Chapter 29 WINNIE - Just a Towel
WINNIE
Just a towel
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
"The best conversations happen when words aren't needed." – Unknown
***
The sun hadn't fully crested the horizon when I found Elise in the barn, already dressed in riding gear—fitted jeans, boots worn soft with age, hair pulled back in a no-nonsense braid.
She was checking the girth on Maple, her old barrel horse, a gorgeous bay mare she'd left here when she moved to Denver.
The mare nickered softly, recognizing her rider even after three years.
"You're up early," I said, startling her.
Elise glanced over her shoulder, grinning. "Could say the same. Figured since I'm here, might as well see if I've still got it. Wanna watch?"
"Always."
I'd grown up watching Elise compete—she was a legend in these parts before tech money called her away. Her runs were surgical, precise, no wasted motion. She'd taught me everything I knew about reading a horse's body language, about trusting your instincts in the pocket.
We led the horses to the arena, the morning air cool and crisp, carrying the scent of dew-soaked hay. Bandit pranced beside me, energized by the early hour, while Maple moved with the calm confidence of a seasoned pro. Elise mounted up, settling into the saddle like she'd never left.
"Watch the approach on the first barrel," she called, walking Maple to the start. "It's all about the setup. If you're off by even a foot, the whole pattern falls apart."
She took off without warning—a blur of muscle and momentum.
Maple surged forward, hooves pounding the dirt in perfect rhythm.
The first turn was flawless, Elise's body fluid as water, leaning into the pocket with absolute trust. The second barrel came fast, and she pocketed it so tight I held my breath, but Maple's flank just kissed the edge without toppling it.
By the third, they were poetry—speed and precision married into something beautiful.
When she pulled up, breathless and laughing, I was already checking my mental stopwatch. "Seventeen-two?"
"Seventeen-three. Close enough." She patted Maple's neck, the mare blowing hard. "Your turn. Show me what you and Bandit have been working on."
My heart kicked up. I'd been training hard for regionals, but having Elise here—watching, critiquing—added weight. I swung onto Bandit, feeling his readiness thrumming through the reins. He wanted this. So did I.
"Remember," Elise said, settling against the rail, "it's not about speed. It's about control within the speed. Trust him."
I lined up, took a breath, and gave Bandit his head.
We exploded forward. The first barrel rushed at us, and I felt the shift in his body, the way he anticipated the turn before I even cued it.
We carved it clean, dirt spraying, my body melting into his as we whipped around.
The second came faster—always does—but I trusted the pocket, let him take it tight.
His shoulder brushed close enough to make me gasp, but he held.
The third was ours—a perfect arc, speed unleashed as we rocketed to the finish.
I pulled up, chest heaving, and Elise was whooping, her face split in a grin.
"Sixteen-nine! Winnie, that's a personal record!"
"What?!" I slid off Bandit, adrenaline singing through my veins. "You're lying."
"Check the timer!" She held up her phone, the number glowing: 16.9. "That's regional-worthy, girl. Hell, that's state-worthy. You're ready."
I wanted to scream, to cry, to do something with the explosive joy bubbling up. Instead, I threw my arms around Bandit's neck, burying my face in his mane. "Good boy. Best boy."
We cooled the horses down together, talking technique and minor adjustments, but my mind was already racing ahead.
Sixteen-nine. If I could replicate that at regionals, I'd place.
Maybe even podium. For the first time in months, the weight of the ranch, of Nana's shadow, felt a little lighter.
Like I was finally stepping into my own rhythm instead of chasing someone else's.
And under that high, the memory of last night hummed like a low electric current.
The article. The comments. The way Beau had looked like the world was ending while I skimmed lines about ranch employees and power dynamics and thought, of course this is what they’d say.
The way he'd choked out that his dad was dragging him back to Dallas in two weeks. The way he’d watched me like I was going to shatter.
He was scared enough for the both of us.
So I’d decided something, somewhere between my third beer and the kiss I left on his cheek before bed: Dallas wasn’t going to run my life. The internet wasn’t either. If I was going to get my heart broken, it’d be on my terms.
