Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Dakota
I wake up because Spur's mouth is on my inner thigh.
Hot, wet pressure traces upward, his beard scraping my skin in a delicious burn that pulls me from sleep.
Sunlight filters through the window, painting the bedroom in soft golds and pinks, the morning sky clear beyond the glass.
The quilt bunches around my waist, half kicked off in the night, leaving my legs splayed wide, exposed to him.
He's fresh from the shower—hair damp and tousled, droplets clinging to his broad shoulders.
Those black ink tattoos coil over his arms like shadows come alive, flexing as he grips my thigh, holding it open.
I blink down at him, heart stuttering. "What time is it?"
His eyes flick up, dark and hungry, lips glistening. "Doesn't matter."
He bites my hip softly, teeth sinking just enough to sting, then sucks the flesh into his mouth, marking me. "Gonna ravage you first."
A shiver races up my spine, pussy clenching with excitement.
His tongue flattens against my folds, lapping slow from entrance to clit.
I gasp, fingers twisting into the quilt beneath me.
He circles my clit with the tip of his tongue, deliberate laps that build pressure without mercy.
My hips twitch upward, seeking more, but his free hand splays flat on my belly, palm heavy and unyielding, pinning me to the mattress.
"Fuck, Spur," I moan, voice thick with sleep and need.
He doesn't answer with words—his mouth seals over my clit, sucking hard.
Tongue thrusts against it, flicking rapid then grinding broad strokes. Pleasure sparks, coiling tight in my core.
My thighs tremble, trying to clamp around his head, but he shoves them wider with his shoulders, elbows digging into the bed.
Sounds spill from me—raw, broken noises I don't recognize.
His beard rasps my sensitive skin, amplifying every lick, every pull.
He slides two thick fingers inside me, curling them against that spot deep within, pumping in at the same time his tongue is going wild.
My walls flutter around the intrusion, slick arousal coating his hand. "Tastes like you’re fuckin’ mine," he growls against my pussy, the vibration sending jolts through me.
I fist his damp hair, yanking him closer, grinding my clit against his face.
Stars burst behind my eyelids as the edge rushes up.
My body bows off the bed, toes curling into the sheets.
My orgasm crashes over me—pussy convulsing, juices flooding his mouth.
I cry out, name fracturing into gasps, thighs quaking around his ears.
He doesn't stop. Tongue laps through the spasms, fingers thrusting steady, drawing out every aftershock until I'm a writhing mess.
Oversensitive nerves scream, pleasure bordering pain. Finally, I tug his hair hard, pulling him up. "Spur—enough."
He rises slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, chin slick with my cum.
His cock juts hard against my thigh, thick vein pulsing along the shaft, head swollen and leaking pre-cum.
The femur scar twists down his left thigh, pale line stark against his tanned muscle.
Older scars etch his ribs—jagged reminders of a brutal life.
His chest heaves, that patch of dark hair across his sternum matted with sweat, trailing thin down his ripped abs.
"Good morning," he rasps, voice like gravel.
"Spur." I reach for him, fingers tracing his jaw. "Do this every morning."
"As you wish." He crashes his mouth to mine, tongue thrusting deep, sharing my tangy taste.
I suck on it, moaning into the kiss, hands roaming his back, nails scraping over scars.
He breaks away, trailing licks down my neck, slow and deep.
One hand cups my throat, thumb stroking my jaw—an echo of last night, possessive and tender.
His cock nudges my entrance, slick with my wetness.
He presses in gradual, inch by inch, stretching my pussy around his girth.
I whimper, legs wrapping his waist, heels digging into his ass.
Bottomed out, balls snug against me, he stills. Forehead to mine, breaths mingling. "Mine."
"Yes."
"Say you'll come back to this bed after Abilene."
"I'll come back to this bed." The words tumble out, vow sealed as he starts moving.
Slow, deep grinds—cock dragging along my walls, pelvis rubbing my clit with every roll. Pleasure rebuilds, lazy waves cresting higher.
His hand tightens on my throat, not choking, just holding—claiming.
Eyes lock on mine, burning. "Look at me."
I do, drowning in those depths. "I'm yours, Spur."
He groans, pace quickening. Hips snap harder, cock slamming deep, hitting that spot relentlessly.
The bed creaks under us, quilt tangling further.
Sweat slicks our skin, his chest hair tickling my breasts as he leans down, sucking a nipple into his mouth.
Teeth graze the peak, tongue swirling, while his free hand kneads the other globe, pinching until I arch.
"Tight little pussy," he mutters against my skin, voice wrecked. "Squeezing me like you never want me out." Thrusts turn punishing, balls slapping my ass.
