I thought he’d fight harder. For all the times Floyd Hardesty tried to pin me with his lawman stare, he never had much left in the tank once you got your hands on him.
He bucked against my hold, trying to twist away, but I just rode the momentum, catching both his wrists and pinning them to the rough planks above his head. The struggle felt real for half a second—he grunted, and his chest heaved against mine—but then something in him flickered and folded, like a wild horse catching the scent of water.
His mouth was open and he made a sound—pure want, no filter—before our teeth clacked together again. I felt the split of his lip, tasted salt and coffee and the bitterness of a man who’d denied himself too long. He didn’t kiss like a man with regrets. He kissed like a man starving to death.
I dug my thumb into the bone of his wrist, holding him steady, while my other hand shot down and gripped his hip. The fabric of his uniform was thick, almost slippery under my palm, but I got a fistful anyway, dragging him tighter into me. He was already hard, and I used my thigh to press up against the line of him, grinding until I heard him gasp into my mouth.
He bit me, just below the corner of my lip, and for a second I saw stars. It was enough to make me shove him harder into the wall, wood biting through both shirt and skin, my flannel catching on a splinter. He hissed, but I felt him arch into it, desperate for more.
There wasn’t much talking. Not until he broke the kiss and sucked a breath, eyes blown wide and black.
“Ransom—fuck—” he said, voice shredded.
“Still resisting?” I asked, right in his ear, so he could feel it.
He shuddered. “Keep talking and I’ll cuff you for real.”
I laughed, and the sound came out dark. “Promises, promises.”
He surged up, trying to regain leverage, but I anticipated it and let go of his wrists long enough to cup his face and slam our mouths together again. This time it was all tongue and teeth, messy and uncoordinated, neither of us pretending anymore.
I could feel him everywhere—his pulse hammering in the angle of his jaw, the tension in his gut, the way his thigh twitched against mine. He moved like a man who’d spent his whole life controlling every movement, but now he wanted to lose it, to see how far he could break and still stay standing.
I scraped my teeth down his throat, tasting the sweat and aftershave and something else—fear, maybe, but not of me. Of himself, of the truth leaking out around the edges. He tilted his head back and let me, a move so raw I wanted to tear him open and climb inside.
I shifted my grip to his ass, pulling him up so we fit together flush, my cock riding the zipper of his pants and his riding mine. I worked the rhythm slow at first, then harder, enough that his badge snapped loose and clattered to the ground. He tried to reach for it, but I pinned him with my knee and grabbed his hands again, raising them overhead and holding them there with one palm.
He groaned, deep in his chest, and finally let himself go limp. I kissed him again, slower this time, dragging it out until his lips were swollen and wet. When I broke away, he followed, like he couldn’t stand the gap between us.
I breathed in the moment: the stink of hay and horse, the funk of old leather, the electric charge in the air. The light from the single bulb cast both of us in shadow, made our faces look like strangers.
“You ever do this before?” I whispered, mouth close enough to taste the words as I spoke them.
He shook his head. “No. Not like this.” His voice was wrecked.
I pressed my forehead to his, letting the sweat run between us. “Me neither.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and I could see all the walls he’d built over the years—each one cracked and splintered from the inside. He was shaking, but not from fear. From need.
I let go of his hands, slid down to his belt, and popped the buckle one-handed. He stiffened, but didn’t stop me. Instead, he grabbed my wrist, fingers bruising, and held it there.
“Don’t—” he said, but it didn’t sound like a no.
“Say the word,” I told him.
He closed his eyes. “Don’t stop.”
I smiled and yanked the belt free, dropping it to the floor. His hands fluttered, not sure where to go, so I guided them to my own jeans, let him feel the heat there.
He squeezed, hard, and I hissed through my teeth. “Easy, Sheriff. Don’t want to blow your case.”
He laughed, broken and surprised, and that was enough to tip us both over. I went for his fly, tearing the snap open, and found him already straining against the fabric. I palmed him through the briefs, the outline solid and hot, and he nearly buckled. I fumbled my own jeans down just enough to get some friction, then lined us up, grinding until every nerve was on fire.
He pushed back, desperate, matching me thrust for thrust. It was obscene, the noises we made—grunts, curses, the slap of denim and flesh. I reached down and freed both of us, letting skin meet skin, and he groaned like I’d shot him.
“You want this?” I said, breath ragged.
He grabbed the back of my neck and dragged me in for another kiss, brutal and messy.
