Chapter 21 #2
"Off enough," I order, yanking the buckle. "Don't strip for poetry. We don't have that kind of time, and I refuse to explain a naked billionaire to your mother."
He huffs out a laugh, then goes dead quiet when I shove his jeans and boxers down to his thighs.
His cock slaps up against his stomach, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip, and I wrap my fist around it with zero ceremony.
He drops his forehead onto my shoulder with a hissed curse that fogs against my neck.
"Molly, Jesus, your hand..." he groans.
"My hand's in charge," I tell him, pumping him slow and mean. "Yours should be up my dress finding out how pissed off and wet I am before I change my mind and go count labels instead."
He obeys like it's church. Rough fingers slide up my thigh and find me soaked through my underwear, and the noise he makes is half groan, half prayer.
"You're soaking wet," he whispers, wrecked. "You've been yelling at me for twenty minutes and your cunt's been begging the whole time."
"Mad and wet is a legitimate forecast," I tell him, and twist my wrist on the upstroke just to watch his jaw go slack. "Finger me. Fast. I got cleared last week, and I've been thinking about using you like a borrowed tool I'm not planning to return."
He shoves the cotton aside and pushes two thick fingers into me, knuckle deep, his thumb finding my clit and circling hard. I ride his hand and hate how good it is, hate the way my body sings for him while my chest still holds the bruise of that hospital room.
Outside, boots crunch on gravel. A voice shouts for somebody named Diego.
I clap my free hand over Taz's mouth hard enough to sting, and he moans into my palm like I just handed him a filthy secret.
"Quiet," I snarl. "You lost the right to be loud in my life when you ran toward every other fire. You get to be silent and useful and inside me. That's the deal for the next four minutes."
His pupils swallow the green. He nods against my hand. I drag my underwear to the side, spit in my palm, crude and fast, and slick him once, then line him up and drop down on him in one hard, brutal slide that knocks the breath out of both of us.
He's huge. He's always been huge. Braced against cold steel with hay scratching my shoulder and his cock splitting me open after all these weeks, I have to bite my own lip bloody to keep from making a noise the whole ranch would hear.
"Fuck," he groans into my fingers. "So tight. You're so fucking tight, Molly..."
I lift and drop, using him, setting a punishing pace that has nothing to do with tenderness and everything to do with six weeks of wanting I refused to admit.
His hands clamp on my hips. I slap one of them up onto the extractor rim so we don't send the whole shiny machine skating across the floor, and I let the other stay on my ass because I'm not a saint.
"This isn't forgiveness," I pant into his ear, riding him hard enough that the extractor rattles. "This is me fucking the edge off so I can keep being angry without climbing the walls. Got it?"
"Understood," he grits out, his voice shredded. "Angry sex. Not a reunion. I can follow instructions."
"You can follow my cunt," I tell him. "Shut up and keep up."
He nods frantically, eyes wet at the corners, and his cock jerks inside me like the agreement is wired straight to it.
I clamp my hand back over his mouth when a radio crackles right outside the door, a voice squawking about the east paddock, and the forced silence makes every stroke sharper and wetter and meaner.
I grind down until my clit drags along the root of him, and the orgasm starts coiling fast and vicious at the base of my spine. He's trembling under me, his tattooed forearms rigid, the gentle man under all that muscle trying so hard to be good that it makes me even wetter.
"Don't you dare come before I do," I warn him, hand still over his mouth. "You wait. You hold it. You earned the waiting."
He whimpers into my palm. I fuck myself on him harder, using the extractor for leverage, hair sticking to my temples, cold AC raising goosebumps on my bare thighs.
I tilt my hips, plant one boot on the concrete, and the new drag makes his eyes roll back in his head.
Somewhere a cooling fan clicks on. I dig my fingernails into the back of his neck and keep bouncing on his cock like anger has a finish line and I plan to cross it first.
"Look at me," I demand, lifting my hand off his mouth for half a second. "I want you to see exactly who's using you. Forget the sweet wife who waited up by the door. This is me, the one who left. The one who still might."
"I see you," he rasps, sandpaper and devotion. "I see you. Take whatever you need. I'll still be standing here after."
"Don't promise me forever with your dick inside me," I tell him. "It's a conflict of interest."
I slap my hand back over his mouth because the boots are closer now, two ranch hands arguing about whether the honey house smells like money or beeswax, and almost getting caught sends a dirty jolt straight down my spine.
His cock throbs in answer. I could hate him for how well our bodies still get along.
My hand shoves between us to rub my clit in tight, furious circles while I ride him, his back against the extractor, my dress bunched at my waist, and the coil at the base of my spine winds tighter and tighter until it can't anymore.
I come silent and catastrophic, every muscle locking, clenching around him in greedy pulls, and I have to press my forehead into his chest and suck air through my teeth so I don't scream the roof off.
My hand lifts from his mouth just enough.
"Now," I order. "Quietly. In me. And then you fix my dress, because I am not walking out of here looking like I lost a fight with farm equipment."
"Yes... ma'am..." He lasts three more thrusts and then he's coming with his face jammed in my neck, muffling himself against my skin, pumping deep while his whole huge frame shudders like a fence in high wind.
I hold the back of his head through it. I'm not gentle, exactly, but I'm there. I make him feel every second of it.
Outside, somebody whoops because a gate finally latched. It's almost funny.
I ease off him with a wet sound that makes us both wince, yank my underwear back into place, and shove his jeans up with zero romance.
He straightens my dress with shaking hands.
There's hay on my shoulder where I scraped against the crates, and more on my back.
I leave it. Let Maggie have her evidence.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of brushing me off.
I grab my bag from beside the door. Somewhere up at the house my daughter is being rocked by her grandmother, mercifully unaware that her parents just desecrated a stainless steel investment. I check my buttons, shove the door open, and step out into the sunshine—
And walk directly into Maggie.
She takes one look at me, at my flushed face and disheveled hair, and reaches up to pluck a piece of hay from my shoulder. Her smile is knowing and delighted and entirely too pleased with herself.
"Good to see you, sweetheart," she says serenely. "You'll stay for lunch?"
"I—" I have no words. None. "I should get Clem home."
"Of course. She's asleep in the front room. I'll fetch her." She's still smiling. "And honey? You've got more hay on your back."
I brush at my back.
I collect my daughter from the front room and flee to my truck without looking back, and I can hear Maggie's laughter following me all the way down the drive.
On the drive home, the radio cuts into the song I wasn't really listening to anyway.
"—record temperatures expected across the Central Coast this week," the announcer says, "with the National Weather Service issuing a heat advisory for Ventura and Santa Barbara counties. Residents are urged to stay hydrated and check on elderly neighbors as the heatwave intensifies—"
I flip off the radio and drive the rest of the way in silence, still feeling him everywhere.