Chapter 8 - Beau
EIGHT
BEAU
Willa Knox tastes like something I didn’t know I was missing until just now.
She kisses with her whole focus, arms looped tight around my neck, chin lifting like she’s daring me to take what I need.
I try to keep my hands soft but end up gripping, greedy, as I carry her down the hall to her bedroom.
Buck follows at our heels, nails ticking the floor and tail wagging, damn dog grinning at our shamelessness.
Unfortunately for him, I’m quick enough to lock him out. We don’t need an audience.
She laughs when I set her down, breathless, lips flushed and parted. I force myself to look at her face and not her chest, though her nipples are already peaking through that threadbare shirt, just daring me to pay attention.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “You too.”
She doesn’t deny it. She backs up to the bed, sits on the edge, and watches me like I’m a new puzzle to be solved.
Maybe I am. I already know she’ll figure me out faster than I’ll ever untangle her.
I take a step, then another, and when I’m close enough, her fingers hook my belt and pull me forward, dark eyes bright and wild.
This is not how I want to do this, fast and dirty and lit by leftover anger, but god, I want her anyway. Maybe because of the anger, the way she gives back whatever I throw at her until it’s nothing but plain need.
I crowd her back onto the bed and kiss her again, slower this time, letting her set the rhythm. She opens to me, legs bracketing my thighs. Her hands work my belt and unbutton my jeans, and she grins when she finds I’m already hard.
“I thought you were a patient man,” she murmurs.
I grunt. “Not tonight.”
I pull her shirt over her head, careful of her hair, then slide off her bra in one practiced move.
She laughs and shrugs, arms up, chest bare and inviting.
I thumb her nipples, watch them tighten, then take one in my mouth.
She arches and makes a sound—half laugh, half groan—that punches straight through my control.
“Yours needs to be off, too,” she says, tugging at my t-shirt. I let her strip it away, then catch her fingers and hold them to my ribs, want her to touch me everywhere at once. She does, mapping out my chest and stomach, nails grazed just enough to sting.
“Jesus, Willa,” I say, voice hoarse even to my own ears.
She rolls her hips until I’m pressed between her legs, the heat of her right through denim.
She grinds up as she gets the button of her jeans open.
I lean back to give her room, then help when she gets tangled at the knees.
Her underwear is white and plain, the cotton stretched and damp over her center.
I run my thumb down where she’s wettest, just to see her react. She grabs at my wrist, and for a second I think she’ll stop me, but then she holds me there, makes me press harder.
“Bossy,” I say, grinning.
She bites my lower lip when I lean in. “You like it.”
I do. I like everything about her—the sweat, the stubbornness, the way she refuses to pull back or look away.
I kneel on the floor and pull her to the edge, her legs dangling over the side, and with both hands, I tug her panties down.
I mean to go slow, but I can’t. One sharp yank, and I bury my face between her thighs, tongue flat and slow, learning her.
She tastes like salt and want, and I take my time despite everything in me that’s screaming not to.
Willa, always so careful and armored, starts to crack on the second pass—a sharp inhale, fingers twisting into my hair—and by the third she’s gone completely, hips rolling up hard against my mouth, heels hammering the mattress, thighs clamped around my ears like she’s trying to pull me in deeper.
She hauls me up by the hair—not gentle—and kisses me with her own taste still on my mouth, all lick and bite and zero hesitation, like she’s taking something back.
“Do it,” she says.
The first time is frantic and messy, jeans shoved halfway down my thighs, her calves hooked over my arms. She’s so wet I slide in on the first thrust, and she gasps, nails raking down my back hard enough to sting.
I set a rough pace, and she takes it, takes all of it, hips snapping up to meet me, her pussy clenching and pulling like she’s trying to keep me there, like she’d rather die than let me go.
I have to drop my forehead to her shoulder and breathe through my teeth just to hold on.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” I say, pushing in deeper. “You know that?”
Willa laughs, grabs my shoulder, and jerks me in for a kiss. “You had me nailed the minute you walked through that door, big guy.”
That’s not true. She had me pegged the second she slid those boots on, told me she wouldn’t sell her land. That confident gaze broke me without even trying.
I fuck her until she’s boneless, until she’s said my name so many times it stops sounding like a word, until her legs have gone slack and her mouth has gone soft and the only thing still moving is her hips, still rolling up out of pure habit, still asking for more even when she’s got nothing left to give.
When I finally finish—buried so deep she gasps at the last of it, her body clenched around me like a fist—I have to hold still for a long moment just to remember my own name.
When I pull out, she makes a sound of protest and grabs my wrist and hauls me down on top of her, all that warm, slick skin against mine.
“Stay,” she says. The edge in it is not quite a plea. Willa Knox does not beg.
I press my nose into her damp hair and feel our heartbeats slowly stop competing with each other.
She strokes my back, fingers tracing the scars and ridges like she’s taking inventory. I’ve never let a woman touch me so hard or so gently at the same time. Never wanted anyone to.
Finally, she says, “When did you fall in love with me, Beau Gamble?”
I almost laugh, but I’m too tired to lie. “Somewhere between the first and second time you told me to go to hell.”
She hums, content. “You’re not an easy man.”
“No,” I agree. “Never been.”
“Good,” she says. “I don’t need easy.”
I tighten my arms around her, and for the first time in my life, it doesn’t feel like a trap.
It’s only then that I hear Buck, waiting at the door, nails scratching frantically.
“Sorry, Buck,” Willa says, walking naked toward the door and letting him in. He dodges and trots off, nails ticking. We both laugh, and then the room is just us—our sweat and the hush of crickets outside.
She falls asleep before I do, drooling on my chest, one hand still tangled in my hair. I lay there, listening to the farmhouse creak and settle, and wait for the old panic to creep in, for the urge to run or push her away. It doesn’t come.
Instead, I feel like the world has finally stopped spinning out from under me. Like this is the place I was supposed to land, all along.
That’s what scares me the most. I’m not sure I’ll ever want to leave.