Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

Her legs fall around mine, and her fingers bite my skin. I settle her against me, one hand stroking her hair and the other rubbing her back, as I absorb her breathless sobs.

There are no words. None are needed. She cries and trembles, using my presence to let go and lean, while she mourns the heart I broke.

I hold her soft strength tightly against me and mourn with her.

I hold her with every breath in my body.

I hold her through the sadness.

As much as I cried last night, I don’t need a mirror to know my eyes are red and puffy. I blink them open and stare down at the hard surface of my pillow. Since I’ve only ever slept beside one man, it takes me a moment to process the view.

Miles looked nothing like the body sprawled out beneath me.

Ridges and grooves ripple along a tanned torso that narrows into trim hips. Sadly, the tangle of sheets hides everything below Jake’s waist, but good lord, he’s built. Every brick and crevice is made for a long, strenuous day on the range, yet he’s still in bed, with an arm hooked around me, in a room saturated with sunshine.

I kept him up late last night, and now I’m keeping him from work.

With my cheek on his shoulder and my thighs clamped around his leg, I snuggle closer to his side, reluctant to give him up.

“How do you feel?” His deep, sleepy voice whispers across my skin like a caress.

“Terrible.” Sandpaper scratches my eyes, and a throb ricochets in my skull. The rest of me, however, tells a different story. “And good.”

“Explain that.”

“Don’t you need to work?”

“Nah.”

I shift against the hard warmth of his body, and he groans. His hand lowers to the region of his groin, adjusting. I start to pull my leg from the V of his, but he stops me with a grip on my thigh.

“Don’t worry about my morning problem.” He returns his arm around me. “Explain what you’re feeling.”

Angling my neck, I find his deep, brown eyes and fall right in. “I cried a lot, so…”

“You need to do more of that.”

“I feel like I’ve been hit over the head with a tractor.”

“You look like an angel.” He runs his fingers through my hair in hypnotic strokes, tingling the roots. “Tell me about the good part.”

“Who’s doing your job?”

He exhales a puff of breath. “Two new hires started today. I’m taking off for the next two weeks.”

“What?” I sit up. “Why?”

He captures my hand and traces his thumb along my scar. “We have a pact to carry out, therapy sessions to focus on, and…” Using his grip, he yanks me across his chest. “I have six years to make up with you.”

I flatten my hands on his washboard stomach and pull my legs beneath me, straddling his hips. The ridge of his very swollen, very large morning wood twitches against my butt.

“I could spend the next two weeks doing nothing but reacquainting myself with your freckle.” His gaze lowers.

I track his line of sight to my nipples, which stand at attention beneath my thin, bra-less camisole.

“I need to see that freckle, Conor.” His voice scratches, and he clutches my hips, pressing me down against him.

He doesn’t grind, but his body stiffens and contracts as if he’s fighting one hell of an internal battle.

It’s a battle I understand. Jake epitomizes every woman’s ideal of physical male beauty. From his bed-ruffled brown hair and seductive eyes to his chiseled jawline and brutally fit physique, he has a devastating effect on the ovaries.

I’m so undeniably attracted to him I can’t make my body move from its suggestive position on his pelvis. But just because I appreciate his sex appeal, it doesn’t mean I’m considering a future or anything else with him.

I had all night to think about the past, to let myself bleed for the years I lost with him. There are some difficult things to accept, and I suspect my tears have only just begun. I do feel lighter, though, as if some of my Jake-related hurts have been cleansed.

“Catharsis,” I whisper.

His gaze jumps to mine. “What?”

“That’s what I’m feeling. I haven’t cried like that since…” A sharp burn stings my sinuses.

“Since?”

“The day I found you with Sara Gilly. When I rode away, I purged enough tears for a lifetime. Then I left that ruined wreck of a girl on the side of the road.”

Pain creases his face, his voice a cracked rasp. “It doesn’t work that way. Grief is a process. It’s anger and sadness and acceptance over time.” His strong throat rises and falls with a swallow. “It’s okay to hit me, Conor. Punch me, yell at me, do whatever you need, for however long—”

I press a finger against his lips. “The breakdown last night helped. Crying in the company of your silence was…unexpectedly effective. Better than doing it alone.” Sliding my touch downward, I trace the scruffy shadow on his jaw. “But I still have a lot of resentment. Even more after last night.”