Chapter 17
Harrison
Luke and Ben finish loading the last of the tools into the truck. Engines start. Headlights swing across the yard once, then disappear down the drive. Now, it’s only us.
Nicole closes the barn door with a careful pull, checking the latch before she steps back. Her sleeves are rolled up, hair pulled loose from its tie, damp from sweat and night air. She looks tired. She also looks like she belongs here. That thought feels dangerous.
“You don’t have to finish everything tonight,” I say, nodding toward the barn. “It’ll hold.”
She wipes her hands on her jeans and turns to me. “I know. I just wanted to make sure it was set.”
There’s a moment of pause. Both of us not sure what’s next. The road beyond the fence glistens under the lights, still slick from rain. Wind moves through the trees, quieter now. I should tell her goodnight, but I don’t want to.
“It’s late,” I say instead. “Roads might still be rough.”
“I’ll be fine,” she says. “Unless that wasn’t what you meant.”
She caught me. Of course, there is more to it. I inhale slowly, grounding myself the way I always do when something matters more than I’m ready for.
“You don’t have to rush out,” I say. “You could stay a bit. Warm up. Get something warm. I make delicious hot cocoa.”
Her eyes don’t soften. They sharpen.
“Are you asking because it makes sense,” she asks quietly, “or because you want me to?”
Ah, she’s left me no escape hatch. She only wants truth.
“I want you here,” I say.
Nicole doesn’t smile. She doesn’t step back.
She nods once. “Alright.”
We walk toward the house together, boots crunching over gravel. Inside, the lights come on one by one, casting a warm glow that feels almost too intimate after the night outside.
She watches as I remove my boots in the mud room and she does the same. I walk barefoot to the kitchen and get all my ingredients together. Still, she watches me. I can only wonder what’s on her mind.
I heat milk on the stove. She leans against the counter, watching me like she’s learning something new — not about making hot cocoa, but about me.
Once the concoction is finished, I place whipped cream and a pinch of cinnamon on top for effect.
“You don’t usually do that,” she says.
“No,” I admit. “I don’t use whipped cream much.”
“But you are for me?”
“Yes.”
That earns me a small smile.
We drink most of the beverage and I set my mug down and turn toward her. She doesn’t move away. But she doesn’t move closer either. I lift my hand, slow enough to stop if I need to, and brush my thumb along her lips where a little cream sits. I show her and she laughs.
But then, I move toward her jaw. She inhales softly, eyes glancing to my mouth.
When I kiss her this time, I taste her first, sweet and bitter, the faint echo of chocolate and something deeper underneath.
The sound she makes is barely a sound at all.
It’s more a rush of air that hits me lower than I want to admit.
She leans into it, mouth strong and intent, like she’s not afraid to meet force with force. Her hands press flat against my chest, and for a second I think she means to push me back. She doesn’t. She uses it to anchor herself, drawing me in.
I let my palm slide up her spine, tracing the soft heat of her back through her shirt. For a moment, it feels like our bodies are remembering something our minds haven’t said out loud yet.
Nicole breaks the kiss first, but she doesn’t let go. Her hands slide up, cupping my jaw. She’s searching my face, as if cataloging every line and scar, every hint of what I’m holding back.
“You don’t have to be guarded,” she says.
I blink, caught off guard by how much I want to believe her. I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in. She smells earthy, sweat and salt and a trace of cocoa. I could get drunk on it. I want to get drunk on her.
But I promised her honesty, and I promised myself I’d never let want make me reckless again. I pull her closer by the waist, feeling the heat of her skin. Her body fits against mine like she’s always known where it belongs.
Nicole’s hands move down my back, slow and deliberate.
She’s strong and solid, not a single ounce of her body unsure.
Her lips find my jaw, my throat. I let my eyes close and just feel it for a while, the pressure of her mouth.
I ache for her and I’m not sure how far this is going or if I can’t stop at some point.
I back her up against the counter with a slow, measured movement.
She lets me, hips tight to mine, never flinching, never looking away.
I slide my palms up beneath her shirt, finding bare skin, the heat of her body a shock compared to the chill in my bones.
She gasps, low and raw, and leans her head back, offering her throat.
I take it, lips pressed to the tender skin there, tasting salt and the electric charge beneath.
