Chapter 11 #3
My cabin is the farthest out, tucked into the tree line. It’s not much, but it’s mine. I climb the three wooden steps, the boards creaking under my weight. I unlock the door and push it open, stepping into the familiar darkness.
The air inside is still, smelling of pine woodsmoke and the faint, lingering scent of leather from my chaps.
I don’t bother flipping the light switch.
I know this space better than I know myself.
It’s a single room, open and cluttered in a way that makes sense to me.
To the left is the small kitchenette—a counter, a sink piled with a few dishes I haven’t gotten to, a mini-fridge that hums in the corner.
The table is buried under a stack of mail, unpaid bills, and the latest issue of Bull Rider Weekly.
Straight ahead is the living area. A worn, brown leather sofa sits opposite a wood-burning stove.
The stone floor is covered in a faded Navajo rug, the colors muted with age.
Logs are stacked in a metal basket next to the stove, ready for the morning chill.
On the walls, I’ve hung a few old photographs—Anthony and Henry standing by a truck, a younger me on my first bronc, Blue as a puppy. They’re the only decoration I have.
I walk past the sofa to the bed shoved into the far corner.
It’s a simple metal frame with a mattress that’s seen better years.
The quilt is a patchwork of browns and greens, thick and heavy.
I sit on the edge, the springs groaning under my weight.
I’m exhausted. It feels like the fatigue has seeped into my bones, weighing me down.
My boots hit the floor with heavy thuds as I tug them off, followed quickly by my socks, which I toss toward the corner hamper.
The leather of my belt slides through the loops with a soft hiss before dropping to the floor.
Shoving my jeans down and kicking them aside, I finally pull the T-shirt over my head.
The sudden brush of cool air leaves gooseflesh prickling across my arms.
Clad only in my boxers, I collapse onto the bed. The mattress is firm, the pillow cool. I stare up at the ceiling, watching the shadows play across the rough-hewn logs. The silence of the cabin presses in on me, but it’s not peaceful. It’s loud with thoughts I can’t silence.
I see her face in the barn. The shock in her eyes when she woke up. The vulnerability. The way she looked at me when I told her about Blossom. And then, the image that won’t leave me alone—the purple leggings. The bralette. The curve of her shoulder. The curve of her lips. The twinkle of her eyes.
I close my eyes, but it only makes the images clearer.
I hate this. I hate that she has this effect on me.
She is the enemy. She is the woman who left without a word, who came back only to sell the place I call home.
I should be thinking about ways to get her to leave.
I should be calculating how to save the ranch.
Instead, my body is reacting to a memory I’ve tried to bury for eight years. The rain. The mud. Her mouth almost on mine. The rejection.
I lift a hand and rub it over my face, the stubble rough against my palm. I let out a breath that sounds more like a growl. I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up, blinding me for a second. 2:14 a.m.
Tomorrow. I have things to do tomorrow. I need to check the south fence line where the storm took out a section of posts.
I need to help Rhett with the herd records.
I need to call the vet about that mare with the hoof crack.
The list of chores is long, grounding. It’s the tether that keeps me sane.
I drop the phone back onto the table. I try to focus on the fence. The feel of the post-hole digger. The smell of the dirt. But my mind drifts again, unbidden and unwelcome, to the last time I was with a woman.
It was almost two years ago. A waitress at The Salt Lick.
She was pretty, in a tired sort of way, with blonde hair and eyes that held too much sadness.
We’d had a few drinks. We’d gone out to her car.
It was fast and frantic, a desperate attempt to feel something other than the emptiness of the ranch.
I remember the smell of her cheap perfume and the scratchy fabric of the seats.
I remember feeling nothing afterwards. Just a hollow ache that was worse than before.
I never called her. I never saw her again.
I feel a surge of self-loathing so strong it makes my stomach turn. I’m pathetic. Pining after a woman who despises me, getting hard over a memory from a decade ago, while my life falls apart around me.
My cock is aching, trapped against the mattress. I can ignore it. I should ignore it. I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling again. But the ache doesn’t go away. It grows, demanding attention. The tension in my gut coils tighter, a snake waiting to strike.
I need to sleep. I need to shut my brain off. This is the only way. Just physical release. A biological function to reset the system. It doesn’t mean anything.
