Chapter 4 Millie
Millie
For someone who came here to figure out her career path, I’m doing a spectacularly terrible job.
It’s been a week now, and I haven’t even asked Cyrus any questions about his usual routines to get his animals checked out. I should be showing some kind of interest here!
I haven’t gone near his horse. I’ve just petted his cows and buried my face in Meatball’s fur a thousand times. The pigs are still a mystery, a looming threat he hasn’t forced me to face.
Maybe he knows. He must suspect this is one big lie. It’s not, not really, but my priorities are a tangled mess. I’m… profoundly distracted.
Maybe I should be a doctor, the way I’ve been mentally diagnosing this condition. The racing pulse. The dry mouth. The tingling I get between my thighs every time I let myself zone out for more than five minutes in his presence.
Shamefully, I can admit that I am not looking at Cyrus like my dad’s old friend.
I’m looking at him the way I’ve tried to look at guys my age and failed.
The difference is terrifying. It’s not a seamless thought; it’s a devastating realization that these feelings aren’t normal for a nineteen-year-old woman.
Tucked into the corner of his worn couch, skin still steaming from the shower, I feel like I’m melting. My muscles scream from the day’s work, a deep, satisfying ache. But underneath it is a different, restless thrum.
Every day here feels easier, yet more punishing in more ways than one.
There are no off days on a ranch. Cyrus works seven days a week. He may have hinted at taking a day off every couple of mornings, but there’s no way I can leave him to do everything by himself. Even if he is built to do it after such hardships.
My toes curl against the couch cushion as I imagine him exactly the way he looks.
The sun-kissed skin isn’t from lying out on a chair; it’s earned from all those hours outside.
Those glistening muscles in his forearms, the way his shoulders strain his shirts, the solid, capable weight of him—they’re not for show.
Here I am, obsessed with thinking about those muscles and what he could do with them if I were his target instead of the farm work.
On the floor, Meatball sleeps, her legs kicking in a dream-chase. A lump of guilt forms in my throat. How would she feel if she knew how often, in the quiet of the barn or the dark of my room, I’ve undressed her dad with my eyes? Not just undressed. Fantasized with my wild imagination.
The rough texture of his hands whenever he accidentally brushes his fingers against mine. The low, gravelly pitch of his voice when he’s tired or annoyed—that specific tone that twists something deep inside of me, a command that makes me want to both obey and provoke him just to hear it again.
A shiver runs through me, not from cold, but from a heat that starts deep inside and radiates out. I press my face into my knees, hiding the fire on my cheeks, but the movement only makes it worse. It shifts my weight, presses my thighs together.
And there it is—a slick, undeniable warmth. A confirmation that I’ve got it bad for Cyrus.
Alone in his living room, with the dog sleeping and Cyrus tucked in the shower now, I take in a deep breath as I lean back and part my thighs. Just needing to check, to have proof that it’s not just my thoughts running about without caution, I do something reckless.
Slowly, my hand slides from my knee, down between my thighs, to the hem of my shorts. My fingertips brush the inside seam before I push my underwear aside.
Oh.
Yeah. I’m wet. Not just a little. Soaked. For him. For a man nearly reaching his forties. Someone who has already lived half of their life.
Is this why all those high school boys left me cold? All their smooth skin, loud laughter, and fumbling hands… they lacked the experience and seriousness I needed.
It took meeting Cyrus for my body to finally light up and start desperately demanding attention.
Realizing I’m nudging my fingertips against my clit mindlessly, a gasp escapes me before I yank my hand back as if burned, curling it into a fist against my mouth. My heart hammers against my ribs.
I should be ashamed of myself. I am, of course.
Fingers still glossy with proof of my arousal, I hear the sound of steps approaching.
Oh no. He heard, didn’t he?
When Cyrus appears, towel around his neck and shorts hanging low on his hips, all that shame goes right out the window as my pussy clenches around nothing but air.
“Everything alright?” Clueless to the disaster happening in my head, he tilts his head and looks around. “Thought I heard you yelp.”
My skin heats even more from embarrassment. Now, I’m not the lying type, but there’s no way I can tell him the truth. Not this time.
