LARK #2
Hudson gives us a long look, arching his brow. “You two might as well just kiss if you’re gonna stand there like that.”
Boone barks out a laugh—sharp and full of something unhinged—and the next second, he’s spinning me around so fast I let out a yelp, catching my chin in his hand as he kisses me.
His mouth crashes into mine—hot, certain, hungry.
His tongue sweeps against mine like he’s trying to remind my body who it belongs to.
It tangles with mine—confident, coaxing—like we’ve done this a hundred times but somehow it still feels brand new.
His teeth catch my bottom lip, just enough to make me shiver.
My hands fist in the front of his shirt before I can think. His other hand finds my lower back, sliding down, gripping my ass with enough pressure to pull a gasp from my throat—but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he deepens it.
And I forget everything—Hudson, the rope, the air between us that was supposed to stay casual.
Until Hudson groans behind us. “Oh my God. This is so gross. You can stop now. I’m begging you.”
Boone chuckles against my mouth, then presses one last, slow kiss to the corner of my lips before pulling back—barely.
His hand stays anchored at my waist. His eyes are locked on mine, heat still burning behind them.
I clear my throat, trying to act like I’m still in control of any part of myself. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to kiss your student, cowboy.”
Boone just grins, thumb brushing along my hipbone like he’s not ready to let go. “Guess I’m not big on rules.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile, gripping the rope like it might keep me grounded. “Let’s see if I can actually land this thing now.”
Boone steps back, arms crossed, watching me like I just became the most interesting thing on the ranch.
I exhale, roll my shoulders, and swing the rope.
It sails clean through the air and lands squarely around the post—tight, perfect, like I knew what I was doing the whole time.
Boone throws both arms in the air. “That’s my girl!”
Hudson jumps up like his team just won the World Series. “Mom! That was sick! ”
My smile stretches wide, chest tight with something warm and stupidly soft. The pride in Hudson’s voice. The way Boone’s looking at me like I’m his whole world. It hits me harder than it should.
And then a voice cuts through the air.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
We all turn.
Molly’s standing at the edge of the yard, red hair twisted up in a claw clip, one brow arched in amusement. Her eyes flick from me to Boone, and her smile says everything she’s not about to say out loud.
“Grandma!” Hudson turns toward the house, beaming. “Did you see that? Mom just roped the post like a total badass.”
“Hudson!” I gasp, narrowing my eyes at him. “Language!”
Molly laughs and walks toward us, hands tucked into the pockets of her apron. “I sure did. You’re lucky I wasn’t out here—I would’ve shown you both up.”
Boone chuckles. “That, I believe. ”
She rests a hand on Hudson’s shoulder, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Dinner’s ready. Come on up when you’re done playing cowboy.”
Boone glances over at me. “What do you think? Stay?”
I nod, but hold up a finger. “Hang on.”
I cross to my bag and dig through it, fingers closing around the stack I’ve carried with me for weeks now. Photos. The edges worn soft from flipping through them too many times. I turn, step toward Molly, and press them gently into her hands.
“I want you to have these.”
Her expression softens. She takes the pictures, her fingers careful as she flips through the first few.
Hudson in every stage—chubby baby cheeks, gap-toothed smiles, birthday hats and superhero masks, dirt smudged and sticky-fingered and so very him.
“I know I can’t give you the years back,” I say, my voice quieter now, tight with nerves. “I know I can’t fix what was missed. But I can give you these.”
She looks up at me with glassy eyes, then without a word, wraps her arms around me. Pulls me in tight. Warm and strong. Familiar in a way that lodges something thick in my throat.
“Oh, little bird,” she whispers, her voice cracked with emotion. “You don’t know what this means to me.”
My breath catches at the nickname. I haven’t heard it in years.
She pulls back just enough to swipe under her eyes, still laughing softly. “Why is Hudson in a Spider-Man costume in half of these?”
I smile. “Because for two straight years, I couldn’t convince him to wear anything else. Even to the grocery store.”
Molly laughs again, hugging the photos to her chest. “He’s nothing if not committed.”
Boone moves in beside me, his hand finding the small of my back.
Molly wipes her hands on her apron and steps back. “Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh rolls. Apple pie’s on the counter, still warm. If y’all don’t hurry, that boy of yours is gonna eat half of it before we get there.”
Boone clears his throat beside me. “We’ve got a few things to wrap up in the barn. We’ll be up soon.”
