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The truck groaned as it rattled down the narrow mountain road, gravel popping against the undercarriage like tiny shots fired into the quiet. Simon’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, thick fingers wrapped tight in the leather as though the thing might lurch out of his control. He’d driven worse in worse weather—convoys in sandstorms, armored carriers in the dark of hostile cities where headlights meant you painted a target on your own skull. But mountain roads were a different beast. They wound and bent like living things, hugging cliff faces, then dropping away into pines so thick they swallowed whole patches of light.
It suited him, though. Solitude was a hard drug once you’d tasted it. And after the discharge, after the limp had become more permanent than any doc would admit, after the task force had stopped fighting on his behalf—this was the only drug he wanted. Solitude. Cold air. Trees so tall he couldn’t hear the rest of the world through them.
He shifted his leg, the ache familiar and unwelcome as it flared up his thigh. Phantom pains still came, sometimes crueler than the limp itself. That old argument with the medical board circled in his head for the hundredth time: I don’t need two legs to shoot a bloody rifle. But it didn't matter. The speed was gone, the knife-edge precision dulled by half a second too long getting from cover to cover. A half second could be a death. They all knew it. Even him.
So here he was.
Not in Manchester. Not in dreary rain. But in the States. Colorado. Some half-forgotten town pinned between shoulders of mountains and an endless sky. Where mornings cut sharp and cold, where the air tasted clean enough it nearly stung.
He crept into town that morning on fumes of patience and an empty pantry.
By the time his truck rolled onto Main Street, his scowl deepened at the sight of too many cars, too many bodies moving around on foot. It wasn’t usually like this. This town—hell, it hardly counted as one—had a single grocery, two bars, a diner that was more coffee than food, and one post office where gossip traveled faster than parcels. He liked it small. Predictable. Easy to slip in, get what he needed, and leave.
But the streets were clogged, music floated faintly on the breeze, and his suspicion was answered quick: a farmer’s market.
Simon parked heavy in front of the grocer’s, jaw ticking. He could leave. Could drive another thirty minutes down the pass to the next town and stock up there. But curiosity needled at him, unwelcome but insistent. Rows of canvas tents stretched along the square, bustling with people carrying baskets and bags, arms full of flowers and loaves of bread. Bright colors spilled across tabletops—produce, jars, carved trinkets.
He blew out a sharp breath and stepped out.
The mountain air caught in his lungs. Spring had crawled down from the peaks in fits—snow still clung to the higher slopes, but here, the world was thawing. Green crept back into the trees, flowers brave enough to bloom poked through cracks in the pavement. And though he told himself he hated crowds, he moved forward anyway.
The first stall caught him with baskets of apples so polished they shone, then came honey jars golden enough to glow when the sun hit them. Someone shoved a bag into his hand—some boy, face soft, smile too eager. “Here, sir, you’ll need this.”
Sir. Right. Always sir. Always looming, towering, drawing too many eyes even when he didn’t want them.
He filled the bag fast—eggs, bread still warm from an oven, jerky so good he almost bought the man’s entire stock. The bag was near bursting by the time he reached the end of the line. And that was when he saw her.
A flash of glass caught him first—a mason jar tilting in a small hand.
Then the woman holding it.
Simon stopped moving without realizing.
She was laughing at something an older woman said, her smile so wide and unguarded it damn near knocked the wind from him. Hair like mahogany spilled down her back in a mess of curls, catching the light in places so it seemed alive. Her cheeks were flushed, full, dimpled when she grinned. And when she laughed—really laughed—her eyes crinkled in the corners.
He’d been around beautiful women. Always had been. They’d sidled up in bars, pressed soft bodies to his chest, whispered promises he’d taken and then left behind. It was easy—quick relief, no names, no mornings after. He’d never wanted more. Never thought he could, not with what he carried.
But now…
Now he wanted.
He wanted things he hadn’t let himself picture in years. Her under his arm. Her head tilted up, smiling at him. Her curled on his porch with coffee at dawn.
All that, and she hadn’t even looked at him yet.
His boots carried him closer, slow, steady. He stood at the edge of her stall, gaze dragging over rows of jars labeled in careful script: Blueberry Lavender. Garlic Red Pepper. Strawberry Wine. He barely registered the words, too caught on her voice as she explained to the older woman the ingredients for something she called Bacon Jam.
