Chapter 3 #2
He points upward. “That one looks like a bull.”
“It looks like a teapot.”
“It absolutely doesn’t. A teapot? You’re crazy.”
“You’re the one seeing livestock everywhere.”
He laughs, low enough that it vibrates along my cheek. I wiggle closer just so I can feel more of him.
The night settles around us, cool and gentle, and the whole world feels paused, like it’s holding its breath so we can have this moment without interruption.
We go on like that for a while, giving constellations stupid names, making each other laugh, letting our hands drift without thinking.
His thumb strokes over the inside of my wrist, sending small sparks through me that I try to pretend I’m not reacting to.
Then his fingers slide beneath my jaw, tilting my face up.
The kiss starts soft. It always does with him. He likes to savor, likes to trace the shape of my mouth with his to see how long it takes before I melt.
And I do melt. Every single time.
The kiss deepens, slow and warm, and I curl my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer because I need more. I need him.
His other hand slips along my waist, skimming under my shirt, the heat of his palm spreading across my skin. I breathe his name against his mouth, and the way he responds—the little hitch in his breath, the way he cups my hip to pull me over him—makes everything inside me tighten.
Touch becomes need. Need becomes urgency.
And somewhere in the tangle of kissing and hands and whispered promises, I’m the one asking for more, pulling him down to me, my voice shaking as I tell him I want him, that I want all of him.
He pauses only long enough to ask if I’m sure, and the only words I can form are yes and please and thank you, because it feels like coming home after being gone too long.
I need to know that my delay in responding to his proposal won’t change a thing between us.
Billy’s mouth crashes back onto mine, his tongue sweeping in deep.
His fingers dig into my hip, grinding me against the hard bulge in his jeans, and I gasp into the kiss, my pussy already throbbing with want.
The blanket beneath us crinkles as I shift, my cowboy boots scraping against the soft earth, but I don’t care about the dirt or the chill in the air. All I feel is him, his flannel shirt rough against my palms as I clutch at his shoulders.
“Sedona,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, nipping at the skin just above my collarbone. His breath fans hot over me, sending shivers racing down my spine.
I arch into him, my T-shirt riding up further, exposing more of my stomach to the night breeze. But his hand is there, sliding higher, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through my bra.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”
I whimper, my hands fumbling with the buttons of his flannel, popping them open one by one until I can shove it aside and feel the heat of his bare chest. His skin is flushed, muscles flexing under my touch, and I rake my nails down his sides, loving the way he groans low in his throat.
“Billy, please... touch me. I need your hands on me everywhere.”
He doesn’t make me wait. His fingers hook into the waistband of my jeans, popping the button with a flick of his thumb.
The zipper rasps down, loud in the quiet night, and then he’s shoving the denim down my hips, along with my panties, exposing me to the cool air. I kick off my boots in a hurry, helping him tug the jeans free, my legs bare now except for the grass tickling my calves.
Billy’s eyes darken as he stares at my pussy. I can imagine that I’m already slick and glistening in the moonlight filtering through the trees by the lake.
“Fucking hell, look at you,” he breathes, his voice rough.
He pushes me back onto the blanket, settling between my thighs, his own jeans still on but strained against his erection. His hands part my legs wider, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, inching closer to where I ache most.
I’m panting already, my T-shirt bunched up under my arms, bra pushed aside so my breasts spill free, nipples hard and begging for attention.
When his fingers finally brush my folds, I cry out, hips bucking up. He circles my clit slowly at first, teasing, gathering my wetness on his fingertips.
“So wet for me, Sedona. All this slick just from kissing?”
He slides one finger inside me, then two, curling them against that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. The stretch is delicious, his calluses rough against my walls as he pumps in and out.
“Yes, fuck, Billy... just like that.” I grab his wrist, urging him deeper, my other hand fisting his hair.
