My right hand slides up her thigh, and my left grip tightens on the steering wheel.
The temperature in the cab suddenly rises as her hips shift and her legs open slightly in invitation. I try desperately to focus on the road ahead of us as my fingers drift lazily up her innerthigh while her mouth continues to nip and suck at my ear. When I reach the tiny strip of fabric, I run a knuckle over the silk, and she gasps into my ear.
“Fuck, baby. You’re so wet,” I whisper as I slip a finger under the edge of her panties and find her warm and wanting.
“Waylon,” she moans into my ear.
Her hand grasps my wrist. I think she’s about to pull it away. To stop this before it really gets started. Instead, she moves it to the side and reaches down, raising her hips, and she guides the soaked panties down to her boots. Before returning her mouth to my throat.
I can barely keep the truck on the gravel as my hand finds her again. Hot. Slick. Bare. I run a fingertip over her clit, and her hips jump. So, I do it again.
“You like that, baby?”
She hums in response. I circle her clit once more before inching two fingers inside of her. I pump them in and out slowly as she lets out a shuddering breath. Her face leaves my neck, and her head bears back against the seat. Her eyes fall closed as I crook my fingers and twist. And I know when I find the right spot because her body jerks and she begins to whimper as wetness floods my palm.
“Oh my God,” she pants.
I have to fight the urge to pull the truck to the side of the road, free my cock from my jeans, and pull her on top of me. Instead, I keep my eyes forward, only sneaking glances at her as she falls apart. Grinding her clit into my palm as I thrust in and out of her. Riding my hand hard and fast.
I can feel her body coil and muscles tighten right before she erupts, and my name echoes through the cab as she cries out. I continue to run featherlight circles over her until the last tremble runs through her, and she lets out a satisfied sigh.
Her eyes flutter open and then go wide when I bring my hand to my mouth. I lick my fingers clean as she watches.
“Damn, Stormy. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”
I grab the steering wheel with both hands, hit the gas, and make an abrupt U-turn.
“What are you doing?” she asks as her hands brace on the dashboard.
“Taking you to my place before I crash another truck into a damn tree,” I say.
What am I doing?
This is the worst idea ever. But I can’t seem to make myself turn back. The truth is, I want this. I want him. I have since I was a lovesick teenager.
I like to think that I’m a strong woman. Fierce even. But Waylon fucking Ludlow is my kryptonite.
My body hums with anticipation as he races toward Ironhorse. Running Stop signs and ignoring speed limits. We take a sharp right onto a road that I’m familiar with. It’s the one that leads to Caison’s cabin. We continue past it for about half a mile, and another cabin comes into view. This one is slightly larger with a wraparound porch. Waylon pulls in front of it and cuts the engine.
We sit here in loaded silence for several minutes.
“Tell me to take you home, and I will,” he says. His eyes looking straight ahead. “Last chance.”
I consider it—for half a second. Then I reach down and tug my panties loose from my ankles. I toss them into his lap, scoot to the passenger door, and grab the handle.
That’s all it takes. Before I can get the door open, he’s out of the truck and lifting me into his arms. My hat falls from my head and lands on top of my phone on the bench seat.
He takes the steps up to the porch two at a time. Holding me firmly with one arm as he fumbles with a key until the door creaks open.
He walks us inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
He sets me on my feet and clicks on a light as the door closes with an echoing thud, wood against wood. The first thing that hits me is the smell—clean pine, layered with coffee that was brewed hours ago. Wool and leather and the faint sweetness from a candle that sits on the counter. It smells like a place that’s been lived in.
Cool air brushes my face as we step inside.
To the right is the kitchen. A massive island anchors the space, its green-veined granite catching the light, glossy rivers of jade and charcoal. Stainless steel glints beneath sleek pendant lights—modern, clean lines set against tobacco-stained wood.
To the left, the living room stretches wide and welcoming. A stone fireplace dominates the far wall, rough and textured, its hearth holding a stack of split logs. Even without flames, you can smell it—the faint, smoky aroma of burning oak.