Sweet. Musical. Laced with a soft country drawl that tugged at him, low in his gut.
The older woman thanked her, waddled off.
Simon cleared his throat. The sound came out rough, deeper than he meant, but it cut through the quiet.
Her head snapped toward him.
And God help him—those eyes. Wide, dark, catching on him like she wasn’t expecting to see someone his size in her shadow. She blinked, lips parting, then smiled with nervous quickness.
“I’m so sorry, sir! I get carried away talking about my jams. Can I help you?”
Sir again. But this time, from her mouth, it lodged deeper, thick and hot in his chest.
He realized too late he was looming, broad shoulders bent forward, gaze heavy the way Soap used to tease him about. The kind of presence that spooked people when he wasn’t careful.
He cleared his throat again, forced his voice lower, gentler. “What’ve you got here, sweetheart?”
The word slipped before he thought better of it. Sweetheart.
Her cheeks went pink. She tucked a curl behind her ear, though it sprang free again instantly, framing her face like it belonged there. Shy little thing.
“Well,” she started, rocking slightly side to side, hands folding in front of her, “I make jams. I like experimenting with flavors.” She pointed to a few jars, her voice warming as she talked. “This one’s blueberry lavender—adds a little floral note to the fruit. Or if you want something savory, I’ve got garlic and red pepper. Just to name a couple.”
Simon didn’t hear half of it. He was too caught on the sway of her voice, the spark of pride when she talked about what she made. Too caught on the curve of her lips, the way she peeked up at him from under her lashes like she wasn’t sure if he’d laugh at her.
“I’ll take whatever you recommend,” he said, final, decisive.
Her lips parted again, caught between surprise and delight. She bit her bottom lip, teeth sinking into soft pink. He felt his stomach clench.
“Oh…well, um…my favorites are the strawberry wine jam, and a blend I call F.R.O.G.—figs, raspberries, oranges, ginger.”
“Those.” His voice came out low, near a growl. “And two of that bacon jam I heard you mention. Sounds real good, sweetheart.”
Her smile lit up her whole face. Radiant. It hit him square in the chest, deeper than he wanted to admit.
“Coming right up, sir.”
Christ, again with that word. He clenched his jaw, reining himself in.
“Name’s Simon,” he said after a beat, voice steady but firm.
She glanced back at him over her shoulder while wrapping the jars in newspaper, her smile softening at the edges, cheeks still warm. “I’m Lilly.”
Lilly. A name as sweet as the rest of her.
He swallowed, tipping his head once. “Pleasure, darlin’.” He let the weight of his accent sit heavy, the Manchester rolling thick in his throat. Her lashes fluttered, and she bit her lip again. Oh, she liked that.
She walked back to him with a small brown bag tied neatly with ribbon, stamped across the front with Sweet Spreads. His hand dwarfed hers as he took it, their fingers brushing just faintly. Heat sparked up his arm at the contact.
She murmured the total, and he slipped out the cash along with more than a fair tip, sliding it across without hesitation.
“Like to talk to you again, sweetheart,” he said, the words foreign in his own mouth. He never asked. Never lingered. But he was already in too deep. “You mind if I get your number?”
Her brows lifted in surprise, but not unpleasantly. Slowly, she smiled—soft, shy, yet steady. She nodded once, holding out her hand. “Phone?”
He gave it over. Watched her small fingers move across the screen, typing in digits, then handing it back.
When their eyes met again, the weight of it nearly pulled him forward.
He forced himself to step back. To turn before he did something foolish, like haul her over his shoulder and carry her back into the mountains just to keep her near.
_____________________
The cabin groaned against the cold as the sun sank, wood settling, the air outside shifting sharp and brittle in the early spring dusk. A bruise of blue light crept through the trees, crawling across his windows, smudging shadows over the floorboards he’d sanded smooth with his own hands.
Simon sat at his table, coat shrugged over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up. His wares from the market had been put away methodically—the way he’d always done things. Jerky sealed and stacked in the pantry. Eggs stored, bread wrapped. But the jams…
The jams were on the counter, neat little row, easy within reach.
