Maybe he knows. He must suspect this is one big lie. It’s not, not really, but my priorities are a tangled mess. I’m… profoundly distracted.
Maybe I should be a doctor, the way I’ve been mentally diagnosing this condition. The racing pulse. The dry mouth. The tingling I get between my thighs every time I let myself zone out for more than five minutes in his presence.
Shamefully, I can admit that I am not looking at Cyrus like my dad’s old friend. I’m looking at him the way I’ve tried to look at guys my age and failed. The difference is terrifying. It’s not a seamless thought; it’s a devastating realization that these feelings aren’t normal for a nineteen-year-old woman.
Tucked into the corner of his worn couch, skin still steaming from the shower, I feel like I’m melting. My muscles scream from the day’s work, a deep, satisfying ache. But underneath it is a different, restless thrum.
Every day here feels easier, yet more punishing in more ways than one.
There are no off days on a ranch. Cyrus works seven days a week. He may have hinted at taking a day off every couple of mornings, but there’s no way I can leave him to do everything by himself. Even if he is built to do it after such hardships.
My toes curl against the couch cushion as I imagine him exactly the way he looks.
The sun-kissed skin isn’t from lying out on a chair; it’s earned from all those hours outside. Those glistening muscles in his forearms, the way his shoulders strain his shirts, the solid, capable weight of him—they’re not for show. Here I am, obsessed with thinking about those muscles and what he could do with them if I were his target instead of the farm work.
On the floor, Meatball sleeps, her legs kicking in a dream-chase. A lump of guilt forms in my throat. How would she feel if she knew how often, in the quiet of the barn or the dark of my room, I’ve undressed her dad with my eyes? Not just undressed. Fantasized with my wild imagination.
The rough texture of his hands whenever he accidentally brushes his fingers against mine. The low, gravelly pitch of his voice when he’s tired or annoyed—that specific tone that twists something deep inside of me, a command that makes me want to both obey and provoke him just to hear it again.
A shiver runs through me, not from cold, but from a heat that starts deep inside and radiates out. I press my face into my knees, hiding the fire on my cheeks, but the movement only makes it worse. It shifts my weight, presses my thighs together.
And there it is—a slick, undeniable warmth. A confirmation that I’ve got it bad for Cyrus.
Alone in his living room, with the dog sleeping and Cyrus tucked in the shower now, I take in a deep breath as I lean back and part my thighs. Just needing to check, to have proof that it’s not just my thoughts running about without caution, I do something reckless.
Slowly, my hand slides from my knee, down between my thighs, to the hem of my shorts. My fingertips brush the inside seam before I push my underwear aside.
Oh.
Yeah. I’m wet. Not just a little. Soaked. For him. For a man nearly reaching his forties. Someone who has already lived half of their life.
Is this why all those high school boys left me cold? All their smooth skin, loud laughter, and fumbling hands… they lacked the experience and seriousness I needed.
It took meeting Cyrus for my body to finally light up and start desperately demanding attention.
Realizing I’m nudging my fingertips against my clit mindlessly, a gasp escapes me before I yank my hand back as if burned, curling it into a fist against my mouth. My heart hammers against my ribs.
I should be ashamed of myself. Iam, of course.
Fingers still glossy with proof of my arousal, I hear the sound of steps approaching.
Oh no. He heard, didn’t he?
When Cyrus appears, towel around his neck and shorts hanging low on his hips, all that shame goes right out the window as my pussy clenches around nothing but air.
“Everything alright?” Clueless to the disaster happening in my head, he tilts his head and looks around. “Thought I heard you yelp.”
My skin heats even more from embarrassment. Now, I’m not the lying type, but there’s no way I can tell him the truth. Not this time.
“Big spider.” The words leave me, and I realize I’m panting. “Terrified of them. It, uh, crawled away.”
That’s believable, isn’t it?
He cocks a brow, and just when I think he’s going to start asking more questions to pluck out my lie, he turns toward the kitchen and mentions grabbing lunch. He pauses long enough to ask if I want anything.
Feeling hungry for something else entirely, the best way I can answer him is with a simple shake of my head. Right now, I don’t trust my voice or what other lies it would attempt to tell.
When he slips away, I scramble to find the television remote. What I need right now is a distraction. Something that will cool down the heat between my thighs.