I reach down, sliding my hand under the waistband of my boxers. My fingers wrap around my length, hot and hard. I hiss through my teeth at the contact. I close my eyes, surrendering to the fantasy.
I’m back in the rain. Eight years ago.
The sky is a bruising purple, the thunder rolling overhead like a growl.
We’re covered in mud. Blossom is gone, panic fading into the background.
I have just pulled Saramaria from the muck.
She’s looking at me, her eyes wide, her face streaked with rain and dirt.
She’s terrified, but there’s something else there too. Want. Need.
She leans in. But this time, I don’t pull away.
This time, I grab her. My hands clamp around her arms, pulling her flush against my chest. She gasps, her mouth opening in surprise, and I take it. I crush my lips to hers, swallowing her sound. She tastes like rain and mint and something sweet that is entirely her.
In my fantasy, she doesn’t hesitate. She melts into me, her hands tangling in my wet hair, pulling me closer.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming her.
She’s soft and warm against my hard, wet clothes.
I can feel her breasts pressing against my chest, her hips aligning with mine.
I groan into the pillow, my hand moving faster on my cock. The friction is electric.
I imagine backing her up against the rough bark of a nearby pine tree.
The rain pours down us, plastering her clothes to her body.
I can see every curve, every line. I want to see all of her.
I reach down and tear at her shirt, the buttons popping off, lost in the mud.
She arches her back, offering herself to me.
I bury my face in her neck, inhaling her scent—vanilla and wild honey.
It drives me crazy. I bite down on the sensitive skin where her neck meets her shoulder, marking her.
She cries out, a sound of pleasure that goes straight to my head.
My hands are everywhere, rough and demanding.
I cup her breast, feeling the weight of it, the peak hard against my palm.
“Boone,” she whispers, her voice breathless.
I drop to my knees in the mud. I don’t care. I need to taste her. I yank her jeans down, taking her panties with them. She is bare to me, glistening with rain and arousal. I grip her thighs, holding her open, and I feast.
I imagine the taste of her—salt and sweet and pure Omega. I lick into her, my tongue swirling around her clit. She bucks against my face, her fingers digging into my shoulders. I eat her like a starving man, consuming her, owning her. She’s trembling, her legs shaking, her moans lost in the storm.
My hand strokes my cock in time with the imaginary thrusts of my tongue. I’m so close. The pressure in my spine is building, a white-hot tide.
In the fantasy, I stand up. I undo my jeans, freeing myself. She looks at me with hunger in her green eyes, her lips swollen from my kisses. She lifts one leg, wrapping it around my waist, opening herself to me.
I don’t wait. I surge forward, burying myself inside her in one hard thrust. She’s tight and wet and perfect. We both cry out. I pin her to the tree, my hands gripping her ass, holding her up as I pound into her. The rain slicks our skin, making the friction intense.
“Mine,” I growl against her mouth. “You are mine.”
“Yes,” she gasps. “Yours, Boone. Only yours.”
The words undo me. In my bed, I arch my back, my hand flying over my shaft. I imagine her coming apart around me, her walls clenching, her head thrown back in ecstasy. I imagine filling her, marking her from the inside out. I imagine claiming her in the way I wanted to all those years ago.
The orgasm hits me like a freight train. I grunt, my whole body seizing up. Spill after spill of heat coats my hand and my stomach. It’s intense, blinding, ripping a groan from my throat that I muffle into the mattress. My hips buck instinctively, riding out the waves of pleasure until I’m spent.
I lie there for a moment, my chest heaving, my heart pounding. The air in the cabin feels charged. Slowly, the haze clears, leaving me cold and empty.
I reach over to the bedside table and grab a few tissues from the box, wiping myself clean. I toss them into the small trash bin. I pull the quilt up, covering my nakedness, trying to warm up.
I feel ashamed. The fantasy was so vivid, so raw. It felt real. And the fact that it was her—the one woman I can’t have, the one woman who hates me—makes it worse.
I turn onto my side, curling up, and hug the pillow to my chest. The exhaustion finally pulls me under, dragging me down into the dark. I don’t want to think anymore. I don’t want to feel. I just want to sleep.
Tomorrow is coming, and with it, the inevitable clash. But for now, in the dark, I can pretend. I can pretend she didn’t leave. I can pretend she didn’t come back to destroy us. I can pretend that in the rain, she kissed me, and I let her.
My breathing evens out. The cabin fades away. I sleep.