Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
WEST
When She Hides
My rodeo world burns and dies.
Everything I’ve created descends to ash.
But that’s okay. I’ll build another one tomorrow.
Should it be possible? Absolutely not on any normal day in the program.
I reduced the safety measures earlier, which means that this is destruction with intent.
And a little something extra with the assistance of the Rand Enterprises IT department, who has tweaked my Sims 1 version for me.
The benefits of having a billionaire as my best friend.
Which begs the question: Why aren’t I back at Coyote Falls where I belong?
Answer: because I’m not sure that’s where I do belong.
That question-and-answer unit has played on my mind over the past months.
For nearly a decade I worked shoulder to shoulder with Cordell, helping him get back on his feet, literally.
Took him to therapy appointments, made sure that he didn’t fall or fail.
I was there for every single step. I made sure that when he swore, or grazed his knees, I took the pressure he couldn’t handle for himself.
Kept him out of the darkness where he tended to sink in the hours when we both should have been sleeping.
He worked. I played.
And then we worked some more.
When he finally hauled his ass off the ground, he did that part alone.
I simply provided a one-man version of his personal support crew until he could bear his own weight once more.
After that, Cord went his own way while I continued on. He met Lanie, and I…
Yeah. I kept working for him. And I fucked around long enough to see how that one panned out.
Not so fucking well.
Sure, we parted on great terms. Best buddies and all that. But that bittersweet tang at the back of my tongue leaves me uncertain if there’s a place for me in his world anymore.
Or, at least, not the one that I left, anyway. There’s no Wilder West–shaped hole at Coyote Falls anymore. And so I need to carve out one for myself somewhere in this world.
I know where I want to start. I even know with whom.
The new question is, will she let me?
My heart rate increases as I fold my laptop slowly, taking all the time in the world. Winnie’s messages have been blowing up my phone for the last two hours, and I know she’s hurting.
What’s your address? My shift finishes in two hours.
You were right about the singing nurse. He’s not even McHottie anymore.
I’m not sure he ever was.
What’s your address, please?
I need you.
47 Lancaster. 301B
You don’t sleep, right? I can turn up anytime?
I’m turning up, West. Don’t go to sleep.
I only reply once. Sleep isn’t an option for me anyway. She doesn’t need more than that and we both know it, even when she blows up my phone. It hurts that she’s in pain, and I’m sorry she’s figured out what I saw the moment I met her side crush. I’m sorry he’s not who she wanted him to be.
It hurts that she’s alone and lost. Hell, it hurts almost as much her not being here hurts me.
As my tiny, fake world ashes nicely, a knock on my door might be the answer I seek.
“Coming,” I murmur, my words soft enough that she won’t be able to hear me through the apartment door. I’ve been living in the rental for nearly six months, changing locations only once early on. After I left Coyote and realized I wasn’t gonna go half as far as I thought I would.
Once, to be closer to her in case she needed me after I figured my shit out.
The knock comes again. Faster, the blows with less space between them.
“Impatient?” I smile as I pack my things away, push the chair in. making her wait. Because for the rest of the night, she’s mine.
I send off a quick message to Lanie to check anyway.
You’re good to look after Sally for the night?
FML. Is it you she’s running to? We’re having a talk, West. After whatever this midnight, post-shift booty call is.
I smirk at having dumped Winnie in it. This is something we should have been talking about anyway but we’ve both avoided the subject for far too long.
Talk in the morning. Shit went down at work with her crush.
So it’s not a booty call? Please confirm.
Talk in the morning. Sally likes pancakes.
Booty call confirmed. Talk booked. With all of us.
Fuck. Winnie will have my ass on a stick for this, but she’ll find out later. Right now, we have something else to talk about… or not.
I toss my phone on the small sofa that has served as a place for my overnight suitcase to rest for the past months between jobs and travel.
The device bounces once and settles in a crease between two sadly stuffed pillows.
I ignore it and head for the door in its short, dim corridor, turning off the remaining lights as I walk.
My strides are sure and long, my heartbeat regular as I reach the door.
Winnie’s last knock is softer, more tentative.
Fuck. I took too long.
Her eyes are wide and her breaths are too short and fast when I open the door.
