Chapter 2 - Colt
*Yes.*
She said yes.
This gorgeous, curvy woman with her amber eyes and her fucking incredible body just said yes to me, and I'm already mentally mapping out every way I'm going to make her scream.
I take her hand and lead her off the dance floor.
My cock is throbbing so hard it's almost painful, straining against my jeans with every step.
I've been with plenty of women, but something about her has me wound tight as a spring.
Maybe it's the way she fits against me, all those soft curves pressed to my body.
Maybe it's that ass—Christ, that ass—round and perfect, the kind I can already imagine gripping while I pound into her from behind.
The image makes my dick pulse, and I have to adjust myself as discreetly as possible while we navigate through the crowd.
The bathroom is at the back of the bar, down a narrow hallway that smells like old beer and Pine-Sol.
It's not romantic, not even close, but I don't give a fuck and clearly neither does she because she's still holding my hand, still following me, still looking at me with those eyes that are equal parts hurt and hungry.
I push open the door, and yeah, it's a mess. Cracked tiles, flickering fluorescent light, graffiti scrawled across the stalls. But it's empty, and that's all that matters.
The main stall at the end is bigger, probably meant to be handicap accessible but mostly used by people doing exactly what we're about to do. I pull her inside, slide the lock home with a metallic click that sounds obscenely loud in the small space.
Then I turn to her, and fuck, she's beautiful. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing fast, and those dimples, the ones I wasn't lying about, are visible even now when she's not quite smiling.
I cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones, giving her one last chance to change her mind. But she doesn't. Instead, she rises up on her toes and kisses me.
Holy shit.
Her lips are soft and urgent, opening immediately when I deepen the kiss. She tastes like whiskey, and when her tongue meets mine, I groan into her mouth. My hands slide down to grab her hips, pulling her flush against me so she can feel exactly what she does to me.
She whimpers and rolls her hips against my cock. Fuck the slow build. Fuck taking our time. I break the kiss long enough to spin her around, pressing her front against the stall wall. She gasps, hands splaying against the graffiti-covered metal, and I'm already reaching for the hem of her dress.
"Tell me to stop if you want me to stop," I growl against her ear, even as I'm bunching the fabric up around her waist.
"Don't stop," she breathes, and that's all the permission I need.
I expose her ass, even better than I imagined, round and perfect in simple white panties, and run my hand over the curve of it. She pushes back into my touch, and I squeeze, hard enough to make her gasp.
"Fucking gorgeous," I mutter, sliding my hand down between her thighs. Her legs part for me immediately, and when my fingers brush over her panties, I nearly lose it.
She's soaked. Completely drenched, the panties wet and clinging to her pussy.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe. "You're so fucking wet."
"Please," she whimpers, and I don't make her beg any longer.
I hook my fingers in the elastic and pull her panties to the side, exposing her. Her pussy is swollen and slick, practically dripping for me, and I slide two fingers through her folds before pushing inside.
She moans loud and unrestrained, and her inner walls clench around my fingers like a vice.
"That's it," I encourage, starting to pump my fingers in and out. She's so tight, so hot, so fucking perfect. "Take it, baby. Take my fingers."
She rocks back against my hand, meeting every thrust, and her moans fill the small space. I can feel her thighs trembling, can feel how close she already is, and I'm rock hard thinking about how she's going to feel wrapped around my cock.
I'm already picturing it: bending her over, sliding into that tight, wet heat, watching her ass bounce as I fuck her. Hearing those moans get louder and more desperate. Feeling her come all over my dick.
My cock throbs at the thought, and I add a third finger, stretching her.
She cries out, her forehead pressing against the wall, and sweat is starting to bead on her skin.
I can see a trickle running down between her breasts, those incredible breasts that were pressed against me on the dance floor, and I want to lick every drop.
I'm just curling my fingers to hit that spot inside her when the bathroom door slams open.
We both freeze.
Footsteps. Someone's humming, off-key and drunk. A stall door two down from us opens and closes.
The woman in my arms tenses, her hand flying up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with panic. But I don't stop. I keep my fingers buried deep inside her, keep them moving in slow circles against her G-spot.
