3. Mira
MIRA
The way Matt owned me in that bathroom still buzzes under my skin, making my thighs clench with every step. My body feels claimed, branded in ways that have nothing to do with the faint ache between my legs and everything to do with how he looked at me—like I was his to take, his to keep.
Now we're dressed again, playing normal, and he's giving me the grand tour like he didn't just fill me full of his cum against the sink.
"That's the main barn," Matt says, pointing to a massive red structure. "Horses on the left, equipment storage on the right. You'll be mucking stalls most mornings."
I nod, not really listening. My mind is already working, spinning a plan that makes me smile behind his broad back.
Because here's the thing—Matt wants me. I felt it in every rough thrust, every possessive grip on my hips.
And if he wants me that bad, maybe I can use it.
Maybe I can bat my eyes and kiss him breathless every time there's a chore I don't feel like doing.
Maybe those two months can pass with me keeping my nails clean while he does the heavy lifting.
It's perfect, really. I get to stay in his bed, get to have that incredible body whenever I want, and avoid blisters and sweat in the process.
"This is you," Matt says, pushing open a door at the end of the hall.
The bedroom is simple—queen bed, wooden dresser, window overlooking the pastures. Clean but plain. I step inside, already calculating my next move.
Matt leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, those dark eyes tracking my every move. "Bathroom's shared with the guest room next door. Linens are in the closet. Breakfast is at six, work starts at?—"
"Matt." I turn to face him, letting my curls tumble over one shoulder. "Come here."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't move. "We need to talk about?—"
"I said come here."
I watch the war play out on his face—responsibility versus want, rules versus the memory of how I felt wrapped around him. Want wins. It always will with us, I'm betting on it.
He steps inside and closes the door.
I move fast, closing the distance and pressing my mouth to his before he can start listing farm duties or setting boundaries. He groans against my lips, and I swallow the sound, kissing him like I'll die without it—like he's oxygen and I've been drowning.
His hands find my waist, gripping hard, and I work his belt loose with fingers that know exactly what they're doing. The buckle clinks. The zipper rasps down. I shove his jeans past his hips, then hook my thumbs into his boxers and drag those down too.
His cock springs free, already half-hard, and I break the kiss just long enough to flash him a wicked smile before yanking his shirt up his chest.
"Mira—" His voice is rough, strained.
"Shh." I press my lips to his jaw, his throat, the hollow behind his ear. "Just let me."
I tug Matt's shirt up and over his head, tossing it somewhere behind me.
His chest is a work of art—all hard muscle and dark ink sprawling across sun-bronzed skin.
I push him back until his knees hit the bed and he drops onto the edge, sitting with his thighs spread and his cock jutting up between us.
Perfect.
I lean in and capture his mouth again, pouring everything into the kiss—heat and promise and the silent pledge that he'll never want to make me scrub floors or haul hay if I keep giving him this.
His beard scrapes my chin as I deepen it, tasting him, learning the shape of his lips and the way he groans when I bite the bottom one.
Then I pull back and start my descent.
His jaw first, rough with stubble, then the column of his throat where his pulse hammers under my tongue. He smells like soap and sweat and something uniquely him—something that makes my head spin and my body clench with want.
I drag my lips lower, over the hard plane of his chest, pausing to taste the ink that wraps around his shoulder. His hands find my hair, fingers threading through my curls but not pushing, not guiding. Just holding.
Down over his ribs, the dip of his sternum, the ridges of his abs that flex under my mouth. He's so big, so solid, and every inch of him responds to me like I'm the only woman in the world who could make him feel this way.
Maybe I am.
I drop to my knees between his thighs, and my heart kicks up hard because I've never done this before. Matt was my first—first cock buried deep inside me. And now this.
But I need this to work. Need him so obsessed with me that the thought of putting me to work sounds cruel and impossible.
So I wrap my fingers around the base of his cock, feeling the heat of it, the weight. It's thick and hard and still slick from earlier, and when I glance up at him through my lashes, his eyes are locked on me with an intensity that steals my breath.
"Mira." His voice is gravel and warning and desperate hope all at once.
I don't answer. Just lean in and press my lips to the tip, tasting salt and skin and us. His whole body goes rigid, his grip in my hair tightening just enough to make my scalp tingle.
