No White Knight

It’s officially a state-endorsed historical protection site.

So now we’ve got a genuine tourist spot on my property, and guess who’ll be making bank on a revenue share agreement by the time it launches next summer?

We’ll never be afraid of losing our home ever again.

Once that’s done, with handshakes and a few beers from the guys—and you can bet I have one too, skirt gathered up in one hand and can in the other—we’re off again.

This time it’s just us, the wind in our hair through the open window.

Then miles of road between us and Colorado.

I’ve always wanted to try whitewater rafting. We’re taking a river tour honeymoon, but for now, all I care about is us, alone, not even needing to talk.

I’ve never felt more peaceful than I do right now, leaning against Holt with one hand twined in his, watching hours of highway fly past.

Everything’s gonna be all right.

I watch the sun set, and then the stars come out, and up there in the night sky…

I hope you’re watching, Dad.

I hope you know I’m happy.

I hope you know I kept my faith in you till the end.

Maybe I’m imagining it, but the stars seem to twinkle just a little brighter.

I’m half asleep by the time we pull into the tiny one-horse town that’s almost nothing but rental cabins and amenities for vacationers and honeymooners, a resort made up to look like a rustic village.

I let Holt handle checking us in at the main building and getting our keys, and apparently let Holt do the walking for me, too. He pulls the truck’s passenger door open and scoops me out.

“Up we go, my darling bride,” he teases, laughing as I yelp and clutch at his neck.

“Idiot,” I murmur.

He grins because he knows the translation from angry Libby-speak. Idiot means I love you.

And I love, love, love this gorgeous fool of a man who put everything on the line to save me, then helped me save myself.

I can’t take my eyes off him as he carries me across the threshold of our cozy little log cabin.

That moment, that little tradition, ignites something in us both, still shaking off the lazy peace of the drive.

There’s barely a second to admire our surroundings—single room, shadowed in cool and comforting recesses, the bed large and luxurious—before our eyes lock.

That thread of tension stretched tight between us snaps in a single breath.

Curling my hands against the back of his neck, I drag him down.

We meet in the middle in a kiss that blazes hotter than the brightest stars.

You’d think we’d go soft and gentle on our honeymoon.

Our first time as man and wife should be slow, special, savored.

Nope.

We’re like rabid animals. Thank God I’m not attached to this wedding dress because he shears it right off me, seams shredding against my skin and biting into me before giving way.

I’m not wearing much underneath, translucent white lace picked out just for this, a flimsy bra that barely holds up enough to cup my breasts and a pair of panties that doesn’t hide a single thing.

Especially not how much I want him.

I’m practically dripping.

“Honey, fuck.” Holt stares at me like I’m an offering waved under a tiger’s nose, husky growls rising in his throat as he dips me back onto the bed.

I don’t even get to catch my breath before I get his teeth, leaving wet marks on the lace and delicious spots on my skin that burn even after his mouth moves on.

He’s a tornado. Hands wild and everywhere, stroking, caressing, molding me, while I rip at his shirt, his slacks, dragging them off his body like a woman possessed.

I need him.

Need more than just his body.

Need him inside me like yesterday, his flesh as close to mine as my heart is to his.

I don’t know how I peel my husband out of his clothes without committing a felony.

It’s all a blur of sensation, of his touch and his kiss and his taut, tawny skin under my fingers, the hot ripples of his muscles and the fire in his breath every time it meets my skin.

Sweet, sweet hell.

In the shadows of the cabin, he’s a feral beast, hulking over me, eyes glowing in the dark like how a golden latte steams.

I’ve always thought he was too beautiful to be real, to be human.

No man should be the freakish kind of hottie Holt Silverton is with that perfectly sculpted, swarthy tanned body and the inky blackness of his hair, his beard; that stone of a face cut in handsome planes of sinful grace.

No, I don’t think he’s the devil incarnate anymore—except when he gives me his tongue.

But he’s real.

He’s human.

And now I see deeper.

The powerful heart beating inside that strong, broad chest, just as perfect as the rest of him.

Maybe he’s brash, arrogant, and still has the worst sense of humor I’ve ever known.