The porch boards felt warm under Cassidy’s thighs, still holding the day’s heat like they hadn’t noticed the sun was gone. She sat with her back against the wall, legs drawn up, bare knees rising from a pair of old cutoffs she couldn’t remember grabbing. Her braid was loose and slipping over one shoulder, strands sticking to her damp collarbone. She held a cigarette between two fingers, unlit. Something to do with her hands while her mind wandered places it had no business going.
The sky was a navy wash, stars bleeding in slowly. Everything beyond the porch lay shadowed in silver—the barn, the water tanks, the windmill that only worked when it damn well pleased. Crickets chirped with the same old rhythm, soft and aimless. No wind. No coyotes. No headlights.
Behind her, the screen door creaked open. She didn’t have to look.
He came barefoot, slow steps across the planks, and sat beside her without a word. Dropped his elbows to his knees. A beer bottle clinked gently in his hand. Cassidy glanced over. They sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t comfortable or hostile. Just thick, lived-in, like everything between them had already been said once, and now all that was left were ghosts picking through the ashes.
Cassidy took the cigarette to her mouth, rolled it against her lips. Didn’t light it.
“You still sit out here like you’re guarding something,” Colt said.
His voice wasn’t teasing. Just low and even, like he was narrating a memory they both had. He took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Your dad used to say you sat here like a damn hawk.”
“Still do, I guess,” she said.
“You waiting on something?”
“Waiting for everything to stop needing me for five goddamn minutes.”
That earned a small smile from him.
“I missed this,” he said.
Cassidy turned her head slowly, eyes catching his. “This?”
He didn’t look away. “You. This porch. That mouth.”
She snorted, barely. “Flattery sounds different when you’re not wearing a shirt.”
He glanced down like he’d forgotten, then shrugged. “It’s hot.”
Her gaze flicked to his bare chest, down to the faded jeans riding low on his hips. His skin held a dusting of sweat, the kind that made everything glisten a little more than it should. The porch light caught the edge of a scar she didn’t remember, running like a question across his ribs.
“You’ve changed,” she said.
“Some things do.”
“Some don’t.”
He leaned in slightly, enough to close half the space. “What about you, Hart? You changed?”
“I got better at not asking for things I knew I’d never get.”
Colt was quiet a moment. Then, without moving his body, he whispered, “You’re still wearing my shirt.”
Cassidy looked down at the oversized flannel. It was sun-washed, threadbare at the cuffs, smelled like horses and woodsmoke. She hadn’t even thought about it when she put it on.
“You want it back?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I like it better on you.”
Colt’s hand reached out, slow, and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. His thumb grazed her cheekbone, lingered there like he was testing a theory. He was close. Too close. The heat coming off him wasn’t just sweat or sun-warmed skin—it was the kind that built slow under your ribs and made breathing feel like forgetting something. His thumb was still on her cheek, rough pad dragging lightly against the bone, like he was memorizing her one texture at a time.
“You gonna stop me?” he asked, voice low, a little hoarse.
Cassidy didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her mouth parted, but no sound came out. She’d told herself this wouldn’t happen. That she wouldn’t let it. That she didn’t want it. But the way his hand hovered, not quite pulling her in, not quite backing off—it unspooled something deep in her. Years of ache tucked in the back pocket of every silence.
Fingers trailed the edge of her knee, then slid up her thigh, lazy and warm, until his palm rested against her hipbone like he’d always belonged there. His other hand came to her face. Rough knuckles, warm and calloused, grazing her cheekbone. His thumb ghosted over her bottom lip—once, twice—then stayed there, holding her still. Testing the shape of her mouth like he’d forgotten nothing and wanted to remind her of every second.
“Cass,” he murmured.
She should’ve said something. Shoved him back. Lit the cigarette. Walked off the damn porch.
Instead, her lips parted as Colt leaned in. His mouth brushed hers—not a kiss yet, but a pass of heat and promise. His breath tasted like beer and salt, and something darker. Want. His tongue, slow and teasing, licking the inside of her bottom lip, intimate, like he was claiming every inch. He needed to taste her first before anything else.
Cassidy shivered. Her body lit up in places she hadn’t remembered how to feel, her breath catching in her chest as his hand slid under the flannel—no further, just enough to press flat against her ribs, warm skin on skin.
“You gonna let me?” he asked, voice like smoke dragged across gravel.
