11. Arizona
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Arizona
This kiss might actually ruin me.
The second Willy’s mouth meets mine, the barn disappears.
The thunder rattling the roof, the rain hammering outside, the ridiculous fact that I’m sitting inside a blanket cocoon. All of it drops away beneath the jolt that tears through me.
One minute we’re trading stupid jokes while the storm puts on a show, and the next he’s kissing me like he’s made a decision he has no intention of revisiting.
And the worst part is that I don’t want him to.
Our teeth bump together and a laugh almost escapes me, but it never gets the chance. His hand slides to my jaw, rough calluses catching against my skin, and the simple touch sends every coherent thought scattering.
Apparently my entire nervous system has picked a side, and it’s Team Willy.
He’s got that same energy he brings to everything else. Certain, unapologetic, impossible to ignore.
I open my mouth to make a joke because that’s usually how I survive situations like this, but the attempt dies before it ever reaches daylight.
Willy catches the lapels of my jacket and pulls me upright, and suddenly we’re standing face to face with nowhere left to hide.
A chill runs through me. Maybe it’s the rainwater still clinging to my clothes. Maybe it’s the way his hands settle at my waist.
Probably not the rain.
Before I can gather my bearings, he backs me toward the wall. The beam at my back nudges my shoulder, and he braces one arm beside me.
Even with his size and the closeness between us, I don’t feel trapped. If anything, I feel more awake than I have in weeks.
The barn smells of damp hay, leather, and horses. Beneath it all is the scent that belongs uniquely to him, familiar enough now that I recognize it without thinking.
I reach for him automatically, looping my arms around his neck as though the gesture has always existed somewhere inside me, waiting for the right person to unlock it.
His forehead brushes mine when we finally pull apart. We’re both breathing harder than we should be, and neither of us seems eager to put any distance between us.
The realization lands with startling clarity.
Willy wants me.
And judging by the way my pulse is trying to launch itself out of my chest, I want him right back.
His mouth curves into a grin that looks equal parts pleased and dangerous. “Let’s get these soaking wet clothes off.”
He manages it one-handed, his thumb hooked through my belt loop while his index finger pops the button. The anticipation alone sends a shiver through me because holy hell, he’s about to peel me like a stubborn clementine.
By the time he gets the zipper down, cold brushes across my skin while his mouth finds my jaw, all heat and intent. The combination crashes together inside my head and takes out whatever rational thought I have left.
I make a halfhearted attempt to shrug out of the jacket, but my hands are occupied with gripping his back, so Willy takes care of it himself. He strips it from my shoulders in one smooth pull, then catches sight of the faded tee underneath.
“Stay Weird?” His fingertip traces the lettering with the seriousness of an archaeologist uncovering a priceless relic. “Yeah, that tracks.”
I bark out a laugh. “You make that sound like a character flaw…”
The rest disappears when he turns me around and catches me beneath the thighs.
One instant I’m standing in front of the tack trunk, and the next I’m sitting on it. The speed of it steals another laugh from me.
There isn’t an ounce of hesitation in the way he touches me. He acts like I’m the best thing that’s happened to him all week, maybe all year.
My knees part on instinct, and when his mouth finds mine again, I can’t stop smiling against it because the entire situation feels mildly inadvisable and completely worth it.
His hands can’t seem to settle on a strategy. They slip beneath my shirt, then back over it, as though he’s stuck between taking his time and consuming every inch of me at once.
I have absolutely no complaints.
He presses his face against the underside of my jaw, his breath warm against my skin, and a ridiculous certainty settles over me: If he stops touching me right now, I may actually perish from disappointment.
I hook my legs around his waist and drag him closer.
The sound that leaves him isn’t quite a growl and isn’t quite anything else either. It lands somewhere in the territory of a man hanging onto the last threads of his self-control.
“Okay,” I whisper.
The word barely resembles language. It comes out more like permission, or surrender, or maybe both.
Willy’s hands slide beneath my thighs and lift me higher. I nearly send a saddle crashing off the trunk in the process. The whole world starts to feel strangely fluid, as if gravity has decided to sit this one out.
He kisses me again. His tongue is velvet, his teeth catching just enough to leave me dizzy.
I want his shirt gone, but my fingers keep bunching the fabric instead of cooperating, so I settle for dragging it free from his waistband.
