Braving The Storm: An Age Gap, Cowboy Romance (Crimson Ridge Book 2)
Braving The Storm: Chapter 4

“Trespassing?”

Her voice comes out high-pitched.

My niece’s eyes go wide. Lips parting in a way that makes my jaw tighten, because it’s impossible to look at her mouth and not think about other parts of her body. Forbidden parts that have that same dusky rose color that I should never have seen, and now I know.

I know what Briar Lane’s cunt looks like. I know how heavy and full her tits are beneath that thick sweater she’s wearing. I know too much about the girl sitting in my house, drinking my coffee, eating my food, talking at me like I don’t fucking belong here.

My back damn well aches after getting exactly zero sleep on the couch last night. My head pounds like a hammer on an anvil after finishing off that bottle of whiskey while sitting outside in my truck.

What in Christ’s name was I supposed to do?

I’d stayed out there, hid with only my depraved thoughts for company, until I figured she’d gone to bed and it was safe enough to come back inside.

God fucking dammit.

“You’re the one creeping around in the dark, accosting me in the bathroom.” She splutters, flush paints her cheeks.

“Says the girl, breaking and entering in the first place. Count yourself lucky I wasn’t in a worse mood.”

I’m not thinking about her naked and bent over in front of me. I am not.

“That wasn’t breaking and entering. I have a key.”

“Stealing the hide-a-key doesn’t equal permission to enter a man’s house.”

“Oh my god, you can’t be serious.” She sits down with a heavy exhale and rubs her temples. “This is my cabin. My property… or whatever the hell you call someplace like this. What part of that aren’t you understanding?”

“Sorry, but I think you’re mistaken.” I drawl. Taking another big sip of my coffee and pushing my now empty plate away, noting as I do so, she still hasn’t touched her food. “Been living here for ten years.”

Her eyes snap up to mine. “A decade? Then why… why did Dad leave me the deed to this property in his will?”

My gut twists. Fuck, Erik is such an asshole. Even in death he’s still interested in tipping gasoline all over my life, then lighting the match.

I shrug. Playing it off as nonchalantly as possible. “Beats me. But I can tell you right now, I ain’t moving. My life is here. My business.” I tap my finger against the wood surface, staring her down.

Briar looks like she’s about to crumble.

I know it isn’t for show. I’ve seen the way girls with fake tans and even faker tits will pretend to cry and clutch at you to get what they want. Jesus, I’ve had enough run-ins with manipulative cunts to know one when I see one.

My niece is nothing but genuine in her body language right now. She’s about one more piece of bad news away from dissolving like the snow outside when that sun finally gets its ass out of bed.

“Eat.” My jaw works as I try to settle on words that won’t make me sound like the world’s biggest asshole. But it is what it is really, and she needs to know that about me. “That plate is already cold, I bet, but you can shove some of it in your mouth to keep that tongue busy instead of yelping at me. I’m not interested in wasting good food on prissy little city princesses.”

That seems to stir a little life back into her, and she lets out a snarl, but at least begins to eat.

More to the point, she starts off slow, pecking at her plate like a sparrow. I watch on as Briar cuts herself polite, dainty bites and diabolically small pieces before giving in to the hunger as she ends up inhaling her breakfast. Making tiny noises of pleasure the entire time that screw with my already messed up head.

As she eats, I try to remember the last time I saw my niece, who is looking decidedly un-niece-like, and instead, is a whole lot like the type of woman I would be content to explore with my tongue until she screams my name.

I readjust myself in my seat. Fuck. This girl is young. Much younger than me, at any rate. Much younger than a forty-year-old has any business looking at.

I hate that I’m fucking forty. Also, very surprised that I’m still here to see that number.

There were plenty of days when I’d convinced myself I’d never make it past my twenties.

Turns out the pro circuit, sponsors, and endorsements don’t want anything to do with a bull rider surrounded by certain kinds of rumors.

They dropped me like a cold cup of sick, leaving me with nothing.

One day, I was winning buckles and being begged for my autograph every five seconds, the next, my phone stopped ringing and my name was quietly removed from every competition event in the country.

Fuck all of them.

I survived on my own.

And now, what do I have to show for my sins? A girl sitting at my table, sleeping in my bed, bearing my last name—even if it’s not by blood—and a head full of extremely impure thoughts.

Goddamn filthy thoughts I gotta figure the fuck out how to tame. I can’t go walking around with a permanent hard-on in front of my own niece. Or so much fucking worse, because of my own niece.

Jesus.

She scrapes her plate clean, then sits for a moment, chewing thoughtfully.

“I needed that. Thank you,” she says, quietly. Almost to herself.

Something glows inside my chest hearing her say those words, and I quickly tell it to shut the fuck up.

Niece.

She’s your niece.

Erik’s daughter.

