Chapter 2 - Colt #2
The ranch is quiet at this hour. Just the main house lit up and a few scattered lights in the cottages where my brothers live. I park my truck near the barn and sit there for a minute, trying to get myself under control before I go inside.
It doesn't work. My cock is still throbbing, still aching, still demanding attention that I didn't get to give it. Every time I shift in my seat, the friction against my jeans makes me grit my teeth.
Fuck.
I finally force myself out of the truck and head toward the main house. Maybe I can grab a beer, cool down, and deal with this situation in the privacy of my own cottage. The last thing I need is—
"Well, well, well. Look who's home early."
Goddammit.
Boone is in the kitchen, standing at the counter with what looks like leftover pie and a glass of milk. My older brother, the responsible one, the one who actually believes in love and all that romantic bullshit. He's wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt, his hair messy like he was already in bed.
"Don't start," I mutter, heading straight for the fridge.
But Boone's eyes drop to my crotch, and his eyebrows shoot up. "Holy shit. Did you seriously come home with—" He starts laughing. Actually laughing. "Did a woman leave you like that?"
"Fuck off," I snap, grabbing a beer and twisting the cap off hard enough that it goes flying.
"I'm genuinely shocked," Boone continues, still grinning like this is the funniest thing he's seen all week. "Colt Sullivan, struck out. Never thought I'd see the day."
I take a long pull from my beer, trying to ignore him. Trying to ignore the way my dick is still pressing insistently against my zipper, reminding me of everything I didn't get to do.
"What happened?" Boone asks, and at least he's stopped laughing now. He takes a bite of pie, studying me with those observant eyes that miss nothing.
I shouldn't tell him. I should just take my beer and go to my cottage and handle this myself.
But the words come out anyway, frustrated and confused.
"I don't fucking know what happened. There was this girl at the bar…
New in town, gorgeous, curves for days, and she was into it.
We were dancing, we went to the bathroom, and things were getting good. Really good."
Boone's eyebrows raise but he doesn't interrupt.
"I had my fingers inside her," I continue, too wound up to care about oversharing with my brother. "She was soaked, Boone. Fucking dripping. She was about to come, and then suddenly she just... stopped. Said it was too soon and ran."
"Too soon," Boone repeats slowly, chewing. "Too soon for what?"
"How the hell should I know? Too soon to fuck a stranger in a bar bathroom?" I take another drink, the cold beer doing nothing to cool the heat still coursing through my body. "But she was right there with me. She wanted it."
Boone sets down his fork and leans against the counter, considering. "Maybe she just ended a relationship. Like, recently. Days ago recently."
I pause mid-drink. "What?"
"Think about it," Boone says, warming to his theory. "She's new in town, right? She's at the bar alone, drinking, looking sad. Gets caught up in the moment with you, but then reality hits and she's not actually ready. Still processing whatever happened with the ex."
Fuck. That... actually makes sense.
I remember the way she looked when I first saw her. Sitting alone at the bar, staring at her drink like it held all the answers. The redness around her eyes like she'd been crying. The way she tensed when I asked if she was new in town.
"Shit," I mutter.
"Yeah." Boone picks up his milk. "Not everyone's like you, little brother. Some people need time to get over relationships before they jump into bed with someone new."
"It wasn't about jumping into bed," I argue, even though we both know that's exactly what it was. "It was just... I don't know. She felt different."
Boone's expression softens. "Different how?"
But I can't explain it. Can't put into words why this stranger affected me more in one dance than most women do in an entire night. Can't articulate why I'm still standing here with a painful hard-on instead of going back to the bar to find someone else.
"Doesn't matter," I say finally. "She's gone. Probably won't see her again."
"In Blackwater Falls?" Boone snorts. "If she's sticking around, you'll definitely see her again. Town's too small not to."
Great. That's exactly what I need, running into her at the grocery store or the gas station, remembering how tight she felt around my fingers, how she moaned in my ear, how close I came to—
My cock throbs again, and I have to shift to ease the pressure.
Boone notices, of course he does, and his grin returns. "You should probably take care of that."
"Thanks for the advice, genius." I drain the rest of my beer and set the bottle down harder than necessary. "I'm going to bed."
"Colt," Boone calls as I'm heading for the door. I stop but don't turn around. "For what it's worth? If she ran because she wasn't ready, not because she didn't want you? That's actually a good sign. Means when she is ready, she'll remember you."
I don't respond, just head out into the night toward my cottage. The cool air feels good against my overheated skin, but it does nothing for the ache between my legs.
My cottage is small. Just a bedroom, bathroom, and tiny living area, but it's mine. Private. Which is exactly what I need right now.
I lock the door behind me and head straight for the bathroom, not even bothering to turn on lights. Just the glow from the moon through the window, casting everything in shades of silver and shadow.
I strip off my shirt, toss it aside, and start working on my belt. My hands are shaking slightly from frustration, from need, from the memory of her pussy clenching around my fingers.
My jeans hit the floor, followed immediately by my boxers, and my cock springs free, hard and angry and leaking. I wrap my hand around it and hiss at the contact, my hips jerking forward involuntarily.
Fuck, I'm wound tight.
I brace one hand against the bathroom wall and start stroking, slow at first, but that lasts about three seconds before I'm pumping fast and rough, chasing the release I should have had an hour ago.
I close my eyes and she's there immediately. Those amber eyes looking up at me. Those dimples. That incredible body pressed against mine on the dance floor, her breasts soft and full against my chest.
My hand moves faster.
I remember her moans, breathy and desperate and so fucking genuine. The way she gasped when I first pushed my fingers inside her. The way her thighs trembled. The way she got so wet for me that I could hear it, could feel it dripping down my hand.
"Fuck," I groan, my hips thrusting into my fist.
I think about what almost happened. What should have happened.
Me bending her over in that stall, pulling her panties down completely, freeing my cock and sliding into that tight, hot pussy.
Feeling her clench around me the way she clenched around my fingers.
Watching her ass bounce as I pounded into her.
My balls tighten, orgasm building fast and hard.
I imagine her breasts. The ones I saw beneath her dress, the ones I felt pressed against me but never got to touch.
I picture pulling her dress down, exposing them, taking those nipples into my mouth while I fucked her.
Hearing her scream my name, which only reminds me I don't even know her name, and that makes everything hotter somehow.
A mystery woman. A stranger. Someone I might never see again but will definitely never forget.
I'm so close now, my whole body tensing, my hand a blur on my cock. I think about her face when she almost came. That moment right before release when everything goes soft and desperate and beautiful.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chant, and then I'm coming, hard spurts hitting the bathroom wall as my orgasm tears through me. It goes on and on, my body jerking with each wave, and I can't stop picturing her. Can't stop imagining it was her pussy I was filling instead of my own hand.
Finally, it ends. I'm left panting against the wall, covered in sweat, my cock still twitching with aftershocks.
And I'm still thinking about her.
The girl with no name. The one who got away.
"Goddammit," I mutter to the empty bathroom.
Because Boone was wrong about one thing. This isn't a good sign. This is a problem. I don't think about women after they leave. I don't jerk off to memories of almost-encounters. I definitely don't stand in my bathroom wishing I'd handled things differently.
But here I am, doing all of those things.
I clean up, brush my teeth, and drag myself to bed. But even as I'm lying there staring at the ceiling, I can still feel her. Can still smell her. Can still hear that breathy moan in my ear.
And I know, absolutely know, that if I see her again, I'm not letting her run a second time.