Melissa Cutler - Cowboy Justice

The longer she sat and stared at his place, the deeper into loneliness and longing she sank. He had this full, rich, moment-to-moment life that she wasn’t a part of, and it hurt, knowing that. Every day he woke up and worked out and went through the motions of his day—without her.

Tonight, at least, she knew on an instinctive level he needed her as much as she needed him. But it scared her to death that maybe her instincts were wrong about that, as they had been with everything else.

So what? So what if he rejected her. If she got to the point where there was nothing in her life, then at least she’d know she’d finally hit the bottom of the well. She slid out of her truck, locked up, and crossed the street.

Three concrete steps and she was eye-to-eye with his door knocker.

She rang the doorbell. Hugging herself, she fought to ignore how vulnerable it felt to stand there, waiting for his judgment.

Footsteps on his hardwood floor preceded the rattle of the deadbolt.

He opened the door dressed in a gray T-shirt drenched in sweat, blue nylon workout shorts, and sneakers. The shirt clung to the muscles beneath, outlining the hard points of his nipples. A white towel was slung over his shoulder.

His expression was dark and despairing. Absolutely lost. He took a deep breath through his mouth.

When it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything, or invite her in, she hugged herself tighter. “I heard what happened to your family.”

He gave a terse nod, the line of his jaw rippling as though he were clenching his teeth.

“I had a bad day too. And I need . . .” She raised her eyes to the eaves. Christ, could she feel any more pathetic? “I need you tonight.”

He must have known what it cost her to say that because, after a beat of hesitation, he opened the door all the way and moved aside to allow her entrance.

She closed and locked the door, then stood against it.

As wretched as she felt, he looked even worse. He had yet to say a word, but she read the hurt and need in his eyes plain enough. She wanted to give herself over to him, to be the balm for his troubles as he’d been to hers once upon a time. Gripping her shirt at the hem, she tugged it over her head and tossed it aside.

His expression remained unchanged, save for the flaring of his nostrils and the curling of his hands into fists.

She doffed her boots and socks next, lining them up along the wall next to the door. Holding his gaze, she worked the snap and zipper of her jeans. They dropped to the ground and she kicked them toward his sofa.

Her undergarments were black cotton, simple and functional. Maybe he wished she weren’t so ordinary. She’d wager that the other women in town jockeying for his attention wore silky, lace lingerie, but all she had to offer was herself. And fancy underwear wasn’t who she was. She hoped, tonight, she’d be enough.

He stared at her body, taking slow, silent stock of her breasts, then stomach, then legs.

She was greedy to see the physique hidden beneath his clothes, so when he didn’t make a move to undress, she reached for his shirt.

His left hand snapped from his side and locked around her wrist. She gasped, surprised.

Stepping into her, he pinned her wrist near her ear, pinned her body flat against the door with his own. His right hand splayed over her hip and he pressed his forehead to hers. His breath was shallow, his eyes closed tight. Though his mouth brushed hers with a feather-light touch, he did not kiss the parted lips she offered.

His body was cold sweat, all male. The burgeoning length of his arousal beneath the flimsy nylon shorts grew harder, pushing into her stomach. She cupped his jaw and stroked the stubble of his cheek with her thumb. Reckless, incinerating need blazed through her body. Not the need for sexual release, nor comfort, but for connection with the one man she’d ever loved. For a glimpse into the life with him she’d been denied, the happiness she’d wanted so badly she’d let it burn her.

His breath fanned over her face, and she detected a hint of cigarette smoke, a scent that took her back to their original affair. Knowing what she did about the hurt he’d suffered today, it was an easy guess as to why he’d fallen off the wagon with his addiction. Wasn’t that the same reason that had compelled her to his door tonight? Allowing her pain to justify giving in to impulse, to the thing she needed despite all the reasons it was bad for her.

With quickened breath, she arched into him, clutching his head with her hands, her mouth reaching for his.

He evaded her efforts, turning his face to nuzzle the side of her head with his nose. But then the hand gripping her wrist slid up, his palm over her palm. She curled her fingers down over his hand, twining her hand with his.

And it was like something snapped inside her.

