Chapter 8 #2
The angle of the sun through my back window goes from straight overhead to sideways and the orange-gold light starts coming in across the boards.
It means it's almost six and Marlena will be putting rolls in the oven and Pops will be home from the south fence, and I have to make a choice.
I can stay in this cabin.
I can sit at this table and not move and let the night come.
I can let Spur sit on my porch all night the way he sat in a Hampton chair all night in Amarillo, and tomorrow morning we will both be ruined in the same way and we won’t have decided anything.
Or.
I stand up. I walk to my front door. Open it.
He doesn't turn around.
"Spur."
"Yeah."
"Get up."
He stands. Slowly.
Turns to face me with his hat in his hand, his eyes on mine, and his face the same face it was in the tack room this afternoon.
"Take me to your cabin," I say.
"Dakota."
"I'm not asking, Spur. I'm telling you. Take me to your cabin."
He looks at me for a few moments. "Yes, ma'am."
His cabin sits on the back edge of the compound, past the round pen, where the property breaks up into oak and the back pasture starts to slope down toward the creek.
I've never been inside.
He walks me down the path with his hand at the small of my back.
The mustang at the round pen rail watches us pass without lifting his head.
The sun is coming down red over the back pasture and the cicadas are starting up in the oaks. Somewhere across the property somebody's running a generator and the sound of it is small and far.
He unlocks the door and holds it open for me.
I walk past him into a room that smells like cedar, leather, and the soap I've been close enough to him to know.
It's small. Square.
One main room with a kitchen along the back wall and a bed against the side wall with a wood stove in the corner, and a window over the bed that looks out on the pasture.
A couch, a rocking chair, a rough plank coffee table he probably built himself.
Nothing on the walls. A coffee mug in the sink.
A book face-down on the arm of the couch. The whole room is the room of a man who lives alone and likes it.
He closes the door behind me.
I turn around.
He's standing with his back against the door, hat still in his hand, eyes on me, breathing the way he was breathing in the tack room.
"Spur."
"Yeah?"
"Last chance."
"Last chance for what?"
"Last chance to send me back to my cabin."
He drops his hat on the rocking chair and crosses the room.
He doesn't kiss me. Not yet.
He stops a foot from me and puts both his hands on the sides of my face like he's holding something he's afraid will break if he moves wrong, and his thumbs move slowly across my cheekbones.
He looks at me the way I’ve wanted this man to look at me since the day I laid my eyes on him.
"There's no sending you back, Dakota. Not anymore," he says.
"No?"
"You walked through that door. That's the whole thing. You walk back out, you walk back out. You stay, you're mine."
"Spur."
"I'm not going to be a man who shares you. I'm not going to be a man who pretends in front of your father. I'm not going to be a man who sleeps on your couch. So, if you came down this path to scratch an itch, you tell me now and I'll drive you back."
His thumbs are still moving on my cheekbones.
"And if I came down this path because I'm done waiting for you to make a damn move?"
"Then I'm going to ruin you for any other man who tries to look at you for the rest of your life."
I put my hand on his chest.
I feel his heart. Hard and fast.
The heart of a man who hasn't slept in two days and just walked the woman he wasn't supposed to want into his cabin.
"Ruin me, then," I say.
He kisses me.
The door's locked. I hear it click when his hand comes off the wood.
His lips brush mine, soft at first, testing, but there's no retreat this time.
The kiss deepens slowly, dangerously, his tongue slipping past my teeth to stroke mine with deliberate pressure.
I taste the faint salt of his skin, the heat of his breath mingling with mine as his hands slide from cradling my face into my hair.
Fingers tangle in the strands, tugging just enough to tilt my head back, exposing my throat.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing wet kisses down my jaw, then lower.
Lips press against the pulse hammering in my neck, teeth grazing lightly before sucking the skin there.
A shiver races through me as his palms glide over my collarbone, thumbs tracing the hollows, pushing my shirt's neckline aside.
He nips at the bone, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting, and I gasp, my back arching into him.
We shift without me realizing, my shoulders bumping the wall beside his bed.
The cool wood presses against my spine, a stark contrast to the fire building between us.
My fingers clutch the front of his cut, leather warm and worn under my nails.
I yank at the snaps, desperate to feel more of him, and he shrugs his shoulders, letting his heavy cut slide off.
He tosses it on his couch, but his hands don't pause.
They drop to the hem of my shirt, knuckles brushing the bare skin of my stomach.
He bunches the fabric upward inch by inch, calluses scraping deliciously as he exposes my midriff.
Our mouths crash back together, tongues thrusting harder now, while he peels the shirt higher, over my ribs, thumbs hooking under my bra to graze the undersides of my breasts.
I lift my arms to help, breaking the kiss for a moment as he drags the shirt off completely, tossing it aside.
Bare from the waist up, my skin prickles in the room's air, nipples hardening under his stare.
