41. Stetson
FORTY-ONE
STETSON
June 8th, 2024
I roll over, hissing at the sheets clinging to my ravaged back, my arms aching and sore, my pussy raw and used. Smiling, I snuggle into the crook of the muscled arm sprawled across my pillow—I have never been more violently taken—and so deliciously satisfied. I can never go back to the girl I was yesterday, the one who cowered from a world where the monsters come out to play, dance, fuck, and love . I giggle, folding even closer to Gus’s bronzed chest, still rising and falling slowly with sleep.
Love. Gus had said he loved me.
Which is actually fucking insane. But what’s even more insane is I know I feel the same way, even if I haven’t said as much yet. If I had to wait ten years to learn about his secret, he can wait a few more days. I’ve never known how to love, never known what it feels like to be loved, and I want to wrap my head around how all-consuming it is before I share it. It feels like my own precious discovery, my own hidden treasure, and I want to reveal this newfound part of my soul I did not even know existed.
I know it’s love because of the way he describes his feelings for me—suffocating, intoxicating, all-consuming, fire and flood—it’s everything I have never felt before. And as cliche as it sounds, when you know, you know.
And I fucking know.
Gus shifts, his lithe body rippling with the movement, and the sheets fall away from his leg, showcasing the miles of skin peppered in dark images and words. I sit up slightly, not ready to disturb him; I want to take in the artwork on his leg— “o ur love story” he called it—before he wakes up . Last night, I didn’t get the chance to look at all the designs, to admire his attention to detail and the milestones he marked as most important in our journey together.
It’s heart stopping—arresting my insecurities in a violent grip, strangling them in a way I have never felt before. Even if I wanted to push him away, even if I allowed the darkest of my fears to reach out and grab the reins of my life, I know I wouldn’t be able to give him up. Not anymore. Not knowing and seeing how passionately he loves me. I might be a coward, but I’m no fool, and allowing this man, who has done nothing but show up for me time and time again, to think he is anything but the center of my dark universe, would be a mistake.
It would be a lie. And I’m so tired of living a shadow of a life.
I’m not perfect, and my demons are at the forefront of my every thought and feeling, but if Gus can love me, along with them, then I can love myself, too. I can accept myself, too.
Can’t I?
I roll back over, pressing a soft kiss to the bulge of his bicep, smiling when he shifts, his head tipping away from me.
He might be tired, worn out, satisfied. But I feel truly alive for the first time in my life and I’m ready to play. I bite down hard on the same place I just kissed, pulling and sucking at the flesh. Gus yanks at his arm with a hiss, his breathing raspy, as he tries to clear the fog from his brain.
“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice is so deliciously husky, dark curls clinging to his forehead, and I moan, letting his arm go with a final lick. Before he can fully wake up, I scramble onto his body, straddling his naked frame. He might not be fully awake, but his cock is hard and already dripping precum. I want to make him come. I want to destroy him as thoroughly as he has destroyed me, devour his soul the way he has mine.
He begins to sit up, his hands biting on my hips to no doubt lift me and slam me on his cock, rough and violent just like he likes it— me, too, who am I kidding? But I want the control, just this once.
I grip his wrists, and pull his hands from my hips, stretching them above his body, and my own in the process. My breasts hang dangerously above his lips, and he doesn’t waste the opportunity to pull a sore nipple into his mouth.
Groaning, I lean into his touch, his tongue and teeth frantic now as I press my other nipple toward his hungry mouth with my free hand.
“Fuck, Stetson, you’re so fucking beautiful.”
I smile, shaking the curtain of golden hair around our heads. When he moves to pull my other nipple into his mouth, I sit up and point toward his extended hands.
“Do not touch me. It’s my turn.”
He relaxes, shifting his hands behind his head, arms bulging in that mouth-watering way they do in romantic movies. A lopsided cocky grin tugs at his lips, and his dark eyes sparkle with heat and mischief. He’s unbelievably good-looking, and I am fighting a losing battle.