Yeah, that’ll do it. The mere thought of my brother’s name is a surefire way to replace any misguided notions I might be experiencing with pure anger.

“Can I make some more coffee before we have this conversation?”

I nod. “Do what you want, I gotta get some more firewood anyway.”

A little time spent outside in the crunching ice and crisp first days of Spring does wonders to clear my foggy head. I split a bit more kindling and take my time loading up the firewood supply both inside the cabin and on the wraparound porch.

By the time I’ve done all that and clomp my way back inside, kicking off my boots at the door, I replace Briar on tiptoes, leaning over the bench top, exploring the pantry cupboards. Only problem is, she’s gotten changed in the time I’ve been outdoors.

Now she’s wearing pale jeans and an expensive-looking camel-color jersey, probably cashmere or some shit, and fuck me. This girl has got a body to worship. Curvy and sexy and a whole lot of other descriptive words I evidently need to scrub from my brain.

None of which are appropriate for the cold, hard fact this girl is not supposed to even be on my radar.

Christ, I must need to get laid worse than I thought, if I can’t go five minutes without imagining what her ass would feel like under my palm.

I cough into my fist to give her a little warning I’m here.

To try and please stop being so fucking tempting for five minutes.

She doesn’t exactly smile, but ducks her head and pours two coffees, before handing me one.

“Thanks.” The word barely makes it past my clenched teeth. Except, that’s when her fingers brush mine. As I take the mug from her, my rough touch grazes hers, and there’s a crackle. A spark feels like it flows from the point of contact, and she must feel it too because those brown eyes jump up to snag on my own.

Her brow furrows, and she quickly steps back, hastily puts distance between us, and leans up against the bench, cradling her own coffee between two hands.

“So…” she says, carefully, before taking a sip. I see the way her nose scrunches and have to hide a smirk in my own cup because I’d wager everything I own this girl has never voluntarily drunk black coffee in her life.

“So.” I echo.

“How do we resolve this? I’ve poked around, and there’s obviously only one bedroom in this place. So, as gracious as it was for you to give me what I’m assuming is your bed, I can’t expect you to do that every single night.”

“Couch is fine.” No, it’s not. It’s fucking uncomfortable and way too small for me, but I don’t want her knowing that.

“Oh my god. You slept on the couch?” She looks horrified.

“Well, where else did you think I slept, darlin’?” As I take another sip, I see her cheeks go pink, again.

Interesting.

“I just thought…” Briar is suddenly very concerned with examining the contents of her mug.

“Go on, I’m all ears. Where’d you think your uncle slept?” Something tells me I already know what her assumption is going to be. Probably half the time, she’d be right. But certainly not last night. I had no intention of replaceing another bed to sleep in.

Why am I enjoying this so much? Watching her squirm every time the word uncle gets uttered between us. A dangerous thought flickers like a neon bulb. Maybe she liked what she saw in the bathroom before we recognized each other, too.

Nope.

Stôrmand fucking Lane. Straight to hell. You are going to burn for an eternity thinking like that.

The asshole joy-rider devil who lives on my other shoulder pipes up and tells me I’m already going there, so might as well have a little fun while I’m at it.

“Just assumed you had plenty of other options of where you park your truck at night.” She composes herself and juts out her jaw. “Not my place to judge.”

Oh, so Briar Lane has got a bit of fire sparking away beneath that timid exterior after all.

I narrow my eyes. “Well, happy to report, I was parked here all night long.” What do I fucking care what this girl thinks about my life. I’ve been accused of far worse than being a playboy pro bull rider with a different buckle bunny riding my cock every night.

“So, in that case, I should probably replace myself somewhere to stay in town until I can book a flight, and then…” She trails off. I don’t miss the way her voice cracks.

Chewing over the events of the past twelve hours or so, it suddenly becomes very clear. I already know this girl came here on a whim. She doesn’t appear to have anything with her except for hand luggage and a piece of shit rental car I discovered parked around the back of the cabin.

If I had to throw a dart at it, I bet the bullseye I’d land on would be that she’s run away from something, or someone, back home on the coast.

“No.” The word comes out more forcefully than I intend it to. “I mean, evidently, it’s legally your property, and it would hardly be me doing a very good job of being your uncle shipping you off to some shitty accommodation in town.”

She looks at me with… relief?

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” No, I’m not sure. In fact, I’m certain it’s a terrible idea, but I can keep myself busy and bury myself in work and whatever pussy I can replace come Saturday night.

“Roomies, then, Uncle Stôrmand?” This time, a ghost of a smile lights up her face as she sticks out a hand.

I reach out to take it. Her soft palm fits perfectly inside my calloused, rough grip, and another of those tingling sparks shoots up my arm as our hands make skin-on-skin connection.

“Just call me Storm.”

There’s a glint in her eye. “Ok… Uncle Storm.”

Fuck my fucking life.