I open my mouth and take him in—slow, careful, no idea what I'm doing but following instinct and the broken sound he makes when I hollow my cheeks and suck.
"Fuck." The word punches out of him, rough and raw.
I pull back, then sink down again, taking him deeper.
My jaw stretches, my eyes water a little, but his reaction is everything.
His breathing turns ragged, his thighs tense under my palms, and when I glance up again, his head is tipped back, throat working as he tries to hold on to some shred of control.
I work him with my mouth, sloppy and eager, learning the rhythm from the way his breath hitches when I drag my tongue along the underside of his shaft. My hand strokes what I can't fit, and his hips start to move—small, restrained thrusts that tell me he's fighting the urge to fuck my throat.
His cock pulses against my tongue, and I feel the shift in his body—the tension coiling tighter, the way his fingers dig into my scalp. He's close. So close.
Perfect timing.
I pull off with a wet pop, keeping my hand wrapped around him, stroking slowly while I look up through my lashes with my best innocent expression.
"Matt," I breathe, voice sweet as honey. "You know... if you really care about me, you wouldn't make me do all that hard farm work. I could just... take care of you instead. Like this. Every day."
His eyes snap open, and for a split second I think I've won. But then something dark flickers across his face—not lust, not surrender.
Recognition.
"You think I don't see what you're doing?" His voice drops to something dangerous, something that makes my stomach flip. "You think you can fuck your way out of responsibility?"
My hand stills on his cock. "I just thought?—"
"You thought you could play me." He reaches down and grabs my wrist, pulling my hand away. "Thought you could bat those pretty eyes and suck my cock and I'd forget you're a spoiled brat who needs to learn how the real world works."
Heat floods my face—part shame, part anger, part something else I don't want to name. "That's not?—"
"Don't lie to me, Mira."
Before I can respond, he moves. One second I'm on my knees, the next he's scooped me up like I weigh nothing and thrown me onto the bed.
I bounce once, breath knocked out of me, and then he's on me—huge and furious and so far from the man who groaned my name in the bathroom that I almost don't recognize him.
"Matt, wait?—"
His hands find the hem of my shirt and he tears it. The fabric rips clean down the middle, baring my bra, and I gasp at the aggression in the action.
"You want to play games?" He grabs the cups of my bra and yanks down hard. My breasts spill free, still tender and full, and a few drops of milk bead on my nipples from the rough handling. "I'll teach you what happens when you try to manipulate me."
"I wasn't?—"
He doesn't let me finish. His hands move to my pants, fingers hooking into the waistband, and he rips those too. The button pops off and skitters across the floor, the zipper tears, and then he's shoving the denim down my thighs along with my underwear in one brutal motion.
I'm bare beneath him, exposed and vulnerable, and the look in his eyes makes my pulse race with something that's equal parts fear and thrill.
"You think you're smart," he growls, voice low and rough. "Think you can wrap me around your finger because I'm weak for you."
His hand slides between my thighs, cupping my pussy hard enough to make me gasp. I'm wet—so wet it's humiliating—and he knows it.
"But here's the truth, little girl." He leans in close, breath hot against my ear. "You're mine now. And that means you don't get to call the shots anymore."
Matt's fingers slide through my wetness, slick and rough, and I arch up off the bed with a whimper I can't hold back.
"Please—"
"No." His voice is iron. "You don't get to come until I say."
His fingers circle my clit—light, maddening pressure that makes my thighs shake. Then he pulls away just when the heat starts to build, leaving me gasping and empty.
"Matt, please, I'm sorry?—"
He cuts me off by lowering his mouth to my breast. His tongue drags across my nipple, hot and wet, and then he latches on and sucks hard. Milk floods his mouth immediately, and the relief is so intense my eyes roll back.
But it's not enough. Not when his fingers are back between my legs, stroking through my folds, dipping just barely inside before retreating. My stepbrother's playing with me, keeping me right on the edge, and every nerve in my body screams for more.
His free hand cups my other breast, kneading the flesh, thumb circling the nipple until more milk beads and drips down the curve. He squeezes, firm and possessive, and the pressure sends sharp jolts of sensation straight to my core.
I can feel his cock against my thigh—hard as steel, leaking—but he ignores his own need to focus entirely on tormenting me.