“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is full of hungry desire, and I know he’s fighting every need to take me how he wants.
I shift, moving my body lower so that I can ask him about the artwork he chose to represent us all those years. Ten tattoos for ten years—the magnitude of the actions hitting me in the chest once more. He’s always known me—saw me—and never once turned away. Never once wanted something different, or “better” .
My voice is thick with emotion as I trace the outline of a filly on his calf. “What’s this one for?”
“The year I gave you your nickname—the year I knew you were wild, free and unbreakable—looking for adventure in life, same as me.”
I nod, his perception of my own strength giving me courage, and a dose of heady power courses through my veins. I take in the tornado twisting around the outside of his calf, and a four-leaf clover made up of horseshoes around his kneecap. I pause, drawing around a small crop of spruce trees on his upper thigh. “And this one?”
“For Colorado—the place I found you, and the place you found yourself. Where you grew tall and proud and unbendable, even in extreme circumstances.”
I pause, sucking in a shaky breath, my finger tracing an achingly familiar poppy near his ankle, this one black and gray where mine is orange and green, and flick my eyes up to his. He smirks, shifting his hips. “I made the guy give me the exact same design you got. He didn’t want to—something about artist integrity or whatever—but I promised I’d beat him up and dump him in the dumpster out back if he didn’t do it. So, we agreed, and he did it.”
I giggle, shaking my head—the sentiment isn’t lost on me, the achingly affectionate way he tried to hold on and connect with me, even from afar. The actions, over and over. The blinding, permanent show of devotion.
On his upper thigh, under the words ‘til death’ are a pair of old-timey pistols, and on the outside of his thigh is a portrait of a girl’s back, her hair braided, horns protruding from her head—I hate to admit it, but the outline looks awfully familiar to my own. I raise a brow at him, and he only winks.
My heart and stomach do alternating somersaults, and I fidget, unfamiliar with just how perceptive the mural is—how perceptive this seemingly dark and dangerous man is. He’s my exact equal in every way: rough and broken on the outside, but filled with a violent need to love and be loved. Even if it’s madness to anyone who might look upon our love, it feels like nothing but peace. It is acceptance in its purest form.
I rotate his leg, noting the coordinate on the back of his knee, and a bleeding barbed-wire heart on the back-side of his calf, before I halt, finding the only writing-based tattoo, a scribble I now know is his handwriting, on the far inside of his thigh. It had to be painful—it’s the most sensitive spot; so far up it’s near his ass and underside of his balls, right above a thick, purple vein.
I smirk, tapping the writing. “Cute. This might be my favorite. Did you just get it?” It’s still slightly raised, the flesh pink around it. He stares at me for several heartbeats, and my smile slips, self-consciousness coursing through me.
Did I offend him? Tease him too much?
And then his lips spread, that very rare, very beautiful smile claiming his entire face. “Naw, I got that one first—ten years ago. I just get it touched up every year.”
I look back down at the letters, my heart now lodged painfully in my throat. This is the most coarse and crazy of them all—and yet the most beautiful. The one with the most meaning.
“Stetson Dobbs,” I whisper, the words feeling way too soon and yet ten years late.
“I’ve always known, Stetson. Always.”
My pulse hammers, my emotions a tornado of love and lust spiraling, pushing me over the edge. It’s all so much. I need him now. I need him inside of me like I’ve never needed anything.
I groan, hips spinning in a teasing circle, and then slide up his body until my mouth is level with his glistening tip. I lick my lips and then flick my eyes to his. He’s holding his breath, his chest quivering.
“I need you now,” I whisper hoarsely, and any teasing evaporates from Gus’s face.
“Take what you need, baby.” His voice is strangled, and I smirk at my power.
“I wonder if you will taste as good as I remember.” His eyes darken, realization dawning on him that I, too, remember our masked night together all those years ago. When he first became my monster. The words hang between us, but neither of us reaches out to express them—not right now. There will be time later for talking.
