Page 43 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

We paid then walked to the truck in silence. She held the preserves with a grip that would have cracked glass, but when she got in the passenger seat, she just set it in the cupholder and looked out the window.

On the drive back, I watched the way her shoulders relaxed, the way her breathing eased when we put enough miles between ourselves and the church lot. I didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say.

We made it back to the ranch just after noon, the sun so high and mean it beat the bugs into silence. I pulled up to the barn, where it was cooler by ten degrees.

She followed me in, carrying the bag of sauces and the jar, but set them both on the feed barrel and just stood, hands on her hips.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded, then caught herself. “No. I mean, yes, but—” She stopped and turned the thought over. “I’m just tired. It’s been a lot.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “You want to eat lunch?”

She nodded again. “Yeah.”

We went to my cabin. I made simple ham sandwiches, which she jazzed up with the new hot sauce. It looked good so I did the same.

“I hope you don’t think I’m helpless,” she said, mouth full, “just because I let you buy me hot sauce.”

“I think you’re the opposite of helpless,” I said. “I think you’re dangerous.”

She looked at me, eyes bright. “Maybe so.”

I moved around her, slow and steady, as if any sudden motion might snap us both back to wherever we were before the drive. I kicked off my boots, set them side by side, then shed my shirt, dragging it over my head with a deliberate roughness. I rolled my shoulders, tension coming off in layers. She didn’t move except for a pulse at the base of her throat, quick and shallow.

I waited to see if she’d say anything. She didn’t, so I pushed the blanket aside on the bed, sat down, and patted the space next to me.

She came over. Her boots were off now, too, feet bare, and the sound of her steps on the wooden floor seemed impossibly loud.

She sat. Still didn’t speak.

We didn’t touch at first. Just sat there, not even looking at each other, breathing in the crackle of the fire and the faint pulse of cicadas building somewhere beyond the window.

After a minute, I reached up and undid the first button on her shirt. I waited, in case she wanted to stop me. She didn’t. I kept going, one button at a time, until her shirt hung open, showing a thin tank underneath, clinging to her skin. The smell of her, salt and sunblock, and the faint citrus edge of her shampoo, filled up the space between us.

I leaned in, close enough to feel her exhale, and brushed my mouth over the line of her jaw. She shivered and turned to meet me, and we just hovered there, forehead to forehead, until she moved first. She kissed me. Not with hesitation, but with hunger. She bit my lower lip, dragged her teeth, then let it go. I made a sound, deep in my throat, and that seemed to satisfy her.

I found the hem of her tank and pulled it up over her head. She let me, raising her arms and shaking her hair free as the shirt came off. Underneath, she was slick with sweat and adrenaline. I ran my hand down her spine, followed the line to where the waistband of her jeans cut into the curve of her hip.

She went for my belt, fingers sure and a little rough. She got it loose, then unzipped my jeans, never breaking eye contact. She shoved them down, hard enough that I almost toppled off the cot, and then she laughed, quick and sharp.

I stood, peeled off the rest, and then pulled her up too, hands on her hips, thumbs hooked just inside the denim. She wriggled out, legs bare, and for a second we stood there, looking at each other.

She put her hands on my chest, fingers tracing across it. She kissed me, soft, and then bit, not soft at all. I caught her chin in my hand, tilted her head back, and kissed her again, this time slowly, letting it build.

She wrapped her arms around my neck, nails digging into the muscle at the base of my skull. I felt the heat of her, pressed against me, the way her breath caught each time I squeezed her waist or ground my thigh between hers.

I pushed her back onto the bed, and she went, sprawled across the rumpled wool blanket, mouth open, hair wild. She crooked a finger at me, so I crawled up after her as she spread her legs, foot braced against the bedframe, and ran her hand between her thighs, slow, teasing herself. She met my gaze, daring me to look away. I watched, helpless, as she circled her clit, slick and swollen, then slid two fingers inside and shuddered. I reached down, caught her wrist, and replaced her fingers with mine.

She was so wet it was obscene. I slid in, then out, curling my fingers just so, and she bucked under me, a sharp gasp escaping. I thumbed her clit, and she grabbed my forearm with both hands, using me for leverage.

She let me work her for a minute, but then she wanted more, I could feel it in the way she ground her hips up. I pulled my hand away, grabbed a condom from the box on the shelf, and she ripped it open before I could. She rolled it down my cock, then gave it a squeeze for good luck.

“Come on,” she said, voice raw.

I lined up, pressed my head to her, and pushed in, slowly, enjoying the feel of her pussy enveloping around me. She bit my shoulder, making me growl against her throat.

I fucked her with slow, deep strokes, watching the way her eyes fluttered, the way her mouth twisted when I hit the right spot. She wrapped her legs around my waist and pulled me in harder, faster.