But he doesn't stop—his lips return to my throat, sucking harder, one hand cupping my breast, fingers rolling the peak until I moan into his hair.
The bed looms inches away, sheets rumpled, promising more as his other hand dips toward my jeans.
I’ve wanted this for so long that my body doesn't know how to receive it.
I'm shaking under his hands.
He notices and he stops.
"Hey."
"I'm not scared."
"I know."
"I'm just—"
"I know, Dakota."
His fingers hook into the waistband of my jeans, popping the button with a flick of his thumb.
The zipper rasps down, and he shoves the denim over my hips, yanking it along with my panties in one rough pull.
Cool air hits my exposed pussy, already slick and throbbing from his touch.
I kick the jeans free, legs bare now except for my socks, and he steps between my thighs, pressing them wider against the wall.
"Hey," he murmurs, voice gravelly, eyes locked on mine as his hand flattens low on my belly.
The heel of his palm grinds against my hip bone, possessive, while his fingers dip lower, parting my folds.
One thick finger circles my clit, slow and teasing, before sliding inside me.
I clench around it, hips bucking up.
His mouth claims mine again, unhurried, tongue delving deep as he adds a second finger, stretching me, pumping in a steady rhythm that builds heat low in my core.
He kisses along my jaw, down my throat, sucking the tender spot under my ear until I melt against him, shakes fading into trembles of need.
His thumb presses my clit in firm circles, and I grind against his hand, chasing the edge.
He scoops me up effortlessly, carrying me to the bed.
My ass hits the quilt first—thick and worn, saturated with his scent: sweat, leather, earth.
It envelops me as he lays me down, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of my hips.
He straightens, gripping the hem of his shirt and peeling it over his head in one fluid motion.
For the first time, I drink him in fully.
The jagged femur scar snaking down the outside of his left thigh, pale against tanned skin.
Older marks crisscrossing his ribs and abdomen, badges from a hard life.
Broad chest rippling with muscle from years outdoors, dusted with patchy hair across his sternum that thins into a trail vanishing into his jeans.
Black ink tattoos coil over his arms—skulls, saints, thorns—vivid and unbroken now.
He's beautiful and he's mine.
"Get over here, cowboy."
He climbs onto the bed, shedding his jeans and boxers in seconds.
His cock springs free, thick and veined, head flushed dark and leaking pre-cum.
It bobs heavy as he kneels between my legs, gripping my thighs to spread me wide.
He's slow, the first time. Agonizingly so.
His hands roam my body—palms dragging over my breasts, pinching my nipples until they ache—while he leans down to lick a stripe from my navel to my throat.
His cock nudges my entrance, slick with my arousal, but he doesn't thrust.
Instead, he rocks forward inch by torturous inch, filling me.
My pussy stretches around his girth, walls fluttering as he bottoms out, balls pressing against my ass.
I whimper, nails digging into his shoulders, urging him faster, but he holds still, buried deep, letting me adjust.
His mouth finds my neck, kissing soft, then sucking hard enough to bruise.
"Dakota," he groans into my skin, like a prayer and a vow.
He pulls back halfway, then slides home again, deliberate, grinding his pelvis against my clit with each thrust.
Sweat beads on his chest, dripping onto my breasts as the pace builds.
His hand splays flat and heavy on my belly, pinning me down while he tells me everything—voice rough, words spilling after years of being pent up.
"Gonna fuck you slow first, feel every clench of this tight pussy.
Been dreaming of you squeezing my cock for longer than I want to admit.
Wanted to bend you over, spread these thighs, lick you until you scream my name.
Now you're mine, Dakota. All fuckin’ mine. "
The slow drags turn punishing.
He slams into me harder, hips snapping, bed frame creaking under us.
His tattoos flex with every thrust, scars pulling taut.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper.
His mouth latches onto my collarbone, teeth biting as he growls "mine" into the bone, breath hot and ragged.
Pleasure coils tight in my core, his cock hitting that spot inside me brutally.
Fingers fist in his hair, yanking his head back so I can bite his shoulder, his name muffled against muscle.
He pounds faster, balls slapping my ass, free hand rubbing my clit in rough circles.
I shatter first, pussy convulsing around his cock, milking him as waves crash through me.
Stars burst behind my eyes, body arching off the quilt, a scream tearing from my throat.
He follows seconds later, thrusting deep one last time.
His face buries in my neck, arm banding tight around my waist, crushing me close.
A guttural groan rips from him—raw, primal—as his cock pulses, flooding my pussy with hot spurts of cum.
It overflows, trickling down my ass as he grinds through his release.
We stay tangled, his weight heavy and perfect on me.
His cock softens inside, plugging me full, breaths syncing as we catch air.
He doesn't pull out, and to be honest, I don't want him to.
After a long time he rolls to his side and pulls me with him.
My head on his chest. His arm across my waist.
His other hand in my hair, slow, tracking the same piece of hair from root to end and back.
Pops is going to find out by breakfast.
Ask me if I care.