His fingers hook into my panties, pulling them to the side, and then he’s touching me, his fingers sliding through my slickness, teasing my clit in slow circles that make my toes curl.
“Mm.” I grab his bicep, feeling the solid muscle flex as he continues. He pulls back just enough for his eyes to find mine, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “There’s somethin’ you oughta know about us cowboys,” he drawls. “We eat every meal like it's our last.”
My eyes are barely open, but I tug him lower, aching for him to prove every word. “You askin’ for permission?”
My first mustache ride? Consider me already on the waiting list for a season pass.
“No, darlin’. I don’t ask. I take what I want,” he drawls darkly. “Now keep your eyes open. Stay on the lookout. You’re gonna have to keep quiet for me when I eat you front to back. Think you can do that?”
I nod, and he doesn’t wait for more. He drops to his knees, his lips find the inside of my thigh, his mouth burns into my skin even after he pulls away. His fingers hookinto the thin lace of my panties, and with one sharp twist, he rips them apart like they’re fucking tissue paper.
The look he gives me is pure fire, and I know I’m fucked. A goner. Go ahead and start engraving my tombstone: “Here lies Sawyer. Flatlined by pleasure, revived briefly, begged for more with dying words.”
Then his mouth is on me—hot, wet, fucking relentless. His tongue drags through every inch, teasing, tasting, and I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out. He licks, sucks, nips me from front to back, just like he said. I’m shaking, my hips rocking against his mouth, my hands gripping his hair so hard my knuckles turn white.
“That feels so good…”
When he traces circles on my clit, then clamps down and sucks, my vision blurs. It’s fucking over. Boom. No warning, no buildup—just a fucking explosion that rips through me so hard I nearly scream. My orgasm crashes in waves, ruthless and unwavering, and I’m pulsating against his tongue, clenching desperately, my juices soaking his greedy mouth.
I feel his fucking grin against my skin, completely self-satisfied, like he’s proud of how quickly he wrecked me. “Nah,” he growls, his voice low and rough, vibrating against my sensitive flesh. “Give me one more.”
And hell yes, because I don’t want this to end. I’m desperate in this fucking delirium for more. My fingers slide down my stomach, until I find his hand to put him between my thighs. I’m spreading my legs wider, showing him I want more.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, and before I can even catch my breath, his fingers slide lower, finding the wetness between my legs. I moan as soft as I can. My pussy is soaking, dripping, possibly a waterfall at this point. He finally quits teasing me, sliding one huge finger inside me, curling it justright to hit that sweet spot that makes me gasp. I’m still spasming from the first orgasm, my walls fluttering around him, but he doesn’t stop. He adds another finger, stretching me wide and deep in a rhythm that’s all his and completely unholy. The stretch is exquisite, the pressure unbearable, and I’m grinding against him, chasing another chance at whatever he just made me feel.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, tossing my head back.
“Eyes open,” he says.
I try. God, I try. My eyes slowly dart around, barely open—scanning the shadows, but it’s hard to focus when his fingers are working me so perfectly.
“Tristan—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, but his fingers don’t stop. They keep moving, plunging in and out of me, driving me closer and closer to the edge again.
A sharp crack—branch, twig, something—snaps through the quiet. My gaze drops just in time to catch his other hand, reaching carefully for the gun holstered at his side. He pulls it free, the metal glinting in the moonlight, and holds it out and away toward the trees.
“What are you—?” The words tumble out of me, shaky and breathless.
His eyes cut around us, sharp even as his hand doesn’t stop. His voice is low, steady, with a growl meant only for me.
“Don’t move. Just keep quiet for me—I’ve got you.”
His fingers are still inside me, stroking a spot that makes me dizzy, and I’m panting, torn between terror and arousal. The heel of his palm grinds against my clit, and for a moment the only thing I can make out is the faint flicker of the firepit in the distance. Until it hits me again, he’s holding a fucking gun, for Christ’s sake.
I should be screaming, but all I can think about is how insanely hot he looks, how powerful, and how damn good he is at multitasking. He’s fixated on me, and I can feel it—but I can see him wrestling with the need to watch the dark out there.
His hand is rough, calloused from God knows what, and it only makes the sensation more intense. I’m trembling but I hold onto him to keep me upright. All I care about is the way he’s working me, the way he’s taking me apart piece by piece.
Somehow out of all the emotions and the overwhelming pleasure, I feel safe with him.
“Fuck, Tristan.”
He manages to give me that slow, dangerous grin. “You moanin’ my name is about to make me come in my damn pants.”
My thighs tighten, and I can feel the heat pooling between my legs. He’s standing there, tall and fucking lethal. His broad shoulders are tense beneath his shirt. One hand gripping the gun, the other—fuck—the other is still buried inside me, his fingers working me in a way that’s almost cruel. His eyes are shifting back and forth from me to whatever's out there. He’s still holding a goddamn gun while he’s about to make me come harder than I ever have in my life.
The orgasm isn’t just building—it’s fucking demanding. My body isn’t mine anymore—someone else is in control. I can feel the pressure twisting inside me, ready to snap. My thighs tremble, and I know I’m close, so fucking close, but I’m not there yet. Not until I hear it.
