As the night wore on, the group gradually peeled off—some headed upstairs for music, others toward quieter corners for drinks or pool. But Nicole and I stayed at the bar, shoulders brushing as we watched the UFC match finish out. The background noise faded into something distant. I couldn't tell you who won. I was too focused on the woman next to me.
"So," she said, sipping her drink, "six kids, a farm, and a bar. What don't you do?"
"Sleep," I said, deadpan. "And knit. I've been trying to get the hang of it, but I keep stabbing the yarn like it insulted me."
Nicole laughed, head tilted back, and I couldn't stop staring. "You're full of surprises."
She meant it. I could tell by the way her gaze lingered—curious, open, but cautious too. She softened a little when I talked about Sol and Raine, and raised a brow when I described converting cars into tiny homes with Cameron. "Wait—you weld?"
"Among other things," I said with a smirk.
"Okay, now you're just showing off."
I shrugged. "A girl's gotta have hobbies."
In return, she told me about growing up between army bases and boarding schools—England, Germany, the U.S.—always moving. She climbed mountains, dabbled in boxing, and got into photography after a mission gone sideways left her stuck in one place for two months. She'd fallen in love with her camera. Her ex took it in the divorce, but not her eye for detail.
"I don't miss him," she added, casually swirling her drink. "But I miss how I felt when I was behind the lens. Like I could breathe."
That made something tighten in my chest. I understood that feeling too well.
The fight ended, and the screen switched to highlights. I drained the rest of my drink and set it down. "Second floor's got a dance floor. You in?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You dance?"
"I throw people off balance for a living. Dancing's just the polite version."
That earned me another laugh—and a nod.
The second floor was a blur of neon lights, moving bodies, and thumping bass. Nicole surprised me. She moved with sharp precision, like every step was calculated but natural, loose in the way a soldier might be off duty. We danced through three songs before either of us said another word. We didn't need to. Our bodies spoke for us.
During the fourth track, she leaned in close, her breath warm against my ear. "Wanna get out of here?"
I didn't answer. Just took her hand and led her downstairs, past the crowd, out into the cool Wyoming night.
The drive back to the farmhouse was quiet. She looked out the window, taking in the land, the stillness, the moonlight stretched across the fields like spilled milk. "It's beautiful out here," she whispered.
Inside, I poured wine. The fire crackled in the wood stove. Nicole sat on the couch like she belonged there, legs curled under her, her hand warm around the glass.
"You live in a place like this and still go into town to work the bar?"
I shrugged. "Gotta stay sharp somehow. This place keeps me grounded. The bar keeps me from going soft."
"Right," she said, smirking. "You're definitely not soft."
I raised an eyebrow, slowly sipping my wine. "Are you flirting with me, Sergeant?"
She didn't deny it. "Would it work if I was?"
"Oh," I said, setting my glass down and standing up, "I think it's already working."
She followed me before I could take two steps, pulling me in with a kiss that was anything but tentative.
It was fire.
She kissed like she fought—focused, strong, relentless. Her fingers gripped my shirt, tugging me closer until we were tangled in each other. I walked her backward, bumping into walls, kissing between gasps of laughter, until we made it to my bedroom.
She stopped me at the door, palms on my chest, breathing heavy. "I've never done this with a woman," she admitted.
I kissed the corner of her mouth. "We don't have to—"
"I want to," she said, firmer now. "Just… go slow."
Slow was fine. Slow meant I got to trace the line of her collarbone with my lips. Slow meant her hands could learn my body without pressure. Her blouse came off first—tossed somewhere near the bookshelf. My shirt followed, landing in a pile at our feet.
She stared. Not in a gawking way. More like a soldier sizing up a weapon she wanted to learn intimately. "God, you're—"
"Careful," I warned, smirking. "Flattery might get you pinned."
She arched a brow. "Promise?"
I growled low and kissed her again, pushing her gently down onto the bed. The room was dark but warm, the moonlight casting soft shadows across her body. My hands explored her slowly, relearning the curves I'd only imagined. When I kissed her breasts, she gasped and gripped my hair.
"You good?" I whispered.
"Very good," she replied breathlessly.
She didn't want to just lie back. Nicole flipped me over and straddled me, her thighs squeezing my hips as she kissed down my chest. When she hesitated at my waistband, I sat up and cupped her face.
"You don't have to prove anything."
"I'm not," she said. "I'm just curious. I want to know what makes you unravel."
Her inexperience didn't last long. She learned me like a puzzle—lips, tongue, fingers. At one point, I accidentally moaned her name so loud I swore the goats in the pasture probably heard it. I didn't care.
My whole body tensed when she hit just the right spot, her hand pinning my hip as her mouth drove me over the edge.
Afterward, I dragged her up beside me and kissed her like I owed her a debt. I was going to return the favor—and then some.
I took my time. I teased, I licked, I whispered filth into her ear while my fingers worked her open until she was panting, begging, gripping the headboard. When she came, she wrapped her legs around my waist and buried her face in my shoulder, shaking.
She collapsed against me, breathless.
"Still think I'm not soft?" I murmured into her hair.
"You are the opposite of soft," she said. "You're carved from sin and nightmares."
I laughed. "Romantic."
We stayed tangled together, the firelight flickering low. I brushed her hair back from her face and whispered, "So… was it what you expected?"
"No," she said, eyes closing. "It was better."
"Good," I whispered back. "Because I'm not done with you yet."