Chapter 11 #2
"How long does it take?"
"An hour. Maybe less."
"Will it hurt?"
"Yes."
"Good."
She holds out her left wrist between us. "Spell it out, cowboy. I want the world to know whose I am."
I clean her wrist with the green soap. Pat it dry with a fresh gauze pad. Run the razor over the soft skin where her veins run blue under the surface—there's nothing to shave but I do it anyway because Ernesto taught me to.
She watches me work.
"You're nervous," she says.
"No, I’m not."
"Yeah, you are."
"I'm focused, Dakota."
"You're nervous, Spur. Your jaw's tight."
I look up at her. "I've put ink on five men, baby. I've never put ink on a woman. I've never put my name on a person's body. So yeah. I'm focused."
She smiles—the crooked one. "Okay, cowboy."
I draw the stencil on with a thin transfer marker—Spur in my own handwriting, lowercase, small, the way I've been writing it for as long as I've had the name.
The letters run down the inside of her wrist along the line of her vein.
Two and a half inches. Black.
She looks at the stencil. "That's pretty, cowboy."
"You sure that's where you want it?"
"I'm sure."
"Last chance to put it somewhere only I see it."
"I want everybody to see it, Spur."
I nod.
Gloves on. Needle cartridge open. Gun loaded. I turn it on and the buzz fills my small kitchen.
She doesn't flinch.
I take her wrist in my left hand and brace my right on the kitchen table the way Ernesto taught me—elbow planted, wrist loose, the weight of the gun carried in my palm and not my fingers.
I dip the needle in the ink. Tap once on the edge of the cup to clear the excess.
"Breathe, baby."
"I am. Are you?"
I laugh.
The needle touches her skin. She makes a small sound that isn't quite a gasp, then settles.
Her breathing goes slow on purpose, in and out the way she breathes before she asks Jaeger for a complicated turn.
I lay the first line. The ink goes under her skin and her skin opens to take it, the bead of blood rising and being wiped away by my thumb in the same motion I've done many times before with five other people, and her wrist stays steady in my hand.
She doesn't pull. Doesn't tense. Just watches me.
I look up at her once. She's looking at my face. Not at her wrist. At my face.
"What?"
"You're focused like I've never seen you."
"Don't say things like that while I'm holding a needle, Dakota."
She laughs, small and real, and I go back to the work.
The first letter takes nine minutes. The second goes faster. By the third I've found the rhythm I find when I'm working—gun an extension of my hand, ink an extension of the gun, breathe in time with the buzz and the press of the needle.
Her wrist stays steady. Her breath stays steady.
Sometimes she makes a small sound when the needle catches a more sensitive spot, and every time she makes the sound my body answers it before my brain does.
"Almost done, baby."
"Spur?"
"Yeah?"
"Look at me when you finish it."
I look at her.
I lay the last letter—the r at the end of my name—with her eyes on mine and her wrist warm in my hand and the morning light through my kitchen window falling across the side of her face.
I set the gun down. Take a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Wipe the last of the ink and blood with a fresh gauze, run the green soap over the work one more time, pat it dry. Then I wrap her wrist in clean gauze and tape it.
She watches me do it and doesn't speak.
When the wrap's tight, I bring her wrist to my mouth and kiss the edge of the gauze. I feel her pulse under my lips through the cotton, and I keep my mouth there a second longer than I have to.
"Show me," she says.
I unwrap a corner.
She looks down at her wrist.
Spur in small black letters on the inside of her left wrist, where her pulse runs.
She closes her eyes for a second, opens them and looks at me. "Take me to bed."
I carry her to the bed.
Lay her down gently on the soft sheets, her body sinking into the mattress as I hover over her, my eyes locked on hers.
Dakota's breath hitches, her chest rising and falling rapidly under my gaze.
I lean in, capturing her lips in a deep, claiming kiss, my tongue thrusting into her mouth, tasting her sweetness while my hands roam her curves possessively.
"You're mine, Dakota," I growl against her lips, my fingers hooking into the hem of her shirt and yanking it up over her head, exposing her full breasts.
Her nipples harden instantly in the cool air, begging for my touch.
I cup one breast, squeezing firmly, thumb rolling over the stiff peak as she arches into me with a soft moan.
She nods, eyes dark with need. "All yours, Spur. Take me."
I strip off her pants next, dragging them down her legs along with her panties, revealing her slick pussy already glistening for me.
My cock throbs in my jeans, straining to bury itself inside her.
But I take my time, spreading her thighs wide, kneeling between them. I lean down, inhaling her musky arousal before dragging my tongue flat along her folds, lapping up her juices.
She gasps, hips bucking as I suck her clit into my mouth, flicking it relentlessly while two fingers plunge into her tight heat, curling to hit that spot that makes her tremble.
"Fuck, Spur... yes, right there," she whimpers, her hands fisting the sheets.