I dart my tongue out, licking the bead of precum from him, and take it into my mouth. He hisses, his hips flexing. “Mmmm.” My warm breath fans across him, and I can see his control slipping.
Good.
“Stick me in your fucking mouth, Stetson.”
I smile instead, licking his balls, my tongue flat, tracing around each hard bulb, and then up the length of his shaft, swirling it around the top.
“So greedy,” I whisper, and he stills. I know he remembers just how viciously he tortured me with those same words. I can’t help but chuckle, eliciting a matching growl. I peer up at his eyes again, his face hard and clenched.
He’s trying so hard to be a good boy for me. I guess I should reward his efforts.
Opening my mouth, I swallow his length, my hand holding him straight and erect for me until he slams to the back of my throat. I gag, eyes watering, but keep pushing, exhaling through my nose, and swallowing slowly to take more of him.
“Fuuuccckkk.” His chest vibrates with the word, and I push farther until my lips meet the base. I pause, allowing my throat to adjust, water still leaking from my eyes, until I can feel his legs shaking beneath me.
I punish him the way he did me: by sucking his soul from his body. Slurping, drool pooling at the base of his cock, I bob faster, my hand working in tandem by rubbing his balls between my fingers.
Arousal pools between my thighs, sticky and wet, and I mindlessly rub my free fingers through my folds, desperate for pressure, for friction . Finding my clit, I rub in small, hard circles, pushing myself toward the cliff, sucking and pulling him with me. Heat builds through me, an orgasm barreling at me faster than I can fight off, and I pump harder, slurping and gagging around him.
He groans, his head thrashing back and forth, fingers ripping at the roots of his hair to keep himself from grabbing me. His eyes still bore down on me, and I suck in a sharp breath, his beauty like this, sucking what little oxygen I have from my lungs. He’s not on his knees, but he is bowing to me. He’s not tied up, but he’s restraining for me. He’s not strangled, but he is not breathing— for me. Because of me.
I hold his life, his heart in my hands, and the power is damning, ripping pleasure from my body before I have a chance to stop. I scream around his cock, eyes rolling back in my head, my fingers fucking my pussy as wave after wave of violent pleasure washes over me.
Crazed by my undoing, Gus breaks, his hands flying to my hair. He fucks my mouth, his teeth gritted, and I come again simply from the need in his eyes.
“Fuck, Stetson, fuck! You’re so fucking perfect, such a perfect little slut. Want me to come for you now, baby? Can I come for you?”
I nod, my eyes still rolling, drool running down my chin. I have never felt so completely powerless, and so fucking powerful, in the same moment. His undoing is my undoing, both of us spiraling until we shatter, finding each other at the bottom, in the darkness.
Gus pounds furiously, my jaw aching, but I push into him, swallowing and sucking, my body trembling with the effort to stay on my knees. I grip his balls tighter, pushing and pulling on them.
“Fuck!” He stills beneath me, cum spurting hot across my tongue, filling my mouth and throat.
I swallow hungrily, desperate to consume every last drop he gives me, and he works my throat, his fingers gingerly rubbing there, helping me swallow his cum down around his cock. When he’s spent, he slowly pulls my head up, and I groan again. He lifts me, tucking me into his side, his thumb tracing my lips. Swiping a stray bead of cum off my cheek, he licks his thumb clean, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You fucking destroy me.” His voice is hoarse, tight with emotion. I’m spent, my eyes heavy with post-orgasm bliss, but I hug him tighter.
Fighting every memory and insecurity that has taught me in this life that I have to be alone to be safe, I press harder into him, hugging his waist. My head falls, resting on his chest where I listen to his racing heart slow, his breathing even out—safe and at peace. But even as he drifts off to sleep, I cling to him, my heart pounding in my throat, like my life depends on it. Maybe after today, it does. Maybe it always has.
I love him so much it hurts. He’s destroyed me, too—completely and without remorse, and every previous version of myself burns to ash around us in this bed.
And fuck, do I love being destroyed.