Her whole life, everything she wanted, everything she tried for, she never got any of it. She never got her father’s attention or love, and didn’t even have a real understanding of the man he’d turned out to be. And she’d failed to grow into a successful farmer like her grandparents had been. To sustain something for herself and her family. To breathe the air in a field of grass and know it belonged to her.

She didn’t have Vaughn’s love either, at least in any real way that made him care enough to fight for her. But tonight he’d accepted her into his house and he held her hand like he loved her back. Exactly how she needed to be loved.

Her throat tightened with the surge of a sob. She was powerless to stop the welling of moisture in her eyes or a rogue tear from escaping down her cheek. Goddamn, she felt raw.

She drew a labored breath that quaked and stuttered in her throat. Vaughn opened his eyes, concern registering in them.

Please don’t ask me why I’m crying. Don’t make me speak the pain aloud. And whatever you do, please don’t let go of me.

He didn’t. He swiped her tear away with his finger. Clutching even tighter to the hand he held, he angled his lips over hers and took her mouth in a slow, deep kiss.

Vaughn just wanted to look at her. He wanted to gaze on something beautiful, and God, Rachel’s beauty awed him. That someone like her wanted him was astounding, humbling. She was too pretty to touch, standing in his entryway in her bra and panties. All he could do was drink her in.

He was so fucked up in pain tonight. He’d failed his family, he’d failed Rachel. And what he was doing right now—laying his hands on her body, deliberating which part of her to put his mouth on next—that was the failure of his integrity as a sheriff. Having failed at everything, he was just a man now. A fucked-up, scared, failure of a man.

Never once had he done a thing right by Rachel, but she’d come to him anyway tonight. She’d undressed for him, the tenderness in her eyes slaying his soul. Had she any idea what she did to him when she looked at him like she loved him? Then she let him touch her, and when she cried, all he could think was, here in his arms was the toughest, most capable person he knew, and she trusted him enough to let him see her cry.

He didn’t know the reason for her tears. Something bad had happened to her, she’d said, but he had no earthly clue what it was, as wrapped up in his own shitstorm as he’d been. She could be crying about that, or maybe, like him, who she was and the pressure that came with it, had become too much to bear.

His tongue claimed her mouth, stroking against hers as his lips consumed her. She melted into his kiss, her warm, soft body wrapping around him, stripping him of his pain. Stripping him of his failures. Maybe tonight, that’s all he needed to be—a man who needed a woman, this particular woman. Nothing more, nothing less.

He wrenched his mouth away from hers and tore his shirt off, then kicked off his shoes. Given how long and how rigorously he’d been working out when she knocked, he probably stank, but Rachel was already seeing him at his worst in every other way, so he tried not to care. After pulling off his socks, he unceremoniously lowered his shorts and briefs, then removed his watch.

Then he stood before her—a man, and nothing more.

She swallowed hard and reached for him, smoothing a hand up the ridges of his stomach. His muscles contracted under her cool touch, and his breath froze in his lungs when her hand flattened over his heart.

It was a move that proved his undoing.

Covering her hand with his, he gritted his teeth against a welling of love for the woman who accepted him, failures and all. To stand before her, stripped to his most elemental self, and know that it was enough. He wanted the same for her. To free her from the pain of her day, from the pressure of being Rachel Sorentino.

He unhooked the watch from her wrist and set it on the table, then pulled the rubber band from her hair and admired the way her sun-kissed brown locks tumbled around her shoulders.

The bandage on her left arm caught his eye. He peeled an edge of the medical tape away and studied her injury. The jagged-edged, three-inch gash had scabbed, and the bruises on the skin surrounding it were fading.

“It’s better every day,” she said quietly.

“May I take the bandage off?”

When she nodded, he peeled the tape as carefully as he could manage, then dropped it to the table and covered the wound with his hand. Of all the things he reckoned she’d gone through that week, the gunshot injury seemed like the wound to be healing the quickest.

She angled her chin up, inviting him to kiss her. He drew her lower lip into his mouth and suckled it, feeling her reach between them. She took a firm hold of his erection, and he nearly bit her lip, it felt so right. He reached behind her and unclasped her bra. She hunched her shoulders, relinquished her grip on him so he could free her arms from the straps.