Her eyes go wider, and she shakes her head frantically, but her pussy clenches around my fingers, betraying how much her body likes this. Likes the danger of being caught. Likes the feeling of my fingers inside her while someone's just feet away.
I lean in close to her ear, my lips brushing the shell of it.
"Quiet," I whisper, barely audible. "Stay very quiet."
Then I press harder against that spot inside her, and she bites down on her palm to stifle her moan.
Fuck, she's perfect. Sweating and desperate and so goddamn wet that I can hear my fingers working her pussy even as we're trying to stay silent. Her free hand reaches back, gripping my thigh, nails digging in through my jeans.
The person in the other stall is taking their sweet time. Rustling. More humming. The toilet flushes, and I feel the woman in my arms relax slightly.
But then the person goes to the sink. Washing their hands. Taking forever.
And I never stop fingering her. Never stop that slow, torturous rhythm designed to drive her insane. Her thighs are shaking now, her pussy fluttering around my fingers, and I know she's close. So fucking close.
Sweat is dripping down her neck, pooling in the hollow of her throat, running down into her cleavage. Her dress is still bunched around her waist, her incredible ass on display, her panties pulled aside to let me finger her while a stranger dries their hands not ten feet away.
Finally, fucking finally, the bathroom door opens and closes.
We're alone again.
The woman immediately lets out a long, shuddering moan, her whole body going limp against the wall. Her hand drops from her mouth, and she's panting like she's just run a marathon.
"You're a fucking idiot," she gasps out, but there's no real heat in it.
I chuckle, still working my fingers inside her, and lean in to kiss her neck. "Not my fault you're so hot I can't stop myself."
She makes a sound that's half laugh, half moan, and rocks back against my hand one more time. She's right there on the edge, her pussy clenching, and I'm about to make her come when she suddenly pulls away.
My fingers slide out of her, and I'm about to protest when she spins around, yanks her dress down, and says, "I can't do this."
I blink. "What?"
"This. I can't. It's too soon. I'm sorry." She's already fumbling with the lock, her hands shaking.
"Wait, hold on." I reach for her, but she's already got the stall door open. "Did I do something wrong?"
But she doesn't answer. She just rushes out of the bathroom, and I'm left standing there with my cock harder than it's ever been in my life and my fingers still wet from her pussy.
What the fuck just happened?
I take a second to breathe and adjust myself. Fuck, I'm going to have the worst case of blue balls, but I follow her out. The hallway is empty. The bar is still crowded, but I scan the room and don't see her anywhere.
She's gone.
I head for the front door, pushing through the crowd, and step out into the cool Montana night. I look left, then right, and catch a glimpse of her halfway down the block, practically running in the opposite direction.
Every instinct tells me to go after her.
To catch up, to ask what happened, to get her number or her name or something.
But I don't. Because she clearly doesn't want me to follow.
Because she said she can't do this and that's a boundary I'm not going to cross, no matter how hard my dick is arguing otherwise.
I'm not that guy. I might be a player, might enjoy my share of one-night stands, but I respect a no. Always have, always will.
Still, I watch until she disappears around a corner, and I can't help but wonder who the hell she is. This curvy girl with the amber eyes and the soaked pussy who just showed up out of nowhere and took me completely by surprise.
I've never had a woman walk away before. Not like this. Not when we were both so clearly into it.
And I've definitely never had a woman leave me wanting more.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to calm down, trying to think about anything other than the way she felt wrapped around my fingers. The way she tasted. The way she moaned.
"Fuck," I mutter to the empty street.
Behind me, the bar is still going, music and laughter spilling out into the night. I should go back inside. Should find another girl, finish what I started, get this desperate need out of my system.
But I don't want another girl.
I want her. The mystery woman who ran away. The one I don't even have a name for. And that's a problem. Because I don't do wanting. I don't do chasing. I sure as hell don't do complicated.
But as I stand there on the sidewalk with my cock still throbbing and her scent still on my fingers, I can't stop thinking that maybe, just maybe, I want to.
Twenty minutes later, I pull up to Promise Ranch still pissed off, disappointed, and so fucking hard I can barely think straight.