Her heat wrapped around me, tight and wet and so perfect my vision went white at the edges.
“Jesus,” I bit out, forehead dropping to hers as I fought for control. “You feel… insane.”
I drove into her slowly at first, savoring every inch, then harder when she rocked down to meet me, chasing the friction. Each thrust dragged a helpless sound from her throat, her nails digging into my shoulders, her body clenching around me like she never wanted to let me go.
The water pounded against my back, steam thick as I thrust up into her, angling my hips so each stroke rubbed right where she needed it. Her breaths turned into little broken gasps, her thighs trembling around my waist.
“Beau,” she panted, eyes squeezed shut, “don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“Not planning on it,” I rasped, mouth finding the wet skin of her neck, her collarbone, the soft underside of her jaw. I sucked a mark just where I knew she could hide it under her shirt, the possessive part of me purring at the sight.
Her hands scrambled at my back, one arm wrapping around my shoulders like she needed an anchor. I shifted, grinding my pelvis against her with each thrust, and that did it—her whole body went tight as a bowstring.
“Right there, right there, oh my god—” She broke, muscles clenching around me, a strangled cry ripping free as she came hard, squeezing my cock in pulsing waves.
I followed on pure instinct, slamming in deep and holding there as heat ripped through me, my body jerking with it. I buried my face in her shoulder, groaning against her skin as I spilled into her, riding it out until my legs shook.
After, we just breathed, pressed together under the spray. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on my spine. My hand cupped the back of her head, thumb rubbing circles into her neck.
Eventually, we peeled ourselves off the tile and actually used the shower for its intended purpose—rinsing, soaping, making each other laugh when one of us slipped. We dried off, tangled up in the same towel for a minute just because we could, and then crawled into bed, skin still warm and loose from the heat.
She tucked herself against my chest like she’d always lived there. “Thank you,” she mumbled, already half-asleep.
“For what?” I brushed a damp curl off her forehead.
“For not running,” she breathed.
I pressed my lips to her hair. “Not going anywhere,” I murmured.
***
Her alarm went off at 4:47, some twangy tragedy about trucks and heartbreak. She rolled over, kissed my jaw, and padded around in the dark, pulling on sports bra and shorts.
“Training,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep, city boy.”
“Be safe,” I muttered, catching her hand and tugging her down for one more kiss.
When the door clicked shut behind her, the room felt too quiet.
I got up eventually, padding over to the dresser where Pops had left a photo album. The leather was cracked, the plastic sleeves cloudy with age.
Nana at sixteen, hair wild, trophy in hand. Nana at forty, teaching a little gap-toothed Winnie how to hold the reins. Winnie at twelve, clutching her first buckle, eyes fierce and unsure all at once.
On the back, in Nana’s looping script:My girl. Born to fly.
My chest ached.
Shewasborn to fly. Fast. Free. Untethered.
And I was the one thing heavy enough to drag her out of the sky.
I closed the album, that thought sitting in my gut like a stone—even as the scent of her shampoo still lingered on my skin.
WINNIE
The pull of home
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
