20. Quinn #3
I take him into my mouth, inch by inch, letting my lips stretch tight around his girth. My tongue traces the ridge beneath the head, then flattens as I swallow him deeper. The smell of hay and horses wraps around us, mixing with the musk of his arousal until I'm dizzy with it.
"Christ, Quinn—" His hips twitch, fighting the urge to thrust. I cup his ass, palms full of that firm muscle from years of ranch work, and pull him forward.
He hits the back of my throat and I swallow around him, relaxing my jaw, breathing through my nose. Above me, Logan groans—low and guttural, like something being ripped from his chest. His fingers tighten in my hair, guiding my rhythm now, setting a pace that's faster than I started.
I let him.
I let him fuck my mouth, let his cock slide between my lips in long, wet strokes. Saliva pools at the corners of my mouth, dribbles down my chin. The wet, obscene sounds echo off the barn walls—slick, rhythmic, filthy.
"That's it." His voice is gravel and heat. "Take it deeper. God, your mouth—"
I hum around him, and his whole body jerks. His thighs tense under my grip, the muscles in his abdomen jumping and rolling. He's close. I can feel it in the way his cock thickens on my tongue, in the desperate, uneven thrusts of his hips.
I pull back until just the head rests on my tongue, look up at him through my lashes. His blue eyes are nearly black, pupils blown wide, his chest heaving.
"I want you to come on me," I whisper, the words vibrating against his slick skin. "I want to feel you on my skin, Logan. I want to wear you."
A sound tears from his throat—half-growl, half-groan. His hands fist in my hair, and for one heartbeat I think he'll give me exactly what I asked for—
Then he yanks me off him.
Before I can draw breath to protest, I'm on my feet. Before I can blink, my back hits the wall. The rough wood bites into my shoulder blades, splinters catching on my shirt, and Logan's big hands are gripping my ass, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
"Legs around me." It's not a request. His breath is hot against my ear, his voice a command that brooks no argument. "Hook them tight, Quinn. This is gonna be a hard ride."
I wrap my legs around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. His cock presses against my entrance—still slick from my orgasm, still aching—and then he's inside me.
One thrust. Buried to the hilt.
The sound that escapes my throat isn't a moan or a gasp—it's something rawer, something I've never heard from myself before. He stretches me open, fills me completely, and my body clamps down around him like it's trying to memorize every inch.
"Holy fuck—" I dig my nails into his shoulders, hanging on.
Logan doesn't give me time to adjust. He pulls back and slams home again, the force of it driving my shoulders into the wall. Another thrust, harder still, and I feel the rough grain of the wood scraping against my back through my thin shirt. Splinters. I'm definitely getting splinters.
I don't care.
This is—god, this is everything. He's relentless, each thrust punctuated by the sharp crack of skin against skin, the wet sound of his cock driving into my soaked pussy. The loft fills with our noise—my moans, his grunts, the slap of flesh on flesh echoing off the rafters like some primal drumbeat.
"Logan—" His name breaks apart in my mouth, syllables scattered by the force of his fucking.
"Look at me." He shifts his grip, one hand still cupping my ass while the other threads into my hair and tugs my head back. "Eyes on me, Quinn."
I force my gaze to meet his. Blue fire. His jaw is clenched, tendons standing out in his neck, sweat beading at his temples. He's beautiful like this—wild, untamed, taking what he wants.
And what he wants is me.
"Feel that?" He drives into me again, grinding his hips so his pelvis presses against my clit. Lightning shoots up my spine. "Feel how deep I am?"
"Yes—" The word comes out as a sob. "Yes, Logan, fuck—"
"This is what you get." Another punishing thrust. "For teasing me. For that mouth."
I can't form a coherent response. My brain has short-circuited, reduced to nothing but sensation—the thick slide of him inside me, the scratch of the wall at my back, the hay-sweet air burning in my lungs. My inner walls clench around him with every stroke, pulling him deeper, begging for more.
He gives it to me.
Harder. Faster. The rhythm turns brutal, his hips snapping against mine with a desperation that matches my own.
I'm being split open, remade, every thrust rewriting something fundamental inside me.
The controlled strategist who always has a plan—she's gone.
There's only this body, this moment, this man.