She surged forward, lips crashing into his. Colt responded instantly—mouth claiming hers with a hunger she recognized, one that had her fingers clutching his jaw, her thighs parting around his hips without hesitation. He kissed like he knew exactly what she wanted. He could still pull every sound out of her with just his mouth.
His tongue found hers again, this time deeper, firmer, licking into her like he was already imagining what came next. Her breath stuttered as his teeth grazed the corner of her mouth, biting down just enough to make her gasp.
Cassidy moaned, quiet and broken, and hated how easy he made it. How badly she wanted more.
She didn’t remember pulling him closer, but suddenly Colt was between her knees, crouched low, his body heat wrapping around her like a blanket pulled tight.
His hand stayed under her shirt, palm flat against the slope of her ribs, thumb tracing idle circles that sent goosebumps racing along her side. Not urgent. Just slow and deliberate—like he was giving her time to stop him. Or like he knew she wouldn’t. His mouth left hers only to travel lower—chin, jaw, neck—each kiss dragged out, damp and warm. It made her hips jerk involuntarily.
She bit back a sound and hated that he felt it.
“Still sensitive,” he murmured against her throat.
His breath was hot, voice rough, fingers edging closer to the underside of her breast with excruciating patience. The other slid behind her, dragging her in by the curve of her waist until their bodies were flush—his chest pressed against her, his jeans rough between her thighs.
She could feel him. Hard. Ready.
And holding back.
Cassidy’s hands moved without thinking—one sliding into the thick blonde hair at the nape of his neck, the other curling around the back of his shoulder. She dug her nails in, just a little. Just enough to tell him she remembered how to mark.
Colt’s mouth came back to hers, but this time it wasn’t teasing. This kiss devoured.
His tongue swept in like he was tasting something sacred, kissing her like a man drowning—like he’d been starving for five years and had just found the only thing that could save him.
Cassidy moaned, sharp and real, her whole body pressing into him. Her thighs tightened around his hips, locking him in place.
He groaned low into her mouth, hands sliding up. Her breast fit perfectly in his palm, dragging his thumb over her nipple through the thin cotton of her tank top.
“Cass,” he whispered against her lips.
Colt dipped his head, kissed just below her jaw, then lower, pulling the neck of her shirt aside with his teeth until he found skin. He dragged his tongue there, warm and slow.
“Still tastes like sin.”
She could stop this. Should stop this. But all she could do was hold on tighter.
Cassidy arched against him when his mouth found the curve just above her breast. He wasn’t rushing, which was the worst part. Or the best. She couldn’t decide.
He lifted his head just enough to look her in the eyes. His pupils were blown, breath uneven, jaw tight like he was holding back everything. His hands flexed around her ribs. She could feel his restraint like a live wire.
“You want me to stop, say it now,” he said, voice steady.
Her whole body was trembling from the way he looked at her. She answered him by grabbing the hem of her tank top and yanking it up. Then her hands were on his bare skin instantly—over the scar on his shoulder, the dip of his spine, the sharp lines of his hips. He groaned when she touched him there, like she’d hit a nerve.
“No more wondering,” she said.
Colt didn't wait. He slid a hand between her legs, worked open the button on her shorts with maddening control. Cassidy gasped when he dipped his fingers beneath—hot, rough fingers stroking where she was already wet for him.
“Cass,” he murmured. “Fuck—you’re ready for me.”
“Shut up and take it,” she breathed, hips rolling into his hand.
Colt growled again—low, possessive—and then her shorts were completely gone, peeled off and left crumpled on the porch. She didn’t care. All that mattered was the way he pressed her back against the rail, lined himself up—
And entered her with one, hard thrust.
Cassidy cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He filled her completely, thick and hot and relentless, and her body opened for him like it had been waiting all this time. She felt everything. Every inch. Every stuttering breath between them. His name caught in her throat, half-moan, half-warning.
He moved slow at first. Deep. Deliberate.
Each stroke pulled a sound from her she hadn’t made in five goddamn years.
He kissed her through it—mouth on hers, biting her lip, hand between her thighs now, rubbing tight circles until she was trembling, so close it hurt.
“You remember this?” he whispered, voice rough, eyes locked on hers as he drove into her harder.
She gasped—then nodded.
And shattered for him.
Right there, porch shaking beneath them, stars spinning above.
He followed a heartbeat later, hips jerking, breath ragged against her skin.
They stayed like that—tangled, raw, hearts pounding like hooves on dirt.
Cassidy didn’t say a word.
Because whatever this was—it wasn’t forgiveness. But it sure as hell wasn’t over.
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