CHAPTER FIVE SABRINA
CHAPTER FIVE
SAbrINA
We were all full from breakfast at the diner, so we skipped lunch.
Then, he said he was tired, that he was going to get unpacked.
I don’t doubt it. I’m a little worried what he needs isn’t here, but in a therapist’s office.
He seems a bit depressed. A few days ago, I was convinced he was being sent out here to get clean or something.
Now, I’m thinking it’s something more complex.
But what do I know? Realistically, he’s probably already been to a bunch of therapists.
Is he sad?
Or just…tired?
Whatever it is, it sits heavy on my mind.
I spend my afternoon cleaning out stalls before doling dinner into each feed bin and locking up the barn early.
In the kitchen, I make chicken salad sandwiches with the recipe I’ve been working on for years.
Every time, I tweak it a little bit, and it just keeps getting better.
Today, I add a little bit of chives to the blended chicken and whip it up with all the seasoning before spreading it evenly over white bread.
Serena doesn’t like crusts. I cut those off hers and stack everything on a plate.
We don’t need a fancy side tonight. Chips and celery sticks are fine.
We eat. Dad goes to bed.
Still, Coen doesn’t appear.
It’s getting on toward eight. Serena has already fed the dogs and gone up to her room to bother Colin on her phone.
Worried, I stand in the kitchen for a minute before deciding it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Carefully, I pack a little basket of food and a thermos of decaf coffee and cross the yard to the guesthouse.
My heart is hammering.
Why is my heart hammering?
I hesitate, then knock. There’s a long silence, then boots on the floor. The door cracks, and he appears, wearing the same thing he was in this morning, just more disheveled.
“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse.
“Hi. You missed dinner. I brought you something.”
He pulls open the door, ushering me through. Hesitant, I go down the hall with him at my heels and set the food on the table. He loiters by the stove. Something feels different, like there’s a brand new ripple of tension that wasn’t present this morning.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods. “I was on the phone with Jamie, then fell asleep with all my clothes on. Got up and decided to clean the place up a bit.”
“It wasn’t clean?”
“No, no, it was. I just needed something to do.”
I smile. “I thought you were a cowboy. Go out to the pasture, pick a horse, and get your hands dirty.”
He smiles. “I will if you’re alright with that.”
I nod. “Knock yourself out.”
“Don’t want to get in the way,” he adds.
“You’re not.”
We’re both quiet. He comes to the table.
He has very nice hands, lean, with veins running up his wrists.
Musician’s hands, but like he could work with them too.
There’s a tattoo across the back of his right hand.
Words, I think? It’s hard to say with how worn it is.
My eyes drift up his forearms to the broad rise of his shoulders, then to his face.
He’s looking at me, dark eyes unreadable.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
He doesn’t move for a second.
“I think so,” he says finally.
“What’s wrong?”
His throat bobs. “I don’t know. I kind of feel like I’ve been dreaming for fifteen years, and suddenly, I’m…just supposed to snap out of it.”
I don’t understand, but I have a feeling that’s a good thing. There’s a lot of weight in his words.
“Do you—”
He circles the table, coming right up to me. We’re inches away.
“I’m not a douche,” he says. “I don’t do this kind of thing a lot.”
My lips falter. “Do what?”
I can taste my heart on my tongue. My body tingles, my pulse races. He smells good, like crisp soap and something else I like. Maybe it’s cologne, but it seems like more of a natural scent. It’s just…him, I think.
“You’re beautiful,” he says simply.
My mouth is so dry. “You’re handsome.”
His hand comes up, cupping my cheek. He dips down, and my eyes shut as his mouth brushes over mine, so close, I taste him.
Stars burst in my head. The world feels light, and I’m floating in his arms. Never in my life have I kissed an almost-stranger; it’s always been with men I knew fairly well.
Now, I’m melting into his arms, and this almost-stranger is kissing me like there’s nobody else in the world.
Fire rages.
Higher, higher, a wildfire consuming my body.
I don’t think I need to know him for what we’re about to do; this is an instinctual pull.
He picks me up and deposits me on the table.
The basket tumbles to the ground, and chips scatter everywhere.
His hands are all over my neck, in my hair.
He’s a really fucking good kisser, and I’m letting him do whatever he wants.
His tongue grazes mine, and I moan into his mouth as one hand runs up my spine, locking on the nape of my neck.
He pulls back. “Sorry, is this okay?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more horny in my life.
“Yes, please,” I breathe.
“I can touch?”
His hand hovers over my breast. Without thinking, I pull my t-shirt over my head. I’m in a simple gray cotton bra. Nothing sexy, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“You can touch,” I say.
His deliciously big hand runs over my right breast, and I arch, mouth meeting his again.
I’ve had a couple of casual boyfriends, but it was nothing like this.
Maybe because he’s a good ten years older—I read that on his Wikipedia page—and he clearly knows what he’s doing.
I also appreciate that he’s not rushing through the gate and shoving his hands under my clothes, as much as I want to feel them on my bare skin. It’s nice to be asked.
He pulls away, mouth brushing the side of my neck. Shocks of heat follow his touch.
“Can I go down on you?” he breathes.
I freeze.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a man down there, maybe four years. While I did shave yesterday morning, I still hesitate. Our gazes meet. He’s practically begging with those big, dark eyes. Faintly, I nod. Hands on my thighs, he drops to his knees.
“Unzip your shorts,” he says.
I do, and he works them down my legs. Underneath is a matching pair of cotton panties. I wasn’t expecting this, so I wasn’t exactly prepared. He doesn’t seem to care; instead, he starts kissing the side of my knee, down my calf, to my ankle.
Oh no—he’s really fucking good at this, isn’t he?
