The Montana sun poured through the kitchen windows like honey, thick and golden. Savannah Lane leaned against the counter, a slice of watermelon dripping juice down her fingers. The tank top she wore clung to her skin—moist with sweat and barely hiding anything. Her denim shorts rode high, showing off long, tan legs that hadn't seen this kind of open space in years.
The door creaked open. She didn't turn around.
She didn't have to.
Boots hit the wooden floor with that lazy confidence she was starting to recognize. Then his voice—rough, deep, unmistakably male.
"You always this quiet when someone walks in behind you?"
Savannah smirked and turned slowly. Jace Coulter stood there, shirtless, dust coating his jeans, sweat running down every chiseled line of his torso. His hair was damp, his jawline shadowed with scruff, and the look in his eyes… god, that heat.
"Depends on who's behind me," she said, biting into the melon and locking eyes with him.
His gaze dropped to her lips, then to the bead of juice sliding down her neck.
"You got a habit of temptin' men before lunch?" he asked.
"Only the ones who look like they haven't eaten in days."
Jace moved closer. Two steps, and he was in her space, all muscle and heat. He didn't touch her—yet—but his hand came down on the counter beside her hip, caging her in.
"You know this is a bad idea," he murmured.
"I didn't come out here to be a good girl," Savannah whispered, her breath hitching as she brushed her bare leg against his thigh.
His resolve cracked. One second passed. Then two.
Then his mouth crashed into hers.
It wasn't sweet. It was starved.
She moaned into him as his hands slid under her tank, gripping her waist, lifting her up on the counter like she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his hips, and he pressed forward, grinding heat against heat through thin clothes.
Her top was gone first—tossed somewhere to the floor. His mouth trailed down her neck, over her chest, slow and teasing. She tugged at his belt, fingers trembling.
"You sure you want this?" he asked, voice strained.
She grabbed his hand and guided it between her legs, her eyes daring him to stop.
"I've never been more sure."
The kitchen filled with the sound of panting, wet kisses, skin on skin, and soft moans that would have scandalized the neighbors—if there were any.
And when he finally took her—right there, against the counter, sunlight washing over their bodies—everything else disappeared. The past. The rules. The boundaries.
Only the fire remained.