13. Dalton #2
My breath was short in my throat as we made our way along the edge of the river.
There wasn’t really a path, more like a wide space made by feet walking here, perhaps since long ago.
Perhaps for centuries. Tall wild grasses tapped against gray stones and, as I walked, I could hear the crunch of last year’s dried pine needles beneath my boots.
It wasn’t just a stroll, no. It was a good ten minutes of his long legs working and me trying to keep up. He had to let go of my hand when the way grew narrow and rose into a short scramble between rain-speckled boulders.
We were out of the trees and along an open bank, and there, just up ahead on a flat bit of land, was a bend in the river, lined with gravel that slowed it down.
By the banks, a cluster of cottonwoods grew, heart-shaped leaves shiny and fluttering in the breeze.
I could feel the rain like a mist and turned my face up to look at the wool-gray clouds puffing and shifting.
Jake paused and held out his hand for me to take.
If the ranch felt like another world, this, this moment when I took Jake’s hand and let him tug me onward, felt like a fairy tale. We walked to the trees and stopped beneath them.
Right next to the trunk of the largest cottonwood tree in the group, Jake let go of my hand and turned to me, head dipped down as he looked directly into my eyes. “Can you hear them?” he asked. “You can if you listen.”
I listened hard. Harder than I ever had in my life, in the hopes of hearing what he wanted me to.
It was faint. A short whistle. Or a chirp. I saw flutters that I thought were branches brushing against each other, but then a dark triangle swooped through the air before disappearing.
“It’s the bats,” I said, not hiding my wonder and delight. Not being city-sophisticated at all. Not at all. Instead reaching out for something I’d never known existed. A moment like this.
“Yes,” he said. Then he stepped closer and reached to touch my forehead. “Does your head ache at all?”
“No,” I said, though I wished at that moment that it did. So he’d be even more attentive. Step even closer.
“This’ll make it better,” he said. “At least, that’s what one of the foster mothers used to say.”
“Which one?” I asked, wondering if I’d heard rightly, that there’d been more than one.
“The nice one,” he said. Then he kissed my forehead, right near the cut, his hand cupping the back of my head, surrounding me with warmth and energy until I was floating.
He stepped back, and his fingers trailed from the back of my head. In his eyes was an earnest, solemn expression. Watchful. Waiting. “I might be too forward,” he said, husky and low.
In any other lifetime, I would have teased. Made a joke. Made light of the feelings inside me coming down like flint-headed arrows landing, pinning me to the earth. But I was, indeed, the focus of his attention. His pure attention. So the answer was no.
“No,” I said. I shook my head. I wanted his hand on the back of my head again. Wanted another kiss to my forehead.
Unable to speak, I could see he was waiting. For me. To say yes.
“Yes,” I said. I stepped forward, close enough for him to catch me and for me to catch him right back. A bat swept through the trees, just about skimming his dark hair, and he didn’t even move. “Yes, please.”
Then I received the gift I’d been hoping for. The smallest smile lifted one corner of his mouth.
And then he kissed me. Sweet and soft, his mouth plush and tender on mine.
He didn’t grab or push. He eased his way against me as though I was a flighty wild animal he needed to be careful around. He dipped his head, slow, slow.
I caught his scent, that drugstore cologne, and vowed to find a bottle and soak my pillow with it, like some young thing enchanted with a new suitor.
He kissed me again. His hands went around my waist, and I felt bold and mirrored the gesture.
Felt taut muscle as I circled my arms around him and pulled him close so he’d know that yes, it was really okay.
Really, really, really. Another kiss. A flick of his tongue along my mouth, tasting of salt. Of warmth.
When he drew away, I nearly shivered, except then he cupped my face in those strong, calloused hands and I was warm again. Warmed right through my whole body. To my soul.
“You’re as pretty as a sunrise,” he said, warm and low. “When I’d long stopped looking at ’em.”
Everything stopped in a wonderful, dizzy-making way. I’d never heard anyone say that to me, or anything like it.
I pulled my head back to look at him, to focus. He meant what he’d said. Every word.
My eyes were hot. Stinging. I closed them tightly. I wanted to take this feeling with me everywhere I went, every day of my life.
“Hey,” he said. His thumb stroked my cheek. Looking for freckles that weren’t there, maybe. Tracing for sparks of the tears I was holding back. “Hey,” he repeated. “Could you look at me? Open your eyes for me?”