He watches my face, eyes locked on mine, as he fucks me with his fingers, his thumb pressing firm circles over my clit. The pressure builds fast, heat coiling tight in my belly, my pussy clenching around him, slick coating his hand and dripping down to the blanket.
He leans down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and I shatter. His tongue laps at my clit, flat and broad, then flicks sharp and quick, while his fingers keep thrusting, stretching me open.
I’m moaning loud now, the sound echoing off the water, but I don’t care if anyone hears. His free hand pins my hip down, holding me still as I writhe, chasing the pleasure.
“Billy, oh fuck, your tongue... don’t stop.”
He hums against me, the vibration shooting straight through my core, and I come hard, walls fluttering around his fingers, slick gushing out as I grind against his face. He doesn’t pull away, licking me through it, sucking my clit until I’m oversensitive and trembling.
When he finally lifts his head, his chin is shiny with my juices, lips swollen and red. He brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that makes my toes curl.
“You taste amazing, baby. So sweet and salty, like you were made for me.” Then, before I can catch my breath, he offers those same fingers to me.
I suck them eagerly, tasting myself on his skin, the tang of my arousal mixing with his warmth. But I need more. So much more.
“Billy, please... I want you inside me. I want your cock. And your knot. Fuck, I need you to knot me. Please, I’m begging you.”
The words tumble out, desperate and raw, my hands yanking at his belt now, fumbling with the buckle.
He growls, a deep rumble in his chest, and helps me, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs out, thick and hard, the base already swelling with the promise of his knot.
Pre-cum beads at the tip, and I lick my lips, but he’s too far gone for that. His hands shake as he grabs the condom from his pocket—always prepared, my Billy—and tears it open with his teeth.
I watch, mesmerized, as he rolls it down his length, fingers trembling so much he has to grip the base to steady himself. The sight of him like that, so eager he can barely manage, makes my pussy clench emptily.
“Sedona, you’re killing me,” he rasps, positioning himself at my entrance.
The head of his cock nudges my folds, slicking itself with my wetness, and then he pushes in, inch by inch. He’s big, stretching me wide, the burn mixing with pleasure as he bottoms out, his balls pressing against my ass.
I wrap my legs around him, cowboy boots forgotten in the grass, pulling him deeper. “Move, Billy. Fuck me hard.”
He does, thrusting slow at first, letting me adjust, but soon the pace quickens, his hips snapping against mine. The blanket bunches under my back, the lake’s gentle lap the only other sound besides our gasps and the wet slap of skin on skin.
His knot starts to form, swelling at the base with each thrust, bumping against my entrance but not quite locking in yet. I reach down, fingers finding my clit, rubbing frantic circles as he pounds into me.
“Knot me, please. I need it. Fill me up with your knot, Billy. Make me yours.”
He’s panting, sweat dripping from his brow onto my chest, his flannel hanging open, T-shirt clinging to his skin.
“You want my knot, Sedona? Want me locked inside you, coming so deep?” His voice is wrecked, thrusts turning erratic as the knot thickens.
“Yes! Please, yes, give it to me!” I’m sobbing now, pleasure overwhelming, my fingers slick with my own arousal as I tease my clit.
On the next thrust, he angles his hips just right, and the knot breaches me, popping past my rim with a stretch that borders on pain but tips straight into ecstasy. It swells inside, pressing against every nerve, rubbing relentlessly against my clit from the inside as he grinds deep.
The pressure is intense, unyielding, his cock pulsing as he comes, hot spurts filling the condom, but it’s the knot that undoes me—the way it throbs, massaging my walls, grinding that sensitive bundle with every tiny shift.
I scream his name, orgasm crashing over me like a wave, my pussy milking his knot, slick flooding out around where we’re joined. He collapses onto me, careful not to crush, his mouth finding mine in a messy, desperate kiss.
We rock together, locked tight, the knot keeping him buried deep, rubbing my clit with every breath, drawing out aftershocks that make my thighs quake.
