“I love it,” I say. “I’ve never wanted anything more.” I mean it. I want him to own me, to fuck the old Delilah out of existence.
He slams into me, every inch, and I can't help it—the shock of fullness triggers another orgasm, ripping through me so sharplyI might actually sob. Cade follows, hips stuttering as he pushes deep, groaning into my neck as he spills inside me. He stays that way, buried, pulse throbbing against my walls until the last aftershock fades.
He collapses back onto the bed, pulling me with him. I rest my cheek on his chest, listening to the wild drum of his heart. We’re sticky and raw, skin slick with sweat and come, but I don’t care if I never move again.
Cade strokes the curve of my ass, then slides a hand between my legs, gently fingering the mess he left inside me. “Don’t waste it,” he murmurs, voice gone lazy and deep. “This is for keeps, baby. You should know, I don’t do anything halfway.”
I laugh, giddy and a little unhinged. “Neither do I.” I curl into his side, feeling safer than I have in years. The big, strange world could end in the next minute, and I would go smiling.
After a while, I prop myself up on one elbow, tracing random lines across his chest. “Was that the part where you ruin me?” I ask.
He tugs me down, kisses my hair. “I think we’re both ruined now. Good thing I’ve got time to put you back together.”
We fall asleep tangled, Cade’s arms suffocating in the most perfect way, the world outside his crumbling ranch reduced to nothing but blue sky, green hills, and the infinite ache of wanting everything exactly as it is.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CADE
By sunset, Delilah has taken over my favorite T-shirt. She is stretched out on my bed, one leg tangled in the sheets. Her face is flushed from sleep and from the kind of sex that should probably be illegal around here. She’s talking nonstop about how she’ll shake up small-town Texas, starting with getting the library to carry books that aren’t just “about either the Alamo or Jesus.” She looks so at home, it’s as if something always pulls her back, no matter how much she claims to hate this place.
I stand in the doorway, arms folded. “You know the minute your old man finds out where you are, he’ll come calling.”
She rolls onto her back, her red-bronze hair messy against my old blue sheets. “He can try. You don’t have to let him in.” I grunt, “Pretty sure he’ll show up with eight guys in suits and a battering ram.” She grins, wild and beautiful. “Then let’s eat breakfast first.”
She stands, pulling on a pair of my sweatpants that bunch at her ankles. On bare feet, she crosses the room and heads straight for the fridge, opening it to examine the shelves and contents. I watch, not even pretending to hide how her presence fills my clothes or how her concentrated energy makes even simplechores look captivating. She finds a carton of eggs, lifts it, and pokes at one. “You eat these?”
“I eat what doesn’t bite back.” I’m being gruff, but she can see through it. She cracks eggs with one hand like it’s a magic trick.
“Your cholesterol is probably a ticking time bomb.”
“Take it up with my genetics.” She laughs, low and private, throwing me a look that’s pure showoff.
We eat together at the old pine table, the one I built and kept after the divorce. Delilah dumps Tabasco on her eggs, her elbow jutting out with a self-assured movement. She’s all confidence and humor, nothing like the quiet girl I met during her father’s campaign. After breakfast, she wanders the house, running her fingertips along surfaces and trailing her hand across my bookshelves, but she circles back to rest near me. The house seems to hold its breath, waiting to see what will happen next.
I’m staring at her when I hear the crunch of gravel outside. Instantly, my skin tightens; every fiber goes to Condition Red. “Stay here,” I tell her, grabbing the .45 from my nightstand. I tuck it under my waistband and head for the porch. Out the window, I see three men—beefy, with high-and-tight haircuts, earpieces gleaming—watching my every move with bored, professional disdain.
The first agent steps forward, hand extended as if we’re here to negotiate a hostage release. “Mr. Walker. We’re here to escort Ms. Munro home.”
Delilah, of course, appears at my side in seconds. “Don’t even think about putting hands on me.” Her voice has so much venom that the agent actually steps back.
I insert myself between her and the suits. “You got a warrant?” I ask, low and steady. They ignore me and address her: “Miss, your parents are worried sick.” She juts her chin. “If they cared about my well-being, they’d maybe use my cell instead of sending the local SWAT.” She reaches into my backpocket, yanks out my phone, and waves it. “Here it is. I’m alive. Now get the fuck off this property—Cade barely has enough food for two.” This is so wildly off-script—not the helpless daughter, not the runaway brat, but a fully armed and operational battle-station of a woman. I have to choke back a laugh.
The lead agent recalculates. “We’re under orders to bring you in tonight.” She gives him a look that could unseat the Supreme Court. Then, in a dazzling display, she whips up tears from nowhere. “Are you going to arrest me for trying to have a normal life?” She turns to me, sniffs, “Cade, you promised I could stay.” I don’t even have to fake being furious. “She’s not going anywhere with you,” I say it with a finality that reaches right to my bones.
We stand in a tense standoff—Delilah and me in the doorway, the three agents on the porch acting like this won’t end badly. Finally, one steps aside and speaks into his mic. “Senator, request you advise.”
From inside the house, Delilah’s voice—bright and brittle—cuts the tension. “Tell my father he can visit if he brings pie. He knows the one I like.”
The agent tips his head, listening to something through his earpiece. “We’re told to stand down. You’ve got until tomorrow morning, Miss.”
They head back to their black Escalade, leaving with clear frustration. I watch until the road is empty, then close the door, my heart pounding.
Delilah is grinning as if she got away with highway robbery. “Did you see their faces? I almost feel bad for them.”
I shake my head, and she gets serious. “I meant it, Cade. I’m not hiding anymore. But I’m done being the family’s campaign mascot.” She looks around the kitchen, then at my rough hands gripping the table. “What happens now?”
I let out a long breath, the adrenaline leaving me cold. “You stay if you want. But my life isn’t…glamorous. Or safe.”