Chapter 4 Ina
Four
Ina
Mr. Redding starts talking bulls. I latch onto the conversation like it’s a life raft. We walk through the main bullpen together, eyeing a few studs, talking bloodlines and breeding charts. I even manage to sound normal. Professional. Like a woman whose only interest in breeding is bovine.
Beau walks next to us. Quiet. His long stride keeping easy pace with mine.
I catch him in my peripheral: the way his forearms flex when he gestures toward a pen, the way his big hand rests on the top rail of a fence, his thick fingers curling over the metal.
The way his shirt pulls across the plane of his back every time he turns.
I’m supposed to be looking at bulls. I’m looking at him.
Then a ranch hand jogs over to Mr. Redding, drawing his attention. “You two keep going,” he says, waving us forward. “Beau knows this stuff better than I do. I need to take care of this.”
And just like that, I’m alone with Beau Redding. Again.
We walk in silence. The sun is hot, the air thick with dust and heat. I keep my eyes forward. My arms crossed. My jaw set. Professional. Composed. Absolutely not thinking about his fingers inside me.
But I can feel him right next to me. His huge body throwing off heat that has nothing to do with the sun.
Every few steps, his arm brushes mine, his bare skin against my bare skin, and the contact sparks through me like a lit match.
He smells like leather and sweat and cedar, and every breath I take pulls him deeper into my lungs.
He leads me to a smaller pen. Secluded. Quiet. Just one bull and a cow in close quarters.
“Natural breeding,” he rasps. “No artificial insemination. Just instinct.”
I lean against the fence, gripping the top rail with both hands.
Trying to act like I’m not vibrating out of my skin.
The metal is sun-warm under my palms. The bull is pacing.
Sniffing. Circling the cow with a slow, deliberate focus that reminds me of someone I’m trying very hard not to look at right now.
Beau steps behind me. Close. Not touching, but close enough that his chest almost grazes my back. I feel the heat of his body like a wall. His scent wraps around me, stronger now, mixed with sweat and dust. His breath moves my hair.
“You see what he’s doing?” he murmurs. His lips are close enough to my ear that I feel the vibration of his voice in my jaw, my throat, and down my spine. “He’s testing her. Reading her. Waiting for the right moment.”
I grip the fence rail tighter. My knuckles going white. My pulse pounding between my legs.
“She’s in heat,” Beau continues. Low. Unhurried. Like we’re still talking about cattle. Like he’s not doing exactly what the bull is doing. “He can smell it on her. Knows she’s ready before she does.”
I swallow hard. “Beau…”
“He’s patient because he doesn’t need to rush.” His body shifts. His chest presses against my back now. Solid. Warm. Massive. I can feel the hard ridge of his pecs, the flat plane of his stomach, the heat of his skin through thin layers of cotton. “He knows she’s his.”
My breathing goes shallow. My thighs press together. Every word out of his mouth is landing somewhere below my navel and detonating.
“That sweet little pussy of yours?” he breathes, so low I almost don’t hear it. Almost. His lips brush the shell of my ear, and my entire body breaks out in goosebumps. “She gave herself to me last night.”
I gasp. My hands tighten on the rail.
“Beau, we can’t… that was…”
His hand slides around my waist. Firm. Possessive. I feel every finger pressing into my stomach through my shirt. His thumb stroking a slow circle on my hipbone. His palm is hot. Huge. Spanning half my waist.
“Shhh.” His lips brush my ear again. “Just watch.”
So I watch. The bull mounts the cow. Powerful, instinctive, primal. And behind me, Beau’s hand drifts lower. His calloused fingers trace the waistband of my jeans. Slowly. One finger sliding just under the denim, dragging across my skin. Giving me time to stop him.
I don’t.
He pops the button. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet pen.
He slides the zipper down…slow, deliberate, tooth by tooth…
and his hand slips inside. Past the waistband of my panties.
Down. His thick, rough fingers part me, and he lets out a low groan against my neck.
I feel the vibration against my skin. Feel his chest expand behind me with a sharp inhale.
Like touching me undid something in him.
“Soaked,” he murmurs. “Already. Just from my voice?”
I bite my lip so hard it stings. He doesn’t wait for an answer.
He strokes me slow. Two thick fingers sliding through the slick heat, parting me, spreading me.
Then deeper. Pressing inside with a confidence that makes my knees buckle.
I feel his knuckles, the rough texture of his skin, the sheer thickness of his fingers stretching me.
“Feel that?” he whispers, curling his fingers against my front wall. I choke on a moan. “Tight little pussy like this? Gotta get you ready for me.”
Oh God. Oh God. I’m gripping the fence with both hands, my head dropping forward, my breathing ragged. The metal bites into my palms. He pumps his fingers slow and deep. Then adds a third. Stretching me. Filling me. I feel every thick knuckle push inside.
“When I fuck you,” he says against the side of my neck, his stubble scraping my skin, his full lips dragging hot over my pulse point, “it won’t be gentle.”
My pussy clenches hard around his fingers.
“I want you sore. Leaking. Split open on me.”