He stepped close, as if he meant to balance us both, one hand going around me, the other lifting my chin. He was strong and hard all over. Pure muscle. I opened my eyes and could see the want in his.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Is this okay?”
I nodded and reached up. It was like climbing a mountain to circle my arms behind his neck.
He bent close, and he wound his arms around my waist and pulled me to him, urgent, hard, like he meant to meld us together.
And this kiss. It was more than lips, than mouths meeting. It was his breath mingling with mine. It was his heart thumping so hard in his chest I could feel it in mine. It was the scent of him. The tremor in his hand as he swept my hair from my face, oh so gently.
He drew back, his breath hitching in his throat. “It’s raining,” he said. His eyes were bright. Like stars. Green-and-gold stars.
“Do we care?” The question came out a bit more flippant than I would have liked.
“We should go,” he said. Maybe a little desperate. Maybe he wanted to go, when I very much wanted to stay.
“No,” I said. “We should not.”
I clutched at his hard-edged belt and bent my knees, because I was about to kneel down, unbutton his blue jeans, and take him in my mouth. In that grove of cottonwood trees, with the rain pattering down on the gravel. On the leaves. With the bats as witness. To express what my words could not.
But he stopped me. Held me close, very close. I could feel the hardness in his groin, as surely he could feel mine.
“No,” he said. But before I could be shocked by his refusal, the heat shimmering in my veins, he added softly, “Not in the dirt. Not you.”
“Not you, either, then,” I said stoutly.
He worked with his hands and his body all day.
There was dirt beneath his feet, dust from cattle, sweat from horses.
Dust from hay. It was everywhere in his life, all around him, and yet for me, that dirt was not good enough.
The fairy tale surrounded me all the more, my heart a tad stunned to be so well looked after.
“I mean it,” he said. The hand around my waist snaked forward. His fingers circled my wrist. “Not in the dirt.”
With some ease, considering how strong he was, I twisted in his grasp.
Then, one-handed—no mean feat—I undid his belt buckle.
The buttons on his jeans. And, curved into the bulwark of his body, I slid my hand down his belly, tracing the trail of hair with my fingers, moving beneath the waistband of his briefs.
His eyes went wide. With surprise. Or shock. His body went still.
Wait. Did fairy-tale encounters not involve more than kissing, touching of chins, fingers through hair? Had I messed up royally?
Did he want me to be more passive? To wait for a vine-shrouded bower bed to appear?
I would if he wanted it.
I liked to have a good time in bed. I was good in bed, or at least I used to be. Now I wanted to crawl away, kick myself in the shins for possibly rushing a good man into more than he wanted.
“I can stop,” I said.
My forearm tightened with my intention to draw my hand away. Do up his jeans and belt the second he gave the word.
We could go back to kissing and courtship. Gentle beneath the umbrella of cottonwood branches, against the rough bark, traced dark with rivers of damp from the rain between dry ribs of pale gray.
“No,” he said, his breath hitching in his throat. Memories danced behind his eyes, and I wondered what they were. “No. It’s okay. Just—”
Just what?
Like an echo in my head, I heard his unspoken request. Just be gentle with me.
If someone had hurt him in the past—I had a sudden, fierce desire to track that person down and do them harm. But right now, I had a request to fulfill.
“I will,” I said. I slipped off my flannel shirt, folded it, and dropped it on the ground in front of me. “I’ll kneel on this, okay? Then I won’t be in the dirt.”
I knelt down. There was a time for words and a time for shutting up.
I shut up and pushed his t-shirt up and kissed his warm belly, traced that trail of hair with my tongue, tugged down the elastic of his white briefs—of course they were white—and eased the cloth away from the dark purple head of his cock.
I licked him. He jumped, his breath a shudder.
“Easy,” I said, wanting to soothe him. “I won’t hurt you.”
I flicked a glance up at him. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. His back was against the rough bark of the cottonwood tree, and I returned to my task. Focused on his scent, the heat in his cock. The way my tongue slid, catching dry skin. Catching a taste of him, a slickness.
I licked his length. Shoved his briefs down further, tugged at his jeans with both hands, and used one to sweep my fingers in to circle his balls: hot, drawn up. Tense.
I was all in. He never moved. I wanted him to. To ease into the good feelings I could give him. To enjoy. If he weren’t, I would stop.
I did pause briefly, checking in. His strong hand came down, palm curling around the back of my neck. Fingers twining in my hair. Gently. Softly.