Chapter 13 Ina
Thirteen
Ina
Lilah shows up the next day with two suitcases, a bag of dirty laundry, and an attitude.
“So,” she says, dropping everything in the hallway and planting her hands on her hips. She’s got my face and her father’s height and zero patience for small talk. “Where’s the bull man?”
“His name is Beau.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s coming for dinner.”
Her whole face lights up. “I’m meeting the bull man. Mom. I need to shower.”
“You look fine.”
“I look like a Greyhound bus. What time is he coming? What are we eating? Does he know I have questions?”
“Lilah…”
“Because I have a lot of questions.”
She disappears upstairs with her suitcases. I lean against the wall and exhale. My daughter is home. My man is coming for dinner. And I’m about to watch the two most intense people I know sit across a table from each other and see who blinks first.
I cook the way my mother taught me. Pot roast, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted green beans, fresh rolls.
The house smells of butter and rosemary, and I change my shirt twice before putting the first one back on.
The black V-neck. It makes my tits look good without trying too hard.
Not that I’m trying. I’m a mother hosting a family dinner.
A responsible, mature, dignified woman who definitely did not let this man bend her over his kitchen counter yesterday afternoon.
Lilah comes back down looking like she’s about to conduct a job interview. Hair done. Earrings. The works.
“You dressed up,” I say.
“I’m the gatekeeper. Presentation matters.”
I hear the truck at six sharp. My stomach flips. My nipples tighten. Pavlov’s truck, apparently.
Then the door opens and Beau steps out.
He’s wearing a dark blue button-down tonight.
Rolled up to the elbows …because God forbid this man ever cover his forearms. Tanned, veined, corded with muscle.
The shirt stretches across his chest, the top two buttons undone, showing the hollow of his throat and a glimpse of the dark hair on his chest that I’ve had my face buried in every night this week.
Clean jeans sitting low on his hips. Nice boots.
No hat …his thick dark hair pushed back but already falling over his forehead in that way that makes him look younger and makes me want to push it back with my fingers.
He’s holding wildflowers in one hand. His golden eyes find mine through the screen door. And his whole face shifts. That jaw unclenches. His full lips soften. He looks at me like… My clit pulses. Over a man holding wildflowers on my porch. While my daughter stands three feet away. I need Jesus.
Lilah presses her face to the screen. “Oh,” she says. Then louder: “Oh. Okay. I get it.”
“Lilah.”
“No, Mom, I get it. He looks like if a Yellowstone character got a PhD.”
“Please don’t embarrass me.”
“No promises.”
I open the door. Beau climbs the steps in that slow, steady stride that makes my belly tighten and my thighs press together every single time, and stops in front of us.
He’s so big he blocks the porch light. His scent hits me first …
cedar, leather, clean skin. Then his eyes.
Gold and warm and locked on me for a beat too long before he shifts to Lilah.
He holds out the flowers. “For you.” Looking at Lilah. “I’m Beau.”
He extends his hand. My daughter looks at his massive palm and shakes it.
“I’m Lilah. I have questions.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She giggles. “Sir, don’t ma’am me, I’m twenty.”
His mouth twitches. “Noted.”
She studies him, then turns to me, smirking teasingly. “He’s polite. That’s suspicious.”
Dinner starts as an interrogation and turns into something I wasn’t expecting.
Lilah opens with the basics …school, career, how long he’s been back.
Beau answers with that quiet patience that makes me melt.
No performing. No trying too hard. Just his low, steady voice and honest answers while he eats my pot roast like it’s the best thing he’s ever had.
He compliments the food twice. The second time he looks at me across the table and says, “You keep feeding me like this and I’m never leaving. ”
My face flushes. Lilah catches it. Files it away. Says nothing. Smart girl.
I try to focus on the conversation, but my eyes keep drifting to his hands.
His thick fingers wrapped around his fork.
The way his forearm flexes when he cuts his meat.
The controlled, precise movements …same hands that pin my wrists above my head and hold me open for his mouth.
Same fingers that curl inside me and find the spot that makes me scream.
Now they’re buttering a roll at my dinner table while my daughter asks about his undergraduate thesis.
This is surreal.
“So you studied behavioral genetics,” Lilah says, leaning forward. She’s not testing him anymore. She’s interested. “Like what, specifically?”
“Reproductive behavior in bovids. How genetics influence mate selection, fertility markers, and breeding success.” He glances at me. Just a flicker. His golden eyes holding a heat only I can read. “Instinct versus learned behavior.”
I take a large sip of water and look at the ceiling.
“That’s actually really cool,” Lilah says. “My bio professor would love you. Can I call you Daddy Bull Guy?”
“No,” we both say at the same time, making her laugh.
“It’s already on my phone.”
Beau looks at me. I shrug. His full lips curve …barely, but I see it. I know that almost-smile. I know what that mouth looks like wrapped around my nipple, pressed between my thighs, grinning against my neck after he makes me come. And now it’s almost-smiling at my daughter’s joke over pot roast.
The contrast is doing things to me. Filthy, inappropriate, shouldn’t-be-happening-at-the-dinner-table things.
