"Inga," I said, "you're perfect. You're so—" But there were no words for this.
She kissed me, hard, and rocked her hips up to meet me. That was it for my patience. I thrust in and out, first gentle, then harder, letting her set the tempo with every moan and gasp. After, I'd try to recall the specifics, how her hair fanned across the quilt, the velvet heat of her, the way she said my name like a secret, but in the moment, I was nothing butsensation, nothing but the glorious, insane fact of her around me, under me, with me.
She came again, legs locked around my back, and I lost it, hips stuttering, choking on her name as I spilled inside her. The whole room went white behind my eyes. I collapsed beside her, pulling her close, my face buried in the wet tangle of her hair.
She rolled and pressed her forehead to my chest, laughing, damp and delirious. "I can't feel my body," she said.
I grinned and kissed the crown of her head. "That's the general idea."
We drifted, blissed out and quiet. After a while, she asked, "Will it always be like this?" in a tone that might have been hope or awe.
I stroked her arm, feeling the future spool out, bright and impossible: morning coffee, reckless Saturdays, her in my arms for the rest of my goddamn life.
"It will be," I promised.
We slept a little. Woke a little. Listened to the ranch wake up around us, dogs barking, a horse whinnying, one of the ranch hands cursing loud enough to scare the chickens. Reality crept in. We had fallen asleep, and now we had to walk back inside. Covered in hay. Looking like sin and sunrise and bad decisions.
We tried to sneak into the kitchen—quiet as you please—when Mom looked up from the stove. She stoppedstirring. I'm not even sure she kept breathing; her eyebrows shot straight into her hairline.
"Well," She said, setting her spoon down very slowly, "I suppose my suspicions were correct."
Inga froze. I froze. Mom's gaze slid from what was probably hay in my hair… to the hay on Inga's shirt… to the hay sticking out of places hay absolutely should not be.
Then she pressed a hand over her mouth. "Oh Lord," she muttered. "We'll need to get that wedding planned and done with as soon as humanly possible."
Inga turned scarlet. Absolutely scarlet. Like she might combust on the spot. I bit my lip to keep from laughing and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, kissing the side of her head.
Mom pointed at me without looking. "Don't you smirk at me, Gideon Boyd Griffin. Don't you dare."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I lied.
She clucked her tongue. "Honestly. The barn, of all places…" Then she shook her head. "Well, the hay is fresh at least."
I choked. Inga made a tiny dying noise.
"Coffee?" I croaked, desperate to change the subject.
Inga stiffened. "Real… coffee?"
Mom blinked. "Is there any other kind?"
Inga's eyes got glassy. "M-Maggie… I?—"
"Oh heavens, child, sit down. You look like you're about to faint from joy."
She herded Inga to a kitchen chair like a little mother hen. "You can bathe later. Coffee first."
"But—" Inga tried.
"Sit," Maggie repeated, pushing gently on her shoulders. "Not a word. I'm making you breakfast too. You're too thin by half."
Inga obeyed, still red as a beet. Mom filled a cup with steaming coffee so fragrant it filled the whole room. She set sugar and creamer in front of her like ceremonial offerings.
"Now," she said, beaming, "drink."
Inga lifted the cup with trembling hands, inhaled, and her eyes fluttered closed like she'd just been handed salvation. "Oh," she whispered. "Oh, this is… heavenly."
Mom turned to me with a shooing gesture. "Well? Go on. Shoo. Your fiancée and I need to talk."