Damp curls cling to her skin—I think she’s just left the hospital after a shower and changed at the end of her shift.
A white cotton dress with tiny white flowers all over it hangs to just below her thighs, with soft puff sleeves that leaves a dip over her collarbone. She sways slightly and her feet—
Are fucking bare.
Her tan ankle boots dangle from two fingers that also clutch her phone and keys.
That’s it. Nothing else.
What I see is what I get. Everything she’s brought with her. Raw and fucking perfect.
Whatever I planned in my head flies out the proverbial window in seconds as I grip the wrist that’s half-outstretched, probably the hand she used to knock with, and pull her sharply into me.
Not a word passes my lips as I press a hand to her lower back, keeping her against me, and take a step backward.
Rotating her to lean her against the wall, I let her go and step back, making enough space to shut the door.
Deliberately, I lock it, holding her eyes, which stay wide the whole time. “West, I—”
I take her boots from her fingers and place them neatly by the door next to mine.
Her phone goes into one of them, turned off.
That’s it. It’s all I take. The action quiets her.
Confusion wells in her eyes as she bites back a multitude of questions.
My hands skim her smooth ankles, her calves, as I rise, tracing the strong musculature there.
Fuck, she’s stunning, the way that she’s always been.
Seeing her dressed like this, for me? I swallow hard, trailing my fingertips across the hem of her flimsy cotton dress, but don’t go any farther.
Stepping back to lean against the opposite wall, I unbutton my shirt, one at a time, keeping my eyes locked on hers the entire time. Winnie licks her lips, her breath coming faster as I reach my navel and pull my shirt out of my slacks. The ends hang loose, rumpled.
Winnie’s hands drop to her waist, squeezing the material of her dress into fists.
I don’t say anything or give her any pressure.
Zero expectations. If she doesn’t want to take it any further, then we don’t.
If she wants to lie in bed and snuggle for the next six hours, then I’ll will my hard-on down because that’s what she needs.
Whatever she needs. And I pray that’s what my expression tells her, but the way she’s panting and raking her nails against her thighs where her dress hitches up…
I’m guessing not.
When I drop my thumb to rub across the leather of my belt, she stops breathing altogether. Just watches me. I let my hand drift across the leather, across the buckle… and drop it back, leaning my head against the wall.
Watching her as she watches me.
“West,” she whines. Her toes work in the carpet, and I’ll come from the way she writhes for me, still dressed and innocent-looking and uncomfortably turned on.
One hand drifts to her stomach. Her short nails squeeze the soft flesh there, pressing inward. The material of her dress creeps upward, then falls. Her eyes drift shut, but then she pushes away from the wall and comes to me. Hesitant, tiny steps, considering the hall isn’t that damn wide.
It takes her an age to cross, or it seems that way. Then she’s before me.
I don’t touch her and she doesn’t touch me. The scent of her, coffee and something berry that she’s washed her hair with, drifts around us. The need to cup her nape, pull her into me, and kiss her senseless is so strong I want to drown in her. But tonight is paced. No rush.
So when the next contact I have with her is the lightest touch of her sweet-as-fuck hands framing my rock-hard cock through my pants, a ragged groan I can’t hold back rips free.
I swallow the next sound lodged behind that one, staring her down, unflinching in the face of her needy curiosity.
Unable to keep my hands to myself, I explore the soft cotton of her dress, only grazing, light touches.
The sort of touches that leaves her moaning in the sweetest way until I’m fit to burst, and I’m not even bare in her hands yet.
Iron blooms across my tongue, pain the best distraction I have to clear my head and reset my arousal.
My thumbs circle her nipples, dark and puffy beneath her pale dress even in the dark light where the city lights cast a reflected glow into the room.
Her peaks strain against my fingertips where I don’t provide half as much contact as she wants.
Winnie arches gently, pushing her breasts into my hands.
I pull back, leaving her aching. If I’m not drooling for a taste of her by now, there’s something wrong with me.
The hands on my cock move. I try not to flinch as she teases me, and from the look in her eyes, she knows exactly what the hell she’s doing. But this is new ground for us. She’s exploring, just like me. Her own personal discovery tour that will end with one of us on our knees.
