The sun dipped low over the Montana hills, casting long shadows across the Coulter Ranch. The breeze was cooler now, but Savannah Lane still felt heat under her skin—a leftover burn from Jace Coulter's mouth, his hands, his rough groan when he lost control.
It should've been shame she felt. Regret. But all she felt was… restless.
The old farmhouse creaked as it settled for the night. Savannah's room was at the end of the hallway, across from Jace's. That had never been a problem before. But now the distance between their doors felt like a loaded gun between them.
She tried to distract herself—took a long, cold shower, changed into a simple cami and cotton shorts, braided her hair. But when she crawled into bed and turned off the lamp, silence stretched like a second skin.
And then she heard it.
A low, muffled groan.
She froze.
Another one, followed by a slow, rhythmic creaking. The bedframe. His.
Her cheeks flushed as understanding sank in.
Jace was touching himself.
Because of her.
She couldn't move. Her thighs squeezed together involuntarily. Every cell in her body buzzed. The paper-thin walls left little to the imagination.
Another sound—his breath hitching, a strained growl.
"Fuck…"
Savannah bit her lip, heart hammering. She shouldn't listen. She should put on headphones, go for a walk, anything.
But she couldn't stop.
She slid a hand under her blanket, past the waistband of her shorts.
Her fingers brushed the heat between her legs, slick already. She moved slowly, in time with the rhythm she heard, eyes closed, picturing Jace—his rough hands gripping himself, his head tilted back, jaw clenched.
She matched him breath for breath.
When his deep, strangled groan filled the silence and his bed creaked one last time, she came hard, teeth biting the pillow, body trembling in the dark.
Silence returned.
Shame still didn't come.
Only need.