My clit throbs under the grind of his pubic bone, fingers digging into his biceps, feeling tattoos shift under my nails.
A second orgasm builds fast, deeper this time—spreading from core to limbs. "Spur—fuck, I'm—" My words die as it hits.
My pussy clamps down, milking his cock in rhythmic pulses. Waves rip through me, vision blurring, body convulsing beneath him.
He follows with a roar, name tearing from his throat. "Dakota!"
His cock swells, then erupts, hot jets of cum painting my walls.
He grinds through it, prolonging my high, until another peak shudders over me, weaker but no less intense.
We collapse, his weight crushing me into the mattress—perfect, grounding.
His cock still buried deep, softening but plugging his seed inside.
His face buries in my hair, breaths hot puffs against my scalp.
His arm bands my waist, possessive hold.
I stroke his back, tracing scars, content in the tangle.
Neither of us moves. Not yet. The morning stretches lazy around us, the world outside forgotten.
He's mine. I'm his. And this—his mouth waking me, cock filling me, cum leaking slow between us—is heaven.
But he shifts eventually, nuzzling my neck. "Shower?"
"Mm."
He laughs against my neck—a low rumble I feel against my spine—and pulls out of me slowly.
I miss the fullness the second it's gone. He sees my face and his laugh goes softer.
"Cabin's not going anywhere, baby. Come here."
He pulls me up out of his bed and walks me to his bathroom.
The shower is small—one of those old ranch-cabin showers with cracked tile and a curtain that doesn't quite close all the way, and he steps in first and pulls me in after him, his hand at my hip the whole time.
The water hits warm. He gets me under it.
His hands move slowly over my shoulders, my back, the small of my waist where his thumb has lived since the tack room.
He turns me to face him.
"Stay still."
He squeezes shampoo into his palm and works it into my hair.
His fingers are slow, careful at my scalp the way they are with a colt's mane, the same calluses on the same hands, except this time the hands are mine.
I close my eyes.
Nobody has washed my hair since I was nine years old.
"Spur."
"Yeah."
"I forgot what this felt like."
"What what felt like?"
"Being taken care of."
His hands stop in my hair for a second, then they keep moving. "Get used to it, Dakota."
He rinses my hair under the water, his hand at the back of my neck holding me steady, his other thumb wiping the suds away from my temple before they hit my eyes.
He kisses my forehead under the water.
Then his eyes drop and he sees the marks.
The bruise on my collarbone. The bite at my hip.
The redder mark high on my throat where he held me last night.
He touches each one with his thumb like he's checking they're real.
"I marked you up."
"I noticed."
"You sore?"
"A little."
"Good."
I laugh—small, real—and he kisses my mouth under the water. His hand stays at my throat, gentle now, tracking the mark he left there.
We don't say anything else. He washes me. I wash him. The water goes cold before either of us is ready to get out.
But we have to.
"Spur. It's ten in the morning. We've been in this cabin since last night. Pops is going to find out from the prospects before we even get coffee."
He looks at me with the calm of a man who has already done this math. "Yeah, baby."
"You're not panicking?"
"I'm not."
"Why aren't you panicking?"
"Because I made my decision yesterday and it didn't change in my sleep."
He grabs a towel for each of us, handing me one as I’m speaking. "You're going to talk to him?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Right now."
I watch him dry himself off and get dressed, throwing on some boxers, socks, and a fresh pair of jeans.
It doesn’t take him long, and he’s fully dressed, ready for the day.
He turns around, takes his hat off the hook by the door, and holds his other hand out to me. "Coffee?"
"Spur."
"Coffee, Dakota. Then I go talk to your father. I’ll come back after."
"I should be there."
"No, baby."
"Don't baby me. He's my father."
"And he's my Prez. Ten years he and I have been standing across a table from each other. This conversation is mine to have first. Then yours."
I don't like it. I look at him for a long time and he waits the way Spur waits—flat eyes, still hands, no expression—and I lose the staring contest the way I always lose them with him.
"Fine."
"Thank you."
"You owe me, cowboy."
"Yeah."
He brings me coffee in one of his mugs, then walks back to the door.
He's putting his boots on when I come up behind him in one of his shirts.
"Hey," I say.
He looks up.
"Be careful with him."
"Dakota."
"He's my pops, Spur. Don't—" I stop, because I don't know how to finish the sentence. Don't make it worse, isn't right. Don't lose your patch, isn't right either. The truth is somewhere between the two and I don't have words for it yet.
He stands, cups my face in his hand, and kisses my forehead the way he kissed me in the shower.
"I know what your father is, Dakota. I've known him a long time now."
"Yeah."
"I'll be back."
He walks out.