He slides his hands up, curling them around the waistband. Then, he turns those eyes on me, and there isn’t a shred of resistance in my core.
“You sure you’re okay with us fucking?” he asks.
“Yes,” I manage. “Just this once.”
He hesitates. Something passes over his face, then disappears. “Yeah, just one and done.”
I nod, panting. He pulls them down and spreads my knees, gaze dropping.
“Fuck,” he says.
For a man of few words, I’ll take that as a compliment.
He pulls me to the edge of the table, and his head dips.
I gasp when his tongue slides over my pussy, finding my clit.
Instead of going at it, he circles it slowly, in a way that makes my eyes roll.
In a fit of daring, I run my hand through his hair.
It’s soft, with a little curl. My fingers grip, holding him there.
I don’t need to. He’s focused.
The room spins. Not for one minute did I think I would be here when I crossed the yard to the gatehouse.
Was he thinking about this all day while we were out?
I found his eyes on me at least a half dozen times.
Right now, I don’t care about anything. I’ve never had my body respond to anyone like this, and I need to feel every bit of it, even if it’s only this one time.
Pleasure sparks.
I’m heading towards the pinpoint in the darkness.
I’m a train on the tracks, with only one place to go: right into his arms.
His other hand grips me, digging into the soft part of my thigh. It moves around to the inside and hovers right above my pussy.
“You mind if I use my fingers?”
It’s charming, how much he asks. I nod, biting my lip, watching as he spits on his fingers and slides two over my pussy. My eyes flutter shut. Darkness swims, and through it, those two fingers part me and push gently inside.
“God, you feel so fucking good,” he says quietly.
I open my lids, the ceiling swimming before them. “How good?” I murmur.
He licks my clit. “Soft, tight,” he says. “So fucking wet.”
He fucks me with those two fingers, slowly and firmly, at the perfect pace, pads brushing the spot I sometimes try to hit with my vibrator late at night.
Tingles of pleasure move in my hips and stir warmth in my lower belly.
The pleasure that started when he had his tongue on me returns.
He keeps stroking, watching his fingers pump slowly in and out of me.
Who even am I?
Apparently, I’m brave enough to let Coen Taylor put his fingers in my pussy.
He dips his head again, and I moan, gripping his hair.
This time, he doesn’t stop until the pleasure rises to the surface.
Right at the end, I get shy and try to hold off.
Being naked, letting him touch me, feels less intimate than coming in front of him.
But between his fingers and his tongue, I can’t hold it back.
“Oh, God,” I rush.
My body snaps back, hips rising. My orgasm ripples through me in hard pumps of pleasure that leave me gasping. He doesn’t move away until I have to drag him back by the hair. When he does, he’s breathing hard as he gets to his feet.
“Goddamn,” I whisper.
Beneath his jeans, I can see the rise of his erection, straining. Even though I just came, a hunger rises in me. My fingers move of their own accord and grab his belt, unfastening the buckle. He stops me, fingers loose over mine.
“You sure?” he says softly.
I nod, looking up. “Do you have anything?”
“A condom?” He nods. “I should probably check it to make sure it’s not expired first.”
“Been a while?”
He shrugs, reaching for his wallet on the counter. He flips it open and reads the foil packet. “It’s been a bit. Not expired for another month.”
My brows rise. “Is that safe?”
“I think so. I can pull out though.”
I nod. “That would probably be smart.”
He shoves the condom in his pocket and picks me up abruptly, lifting me from the table. Alarmed, I grab his shoulders to steady myself. He’s very tall, taller than he seems when I’m beside him, and my head is almost to the ceiling. Our mouths meet, and this time, I taste myself on his tongue.
He moans. I grip the front of his t-shirt.
Faintly, I’m aware he’s taking me to his bedroom.
I could stop this now, and I won’t have to wake up and face him the next day.
But I don’t, because my shoulders are tired from carrying so much, and I want this one thing for myself.
I have plenty of problems, but I’m still standing.
He can be another one I won’t think about until the sun comes up.
He kicks the door shut behind us. We fall on the bed together, and he shoves his knee between my thighs, against my pussy.
His tongue is in my mouth. Instinctively, I start grinding my pussy on his leg, and my hands slide into his hair.
He smells good, feels good, tastes good.
My head is so empty, but for the first time, my chest doesn’t ache the way it has for months.
He breaks away, panting, eyes glazed.
“Can I go down on you again?”
I laugh, delirious. “You can just go down, don’t have to ask.”
He does, pushing me up against the pillows.
He buries his head between my thighs, and I touch the hand curling around my knee.
Gently, I run my touch over the faint rise of the ink beneath his skin.
He has a worn out pine tree outline there, and I can feel where the ink sits.
He moans, fumbling for my fingers, gripping my wrist and pinning it down.
God, I love that. He’s very good at this—I come again, this time from just his tongue.
The pleasure is shorter, but more powerful.
It leaves me wrung out like a rag. He lifts his head and kisses me, like he wants me to taste what he did.
Our bodies meld together. He pulls me beneath him, and I grip the bottom of his t-shirt, working it over his head.
Underneath, he’s perfect. Lean, warm, a few odd tattoos here and there.
A light spattering of hair on his chest that I follow down to his belt, tugging down his zipper.
His mouth is on the side of my neck.
I slip my fingers beneath his boxer-briefs. My fingers curl around his erection. Hard, hot. His heartbeat throbs in my grip.
“Fuck,” he moans.
Gently, I stroke my hand from tip to base. He’s generously endowed, but more than that, it just feels right. His hips move, grinding into my palm. I moan, his mouth on my neck. I’ve never felt so close with anyone before, and it’s blowing my mind.
“You want to fuck?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” I whisper, certain. “Yeah, I do.”