Molly glances between us, that knowing glint in her eye, but bless her, she just nods, turns toward the house, and doesn’t say a word.
Hudson bolts after her, yelling something about dibs on the biggest roll.
And for a moment, I just watch them go. My chest aches in the best kind of way. Like I’m standing in the middle of something good. Something I didn’t think I’d get to have.
Boone’s voice pulls me back. “That was a really nice thing you did.”
I shrug, looking up at him. “Molly’s always been good to me. I just wanted to give a little of that back.”
His gaze stays on me longer than it should. Like he’s seeing something in me I haven’t let anyone else see in a long time.
I clear my throat, forcing a smile. “So. What exactly are we putting away in the barn?”
He grabs the rope off the post, winding it around his forearm, his grin slow and full of trouble. “You’ll see.”
I narrow my eyes, but follow him anyway.
The walk to the barn is quiet, the kind that hums with something unspoken. The sun’s slipping below the horizon, the sky washed in soft gold and peach. The barn doors creak as Boone pushes them open, and the scent of hay, cedar, and leather spills out.
Inside, it’s dim. Still. The light overhead casts a golden halo over the worn wooden floor, the hay bales stacked high in the loft above. Horses shuffle in their stalls, the sound low and rhythmic, familiar.
I step inside, arms crossed. “Looks fine to me.”
I barely get the words out before Boone’s mouth is on mine.
His hands grip my waist, pulling me flush against him, and his mouth—God, his mouth—is all desperation and memory and promise. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, slow but sure, like he’s taking his time.
He kicks the barn door shut behind us, the deep thud echoing in the stillness. And just like that, it’s just us.
I let out a surprised sound, something between a gasp and a laugh, as Boone lifts me like I weigh less than a breath.
His grip is strong, arms tightening around my thighs as my legs lock around his waist. I feel everything—his chest against mine, the burn of his skin through my shirt, the flex of muscle under my fingertips.
He doesn’t kiss me right away. Just looks at me—really looks at me. Like he’s waiting for me to tell him no, making sure this is what I want.
It is.
So I lean in, just a little. And that’s all it takes.
His mouth finds mine, and it’s all heat and friction—but not rushed. His lips move against mine like he’s reacquainting himself with every angle, every sound I make. His tongue slides against mine, slow and intentional, and I feel it all the way down my spine.
“Has anyone ever told you how barbaric you are?” I murmur against his mouth, smiling even as I try to catch my breath.
He pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes, his lips already swollen, his grin slow and shameless. “Only you.”
By the time we hit the hayloft, I’m breathing hard. Boone sets me down on the edge of an old blanket spread across the boards like he planned it, and he’s already got his hands under my shirt, pushing it up and over my head in one smooth motion.
Then he’s at my jeans, fingers working the button, tugging the denim down my thighs like he can’t stand another second of me being covered. I reach for his shirt, but he beats me to it, pulling it off with one hand behind his neck, tossing it to the side like he couldn’t care less where it lands.
And then I’m just looking.
Chest, abs, shoulders—all of him carved and solid and golden in the slant of light coming through the upper window. His belt comes next, then the denim drops, pooling around his ankles.
The outline of him under his briefs is impossible to ignore—hard, straining, ready.
I don’t wait. I sink to my knees and drag them down, my breath catching as his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already hard. My hand wraps around him, instinctive, fingers barely closing at the base.
“Fuck, Lark…” His voice is low. Strained. One hand fists in my hair, the other bracing against the edge of the loft like he needs something to hold on to.
I run my thumb over the head, slow and filthy, smearing the bead of pre-cum until his hips twitch into my hand.
“You miss this?” I ask quietly, still stroking him. “The way I touch you like you’re mine?”
His eyes snap shut. “I am yours.”
I don’t say anything else.
I just lower my mouth to him and take him in—slow, deep, unhurried. My tongue traces the underside, my lips tightening around him as I move. I feel his whole body tense, hear the way his breath cuts short in his throat.
“I think about this every night,” he says, breath uneven, voice rough. “Laying in the dark, my fist wrapped around my dick, stroking it slow—pretending it’s your mouth.”
I suck harder, dragging him deeper, and feel his whole body seize for a second—like he’s on the edge and barely holding on.
“I never last long when I think about you like this,” he admits. “I always come fast. Too fast. And it never fucking compares.”