He’d broken the bread while it was still warm, toasted thick slices until the edges caught golden, then spread each jam one by one. Blueberry lavender—soft, floral, sweet as spring air itself. Strawberry wine—sharp, indulgent, almost sinful with the bite of the wine hidden under the fruit. The F.R.O.G. concoction—bright, layered, lingering on the tongue with ginger that sparked heat.
And the bacon jam—smoky, rich, deep enough he closed his eyes as the taste unfurled across his palate.
He tried every one. Methodical. Patient. Letting them sit on his tongue. Letting her sit on his tongue. Because he knew—Christ, he knew—he was tasting her work, her care, her hands in every step of it. It wasn’t just jam. It was Lilly. Her sweetness. Her fire. Her playful little drawl tucked into glass jars.
Delicious.
Just as he knew she was going to be.
Simon leaned back in the chair, licking the faintest smear of fruit from the pad of his thumb. His gaze cut to the phone sitting silent on the table beside the bread knife.
He hadn’t picked it up. Not yet.
He wanted her. Sweet Lilly. Wanted her so bad he could taste it just as much as the jam still clinging to his tongue.
And Simon Riley wasn’t a man who did things in halves.
But he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.
The pull he felt toward her was sharp, unrelenting, something he hadn’t braced for. He didn’t know her—not really. Didn’t know what she liked, what she hated, how she lived. He could, if he wanted. One evening, maybe less, sat in front of his computer and he could know everything. Name, birthday, every scrap of history the world left unguarded.
That was his work. His trade. To see what people hid and drag it into the light.
But he wouldn’t do that to her. Not Lilly. Not the woman who had smiled at him like he wasn’t just some brute with too much muscle and a scar too deep to hide.
He rubbed a hand over his face, dragging rough calluses over stubble. Processing.
If he dove right in, if he let himself off the leash, he’d scare her. He knew it. His intensity wasn’t something people always knew how to handle. Hell, even he didn’t know how to handle it half the time.
He’d never properly wooed a woman. Never chased one with the intent to keep her. All those nights in dark bars, nameless faces pressed to his throat, soft hands greedy over his chest—quick, easy. Transactional. Satisfying in the moment, hollow by dawn. He’d never wanted more because more meant risk. More meant attachment. And Simon Riley had spent a lifetime cutting those off before they cut him.
But Lilly wasn’t a face in a crowd.
And he wasn’t that man anymore. Older now. Settled. Calmer. He’d traded the chaos for quiet, for the whisper of pines outside his window and the steady ache of his healing leg. He’d carved out a life where nothing touched him unless he let it.
Except her.
She’d touched him with a single smile, with her voice wrapped around sir, with her little hands handing him a bag of jam tied with ribbon like it meant something.
And the thought of anyone else—anyone in this town, some burly lumberjack with hands half as big as his—getting to taste her sweetness made a low growl build in his throat.
He couldn’t take her for a night and let her go. Couldn’t leave her to be sampled by someone else like jars on her stall table. Oh no.
She was going to be his. His and his alone.
The thought lit through him, sharp and sure, until he was already reaching.
He snatched up the phone, the small thing nearly disappearing in his palm. His thick thumbs hovered over the tiny letters, clumsy, deliberate. He wasn’t a texter. Wasn’t much of a talker either. But this—this felt safer than calling, safer than letting her hear the weight in his voice too soon.
He typed slow. Careful.
Simon: hello sweetheart. your jams were delicious. can’t wait to taste more.
He let it hang there. A line cast out into the dark, heavy with double meaning he didn’t bother to soften. She could ignore it. Or she could take it.
The phone buzzed almost immediately.
Instant.
Needy little thing.
Lilly: I'm so happy you enjoyed them. You're free to taste anything you’d like, whenever.
Simon exhaled hard, head thunking back against the chair. Christ almighty. His mind snapped fast, filthy, hungry. Her words wrapped around him, tugging him straight into visions he hadn’t let himself have in years.
He pictured her spread out on his bed, soft thighs open, curls tangled against his pillow. Pictured his mouth tracing every inch of her skin, slow and punishing, until she was leaking her sweetness just for him. Until he could drink from the source and never come up for air.
He swore low, running a hand over his mouth, grip tightening like he could hold the thought down.
His thumbs moved again.
Simon: sounds real good. you free sometime soon?
Seconds later—
Lilly: every evening after 7
His lips curved, slow, dangerous.
