Chapter 5
five
. . .
Judy
I can still feel him. Hours later, alone in my room with the door locked, I can still feel the hard press of Wayne's body against mine.
The solid wall of his chest at my back. The strong thighs caging mine.
And between my legs, a persistent throb that won't go away, no matter how I try to distract myself.
I've showered, changed clothes, helped make dinner—all while pretending I wasn't aching, wanting, needing something I barely understand.
But now, in the privacy of darkness, I can't deny it anymore.
I want him. I want his hands on me, his voice in my ear calling me "good girl," his body covering mine.
Dinner was torture. Sitting across from him at the kitchen table, watching those large hands handle silverware, remembering how they felt gripping my waist when he lifted me onto the horse.
His eyes would catch mine, and I'd look away quickly, heart racing, thighs pressing together beneath the table.
Did he know? Could he tell how wet I was just from sitting in the same room with him?
The ride replays in my mind like a movie I can't turn off. The rhythmic motion of the horse. The heat of Wayne's body. The hard length of him pressing against my backside, growing stiffer with each passing mile. I wasn't imagining it. He wanted me.
I run my hands down my body, over the thin cotton of my sleep shirt. My nipples are hard, sensitive even through the fabric. I've never been this aware of my own body before. Never felt this constant, insistent need pulsing between my thighs.
Last night I touched myself thinking of him, but it was hesitant. Exploratory. Tonight is different. Tonight I know exactly what I want.
I slip my hand beneath the elastic of my panties, fingers sliding through slick heat. I'm already so wet, so ready. For him. Always for him.
"Wayne," I whisper, testing his name in the darkness like a prayer or a confession.
I close my eyes, imagining it's his fingers parting my folds, his rough palm cupping me possessively. My hips lift off the mattress, seeking more pressure, more friction.
What would he do if he were here? Would he be gentle or rough? Slow or urgent? The Wayne I've seen around the ranch is controlled, measured in his movements. But there are moments—like today on the horse—when something darker flashes in his eyes. Something hungry and barely restrained.
I circle my clit with slippery fingers, picturing his face above mine, those intense green eyes watching me come undone. My other hand moves to my breast, pinching my nipple the way I imagine he might—firm, slightly rough. A small gasp escapes my lips.
Good girl, I hear his voice in my fantasy, low and gravelly, rumbling through his chest into my back. The praise sends a fresh wave of heat between my legs, makes my inner walls clench around nothing.
I add another finger to the thumb still working my clit. It's good—so good—but not enough. Not what I really want. I want to be filled completely. Stretched. Taken.
By Wayne.
The thought should shock me. Should make me feel guilty or ashamed. He's older—so much older—and I'm staying in his home. He's offering protection, shelter. And here I am, stroking myself with my fingers while fantasizing about him.
But I can't stop. Don't want to stop.
I increase the pace, rubbing my clit harder, faster, imagining it's his cock inside me. Would he be gentle at first, easing into me, mindful of my inexperience? Or would he lose control, driven by the same desperate need that's consuming me now?
Such a good girl, his voice echoes in my head, and my back arches off the bed.
I'm close now, teetering on the edge. My thighs begin to tremble, muscles tensing. I press harder against my clit, feeling the pressure build and build until I'm gasping for air, toes curling, free hand gripping the sheets.
"Wayne," I whimper, no longer caring if my voice carries through the walls. "Please, Wayne."
The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave—more intense than last night, more consuming. My body clenches rhythmically around my fingers, pleasure radiating outward in hot pulses. My hips buck uncontrollably as I ride it out, drawing every last aftershock from my over-sensitized body.
When it finally subsides, I'm left panting, covered in a light sheen of sweat, my hand still cupped between my thighs. The emptiness returns almost immediately—a hollow ache that fingers can't satisfy.
I need him. Not just his body, but his strength. His presence. His approval.
Rolling onto my side, I curl around my pillow, suddenly acutely aware of how alone I am in this bed. In this life. I came to the ranch seeking safety, shelter from whatever storm was chasing me. I never expected to find this hunger, this need for connection that goes beyond physical desire.
I think about Wayne in his room down the hall. Is he lying awake too? Thinking of me? Touching himself?
The thought makes me throb anew, despite having just come. Is this normal? To want someone this badly after knowing them such a short time?
I don't have answers. All I know is that tomorrow, I'll look at him across the breakfast table, and he won't know that I came whispering his name. That I'm already addicted to the way he makes me feel—safe and dangerously excited all at once.
Or maybe he will know. Maybe he'll see it in my eyes, smell it on me like animals can sense fear or desire. The thought should embarrass me, but instead, it sends another small thrill through my body.
I'm changing here on this ranch. Becoming someone bolder, needier, more aware of her own power. And as I drift toward sleep, fingers still sticky with my arousal, I wonder what Wayne would think of this new, shameless version of me.