Chapter 5 Sloane #2
One hand abandons my breast to slide down my side, gripping my hip to hold me steady when my hips start to buck.
The other keeps working my nipple, twisting just enough to blur the pleasure into bright edges.
His tongue circles my clit with focused pressure, flicking on every pass, then flattening to suck the whole bundle between his lips in pulsing draws.
My hands fist his hair tighter as my hips grind up to meet his mouth because I need more, need him deeper, need him to never stop. "Cash. God, Cash—"
"Come for me." The command vibrates straight through my pussy.
He adds two fingers, sliding inside me with one smooth thrust while his tongue lashes faster. His fingers curl upward, stroking that swollen spot inside at the same relentless pace his mouth sets on my clit. Pleasure coils tight and hot in my pussy, then snaps.
The orgasm crashes hard. My back bows off the blanket.
A scream rips from my throat: his name, broken and loud enough that it bounces off the rafters.
My thighs clamp around his head as my body convulses in heavy waves while he keeps the rhythm steady, drawing every last pulse out until my legs tremble and my grip on his hair turns desperate.
He gentles gradually, tongue softening to lazy laps. His fingers ease out slowly. When he finally lifts his head, his lips shine, eyes dark with unrestrained want. He crawls up my body, weight braced on his forearms so his chest brushes mine with every ragged breath.
His mouth claims mine in a deep, filthy kiss. I taste myself on his tongue, salty and intimate, and I chase it, sucking his lower lip, biting just enough to make him groan. Claiming him back.
He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead to mine. "You're mine now," he whispers. "And I'm yours. No going back."
I nod against him, chest heaving, heart slamming in perfect sync with his.
Sunlight warms our tangled limbs while hay prickles my skin and his hand strokes slow circles over my hip. The loft smells like us now, like sweat, arousal, and hay bales. No rush to move. No need to hide.
I'm in. Completely. And it feels like freedom.
"You're mine," he says again. "Say it."
"I'm yours." The words are easier this time, true and certain.
His gaze drifts over my face, the hard lines of his jaw finally relaxing.
He traces the line of my hair with a thumb, a gesture so gentle it brings a lump to my throat.
Without breaking eye contact, he gathers his shirt from the hay.
The rough cotton settles over my bare shoulders, a shield against the vulnerability of the moment.
The fabric smells like him, leather and sage and sweat. I pull it tighter, suddenly aware that I'm nearly naked in a hayloft in the middle of the day with a man I've known for less than a week, but also a man I’ve thought about almost every day for seventeen years.
"Three days." His voice cuts through my thoughts. "You leave in three days."
My stomach drops. "Cash—"
"No—something inside is telling me I need to know exactly where we stand," he says, his hands tightening against my skin as if he can anchor me here by sheer will alone. "Tell me right now, Sloane: Are you getting back on that plane to Seattle?"
"My job—"
"Is killing you." He stands, pulling me up with him, and I'm acutely aware of how small I feel next to him. How his body blocks the light. "And you know it."
Wrapping his shirt around me, I try to pull back, but he doesn't let me retreat. Just backs me against the hay bales again, hands on each side of me, caging me in.
"I'm scared," I whisper.
"Of what?"
"That if I lose my career, if I stop running things at work, I'll stop mattering."
His expression cracks. Something raw and vulnerable shows on his face before he cups my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze. His palm is warm and rough against my skin. "You matter to me. Not because of what you do, but because you exist."
The words settle inside me. I can't speak or breathe around the truth of it.
"There’s no deadline on how I feel about you," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my cheek with a steady, grounding heat.
"But as you weigh the options, don't forget one thing.
" He leans in, his kiss a slow, deliberate anchor.
His palm settles over my chest, trapping the frantic beat of my heart beneath his skin.
"I’ve spent too long waiting for this to let you slip away now. "
Then he moves back, giving me space to gather my scattered clothes. I dress myself with shaking hands while he watches from the hay bale, and the charged silence between us holds everything we're not saying.
When I'm decent, I turn to face him. "I need time to think."
"Okay." He stands, closing the distance between us. "But Sloane? While you're thinking, remember something."
"What?"
"I’m exactly what you need, and you're exactly what I need. Seventeen years ago and now. And I'm not letting you go without a fight."
Then he kisses me once more, soft and promising this time, and climbs down the ladder.
Standing alone in the hayloft, I stare at the dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. The hay scratches my ankles through my socks, and I can still taste him on my lips.
Three days.
I have three days to decide if I'm brave enough to choose this.
To choose him.
To choose myself.
Walking back to Cabin 5, the sun is brutal and unforgiving. Inside, my laptop sits on the table where I left it on my first night. Opening it feels like lifting something heavy. The Wi-Fi is weak but functional. My inbox loads slowly—127 unread emails.
The number 127 glows on the screen. My fingers hover over the trackpad. Three months ago, I would've been triaging by priority, fingers flying, dopamine spiking with every cleared notification. Now I just stare at the number until it blurs, and my hands won't move.
Scrolling through, most are automated reports and CC chains I don't need to read. A few are from colleagues asking about the Harmon merger. One is from Diane.
Sloane, how are you doing? The team misses you, but don't rush back. Take the time you need.
My cursor hovers over the email. For a long moment, I just stare at it. Then I close the laptop without responding.
I look out the window at the hills rolling into the distance, the mesquite and live oak catching the afternoon light. Cash is visible in the distance, working a young horse in the round pen. He’s patient as always, giving it space to figure it out on its own.
My phone sits on the table beside the laptop, silent and waiting.
I pick it up. Open my email app. Find Diane's message.
My thumb hovers over it for three seconds. Then I delete it without responding.
I don't open the next one, just stand there with the taste of him still on my lips and the ghost of his hands still on my skin, and for the first time in seventeen years, I don't feel guilty for choosing myself.
Outside, he looks up from the round pen and sees me in the window. Even from this distance, I can see the question in his posture.
I don't wave or signal anything, only hold his gaze across fifty yards of Texas dust and let him see that I'm still here.
Still thinking.
Still his.