Simon: see you tomorrow at 7 then. pick you up at the market?
The dots appeared at once, blinking like her eagerness was a flame too quick to hide.
Lilly: Yes.
Simon set the phone down, the cabin silent but for his own breathing.
Tomorrow. Seven.
He’d waited years for something worth keeping. For someone who made the hollow quiet shift, who made the world taste sweet again. And she had fallen into his lap with jars of jam and a smile that could ruin him.
Tomorrow, he thought.
And he’d make sure she never had reason to tell him no.
______________________
Simon was early.
Not as early as he would have been had he not forced himself to reign it in. He’d been restless all damn day, moving from one project to the next like a caged animal pacing lines into the floor. Half-finished chores littered the cabin—wood left stacked in lopsided piles, tools abandoned mid-clean, the workbench scattered with bolts and screws. His hands couldn’t settle, his mind even less so.
He hadn’t wasted time with clothes. He never did. Thermal shirt stretched across broad shoulders, worn jeans, scuffed boots. His hair brushed back, beard trimmed close. Simple. Functional. He wasn’t going to dress himself up for her—he wanted her to see him as he was, and want him anyway.
By half past five, he was pacing by the door. By twenty past six, he was in his truck, engine low and steady, heading for town.
So yes—he was early.
But he didn’t give a single fuck. The closer he got to her, the more the restless hum inside him eased. By the time the lights of town glowed through the windshield, he felt almost settled. Almost.
He parked close to the market’s entrance, swung out of the cab, and leaned against his truck. The metal was cool against his back, the air carrying the bite of spring’s chill. He folded his arms and watched, content to wait.
Didn’t take long.
Five past seven, and she appeared—like some little miracle skipping out of the market’s rows of tents and tables. Sundress swaying soft around her thighs, pale denim jacket cinched at her narrow waist, hips flaring sweet beneath.
Christ.
She was a treat made to be devoured. The kind of softness that made a man’s mouth water. The kind of curves that begged for teeth.
And when she reached him, hair bouncing, skin glowing warm in the streetlight, smelling like lilacs mixed with ripe fruit, Simon nearly growled. Sweet little thing. Sweet enough to rot his teeth if he let her.
He let his mouth pull into a slow smirk, the kind that showed teeth. He leaned down, deliberately unhurried, savoring how her lashes fluttered like she didn’t know whether to hold her ground or bolt. He watched her pulse race at her throat, quick and delicate, right there where he wanted to bite.
He brushed his mouth across her cheek—just a whisper, just enough to taste the salt of her skin and the faint trace of sugar she carried with her. He breathed her in, let her seep into him.
“Evenin’, sweetheart,” he rumbled against her skin.
She shivered, her flesh rising in tiny peaks, and answered in the softest breath of a greeting.
His smile deepened.
“Ready to go?”
She nodded, wide-eyed, looking younger than she had any right to. Younger than him, no doubt. But it didn’t matter. That wasn’t going to stop him. Nothing was going to stop him from having her.
He guided her around the truck, her little frame swallowed by its size. The top of her head barely reached the grill. When she reached the passenger door, her gaze flicked to the height, hesitating.
Simon bit back a chuckle, leaning in close again, voice low. “Yeah, it’s big. But I’ll help ya.”
The corner of his mouth curled with innuendo. She caught it—he saw it in the flush that rushed her cheeks, the way she ducked her gaze, but she didn’t pull away.
Good girl.
He opened the door, braced himself against the frame. “Up you get, little thing.”
His hands found her hips, fingers splaying wide over the delicate span. She made a startled little sound—a squeal that punched straight into his gut, low and deep. He grunted as he lifted her, muscles flexing, the soft weight of her body against his palms like sin itself.
The hem of her dress fluttered high as he boosted her onto the running board. His gaze tracked shamelessly, caught a glimpse of pale thighs before she scrambled into the seat, tugging fabric back down with pink cheeks and a tiny smile.
He shut the door hard enough to drown out his own groan. Christ almighty.
Tempting little thing.
He took her to the next town over, the drive just over forty minutes. Road unspooling dark through the woods, headlights cutting through the quiet. She filled the silence easily—talking, laughing, pointing things out as if he hadn’t driven this road a hundred times. He let her chatter wash over him, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.