She’s not delicate. She’s alive, vibrating, the pulse in her throat pounding against my mouth.
My hands are under her shirt now, tracing the lines of her waist, the plane of her stomach, the edge of her ribs. She breathes my name.
“Harrison …”
Not loud, but with a soft tone that tells me she wants more.
“Yeah,” I say, voice thick.
She digs her fingers into my shoulders. It doesn’t hurt. I want more of it. I want her on the counter, so I lift her. Just enough to hear the surprise in her breath. I feel the shift in her weight as she settles, knees bracketing my hips.
Her calves draw around me, locking me in. I press harder between her thighs. My hands grip the edge of the counter on either side of her, close enough that she can’t pull away. But she’s not trying.
Her mouth is fierce and so is the way she kisses me, nothing shy or uncertain about it. She nips at my lower lip, then soothes it with her tongue. The taste of her, chocolate and cream mixing in a way that makes it taste like a sweet dare.
I kiss her again, hard and slow, and this time she pulls me in with both hands.
She arches against me, her chest pressed tight, and the way she moves is not practiced or soft, but hungry and honest. Her thighs tense around my hips.
She rocks against me once and that’s all it takes for my body to go rigid, blood rushing to places that haven’t been this awake in a long time.
“Fuck,” I whisper against her mouth. Nicole smiles.
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s what I want too.”
She hitches her hips forward. I’m between her legs, hard enough to ache, every nerve sharpened and hungry when she speaks again.
“Harrison, I’m dirty.”
“Are you, Nicole?”
“Yes, filthy dirty,” she says, with a sly smile, making eye contact.
“Hmmm, guess we live in the same club tonight, sweetheart. I’m filthy dirty too.”
She runs her hands down my chest, fingers spreading over the buttons of my shirt, and looks up at me with the clearest, boldest eyes I’ve ever seen on a woman.
“You should see my knees. I’ve been kneeling in mud and cow shit for two hours. My shirt smells like wet hay.” I press my body into hers, loving the way she talks dirty and means it literally.
“That’s fine. You can shower after … or before. Whatever you want.”
She raises an eyebrow, mouth so close her words land on my lips. “After.”
I nod once, grounding myself in the heat of her, and I slide one hand around her, cupping her ass through the damp denim, loving the heat and tension in her body.
Her hands are busy on my shirt, fingers working the buttons.
When she gets the last one, she pushes it open, exposing my skin to the kitchen's cold air and her hands, revealing all my tattoos.
She traces them on my arms and from my sternum down, slow and deliberate, until she's at my waistband.
She doesn't hesitate, just palms the hard line of my cock through my jeans and squeezes. My knees almost buckle. I want to say something sharp, but her mouth is hot on my neck, at the spot just below my ear. She bites there gently, and I make a sound I haven’t heard from myself before.
She likes it, I can tell. I can feel the smile on her lips, the curve of her mouth against my skin. She wants more of it, so I give it to her. I push her tighter to the counter, hips grinding, and she groans and digs in with her heels, urging me closer.
Nicole’s hands roam my upper torso. When she notices the tattoo just below my heart, she pauses and looks up with something in her eyes like a question. But she already knows the answer. It says Trust.
She slides her palm over it and then she kisses me there, gentle. I’m not prepared for how it’s more intimate than anything we’ve done so far.
“I like this,” she whispers, lips against my skin. “It’s real. It’s you.”
Another time, I’d laugh that off. Tonight, I just close my eyes and let her touch me. Then she tugs me in and kisses me with a hunger like she’s starving.
I push her shirt up, hands spanning the bare skin over her ribs, and she lifts her arms just enough for me to pull the fabric off.
Beneath, she’s got a simple sports bra, black and damp with sweat.
Her nipples are hard, visible through the fabric, and I can’t help myself.
I run my hands over them, palms rough, and she arches into it with a little gasp.
She tugs at my belt and the buckle yields.
I get her jeans open and lie her back while I pull them down over her hips.
She wriggles out of them, and in the process, her thighs squeeze me tighter, pulling me flush.
The heat between her legs is palpable, even through the cotton barrier of her underwear.
I palm the backs of her thighs, lifting her higher, and she lets out a little sound that’s more growl than moan.
She’s so hungry and impatient, which is surprising considering she’s usually so patient in her training of the horses.
