Her eyes fly open. “Yes. Please.”
I flip us so she’s on her back, pulling out of her and removing my condom. The cowboy hat falls off her head, band up on the floor above her head. “Spread your legs for me.”
She does, and my gaze fixes on her pussy, my opposite hand on her lower belly and working her clit while I jerk myself. She arches her back and I take in her breasts, her face, her pussy. “Fucking gorgeous, Darcy. This is all for you. You got me this hot.”
My balls tighten and I curl my toes as the first spurt leaves me. I paint her pussy with my release, still pulsing when I drag my fingers through it and shove them into her pussy. Bit by bit, I push that part of myself inside her, little trails spilling back out. I shake my head, looking at the beauty that is us together. I smile wide. “You wanted to be my cum slut? I got it for you.”
Darcy doesn’t just smile—she beams. I love how something this raw, this vulnerable makes her so happy.
When I’m satisfied with my work, I put my fingers to her lips, where she licks me clean.
I brace myself over her, brushing a gentle kiss to her reddened lips. “That’s my good girl.”
Darcy squirms and squeezes her thighs together, fingers drifting to her clit again. “Stop, you’re going to make me ride you all night at this rate.”
I turn her to her hip and slap her ass. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Wollerpuss: one who wallows or wollers
FORTY-THREE
JAKE
I snapawake in the middle of the night, feeling like someone just whispered in my ear. I look to my right and find Darcy sleeping on her stomach, arms tucked under her like she’s cold.
I struggle to orient myself for a minute. I’m in Darcy’s room, in her family’s house, at their peach farm. Darcy and I have been inseparable by night since we first hooked up on the Fourth, and it’s about a week and a half later. It’s not really the middle of the night, just the dark before the dawn.
It’s also the anniversary of my dad’s death.
The sentiments are similar every year. It’s both been too long and feels like it was just yesterday. I’ve had another whole year of experiences without him here. I don’t explore the what-ifs anymore: what if that guy hadn’t been drunk, what if he were still here. I think more about what he would think about what’s going on in my life now. Trying to take care of Mom. Meeting the woman lying next to me.
This is the first year where I have access to a horse, and I think Dad would appreciate me celebrating him with a ride. Darcy told me to always tell her when I’m going out for a ride, but I want to be alone. If I wake her up, she’ll try to come with me. I dress in the dark and leave her a note on the pillow, pulling the sheets up to her shoulders.
Out for a ride. See you soon. Kisses, J
I step out into the pre-dawn cool, popping my hat on and filling my pocket from the bucket of mints by the mudroom door at the homeplace. The horses are in the pasture closest to the farmhouse this morning, so I whistle to draw them in.
“Hey gang.” Cane comes running and I unwrap two of the mints from my pocket. He pokes his face over the fence and nuzzles my hand. He’d eat the damn plastic on them if I let him. “Hold on, bub. So impatient.” I get the mint unwrapped and put it on my flat hand, offering it to him. His velvety-soft lips scrounge over my palm as he takes the mint. In the dim dawn, I catch his bugged out eyes, losing his mind over a little mint. I pet down his nose. “You have a good night? You two stay out of trouble?”
Cane knocks my ball cap off my head, sending it tumbling to the ground. Half the time, he does this just to be a little shit, but as I scoop the hat off the ground, I realize I should wear Dad’s hat. I stuff it in my back pocket. I’m sure I’m assigning meaning to something ordinary, but it feels nice to think Dad’s talking to me through Cane.
I serve Freckle her mint with some pets and assurance that Darcy’s coming for her later, clip Cane, and walk him to the barn. It’s that quiet space between the night bugs and the morning birds, a beautiful stillness. The grass is dewy and squeaks against my boots. I chat with Cane, telling him what day it is and that we’re going to walk a race in honor of Dad. I clip him into the grooming stall and rush back to the cabin to grab Dad’s hat.
When I return, Cane does not knock off this hat. I sing while I brush him, the songs Dad always sang to our horses: “Fire and Rain” and “Sweet Baby James.” I used to laugh at Dad, saying he just liked James Taylor because James was his name. Dad would just shrug and laugh. “So what if I do?”
Dad wasn’t a great singer and I’m not much better, only made worse by the tears choking my words. It’s bittersweet, all the things that were and all the things that could have been. He missed Jamie getting married, Jackie finally finishing school. I wonder if I would have moved home if he were still here. There’s no way to know that though, because what is, already has been.
Cane behaves, maybe sensing my mood, or maybe he’s just tired since it’s earlier than I usually get him. I pick out his hooves and stand back to pet him. “Good buddy. I think we’ll have a little fun today.”
I pop into the tack room, get my saddle, and grab a carrot out of the bag in there. He munches the carrot while I tack him up and bring him out of the grooming stall.
I set up some cones in the ring behind the barn, return to his side, and climb on. I click my tongue once to get him to walk, keeping a slow pace to see if he’ll go around my cones. To my shock, we make it around the first loop in the cloverleaf pattern signature to barrel racing. “Good, good,” I praise him, but emotion starts to clog my throat. My first time messing with barrels since Dad was alive. I flex my jaw and my hands squeeze the reins a little too hard.
But as we head for the second set of makeshift barrels, Cane rears back on his hind legs. I tighten my legs around him and lean forward, fighting to stay on. “Whoa, whoa.”
My heart pounds as I get him to stop, standing in the middle of the ring. It takes a few breaths before I settle, then laugh. “Heard, Dad.”
Is my dad really talking to me through this horse? Probably not, but it’s comforting to think he is.