I shatter. My body seizes, my mouth falls open in a silent scream, and I come so hard around his hand that my legs nearly give out.
He catches me. One arm banded around my waist, his massive body bracing mine, his fingers still buried inside me as I pulse and clench and fall apart against his chest.
He holds me through every wave. Patient. Steady. His lips pressing soft against my temple. His breath, warm in my hair. When the last tremor fades and I’m trembling, boneless, he pulls his hand free. Gently. I feel the slow drag of his fingers leaving me and whimper at the emptiness.
Then he turns me around. And I see his face.
His golden eyes are dark. Blown wide. His jaw is clenched so hard, the muscle ticks.
His full lips are parted, his chest heaving.
There’s a flush crawling up his neck. And behind his zipper…
which I can now see because I’m facing him…
he’s rock hard. Straining against the denim.
Huge and thick and impossible to ignore.
He’s wrecked. This big, quiet, sure man is barely holding it together. And knowing I did that to him, knowing my coming on his hand made him look like this, does something to me that’s deeper than any orgasm.
He kisses me. Long. Deep. Thorough. His rough hands cradling my face like I’m something precious while his tongue claims my mouth like I’m something owned. It’s both things at once. Tender and savage. Like he wants to ruin me softly.
When he finally pulls back, I’m panting. Dazed. Standing in a bullpen on a man’s family ranch with my jeans undone and my brain in another zip code.
What the hell is happening to my life?
He tucks a braid behind my ear. His calloused fingertip traces the curve of my earlobe, my jaw, my chin. Then he zips my jeans back up with careful hands. Buttons them. Presses a kiss to my temple.
“Stay,” he says quietly. “Just for a minute.”
I don’t move. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. He wraps an arm around me from behind, his chin resting on the top of my head. I feel his heartbeat against my back…hard, fast, not as steady as he looks. His arms are warm and heavy around me. His chest rises and falls against my spine.
We just stand there. Breathing. The dust settling. The bull and cow calm now, standing side by side like nothing happened.
Must be nice to not overthink everything.
Eventually, I find my voice. “We should get back.”
He nods into the crook of my neck. His stubble grazes my skin. One more beat. One more kiss pressed to my shoulder, his full lips soft against the bare skin where my shirt has shifted. Then he lets go.
We walk back to the main barn in silence, but he keeps his hand spread across the small of my back.
His palm, wide and hot through the fabric of my shirt.
His fingers curving around my side, his thumb stroking a slow rhythm against my spine.
I feel every callus. Every ridge. My body moving in sync with his, his scent still wrapped around me.
I’m completely surrounded by him. Inside and out.
Mr. Redding spots us from across the yard. “So, how’d it go?”
I almost choke. How’d it go? Your son just finger-fucked me next to your prize bull while narrating a breeding demonstration, and I saw God, sir. But sure. Let’s chat.
I clear my throat. “Good. Really informative.”
Beau doesn’t even flinch. Stone-cold poker face. Meanwhile, I’m standing here with shaking hands and soaked panties trying to discuss cattle genetics with his father. This is fine.
Mr. Redding grins. “You wanna come to the house for a minute? My wife would be really happy to see you.”
“Oh, I…” I fumble. “I really have to get going, Mr. Redding.”
“Next time then,” he says kindly, already turning back to the barn.
I reach out for a goodbye handshake, and Beau takes my hand.
And again, he doesn’t let go right away.
But this time is different. This time his thumb presses into the center of my palm …
right where his hand first held mine at the fair …
and strokes slow. My breath catches. And I don’t pull back.
I let his rough thumb trace circles against my skin for a beat too long.
Both of us standing there, holding on, while his father’s twenty feet away.
When I finally let go, something in his golden eyes shifts. Softens. Like me not pulling away told him more than any words could.
The drive home is a mess.
I’m replaying everything. His voice in my ear…
low, dark, so close I felt it in my teeth.
She gave herself to me last night. His thick fingers stretching me open.
Gotta get you ready for me. The groan he let out when he felt how wet I was.
The look on his face when I turned around…
golden eyes blown dark, jaw clenched, cock straining behind his jeans. Wrecked. Because of me.
And the way he held me after. Arms wrapped tight. Chin on my head. Heart hammering against my back. Like I wasn’t just a hookup. Like I was something he’d been waiting for.
That’s the part that scares me.
Because I know what it feels like when a man wants your body. Mark wanted my body. Wanted it enough to marry me, have kids, and build a life together. And then he wanted someone else more. Wanting is never the problem. Staying is.
Beau Redding wants me. That much is obvious. But wanting and staying aren’t the same thing. And I’m not sure I survive learning that lesson twice.
I’m halfway through kicking my own ass when my phone buzzes. My best friend, Tanya.
Neon Saloon tonight. Wear boots and a good bra.
I start typing, no, then pause. Because I know exactly what my night will look like if I stay home.
Sitting on that porch. Sipping lemonade.
Replaying the taste of his mouth and the feel of his hands.
Waiting for the sound of tires on gravel.
Hoping he shows up again. Praying he doesn’t. Both at the same damn time.
Fuck that.
I delete my reply and type: What time?