“Big spider.” The words leave me, and I realize I’m panting. “Terrified of them. It, uh, crawled away.”
That’s believable, isn’t it?
He cocks a brow, and just when I think he’s going to start asking more questions to pluck out my lie, he turns toward the kitchen and mentions grabbing lunch. He pauses long enough to ask if I want anything.
Feeling hungry for something else entirely, the best way I can answer him is with a simple shake of my head. Right now, I don’t trust my voice or what other lies it would attempt to tell.
When he slips away, I scramble to find the television remote. What I need right now is a distraction. Something that will cool down the heat between my thighs.
Spotting the crime channel, I click on The First 48 without hesitation. There is absolutely nothing sexy about this at all. Investigations, and blood and—
Cyrus appears, still shirtless. Stepping over Meatball, he settles next to me instead of leaving a cushion empty in between. Knees spread wide, he takes up a cushion and a half easily by himself. He’s got a plate of two sandwiches and chips.
“Eat.” He steals one sandwich and nudges me with the plate. “You’ll get sick if you don’t keep up with your body’s needs.”
There he goes again, bossing me around. If I don’t accept his offering, he’ll give me all his attention, and I’ll melt into a big puddle. So, with little choice, I accept his offering and busy myself with eating.
We get through an entire episode in mostly silence. Cyrus mutters some stuff under his breath during the ridiculous interrogation scenes.
By the time I’ve tossed a few chips toward the pup and cleared my plate, setting it aside, I feel okay. As okay as someone in my position can.
Cyrus doesn’t dip at the credit scene, sticking around for half of another episode before I feel his eyes against me. It takes effort not to look back. Not while there’s silence between us.
That silence doesn’t last for long.
“Be honest with me about something.” His eyes sweep over me, analyzing. “Are you really here to learn anything?” His mouth curves into a frown, and I hate that it gives me butterflies. “Tell me, Jerry didn’t send you here as some kind of free labor or as a way to fix things.”
I knew it.
“No.” The word leaves me too quickly, making me look guilty.
I can see it in the way he squints. Reaching out for him, his arm stiffens as my fingers make contact.
“Dad has nothing to do with why I’m really here.
Not really, I mean. He may have mentioned some things, but that’s his own concern.
I’m here to figure my own stuff out, really. ”
His nose scrunches, and the disbelief is still there. He lowers his gaze, and he stares at my hand. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and I wish I could. He doesn’t demand that I not touch him, so I don’t bother pulling away. His skin is warm beneath my fingers.
“I’m still learning the basics, that’s all. I can’t focus on my stuff until I learn everything else first.” Sounding like an excuse, I grimace at the disbelief in his eyes.
There has to be a way to convince him that I’m here for me, not for him. That I’m getting something out of this. Words alone aren’t really doing it for him.
“What else do you need to know?” His voice is growing rougher by the syllable as I meet his heavy gaze.
There’s a logical, respectful answer to this. Yet, my thoughts spiral, just as they always do.
“Whatever you’re willing to teach me, Cyrus.” Biting my lip, I take the biggest risk of my life by dragging my fingers to his shoulder. At the low sound that escapes him, it’s not him telling me this is inappropriate. “I’m a big fan of learning new things.”
“Millie…” Using that stern tone against me, warning me with just my name, he finally acknowledges my touch. Grabbing my hand, he squeezes it once. “You shouldn’t tease someone like this. Not unless you plan on doing something about it.”
My poor heart flutters at his words, and I find myself leaning in. “I don’t know much about what I should do.” Breathlessly, I squeeze his fingers back and choose to be brave instead of pulling away. “Can this be something you teach me?”
Silence fills the space between us, and all I can hear is the heavy thumps of my pulse as I wait for rejection. Knowing it’ll have to come, I’m surprised by the curse that leaves him.
Pulled deep from the pit of his chest, sounding of both pure frustration and surrender, his hand leaves mine.
Instead of pulling away, he’s reaching to grab me. The moment his hands make contact, I realize this is really happening.
Cyrus wants me, and even if it makes me greedy, I plan on taking full advantage of the discovery.