Chapter Two
Jillian
Being a divorcee before thirty is not as bad as it sounds.
Sitting alone in the big, beautiful, Victorian house we were making a home is sad, sure. Seeing the den empty of his things, the half-finished kitchen we were having such fun restoring, it hurts. Hearing the silence is what almost does me in. Because once this fixer-upper of ours was full of laughter, of lovemaking, of a life well lived.
Now it is just silent. Not a single sound reverberates in the house.
Sipping at my third glass of wine, I close the wedding album I spent the last half hour torturing myself with. I poured over the photos, the mementos, all of it in search of something. I am not sure what. Answers to what went wrong, a clue to how I wound up where I am now.
Still, there is no one to blame for where we ended up. No lies or abuse, no betrayal or wrongdoing got us here. We got married because we were best friends, we loved one another, we had the best time together. Both of us wanted to build together, to start a family, to get the good life we all want.
One day we will get it—we just won’t get it together.
“I understand,” my words from the saddest day of my life play back in my head. It did not sound like me. It did not feel like me. “We just…I guess we don’t have what it takes to make it work. To go the distance.”
“Jill, sweetheart, I love you. I love our little girl. I just don’t…I don’t think we’re in love. All the things we wanted changed. The travel agency is great for you. I am just not good at it. I do not want this old house anymore. I am not sure I ever did. I always wanted you. I always wanted Jocie. I love you both more than anything, but I guess…. not more than myself since I am asking for this. I hate that I am sitting here asking this.”
Five years was as far as we got together. Eighteen hundred days. Seven vacations all over the world. Five of the best days: the day we met, the day we first made love, the day he proposed, our wedding day, and the day we had our little girl. Dozens of the best days together, the best memories.
Three of the worst days. A lovely Saturday when we admitted there was love there just no spark or fire. Him moving out as we both cried. The day we signed the papers to end what we had hoped to be a lifetime together. We still loved each other, we were still best friends, good parents, it just...our romance had run its course.
Five months is a long time to grieve a relationship that was never bad. One hundred-fifty-two days of adjusting to life without my other half. Of our daughter sharing time between us. Hugs goodbye that sometimes turn to tentative kisses before we laugh awkwardly. My husband is the best man, the best parent, he is just not the man for me anymore and I am accepting it.
“Jillian you will come through the other side of this in one piece. Come here to Iron H for a while. Come be with me and Wylder. Bring that little girl with you, she would love it here.”
Wynn’s call last night got me thinking about what comes next for me. Jocie has adjusted to weekends with her father. These weekends have been good for me to be a bit shamelessly selfish. I am doing well with the travel agency even with it becoming a solo effort. To be honest, my best friend was my best customer. Travel was her life before she roped herself a hot cowboy on a dude ranch last year.
Thinking about the auction that got her there, I laugh out loud. I pushed her to do it because she wanted a new adventure. It sounded like a good time. Hot cowboys on a dude ranch, horses, the sprawling Iron Hills. What more could you ask for of an adventure?
“Holy buckets. That is just what I need,” I call out, reaching for my laptop, shoving the wine aside. “I need an adventure. Get out on the dusty trails, girlfriend,” I pep-talk myself as I pull up the site for Iron H Ranch.
Seeing the announcement for a new round of auctions, I let out another laugh. Yes, this is going to be a good time. I need that. Need to shake off the sadness of being unable to make my dream life work. Seeing the display of men, and a few women, up for auction for a day, I get down to business.
They host these auctions to raise funds for the ranch as well as some charities. It promises you a day on the dude ranch, with a hand at your disposal. There is no entice of a romantic day or a promise of something untoward. Just a day with a rugged rancher on a sprawling ranch.
“Sounds divine to me,” I continue the conversation with myself.
Clicking through the photos of those up on the auction block, I take the time to read through their about me sections. I am not making the choice lightly. I want to spend a fun day with a good guy and not think about the failure of my one try at romance. Not that I am seeking a new romance. It would just be nice to be with someone instead of being so alone.
