15. Fifteen #2
So, when I was greeted by the same Wes I met in the coffee shop on Oaklawn two months ago, I started shrinking in on myself—trying to solve whatever puzzle this became, and making too many connections between the man standing in front of me and the man I dated previously. Wes is nothing like Chad.
I know this.
His jaw ticks, his molars grinding together before he speaks. “I don’t…” he starts, closing his eyes and inhaling again to gather his thoughts. When he looks at me next, it feels like he sees everything. “I don’t want to be your fucking friend, Cassidy.”
I nod once, breaking eye contact to look at the trees behind him.
I can’t have him looking at me like this while he’s telling me he wants nothing to do with me—no friendship, no nothing.
“So, you want more professionalism,” I deduce.
“Got it, Boss,” I add, realizing my mistake. “Mr. Miller, I mean.”
Wes’s fingers gently lift my chin, tilting it up until I’m looking at him again.
Something has softened there, a realization of sorts that melts my insides.
Despite it all—despite him telling me he doesn’t want my friendship, showing me he wants nothing.
I still can’t stop the way I want to be closer to him.
His gravitational pull is just too strong.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confesses—like he’s been tortured by the secret. The raindrops fall faster, soaking into my shirt and clinging to my hair, pressing it flat against my skull.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
The words invade every cell in my body, sending goosebumps over my arms and a fluttering deep in my stomach. My mouth parts on instinct as his thumb does a short glide up my jaw and back. His touch is covetous.
With that gentle touch, he holds me there—holds my attention, my desire—all of it.
“I can’t stop, Cass.” Wes winces as if in pain, shaking his head before continuing.
“I want to hear you talk. Every day, I want you to fill the silence with anything. I just like hearing the sound of your voice.” My breaths come out faster.
“I bought that damn coffee bar for you. I traveled all the way to Lennon’s house for you.
” He leans in, just slightly. The cologne is gone, replaced by the scent of clean laundry, freshly cut grass, and rain.
“I want to—” He grinds his teeth together again, fighting the words.
“I’m the one who needs to maintain professionalism.
I’ve been trying to do that for two weeks.
You said you love this job, and I’m trying not to jeopardize that or complicate it, but it’s so fucking hard not to touch you—to keep touching you. ”
Time slows as I’m suddenly aware of how close we are—of how his hand falls away from my chin.
I’m still here, though, held captive by every breath that passes through his parted lips. It’s as if he waits for something—permission, I hope.
“But,” I start, letting the word hang between us.
“But?” he questions, his voice still low.
Rain glistens on his skin, dripping from his nose and cheeks, skating down his temple until it tangles with his facial hair. He’s painfully beautiful like this—utterly undone.
I gather my strength. “But what if I want you to touch me?” The words come out like a whisper, and I watch as a crease forms on his forehead—like he’s straining to hold himself back.
“I want the job, and I also want—” My voice shakes when I utter a soft plea, done with useless explanations. “Please, Wes.”
His gaze hops from one eye to the next and then to my mouth, a longing there that matches the longing now heating my blood. He doesn’t move, just holds himself inches from me. If I leaned in, just slightly, I could taste his lips and drink the confessions from him for myself—no words needed.
“I don’t want professionalism,” I assert. “I want to feel you. And I—”
Strong hands bracket either side of my face, his touch gentle but firm. Wes presses his mouth to mine, his soft lips seeking and coaxing. That singular kiss halts the rotation of the galaxies above.
We are frozen, save for the heavy breaths and hungry touches. His lips move against mine until the earth starts spinning again.
He presses forward, and I match his motions until my back presses against the round bale of hay. It’s damp and dirty, and I can hardly bring myself to care. Not when Wes is kissing me like he wants to savor the taste.
Every nip, every slight shift in the way our mouths meet, begs me to melt into his touch.
He steps closer, his strong body locking me in place.
It’s not enough. I fist my hands in his rain-soaked shirt and drag him closer. Fire fills my core as he groans, my sharp desire unbearable.
It’s the kind of kiss poets write about.
He grabs my hips, his movements turning urgent and hungry—sloppy as he pulls me toward him. I can feel him everywhere—in my lungs, my head, solid and hard against me.
His tongue requests access, one hand sliding down to my thigh as he hitches my leg around his hip. I let him, a deep groan vibrating through his chest when our tongues meet.
He presses forward, and I can feel him, hard and wanting, as I shift my hips to get friction.
“This is okay?” he whispers against my mouth.
More than okay, I want to answer. Keep going, I long to beg.
Instead, I just nod my encouragement as Wes’s searing touch slides back up to my torso, his hand slipping beneath my shirt until I feel flesh on flesh. Fire blazes across my skin as his callused hand scrapes higher, exploring until his fingers brush just beneath my breast.
I pull back, my head falling back against the wet hay behind me. “I want you,” I plead, watching his dark eyes swallow what remains of the gray afternoon light.
I take the moment to look at him—really look. The t-shirt clings to every ridge of his chest and abs. My gaze dips lower to where he’s still pressed against me.
When I look up, held captive by the hunger in his gaze, Wes nods, and a zap of electricity shoots through me at the thought of more.
A rumbling engine sounds from the trail. Walton drives out into the edge of the field as Wes and I break apart, heat migrating to my face as embarrassment takes the front seat.
“You kids okay?” Walton shouts over the engine.
A flash of lightning streaks overhead, and I look up, listening as thunder follows.
“We’re fine, Walton.” Wes runs a hand down his face, flipping his backward hat forward to shield his eyes.
The old man smiles, crooked teeth on display. “I can see that, now.” His tone is taunting. “Just wanted to make sure you all weren’t lost or stuck in the storm. We brought the little ones in down at the breeding barn,” he informs. “Figured you two would want to get under roof, too.”
Wes nods. “We will head back,” he says, keeping his eyes forward. “Thanks, Walton.”
“I’m not sure you’re actually wanting to thank me right now, Wesley Miller.” Walton hits the gas, circling once until he disappears back into the trees.
Another snap of lightning causes us to look up.
“He’s right.” Wes sighs. “We should get back.”
I nod, my boots sticking into the wet earth as I move toward the golf cart.
Wes hops into the seat beside me, turning the cart to drive back over the trails.
Rain hits the roof overhead, dripping onto the side of my soaked jeans.
When Wes’s hand lands on my thigh, a few inches higher than my knee, a shuddering breath escapes me. Heat works its way back through my belly, and I find myself right back where we were—pressed against the round bale in a thunderstorm.
“The barn will be busy when we get back,” he says, tossing me a regretful look.
I nod, thumbing the hem of my t-shirt.
“We aren’t done here,” he swears, his thumb circling in a way that drives me crazy.
When we pull the golf cart into the barn, the horses inside stomp and shout as we get to work.
It isn’t until I leave that evening, Wes tied up with Rosemary at the breeding barn, that I realize the heat in my blood never quite left. It simmers beneath the surface, waiting to escape.
As I lie in bed, I stare at his number, debating texting him or maybe even calling.
Instead, I open his social media, finding the account that liked my photo so many weeks ago.
There’s not much there, a couple of photos of some yearlings that didn’t make it to the regular sale a few years ago, a picture of Rosemary standing atop the barn with her arms stretched wide as autumn leaves fall around her. She looks younger there. Maybe a teenager?
The happy birthday caption warms something in me.
I settle on one photo at the top of his account.
It’s a picture of Wes staring out at the horses, one leg propped up on the fence with his cowboy hat blocking out the bright sun.
I stare at it way too long before giving up, turning over on my side, trusting sleep to bring me right back to that round bale—right back to a world where Wes’s body fit perfectly against mine.