The pub was warm and dimly lit, all low bulbs and dark wood, the kind of place that didn’t rush you. Simon liked it for that reason. Drinks came quick, food quicker. He kept to one—two at most—because the last thing he’d ever risk was driving her home dulled. Not with his sweet thing in his truck.
Conversation flowed smoother than he’d anticipated. She carried it, bright and lively, her hands dancing with every story. She was just as animated as she’d been at the market stall. That smile—wide and unguarded—was addicting, and every time she laughed, he felt something in his chest tighten, loosen, all at once.
Her stories were short, simple, but they hooked him. Childhood scraped a little raw—father gone too soon, mother little more than a shadow. His chest clenched when she admitted it with a shrug, like she’d learned not to expect sympathy. She didn’t need it, though. She’d had her grandmother. And when she spoke of her, her whole face softened, lit with something warm and reverent. That was where she’d learned it all—cooking, canning, the love stitched into every jar of jam.
He wanted to reach across the table right then, haul her into his lap, kiss her until she knew she’d never have to shrug off loneliness again.
She asked about him, and he kept it brief. His past wasn’t something to gift her over dinner—it was a blade, sharp and stained. War, missions, blood. Not for her ears.
He gave her what he could. Told her about his team, ex-military. Told her about the leg, about the limp that would never quite fade. She didn’t wince, didn’t pity. Just hummed soft in sympathy, her gaze steady, accepting. It loosened something he hadn’t realized was knotted tight inside him.
He mentioned his work now—private intelligence analysis. She tilted her head, eyes wide, curious. Asked questions, listened with her whole attention. And fuck if he didn’t puff up a little under that gaze, the way she looked at him like he was someone worth listening to.
As the night wore on, the distance between them shrank. Chairs angled closer, knees brushing. His hand found her thigh, casual at first, then firmer, thumb pressing slow circles into butter-soft skin. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shy away. Instead she turned her legs toward him, offering him more, as if daring him.
Soft little thing. Sweet little tease.
They stayed until the place emptied, until the old barman came over and told them he was closing up. Simon tipped him well enough to earn a smirk.
When they reached the truck, he lifted her up the same way as before—but lingered this time. His palms slid higher beneath the hem of her dress, rough skin against satin flesh. He gripped harder, a low grunt spilling out of him, hunger clawing its way up his spine.
She bit her lip, glanced down at him with eyes gone heavy, lids low and lashes dark.
He had to ask, though his voice was already rough, already dripping with the promise of what he’d do if she said yes.
“You wanna come back to my place, sweetheart?”
She didn’t answer with words. Just nodded. Small. Certain.
That was all it took.
Simon shut the door and circled back to the driver’s side, every muscle tight with restraint. He didn’t waste another breath talking.
No more time to wait.
_____________________
The drive back to his cabin was fraught with stolen touches. His bold and brazen, hers soft and hesitant. But still enough to raise the flames burning through him.
The quiet weight of anticipation pressed on him so hard his foot kept drifting heavy on the gas. Twice he had to snarl at himself—slow down, keep her safe, don’t ruin this now. He wanted to get his sweet little thing back to the cabin in one piece. Just so he could take her apart.
His jaw hurt from clenching. God, it had never been like this before. He’d never wanted anything—anyone—so badly that it ached all the way into his teeth. His hand on her thigh had crept higher, higher still, until he could feel the heat of her squirming center. A wet, wanting little thing.
He’d give it to her. He’d give her everything.
The long gravel drive finally curved into view, lanterns of porch lights glowing warm against the night. He stole a glance at her as he parked—Lilly’s eyes on the cabin, curious, soft, assessing. And then she smiled. Bright, endearing. That smile made his chest crack wide open. He wanted her to love this place. His place. Built with his own two hands.
And when she looked at it with approval, Simon knew he’d tear the whole damn thing down and build it again if it meant keeping that smile on her face.
He got out, stiff-limbed and aching in too-tight pants, circling to her side to help her down. His hands lingered on her hips, sliding back to give her ass a squeeze. Her hum of appreciation sent blood roaring to his ears. She pressed into him, little nose tucked to his chest, trusting and sweet.
He had to get her inside before instincts overtook him—before he laid her down in the gravel like a feral beast. But the thought of it, of rutting her raw under the stars, had him shoving a hand low against her back, guiding her up the porch steps with too much urgency.