Minutes pass like that, his hands stroking my sides. He keeps whispering how much he loves me, how perfect I feel clenched around him.
When the knot finally deflates enough, he pulls out with a wet pop, the condom heavy with his release. He ties it off, tossing it aside for now, and gathers me close, our bodies tangled on the blanket.
When we finally pull ourselves back together, the air cools the heat clinging to my skin, and the stars look different somehow—brighter, like they were waiting for us to remember this part of ourselves.
He helps me to my feet, brushing dirt from the back of my jeans with hands that linger a little too long. He looks good like this—hair mussed, lips swollen from kissing me, shirt wrinkled, a softness in his eyes that he never lets anyone else see.
It hits me all over again how loved I am.
The drive back feels dreamlike. I don’t say much. Neither does he. His hand rests on my thigh, and every so often his thumb sweeps in a slow arc that makes warmth bloom beneath my ribs.
When he pulls up outside my house, the porch light glows amber against the front steps. He kills the engine but doesn’t move at first. He just looks at me with that warm, undone expression that always makes my stomach swoop.
He leans across the console and kisses me for a long, unhurried moment. It’s the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except that I remember this night, that I remember us.
His hand cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing the edge of my hairline, and I press closer, trying to make the moment stretch.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss against the corner of my mouth. “Early.”
“Okay.” My voice is breathy. Embarrassing. But he smiles, like he likes that he does this to me.
When I climb down from the truck, my legs feel unsteady—not from what we did, but from how deeply I feel him everywhere inside me. I’m still smiling when I push open the front door.
The smile vanishes when I see my father sitting in the kitchen.
At first I’m confused. The clock on the microwave glows 1:14 a.m., and Dad never stays up this late.
He’s hunched over the table, elbows braced on either side of something he’s holding. A half-full glass sits beside him, and the sharp scent of vodka clings to the air.
I’ve never seen him drink like this. I’ve never seen him look so… undone.
“Dad?” My voice slips out, thin and unsure. “Why’re you still up?”
He lifts his head, and the expression on his face does something awful to my stomach. His eyes are glassy, red around the edges, like he’s been crying.
I didn’t even know he could. My father is the kind of man who holds the world together with patience and grit. He’s the one people call when animals are sick or fences collapse or storms come through.
He isn’t the one who breaks.
“I—” He swallows and looks down at the picture again. “It’s your mother.”
Something cold wraps itself around my spine. “What about her?”
He turns the photo so I can see it. My breath catches.
It’s a picture I’ve never seen before.
My mother is in a hospital gown, hair sticking to her forehead, exhaustion in her face, but a bright smile blooming through it.
Dad looks younger, softer around the edges, holding me in his arms with a look so full of awe it makes my throat close.
It hits me that this is the day I was born.
My chest tightens. “Dad… what happened?”
He takes a long breath that trembles on the way out. “She’s gone.”
“I know that,” I say gently. “She left when I was a kid—”
“No.” His voice cracks, and the word slices through the kitchen. “She’s gone, honey. She’s… she passed.”
The room tilts under me.
No. That can’t be right. That doesn’t make sense. My mother has been gone for years. Gone in the way people leave, not in the way people disappear forever.
“What do you mean?” My voice shakes so badly I barely recognize it. “What’re you talking about?”
He runs a hand down his face, and the motion looks painful. “She was living in Oregon with some cousins. They called me tonight. She got sick. It happened fast.”
A strange, sharp feeling slices straight through me—grief for a woman I don’t remember, grief for a mother whose absence shaped every piece of my childhood, grief for all the moments we could’ve had and never did.
It’s ridiculous. She left. She never came back. She didn’t write, didn’t call, didn’t send a postcard.
But the moment my father says she’s dead, something inside me tears like a seam pulled too hard.
I sit down across from him because my knees won’t hold me. The picture between us feels heavier than anything I’ve ever carried.
For the first time in my life, I grieve for my mother.
Not the idea of her.
Her.
The woman I will never know.