floor before the fire and sink down. There's a soft rug beneath my body, Westin over it. To my left, the fire flickers.

Maybe I could find pure happiness with him right here, on the floor by the fire, in a world where it's too cold for anything bad to happen. Deliriously, I believe it.

"Please," I beg.

My reservations are gone. I want it the way it used to be—intoxicating and new. He pulls from me and kicks off his pants. Then, he kneels, drawing my hips onto his thighs. In the firelight, I can see his eyes roll back as he pushes his cock into me. Warmth seeps deep into my veins.

"Mine," he says. "My girl."

There's no room for argument. I don't want to protest tonight. Tomorrow, we can figure out the farm and our future. Tonight, our bodies are finding each other again.

He fucks me hard, hips rising and falling, sweat etching down his chest and stomach, head back and eyes heavy.

"Please, sir," I gasp.

He grips my breast, teasing my nipple with his thumb. "Do you want to come?"

I nod hard.

He pulls out and rolls to the ground beside me. I shift back, unsure what he wants until he moves me to straddle his face.

"Grind yourself," he orders.

"What?"

He lifts me up, bringing me up to his chest. "Grind that sweet, wet pussy on my face, darling. Get yourself off into my mouth."

Arousal rushes through me like I did a shot of whiskey. I don't know how to do this, but he's already pulling me over his face. He's already groaning and dragging his tongue over my sex in hungry strokes.

The heat of the fire on my side is nothing on the inferno between my legs. He holds me steady. Slowly, I start riding him the way I did in the chair. It must be right, because when I look over my shoulder, he's rock hard.

Pleasure builds quickly. It starts like a little itch, and I have to grind on his mouth to scratch it. Then, it's warmth, it's fire. It's a flood and he's licking me like he's starving while I come against his face.

My body goes weak as my orgasm ebbs. I push myself down until I straddle his hips. His cock twitches beneath my thigh.

He runs a hand over his face. "Fuck, girl, I could drink you neat."

He's so filthy, and I melt for it every time. My nails drag down his chest, marking him .

"Take me the way you like," I whisper.

There's no argument. He carries me to the bed, and I fall to my back. Then, he's between my legs and buried so deep inside me, I cry out from the shock.

The bed slams into the wall. I feel everything in his body crashing into mine. All the heartache. The separation. His frustration. Pounding into me again and again.

He thrusts into me one last time, and inside, where I'm tender from his roughness, I feel him twitch. His lids flicker, his spine arches. Then he lets out a soft "fuck" and goes still.

There's a sharp twinge in my stomach as he pulls out. I try to bite back my gasp, but he hears it.

"You alright?" he asks.

"Yes," I whisper.

He leans over and turns on the lamp. I look down and freeze. Red streaks his lower abdominals and my thighs. We both go quiet, shocked by the sudden scent of metal.

"Oh," I say.

"Well, you won't get pregnant," he says.

Is that a note of disappointment? He gets up and disappears into the bathroom, coming back with a dark towel.

"I haven't had my period since right after we slept together last," I say.

"That was weeks ago."

I nod. "I think…I think my body feels safe now."

He looks at me with an unreadable expression. Then, he leans in and kisses me hard, like he wants to sear my mouth to his forever. I fall back as he eases me down, kissing my neck, moving lower to trace it around my navel and kiss each hip bone. Then, he goes lower, and I jerk back.

"What are you doing?"

He looks up, cocking his head. "Eating you out."

"What?" I whisper, horrified.

He just gives me a look and disappears under the quilt. It's sinking in that Westin isn't the sort of man I can tame or bend to my will. He's hungry, and he'll do what it takes to satisfy it. He's not interested in hearing the word no from me or anybody else.

He makes me come until I'm begging him to stop. Then, he flips me onto my stomach, pushing a sacrificial pillow under my hips. I'm tender as he eases himself deep inside.

"Whore," he breathes. "Beautiful whore, my whore."

He fucks me, holding me by the nape of the neck, and I'm weak when he's done. I lay on my back while he catches his breath, and I count the crimson kisses he left on my body.

Then, we go again. The bed is going to be a mess in the morning, but neither of us care.

Our bodies move under the sheets. The bed frame creaks. Outside, the world is frozen, but beneath the quilt, we plant seeds that will bloom into flowers when spring comes.