I shoved his flannel off his shoulders and yanked his T-shirt up. He broke the kiss long enough to pull it over his head, and the sight of him, his bare chest, afternoon light cutting across his skin, breathing hard and looking at me like I was the only thing in the world, made my brain go quiet in a way nothing else ever had.
“Stand up,” I said.
He stood. I stood. I walked him backward until his shoulders hit the support beam between the stalls, and the thud of his body against the wood made Starlight snort from behind the partition.
“Sorry, girl,” I said, not looking away from Graham. “Busy.”
Graham’s laugh was low and wrecked, and it died the second I dropped to my knees.
His breath caught. I looked up at him through my lashes while my fingers worked his belt. His hand found the side of my face, not guiding, not pushing, just touching, his thumb brushing my cheekbone like he was memorizing me from this angle.
“Christ, Rose.”
I freed him and wrapped my hand around his length. He was thick and hot against my palm and the sound he made when I stroked him, low and ragged and involuntary, was the most satisfying thing.
I took him in my mouth.
“Fuck—” His head dropped back against the beam. His hand slid into my hair, fingers tangling, not pulling, just holding on. I worked him slow, deliberate, tongue flat along the underside, hollowing my cheeks when I pulled back. His hips twitched, fighting the urge to thrust, and I rewarded the restraint by taking him deeper.
“Rose. Rose, I’m going to—you need to stop or I’m going to?—”
I didn’t stop. I went deeper, hands gripping his hips, feeling the muscles in his thighs tense under my fingers. I wanted him out of control. I wanted the man who was always steady, always careful, always giving me space, to lose it completely. In my barn. In my space. Because I said so.
His hand tightened in my hair. “Rose, I mean it, I want to be inside you, please?—”
Thepleasedid it.
I pulled back. Wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Looked up at him and nearly laughed at the expression on hisface: his pupils blown, chest heaving, looking at me like I’d just rewired his entire understanding of the world.
“Condom?” I asked.
“Back pocket.” His voice was destroyed.
I reached around and pulled his wallet from his jeans, found the condom, and tore the wrapper with my teeth while he watched me like a man watching a religious experience.
He took it from my fingers, rolled it on, then grabbed me by the hips and spun us so my back was against the beam. The wood was rough through my shirt. I didn’t care.
“Jeans,” he said against my mouth.
I unbuttoned them myself, shoved them down my hips. He hooked his fingers into my underwear and pulled them down in one motion, and then his hand was between my legs and I gasped against his neck.
“You’re soaked,” he breathed.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m fucking grateful.” Two fingers slid inside me and my vision whited out. He worked me in slow circles, thumb finding my clit with a precision that made my knees buckle.
“I can’t—my legs?—”
“I’ve got you.” He lifted me. Just like that. Hands under my thighs, my back against the beam, my legs wrapping around his waist. The position pressed us together and I could feel him right there, hot and hard against where I was slick and open and desperate for him.
“Now,” I said. “Graham,now.”
He pushed inside me in one long stroke and I bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.
He groaned against my throat. “Fuck, Rose?—”
“Move.”