Inside, she wandered. Running delicate fingers over his woodwork, making soft sounds of admiration. She lit him up with every word, made him want to preen like a damn rooster. And when she looked through the sliding glass door and declared his backyard perfect for a garden, Simon nearly lost it.
He’d give her a garden. All she had to do was ask.
But his body was roaring for something else. Claim. Bite. Dominate.
He stalked forward, chest heaving, breath like a bull. She came to him, cautious but wanting, pressing a small hand to his stomach, running it upward across his chest. “Easy, big guy,” she teased, lashes low.
He grunted. He was a big guy. And she was about to learn exactly what that meant.
He bent to her, nose dragging along her jaw, tongue flicking against her throat. She shivered, breath hitched. His hands rose, shoving her jacket from her shoulders. Denim hit the hardwood with a heavy thump.
The dress clung to her, rising and falling with each quick inhale. He traced her cleavage with one trembling finger, a gesture meant to be tender, though his blood thundered for rougher things.
Her hands found him too, slipping under his thermal, fingers dancing over muscle, her little sighs stoking the blaze higher.
“Easy, sweet girl,” he growled back, though he didn’t mean it. He meant the opposite. He meant ruin.
She smelled sweet—berries and heat. He needed to see it, taste it, mark it. His patience shredded. Pulling her toward the stairs, he led her up to his loft bedroom, his bed waiting like an altar.
“Alright, sweetheart?” His voice was sandpaper.
She nodded, shaky but sure. “Kiss me?”
And he did. Hard, deep, claiming. His tongue left no inch of her mouth uncharted. She clung to him, mewling soft sounds that seared his brain.
Clothes went fast after that—her dress peeled away, his shirt stripped, her small body laid bare in soft pink cotton. Simon’s cock throbbed in his jeans, straining, pulsing. She licked her lips when she saw him palm himself, the sight of her hunger nearly breaking his spine.
“On the bed,” he rasped.
She obeyed. Shivered when he called her a good girl.
He traced her skin—chin, chest, belly, down to the waistband of her panties. Just enough to feel the heat radiating from her, not enough to satisfy. She begged, voice thin and needy. He made her say sir and when she did, trembling, he nearly blacked out with pleasure.
Her underthings fell away. The air filled with her scent, cloying and sweet, almost enough to knock him to his knees. He devoured her with his mouth, messy but precise, relentless until she was limp and shaking, her voice cracked from crying out his name, his title.
And when he finally tore himself away, slick-mouthed and ravenous, she was sprawled boneless on his sheets, dazed and glowing. His sweet little lamb. His.
The last of his control snapped. He stripped, rough and quick, her eyes widening when she saw him, awe sparking in her hazy gaze. A whispered, ‘oh God,’ breathed into the air.
“It’s sir, sweetheart,” he growled as he loomed over her, beast under his skin showing in his eyes. “No gods here. Not with what I’m about to do to you.”
Her lips parted in shock, then want. And that was it. That was the end of restraint.
He pushed into her slow, savoring the way her body gave, the way her lips popped open in a gasp, her hand lifting to her belly in disbelief at how full she was. He pressed his hand over hers, made her feel just how deep he was.
Gentle warred with savage inside him, and savage won. Her desperate plea—please, sir—broke him open. The bed shook with his thrusts, the room filled with her cries, his growls, the slap of skin. He kissed her hard, rough, taking her mewls into his mouth.
When release came, it was violent. His roar tore through the cabin, a sound from some primal cavern in his chest. He buried himself deep, deeper, holding her there as long as he could, trembling with the force of it. He stayed pressed over her, sweat dripping, refusing to let go.
Only when his body had no choice did he slip free, immediately cupping her heat, palm sealing her softness like he could keep every drop inside. She whimpered, loose and wrecked, looking up at him like he’d hung the damn moon.
Simon’s chest swelled, then clenched. Because she didn’t understand. She thought this was fun. A fling. Something to remember when she left town. But he had no intention of letting her go.
He’d give her a garden. Space in his closet. A key to his cabin. He’d give her his whole damn world. But she wasn’t leaving. Not now. Not ever.
He lowered his mouth to her ear, voice guttural, possessive.
“You’re mine, Lilly. Mine to keep.”
And the beast inside him purred as she sleepily nodded.