Ranch Pen Pal's Thunderstorm Fuck

The rain came down in sheets so thick it turned the Montana highway into a river of silver. Lily Bennett gripped the steering wheel of her rented sedan, knuckles white, as another gust of wind tried to shove her into the ditch. Her wipers were useless. The GPS had died twenty minutes ago. When her engine began to sputter and cough, she knew she was in real trouble.

Headlights finally cut through the downpour, revealing a weathered wooden sign: Harlan Ranch. Lily’s heart slammed against her ribs. She had been writing to Jake Harlan for six months. The letters had started innocent—stories about city life versus ranch life—but had grown steadily hotter, filthier, more daring. She had touched herself more than once while reading his bold, masculine handwriting describing exactly what he would do if she ever came to visit.

Now she was here, soaked and stranded, and the reality of it stole her breath.

She managed to coax the dying car up the long gravel drive before it gave out completely in front of a sprawling log ranch house. The front door flew open before she could even unbuckle. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped onto the covered porch, Stetson pulled low against the rain. Even through the storm she could see the cut of his jaw, the way his soaked denim shirt clung to powerful arms and a chest that looked carved from oak.

“Lily?” His deep voice carried easily over the thunder.

She opened the car door and was instantly drenched. “It’s me,” she called, voice shaking with adrenaline and something far more dangerous. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to just show up like this—”

Jake was already moving. Long strides ate up the distance between them. Before she could protest, he scooped her out of the car as if she weighed nothing, one thick arm under her knees, the other around her back. She gasped at the effortless strength of him. He smelled like rain, leather, and warm male skin.