"That's it." His voice is ragged, breath coming in sharp gasps between words. "Take it. Take all of it."
"I am—" I'm babbling now, words spilling out without permission. "I'm taking it, you feel so good, don't stop, please don't stop—"
"Never." He slams home again, and my vision blurs. "Not stopping. Not ever."
The pressure builds low in my belly, coiling tighter with every thrust. I'm close again—already, impossibly close—and my body starts to shake in his arms. My thighs tremble where they grip his waist, my fingers slip on his sweat-slick shoulders.
"Logan, I'm—"
"I know." He adjusts his angle, hitting something inside me that makes me scream. "Come for me. Come on my cock."
His command unravels me.
The orgasm crashes through me like a wave breaking, white-hot and all-consuming. My pussy clamps down on him in rhythmic pulses, and I hear myself shouting—his name, obscenities, sounds that aren't words at all. My nails rake down his back, leaving red lines I'll probably feel guilty about later.
But not now. Now there's only the pleasure, blinding and infinite.
Logan follows me over the edge two thrusts later. His whole body goes rigid, a roar tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep and holds. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the heat of his release flooding my cunt, and it triggers another smaller orgasm that makes me whimper against his neck.
We stay like that—pressed against the wall, bodies locked together, breathing ragged. His forehead drops to my shoulder, his breath hot and damp against my skin. My legs are still wrapped around him, trembling too hard to unlock.
The barn is quiet except for the sound of our breathing and the distant whicker of horses below. Hay dust floats in the shafts of afternoon light, golden and slow.
Logan lifts his head. His eyes are softer now, that wild intensity banked to something warmer. He brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucks it behind my ear with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
"You okay?" His voice is hoarse, scraped raw.
I laugh—breathless, shaky. "Better than okay."
He grins, that cocky half-smile that makes my stomach flip. "Good. Because I'm pretty sure you've got splinters in your back."
I wince as the adrenaline fades and the scratches start to make themselves known. "Worth it."
Logan carefully lowers me to the ground, keeping his hands on my waist until he's sure my legs will hold. They don't, not really—I sway, and he catches me, pulling me against his chest.
"Steady there." His lips brush my temple. "Got you."
I lean into him, cheek against his heartbeat. It's still racing, pounding under my ear like a drum. My body aches in a dozen places—my back, my thighs, places I didn't know could ache—but there's a satisfaction humming through my bones that I haven't felt in longer than I can remember.
"So," I say, tilting my head back to look at him. "That was..."
"Terrible?" His eyes dance. "Disappointing? Something you'd like to forget?"
I smack his chest, but I'm laughing. "I was going to say intense."
"Just intense?" He raises an eyebrow. "I'm offended."
"Fine." I push up on my tiptoes, brush my lips against his. "Incredible. Earth-shattering. The kind of thing that ruins you for anyone else."
His expression shifts—something deeper flickering behind the teasing. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone.
"Good," he says quietly. "Because I don't share."
The words hang in the air between us, weighted with meaning I'm not ready to examine. I should deflect. I should make a joke, change the subject, remind myself of all the reasons this is complicated.
Instead, I kiss him again—slow and deep, tasting myself on his tongue, tasting the promise he's making.
The splinters can wait. Everything can wait.
Right now, there's only this man, this barn, this moment.
And for the first time in years, I don't want to run.
That’s the problem.
And for a second—
everything else disappears.
The ranch.
Evan.
The plan.
All of it.
Gone.
There’s just this.
Just us.
Just—
real.
When I finally pull back, my pulse is unsteady, my focus slipping in ways I don’t fully recover from right away.
“That doesn’t change anything,” I say.
It sounds weaker than I intend.
“Yeah,” he replies quietly. “It does.”
Silence settles.
Different now.
Not conflict.
Not strategy.
Something else.
Something I don’t have a name for.
I glance at the phone.
Still sitting there.
Still waiting.
Still part of the plan.
But it feels—
further away now.
Like something I can’t touch without breaking something else.
Logan follows my gaze.
Then looks back at me.
“Whatever you’re about to do,” he says, “you don’t do it without me.”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know if I can promise that.
And that—
that’s the line I’m standing on now.
Not strategy.
Not control.
Choice.
And for the first time—
I’m not sure which one I’m going to make.