By the time I made it back to the house, sweaty and exhilarated, it was past eight. Pops was in the kitchen, humming to himself over the coffee pot, but the upstairs was quiet. Beau’s door was still closed.
Board meeting at eight a.m., he'd said last night. Smile for the camera, say we’re just friends, come home early like a good little heir.
showered quick, scalding water chasing off the arena dust, but it didn't wash away the buzz.
If anything, the heat just sank into my bones, mixing with the adrenaline until my skin felt too tight for my body.
I caught my reflection in the fogged mirror—flushed cheeks, wild wet curls, nipples hard against the sudden cool air.
I looked like trouble.
Wrapped in a white towel that barely covered the essentials, water dripping down my spine, I paused outside his door.
He’d been honest with me last night. Finally. Panic and all. Now it was my turn to be very, very clear.
I didn't knock. I pounded. "Beau. Open up."
Silence. Then a rustle.
"Beau Sterling, open the damn door."
A muffled groan, the heavy thud of footsteps, and the lock clicked. The door cracked open, and he appeared.
He was shirtless. He was wearing grey sweatpants slung obscenely low on his hips, the V-lines of his jagged hipbones visible. And he looked like absolute wreckage.
Hair a disaster, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked beautiful, miserable, and visibly hungover from life. But the second his eyes landed on me, the exhaustion vanished.
His gaze dropped. It didn't just look; it devoured. It traced the damp curve of my collarbone, the single bead of water sliding into the valley of my cleavage, the way the terrycloth clung to my wet hips. His throat worked, the Adam's apple bobbing hard.
And then my eyes went down.
The grey sweatpants left nothing to the imagination. I could see the heavy, thick outline of his dick pressing against the fabric, semi-hard and twitching just from looking at me.
"Jesus—Winnie." His voice was a wreck, gravel and sleep. He slapped a hand over his eyes, turning his head away, but I saw the flush creeping up his neck. "You can’t be standing there. Not like that."
"Like what?" I leaned against the doorframe, letting the towel slip a fraction of an inch lower. "Wet?"
"Naked," he corrected, dropping his hand to glare at me, though his eyes were wild. "You are functionally naked. And I am currently hanging onto my sanity by a very frayed thread."
"Good." I stepped forward.
He stepped back instinctively, but I followed, crossing the threshold into the dim, cool air of his room. It smelled like him—cedar, stale coffee, and sleep.
"Winnie, stop," he warned, but he didn't move away again. He stood paralyzed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "I just spent an hour on the phone lying to my father. I am not in the headspace to be a gentleman."
"I don't want a gentleman," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "I just ran a sixteen-nine. I’m riding a high that feels like lightning, and I’m not interested in being careful."
His eyes darkened, the pupils blowing out until the hazel was almost gone. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Don't I?"
I reached out, placing my palm flat against his bare chest. His skin was burning hot. Under my hand, his heart was hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against his ribs. I let my gaze drop to his crotch again, watching his cock stiffen fully, straining against the soft cotton.
"You look like you’re in pain, Sterling," I whispered, stepping into his space until the fuzzy knot of the towel brushed his stomach.
"I am," he rasped. "My dick is throbbing so hard I can barely see straight. And you standing there smelling like citrus and sex isn't helping."
"Then do something about it."
I rose on my tiptoes, sliding my hand up his neck, tangling my wet fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and yanked his head down.
I didn't kiss him. I crashed into him.
And Beau shattered.
A growl tore out of his chest, a vibration rumbling against my lips, and then his arms were around me—hard. One arm banded around my waist, crushing me to him, the other hand tangling in my damp hair, angling my head back to deepen the angle.
It wasn't sweet. It was starving.
His mouth devoured mine, hot and wet and desperate. He tasted like mint toothpaste and dark, unspoken filth. I opened for him immediately, and his tongue swept in, claiming me, fucking my mouth with a rhythm that made my knees buckle.
Beau caught my weight instantly, walking me backward until my shoulders hit the doorframe with a solid thud.
He pinned me there, his body a heavy, solid wall. The friction of the towel against my skin was maddening, but the feel of him pressing against me was worse. Better.