Because there’s something about watching this enormous, dominant, possessive man be gentle and patient with my kid that makes me want to drag him to my bedroom and fuck him until the headboard cracks.
I refill my glass. Lilah’s still talking.
“So. You like my mom?”
The table goes still. I open my mouth, but Beau’s already looking at Lilah. Direct. Calm. His eyes, steady.
“I’m in love with your mom.”
Lilah blinks. I choke on my water. He says it the way he says everything …like a fact. Like gravity. The sky is up. Water’s wet. He loves me.
My daughter stares at him. Then at me. Then back at him.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Respect. That was direct.” She points her fork at him. “But if you hurt her, I’m making your life hell. I know people.”
“You don’t know people,” I manage.
“I know people adjacent. I could know people.”
Beau laughs. A real laugh. Short, surprised, showing his teeth.
It creases the corners of his eyes and changes his whole face.
For a second he doesn’t look like the brooding cowboy who pins me to walls and talks about breeding me.
He just looks like a sweet, amused, slightly overwhelmed guy sitting at his girlfriend’s dinner table being threatened by her twenty-year-old daughter.
And I love him so much in that moment I can barely breathe.
After dinner, Lilah FaceTimes Miles. “He needs to see the bull man,” she says, already dialing.
Miles picks up on the fourth ring. He has headphones on and is sitting in his messy dorm room. The disinterested face of an eighteen-year-old boy who was mid-game.
“What.”
“Mom’s boyfriend is here.”
She flips the camera before I can stop her. Beau raises a hand. “Hey, Miles.”
My son squints at the screen. Takes in the chest, the jaw, the general enormity. “You’re the bull guy?”
“I’m Beau.”
“Cool.” Pause. “You wrestle bulls and stuff?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s sick.” Another pause. Shorter this time. “You being nice to my mom?”
My chest clenches. Because that’s my Miles. Doesn’t say much. Doesn’t show much. But that question…asked flat, casual, like he couldn’t care less…that’s my baby boy checking on me from miles away.
Beau leans toward the screen slightly. “Yeah. I am.”
Miles nods once. “Aight. Can I go?”
“Bye, baby,” I call.
“Bye, Mom. Later, bull guy.”
Gone. Lilah grins. Beau looks at me and I can see it in his face …his golden eyes soft, his jaw relaxed, his whole expression open in a way I rarely see outside of bed. He sees my kids. Sees the whole messy, beautiful package. And he wants all of it.
Lilah hugs Beau on her way upstairs. Quick, easy, like she’s already decided he belongs here. His gigantic body stiffens for half a second …surprised …then his arm comes around her. Careful. Gentle. Like he knows exactly how to hold something that matters.
I watch from the kitchen door, and my heart does something dangerous, permanent.
Then we’re alone. Kitchen warm. Dishes in the sink. And Beau’s leaning against my counter with his sleeves still rolled up, his golden eyes tracking me across the room. His body relaxed. Taking up space. Filling my kitchen with his scent, his warmth, and his quiet, steady certainty.
“Your kids are something else,” he says.
“They’re insane.”
“I like them.”
I walk to him. He opens his arms, and I step between his legs and press my face into his chest. His shirt is warm, his heartbeat steady under my cheek, his arms wrap around me …
big, heavy, sure. One hand settling on the small of my back.
The other in my hair, his rough fingers threading through my braids.
“Thank you,” I say into his chest.
His chin rests on my head. “For what?”
“Being real with them. Not performing.”
His hand tightens in my hair. His voice drops low. “I told your daughter I love you before I told you.”
I pull back. Look up at him. That square jaw. His full lips. The gold eyes looking down at me like I’m everything.
“So, tell me.”
He cups my face in both hands. His rough palms, warm on my cheeks. His thumbs stroking under my eyes. He leans down until his forehead rests against mine, and I can feel his breath on my lips.
“I love you, Ina.”
Low. Quiet. Certain. Like it’s been true for longer than he’s known me.
“I love you too.” My hands find his chest, sliding up to his neck. I feel his pulse jump under my palm. Fast. He’s not as calm as he looks. “Now take me to bed before my daughter hears something she can’t un-hear.”
His golden eyes flash dark. His hands slide from my face to my ass. He grips. Lifts. I wrap my legs around him and he carries me out of the kitchen, his mouth on my neck, my hand clamped over my mouth to keep from moaning on the stairs.
“Quiet,” he murmurs against my throat. His stubble scraping my skin. His lips dragging hot over my pulse.
“Then stop doing that.”
He does it harder. I bite my hand.
My bedroom door closes behind us, and he lays me down on my bed. Climbs over me. Cages me in with his massive arms. Looks down at me with his burning eyes.
“Watching you with your kids,” he says, his voice rough. His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my dress up. “Watching you be a mom. The way you love them.” His fingers hook my panties. Start pulling them down. “Makes me want to give you more.”
My breath catches. “More kids?”
He settles between my thighs. I feel the thick press of him through his jeans. His mouth brushes mine.
“More everything.”
And he shows me exactly what he means. Quietly. Thoroughly. With his hand over my mouth when I can’t keep it down. Until the only sound in the room is the creak of my bed and his low voice in my ear telling me I’m his and I’m perfect and he’s going to fill me up and keep me full forever.