Nicole drags my jeans off now, underwear too as my cock slips out hard and glistening on the tip. She wraps her hand around the base.
“You’re huge,” she says, as she slides her palm up the shaft, thumb circling the head, and I forget how to breathe for a second.
“It’s for you and you alone, Nicole.”
She strokes me once, then twice, and plants her feet back on the counter edge, opening her knees wide so I can step in.
Her underwear is soaked. I can see the dark patch, and when I hook my finger through the waistband, she tilts her pelvis, a low needy sound in her throat that sets my teeth on edge.
I drag her underwear down, slow, and she lifts her hips to help.
The fabric peels away, damp with want, and I toss it aside.
I move her legs apart again and push her back a little so she’s propped up by her arms, sitting on the counter. I decide to watch her get off, fingering her clit and placing my finger inside of her. I want to see her lose herself right here on this counter.
I press the pads of my fingers against her, circling slow, letting her get used to the attention.
She breathes out hard, tilting her hips into my touch, her hands gripping the counter for leverage.
I keep my eyes on her face. She wants me to see it, the way her mouth parts, the way her lashes flutter when I tease her.
She’s not shy. She’s demanding, and I want to give her everything she asks for.
“Like that?” I ask.
She just nods, biting her lower lip. I slide a finger inside, slow and smooth.
She’s so wet it’s almost obscene and tight around me, hungry for more.
She grinds her hips, taking me deeper, and I watch her eyes roll back.
The sight of it, the raw, unselfconscious pleasure, nearly makes me lose control right there.
She’s shaking now, knuckles white gripping the counter’s edge.
I keep the rhythm, adding a second finger, and she takes it like it’s nothing, like she wants more and more.
Her breath goes sharp, then shallow, and I know the signs.
I know when a woman is about to go over, and Nicole’s on the edge, trembling.
Her mouth is open and her eyes on mine as she comes hard, a long shudder passing through her whole body.
She cries out my name, loud enough to echo in the kitchen, and I fucking love it.
I’d do anything to hear her make that sound again.
Before she’s done shaking, I line my cock up and slide in.
She’s so slick I almost bottom out in one stroke.
She lets go of the counter and clutches at me.
I lose what’s left of my restraint as I pick up the pace.
I pound into her, hard enough that the counter creaks and her body rocks with every thrust. She wraps around me, her arms and legs both, holding me so tight I can barely move, but I do, and it’s like nothing has ever felt this right.
She’s not sweet. She’s not delicate. She’s a furnace, and I want to burn up inside her.
The slap of skin and the ragged sound of our breathing mixes with the whine of the counter edge under us. I keep my hand on her ass, squeezing, controlling the angle, and Nicole meets every thrust, like she’s trying to climb inside me.
“Don’t stop,” she shouts, and I don’t. I pin her to the counter, fucking her hard and deep. She comes again, this time with a strangled, breathless sound that’s half laughter, half cry. It rips through her, and she squeezes me so tight I think she might pull the soul out of my body.
My orgasm hits like a punch, full and devastating, every muscle locked and shuddering as I empty myself into her. I don’t hold back, and neither does she. We’re loud, messy, greedy for more than we deserve.
When it’s over, I stay right there, pressed to her, arms braced on either side of her body.
We’re both shaking, breathless, barely able to process how hard we just lost ourselves.
I kiss her again, hungry for more of her mouth, her sweat, her laughter.
She tastes like salt and chocolate and every fucking thing I ever wanted and told myself not to need.
Eventually the shaking stops and we just breathe together. She pulls me in, holding me with her forehead pressed to my collarbone, arms snaked around my ribs like she’s anchoring herself. I keep my hands on her hips, thumbs rubbing lazy circles into the heated skin there.
“You broke your own rule,” she says, voice thick.
I laugh, rough and low. “Yeah, I did.”
I can barely get the words out, my head still spinning from the aftershock of what her body just did to mine.
“I’m not even sorry.”
She pulls back enough to look at me, those brown eyes sharp and soft at the same time.
“Neither am I.”
Her hair is half undone, sweat on her neck catching the light. I want to kiss her so hard it leaves a mark.
“I’m covered in you,” she says, half-laughing, half out of breath. “And I still smell like horse.”