I devour her pussy like a starving man, tongue thrusting in and out, lips sucking hard on her swollen clit until her thighs clamp around my head and she shatters, crying out as her orgasm breaks through.
I don’t stop until she's panting and oversensitive.
Rising up, I shed my clothes quickly, my thick cock springing free, precum beading at the tip.
Her eyes widen with hunger, reaching for me. "I need you inside me. Now."
"Not yet, baby," I murmur, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head with one hand.
My other hand strokes my cock, rubbing the head against her dripping entrance, teasing her.
She whines, trying to lift her hips to take me in.
I press forward slowly, inch by inch, stretching her walls around my girth.
Her pussy clenches greedily, sucking me deeper as I bottom out, balls pressed against her ass.
We both groan at the perfect fit.
I hold still for a moment, savoring the way she pulses around me, our foreheads touching. "Feel that? You're owning my cock just like I'm owning this pussy."
"God, yes... fuck me, Spur. Make me yours," she begs, legs wrapping around my waist.
I start thrusting, slow and deep at first, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, grinding my pelvis against her clit with each stroke.
Her tits bounce with the rhythm, and I release her wrists to pinch and twist her nipples, making her cry out.
Sweat slicks our bodies as I pick up speed, pounding into her harder, the bed creaking under us.
Her nails rake down my back, marking me as hers too.
"Mine," I grunt with every thrust, angling to hit her g-spot relentlessly. "This pussy, this body—fucking mine."
She meets every slam, her walls fluttering as another climax builds. "Yours! All yours! Harder!"
I flip her over suddenly, pulling her onto her knees.
Gripping her hips, I drive back into her from behind, one hand tangling in her hair to arch her back.
My other hand reaches around to rub her clit furiously while I fuck her hard.
The sight of my cock disappearing into her over and over, coated in her juices, pushes me closer to the edge.
"Cum for me again, Dakota. Milk my cock," I command, spanking her ass lightly, watching it jiggle.
She screams my name, pussy convulsing violently as she squirts around me.
The tight spasms yank my own release from me—I roar, burying deep and flooding her insides, filling her until she’s practically overflowing.
We collapse together, my body covering hers protectively, cock still twitching inside her as we catch our breath.
After a long time she falls asleep against me with my cock still soft inside her, her wrapped wrist on my back and her breath even at my collarbone.
I don't sleep.
I lie there and look at the ceiling of my cabin and think about the woman in my bed with my name on her wrist.
Then my mind shifts to the man somewhere in Texas who has been writing her notes thinking he gets to be part of her story.
He doesn't.
Tomorrow morning we’ll drive to Abilene, and everything will change.
* * *
I’m up before the sun. Dakota asleep in my bed, gauze on her wrist, hand near her face the way she sleeps. The mark under the gauze.
I dress in the dark. Boots, jeans, clean shirt, cut.
In the kitchen I pack the cooler—coffee in two thermoses, water, the protein bars Dakota eats before she rides because they don't sit heavy.
The cigarette in its sandwich bag goes in my saddle bag with my piece and two extra mags.
I walk to the main barn in the dark.
Jaeger's awake when I open his stall door.
I clip on his lead, walk him to the trailer parked at the side of the barn.
He loads without being asked, I latch the door behind him, then I check the saddle.
It's in the trailer's tack compartment where Dakota left it Wednesday night.
I pull it out into the gravel under the barn light and run my hands over every inch of leather.
Cantle. Horn. Rigging. The skirts on both sides. The girth straps. The latigo.
The cinch—the same practice cinch she's been using all season, leather worn soft at the spots her boot heels rest, the buckle clean, the strap whole.
I run my thumb along the full length of it. Test the fibers. Check the keeper.
Whole. Intact. Good.
I put the saddle back, latch the compartment, and lock it before walking back to the cabin to wake her.
I wake her at four with a coffee in my hand.
She blinks up at me sleep-soft and unguarded for one second before she remembers what day it is, and then she's up—boots on, jeans on, hair braided fresh, gauze rewrapped with new tape.
She tugs the cuff of her shirt down over the gauze without thinking about it.
We drive across the property to pick up Rogue at the clubhouse.
He's on the porch with a duffle bag at his feet and his laptop case slung across his chest.
He climbs into the back seat of my Ford without speaking.
Phantom comes out of the main house as we're pulling around to the gate, puts his hand on the driver's window.
I roll it down. "Spur."
"Prez."
"Bring her home in one piece."
"Yes, Prez."
He looks past me at Dakota in the passenger seat.
His eyes drop to her wrist where the cuff is pulled down over the gauze, and he holds my eyes again for a second longer than he needs to.
He doesn't say anything, but he pats the door of my Ford twice and steps back.
I roll the window up.
We pull through the front gate of the ranch at four-thirty in the morning.
Whatever's coming for her at Abilene, my name's on her now.
Let him see it. Let him understand what it means if you try to come for what’s mine.