As I work it upward, he breathes, “Jeez,” against my neck.
I get it halfway over his chest before his patience snaps and he yanks it over his head himself.
And now he’s shirtless.
We tug each other loose in a hurry that feels completely mutual. Willy yanks the “Stay Weird” shirt over my head and launches it somewhere behind him. My bra follows the same trajectory.
The damp wind sneaking through the barn raises goosebumps across my skin and tightens my nipples. His attention lands on them at once.
He bends his head and traces each peak with his tongue, taking his time in a way that feels downright unfair.
I arch into him, caught between the chill on my skin and the heat of his mouth. The corner of his mouth lifts when he notices my reaction, and then he catches the edge of my areola between his teeth before kissing a trail across my chest.
Any lingering skepticism I once had about the erotic value of biting has officially been eliminated. Apparently, I want teeth marks. Apparently, I want evidence.
Given the choice, I’d happily spend the next week carrying reminders of his mouth everywhere I go.
Willy attacks my jeans with the same practical confidence he brings to every other task. There’s nothing careful about it.
He strips them away like they’re inconveniences rather than clothing, and I help by kicking off the last stubborn sock.
After that, we’re finally skin against skin. When he settles me back onto the tack trunk, the movement lacks elegance but makes up for it with enthusiasm.
At this stage, I couldn’t care less about the state of the surface beneath me. The only thing occupying my attention is Willy’s mouth at my neck and the scrape of his stubble against my skin.
The sensation burns just enough to make me crave more.
His hand slides between my thighs, leading with his knuckles, and even though I’m already wet, he takes his time. Two thick fingers trace along sensitive skin, exploring, teasing, nudging at my clit with the confidence of a man who already knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You like this,” he says.
The smugness in his tone would be infuriating if it weren’t completely earned.
As if my hips chasing his hand aren’t already providing a detailed answer.
“Fuck. Just…”
The rest dissolves when his thumb presses harder. My mouth falls open and whatever I intended to say breaks apart into a gasp.
At this point, language feels wildly overrated. Willy’s reading my reactions more accurately than words ever could.
While he’s busy dismantling my ability to form complete thoughts, I work his waistband down. His cock springs free, thick and already leaking, and desire hits me with enough force that trying to describe it feels pointless.
I wrap my hand around the base and stroke him, feeling the slick movement of skin beneath my grip. The hitch in his breathing rewards me.
I’ve spent years chasing applause, laughter, audience reactions, every form of external validation available, and somehow none of them compare to discovering I can make Willy sound like that.
I want more.
Encouraged, I wet my lips and slide from the tack trunk to my knees on the straw-covered floor. I take him into my mouth in one determined swallow.
He absolutely isn’t prepared for it.
His entire body locks up around a curse. One hand flies to my head and closes in my hair. From the strain in his arm, it seems more like he’s trying to stop himself from thrusting forward hard enough to choke me.
My mouth stretches around him, my jaw already protesting, but backing off never crosses my mind. I want more of him.
I want every inch, every reaction, every shift beneath my hands.
My tongue traces along the underside before flattening against the head, and the taste of him hits me all over again.
Salt, skin, minerals, heat. Alive. Entirely, undeniably alive.
His cock pulses against my lips, and the sound that slips out of me earns a quick response. Willy bites back a noise that lands somewhere between a curse and a plea, and it sends a spark of satisfaction through me.
Maybe that’s the surprise hidden underneath all this. I enjoy pushing him right to the edge. I like watching control slip through his fingers, giving him more than he expects and seeing what happens next.
I hollow my cheeks and glance up through my lashes. It’s hardly an original move; I’ve used it before. The difference is that nobody has ever looked back at me the way Willy does now.
His pupils swallow almost all the blue, and he stares down at me like I’ve performed a miracle instead of a very specific skill.
A rough breath leaves him. His hips begin to move, restrained enough to tell me he’s trying to hold on, but not enough to hide what he’s feeling.
I take him harder, then ease off, working my hand around the base of his cock while my mouth does the rest. Every response I draw from him only makes me greedier.
When I lift my gaze again, his mouth is parted. The expression on his face is pure want, stripped down and impossible to miss. His hand tightens in my hair.