I felt every inch of him. The hard planes of his chest flattening my breasts, and the undeniable, rock-hard steel of his cock grinding against my hip bone.
"Fuck," he breathed against my mouth, breaking the kiss just to bite at my lower lip, tugging the flesh with his teeth. "You have no idea. No idea how bad I’ve wanted to do this."
"Show me," I challenged, breathless, my head falling back as his mouth trailed hot, open kisses down my jawline.
His hand slid down my back, over the curve of my ass, and then slipped under the towel.
I gasped, a sharp, ragged sound. His palm was rough, calloused, and scorching against my bare ass cheek. He gripped me, fingers digging in, and hiked my leg up around his waist.
The towel was barely holding on. I was barely holding on.
"Beau," I whined, the sound purely involuntary, my hips bucking forward to meet the grind of his.
"You like that?" he murmured against the sensitive skin of my throat, nipping the pulse point there. "You like rubbing that sweet pussy against me?"
"Yes," I panted. "God, yes."
His hand slid from my ass to the inside of my thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to my center. Even through the remaining fold of the towel, the pressure sent a bolt of electricity straight to my clit. I was already slick, my body weeping for him.
"You're soaking wet," he groaned, feeling the heat radiating off me. "I bet you taste incredible. I bet if I dropped to my knees right now, you’d taste like everything I’ve been craving."
I dug my nails into his shoulders, anchoring myself as my vision spotted. "Do it. Please."
"I want to," he said, his voice wrecked, raw. He ground his hips forward, the head of his dick rubbing against my entrance through the layers of fabric. It was torture. "I want to rip this towel off and bury my face in you. ì want to lift you up, wrap your legs around my waist and bury myself inside you until you can’t say anyone’s name but mine. "
The image—him on his knees, or him deep inside me, filling me up—sent a jolt of liquid heat straight to my core. I looked him dead in the eye, seeing the struggle between the man who wanted to protect me and the animal who wanted to claim me.
"Maybe I want to forget my name," I whispered.
His grip on my thigh tightened to the point of pain, dragging a hiss through his teeth. He closed his eyes, his whole body trembling with the effort of restraint. He was a tightly coiled spring, and I was holding the trigger.
Then, slowly, agonizingly, he set my leg down. He didn't let go of me, though. He kept me pinned, his erection still pulsing hard against my stomach, letting me feel exactly what I was missing.
"You are dangerous," he said, opening his eyes. They were hazy, drugged with lust. "I want to. God, Winnie, I want to ruin you. But not like this. Not when I’m half-crazy from stress and you’re high on adrenaline and we’re one towel slip away from a show for your grandfather in the hallway."
He smoothed his thumb over my wet cheek, his touch possessive.
"When I take you," he said low, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that made my toes curl, "I want all the time in the world. I want to spread you out on that bed and make you scream while I’m deep inside you. I don't want to rush."
I shivered, the ache between my legs throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
"Fine," I managed, though my voice was shaky. "Responsible looks good on you, Sterling. But don't think I'm letting you off the hook."
He smirked, a dark, wicked thing. He leaned in and kissed the sensitive spot right behind my ear, his breath hot. "Oh, I'm definitely on the hook. And my dick isn't going to let me forget it for a second."
He stepped back, putting a foot of distance between us. The loss of his body heat was a physical blow. He ran a hand through his chaotic hair, looking down at the tent in his sweatpants with a rueful, breathless laugh.
"Go," he groaned. "Get dressed. Put on layers. Put on a parka. Because if you stay here looking like that for ten more seconds, I’m locking this door and fucking you regardless of who hears us."
I backed away, clutching the towel tighter, my skin tingling everywhere he’d touched me. My pussy was aching, empty and wet.
"Beau?" I called from the hallway.
He looked up, eyes still burning. "Yeah?"
"For the record," I said, a grin breaking through my breathlessness, "I would've screamed your name anyway."
I turned and walked away, feeling his gaze burning a hole in my back, leaving him there in the doorway, wrecked, hard, and—finally—mine.