I can bet everything I own that it will be me.
Winnie licks her lips again and traces the outline of my cock as I thicken beneath her ministrations. Fuck, her hands are made for me. Too small to fully grip and work me; strong enough together to get the job done. The tease edges me to the limits of my control, and she’s just getting started.
I palm the wall, willing myself into some semblance of control.
Right now is her playtime. That’s what tonight is about.
It’s not a dirty weekend—or at least it’s not just that.
Sure, Winnie’s got a babysitter and free hours.
Hours we’re both gonna regret for her lack of sleep, though both of us are primed that way.
Her shift work and my insomnia are a match made in nursing hell for her.
I’ll always be up when she gets home, to eat with her.
I’ll be there when she needs me to fuck her at all hours of the night.
I’ll be there when she needs to blow off steam for as long as she wants.
Fuck, if she keeps playing the way she is, I’ll be taking a knee for a different reason, and it’ll be with a ring in one scarred hand.
And not just because my girl has some talents I didn’t know about earlier, though they’re a pretty benefit right now.
She reaches for my belt, a question in her eyes.
Not breaking our unspoken rule for the night, I give her a single nod.
She works the leather free, her concentration the prettiest thing I’ve seen in hours.
I ache to touch her, but I keep my hands to myself and let her play, work it all out of herself.
Winnie loves control, and stripping that away from her right now might also shatter the fragile trust we’re still developing. I can hold her later. After. When she’s ready to be held. All I can do right now is endure the torture that she wants me to tolerate at her hands.
Hands that skim over me as she lets my pants drop to my knees.
I step out of the slumped fabric pooling at my feet at her nod and hold out my wrists, breaking the rules. Letting her know that this is still my game, if she’s willing to play. A frown crosses her face and I smirk, thumbing the cufflinks once.
She figures it out fast after that, taking the silver longhorns with their diamond-studded eyes and sliding them into my pocket with my permission—another nod easily given.
It becomes a simple shorthand, tonight’s form of communication.
Her body rubs lightly to mine before she steps back, a juddering inhale fortifying her before she reaches up to roll my shirt from my shoulders.
It’s been a long damn time since I’ve had a woman undress me, and never with the reverence or focus that she does now.
The fact that she’s dressed when I’m not doesn’t bother me in the least. Winnie is set on her task, tracing over muscle and scar and ink with tentative touches.
I nod each time, letting her know she’s all right to continue, giving her access to every single part of me without limits.
She takes that tour, moving me away from the wall and then back again in a slow circle, seeing me naked for the first time. When she drops to take my socks off my feet, I secure a lock of hair and tug gently, drawing her upward, shaking my head for the first time.
She blinks, shocked by the subtle no, but I have zero intention of letting her kneel for me tonight. “But—”
I shake my head and place a fingertip over her soft lips, tracing their shape. She lets me, sighing as I plump her bottom lip, prying her mouth open. Blown pupils meet mine and hold as I slide my finger into her mouth. She sucks gently, flicking the top with her tongue, warm and soft.
My hitched breath gives her the signal she wants, and she sucks while her warm hands find my bare cock and work me just as gently.
I groan again, sliding a second finger into her mouth as I force my hips to keep still.
It’s utter torture and perfection in one.
She knows exactly what I need—sweet pressure, a thumb swept through the beads of precum leaking from my tip for her and spread over my head as she pumps me and then traces lightly.
One hand drops to my balls, fondling me.
I want to close my eyes and blow my load all over her hand, giving in to the need building fast inside me.
I want to spin her about and sink inside her warm heat, fill her with my seed and mark her as mine again and again.
I want to kiss her and feel her respond to me until the sun replaces the fake city lights outside.
I do none of those things.
Slowly, excruciatingly, I withdraw my fingers from her lips and wipe them on my thigh.
She drops her hand, her breaths slow and steady.
The peace between us is a moment I’m unwilling to shatter.
A serenity she’s come here seeking. And when I take her hand, leading her to my living area, I know that I’m about to shatter that all to hell.
Because that calm that we’ve just worked for, our bodies and lips tingling for what’s to come?
It’s the moment that thread of perfection starts to unravel.