Page 2 of Dirty Sweet Cowboy

Because I want to fuck you until you can't walk. Because I want to hear you call me Daddy while I fill you with my cum. Because you're the most perfect thing I've ever seen.

Whoa, where the fuck did all that come from?

I clear my throat, but it comes out gruff anyway. “Everyone needs help sometimes. Get settled in. Bathroom's down the hall if you want to clean up. Dinner's at six."

I turn to leave, giving her privacy. Giving myself distance before I do something that can't be undone.

"Wayne?"

I stop, not looking back. Her voice wraps around my name like a caress.

"Thank you."

I nod once, sharp, and continue down the hall to my room, where I can adjust the painfully hard ridge in my jeans. I close the door and lean against it, exhaling slowly.

Fuck. One look at that girl and I'm ready to explode like a goddamn teenager.

Through the wall, I hear her moving around. The soft thud of her bag. The creak of the bed as she sits. I imagine her slipping that thin dress off her shoulders, revealing inch after inch of soft skin. My hand finds my cock, squeezing through denim.

I force myself to move away from the door, from the temptation to go back in there. The last things she needs is my old ass coming onto her.

But as I hear the guest room door open, hear her pad down the hall to the bathroom, I know with absolute certainty: she's staying. Forever. She just doesn't know it yet.

two

. . .

Judy

I can't believe I'm here. A real ranch with acres of open land stretching in every direction, and a bedroom—all to myself—with clean sheets that smell like sunshine. But it's him that makes me feel truly safe. Wayne. The way he filled the doorway when he let me into the house, tall and broad, with those piercing green eyes that seemed to see right through me. His voice, deep as thunder, rumbling through my chest when he called me "angel." I shouldn't notice how his jeans fit his powerful thighs or how his forearms flex when he crosses them. But I do. I notice everything about him.

Dinner was quiet. He doesn't talk much, just watches me with that steady gaze while I ate the stew he made—actually made himself. A man who cooks. Who would've thought? And the way he smiled, just barely, when I took a second helping…I felt warm all over.

Now I'm sitting on the edge of the bed—my bed, at least for now—running my fingers over the quilt. It's handmade, with faded colors and neat stitching. Did he make this too? Or was it someone else's? A woman's? The thought makes my stomach twist in a way I don't understand.

From the open window, I can hear night sounds—crickets, the occasional whinny from the horses in the barn, the creak of the windmill turning slowly in the evening breeze. So different from the city noises I'd grown used to. Safer. Like nothing bad could find me here.

I unpack my meager belongings—two changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a dog-eared paperback, and the photo of my mom from before. Before everything went wrong. I tuck it inside the drawer of the nightstand. Can't look at her face right now. Not when I'm still running.

The floor creaks outside my door. Wayne. I freeze, holding my breath. Is he checking on me? Coming in? My heart hammers against my ribs. But his footsteps continue down the hall to his room, and I exhale slowly, unsure if I'm relieved or disappointed.

I change into my sleep shirt—an oversized tee that barely covers my thighs—and slip under the covers. The sheets are cool against my bare legs. I turn off the lamp and lie in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, replaying the day.

You're safe here, angel. His words echo in my head. Angel. The way he said it, rough and tender at the same time. No one's ever called me that before. No one's ever looked at me the way he does, like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once.

I shift, suddenly too warm despite the cool night air flowing through the window. There's a feeling building in me, low in my belly. A tightness. A heat. I press my thighs together, trying to ease it, but that only makes it worse.

Wayne's face floats in my mind—the sharp angle of his jaw beneath his short beard, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he almost smiled, the way his hands, so big and rough, handled his fork and knife with surprising gentleness.

What would those hands feel like on me?

The thought ambushes me, sending a jolt of heat straight between my legs. I gasp, pressing my hand to my mouth. What am I doing? He's letting me stay here out of kindness. He's twice my age. He probably sees me as some pathetic kid.

But I can't shake the image—his broad palms skimming up my thighs, his calloused fingertips tracing patterns on my skin. My nipples tighten beneath my shirt, and that ache between my legs grows more insistent.

Before I can talk myself out of it, my hand slides down my stomach, hesitating at the edge of my panties. I've never…not like this. Not really thinking about someone specific. But tonight, I can't help it.

I slip my fingers beneath the cotton, shocked at how wet I am. So this is what it feels like to really want someone. To burn for them.