If he wants to rope me in for a kiss or ride me into the sunset, so be it.
“Dean Winters, oh, he’s handsome. Possible, very possible. Boone. Love the name. Definitely looks the part of a rugged rancher. Rory. Do all the men at this ranch belong on a cowboy of the month calendar? Hello hotness, whew,” I tease loudly, clicking through the options with another sip of wine. Even if I do not have the guts to do this, looking through hot guys I could buy a day with is fun in itself.
Stopping on one of the last options, I swallow my wine with a gasp. Closing the laptop with a click, I set it aside. Taking a moment to gather myself, I can’t fight the smile on my face. I rub my thighs together, my silky bottoms rubbing against the most delicious places. This is...new. Heat unfurls inside of me as I open the laptop, clicking on the photo that stunned me.
Jacob Walters. Staring back at me from a photo set before a beautiful sunset, he is quite the sight. Square jaw with piercing blue eyes as light as cornflower, he is beautiful. A dark dusting of stubble at that strong jaw, a dimple in one cheek as he flashes a crooked smile almost makes me swoon.
Twenty-two years old, a new hand on the ranch, he is looking forward to showing someone the place he calls home. His bio is short, sweet, succinct. I cannot explain why I can’t catch my breath as I stare at this photo. Until it hits me. It has been so long since I’ve felt turned on this way. Not just the five months since the divorce settled. Longer.
Sitting here turned on for the first time in forever, it seems almost as if he is watching me. That smile on his full lips, that mischievous glimmer in his icy eyes, it makes me hotter than I have ever felt. I enjoy the idea of his eyes on me, of him seeing how turned on I am from a single glance at him.
“Was it cowboys for me all along?” I mutter aloud in awe.
Four glasses of wine in, sitting alone in my former dream home, I think it is cowboys. This cowboy. Heat pulses through me, heart pumping, until I give in. Sitting back on my bed I tug down my silky shorts. Before I even slide my hand between my thighs, I moan. I am so wet my fingers slide through my folds as I spread myself open.
Lying there with that cowboy eyeing me, I let myself play for a while. I don’t rush to get there. No, I get to know the little flower again. I rub at the slick folds, humming as pleasure rockets to my clit. My other hand slips beneath my top and I grab my breast, whimpering as my palm brushes against my sensitive nipple.
“Oh,” I cry out as my fingers pass over my swollen bud. Staring at the handsome cowboy, I start to rub. Slowly, small circles, just letting it feel good. The wet sounds of me playing with myself is loud in the quiet. I grow brazen, slipping two fingers inside myself. “Yes, oh.... yes.”
Still staring at the photo looking back at me, I work my fingers. It’s not enough. I need more. It needs to fill me up, I want the sweet burn of being stretched. I cry out, pulling my fingers out to rub at my clit again. There it is. It’s not what I want, but it’s close. Oh, it’s so close.
“Yes, yes, please,” I cry out as my fingers rub faster, my palm squeezing my breast as an orgasm builds between my thighs.
Closing my eyes, I get lost in the moment. I imagine riding on a horse, this handsome cowboy behind me as it gallops. We’re skin to skin, his big rough hand the one between my legs. His rough, thick fingers are enough to fill me the way I want. But no, it’s not his fingers now. It’s him. Pushing inside me as he pulls me astride him, calloused fingers rubbing at my clit as we bounce along the trail.
“There it is, sweet girl,” his deep timbre vibrates against my back. His hand is at my breast, plucking at the nipple as he drives into me. “Come for me, cowgirl. Ride me until you come with me inside you. That’s it, girl.”
Coming so hard it hurts, I arch beneath my own touch as I shout. It is my fingers rubbing at my aching clit, my hand tugging at my nipple, both touches anything but gentle. Because I don’t want gentle. I want rough, I want hard, I want it to hurt because I need a different kind of pain now.
The sort of pain a rough, rugged ranch hand could give me.
Mind made up, I place my bid on handsome young Jacob, hoping he can ride me into the sunset.