I lose count of how many times he makes me come, exploring my whole body with his mouth and hands between each orgasm he provides on his fingers and tongue. When he finally positions himself above me, his cock resting heavy on my thigh, I’m shaking. He presses himself against my entrance and pushes in slowly, inch by inch, letting me feel every bit of him until I’m stretched tight around him. When I’ve taken him to the hilt, he pauses, fully seated inside me, to press his forehead to mine.
“I’m going to miss you,” he says quietly, his voice rough. “Every fucking second.”
Easton moves his hips in deep, rolling thrusts that have nothing of his usual roughness. Tonight, he’s gentle, almost reverent, his hips rocking into me in a slow rhythm. His arms bracket my head, and his hands smooth my hair back from my face. He leans down to capture my lips, the kiss tasting of longing and desire. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I pull him deeper. The pleasure from his languid drives builds slowly, like a wave gathering strength.
His breath is hot against my ear, punctuated by soft groansand murmured praise. “You’re so perfect,” he exhales. “Everything I never thought I’d have again.”
His pace quickens—just slightly—and I meet him thrust for thrust. The coil tightens low in my belly, and when his fingers find my clit, I shatter. My orgasm rolls through me in waves, my pussy clenching around him as my breathy cries of pleasure fill the bunkhouse. He follows me over the edge two thrusts later, burying himself deep, spilling inside me, his groan muffled against my shoulder. We stay like that for a long moment, merely tangled together.
When he pulls out, I feel the loss acutely, a vast emptiness where he used to be. He presses a soft kiss on my forehead as he moves away. The mattress shifts under his weight, and he disappears briefly into the bathroom. I hear the faint rush of water and the quiet rustle of fabric, before he returns with a warm cloth. His touch is tender as he cleans me, careful and unhurried.
He finishes and sets the cloth aside. “Come here,” he says, gathering me into him without hesitation and drawing me against his chest until my cheek settles over his heart. He dusts his lips along my temple as his fingers comb slowly through my hair.
“Three days,” I murmur.
“Three days,” he echoes, squeezing me a little tighter. “Stay… just a little while longer,” he whispers. “I’ll make sure to wake you before everyone rises.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. In the warmth of his arms, with his steady breathing filling the darkness, I let myself drift.
Knox’s truck smells like leather, his—aggressively over-sugared—gas station coffee, and the pine-tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.
I rest my boots on the dash, my hat tipped low over my eyes, watching the highway unspool ahead of us in long, sun-bleached ribbons. It’s still early enough that the world feels half-asleep. Pale light stretches across the fields, catching on barbed wire fences and grazing cattle. My body hums with the particular mix of nerves and anticipation that only an upcoming rodeo brings.
Knox drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “You’re quiet this morning.”
“I’m focused.”
“You’re brooding.”
“I don’t brood,” I snip.
He snorts. “You absolutely brood. It’s a family trait. One that skipped me.”
I don’t respond, because he might be right.
Easton’s face has been floating through my thoughts since we left the ranch just before dawn. He stayed behind with Deacon and Dad to help with a late calving and the other usual chaos that never seems to wait.
“You text him yet?” Knox teases, like he doesn’t care.
“No.”
“You thinkin’ about him?”
I turn my head slowly. “Do youeverstop?”
He grins. “Not when it’s this entertaining.”
I shove his shoulder lightly, but my smile fades as I look out the windshield. Because, yes, Iamthinking about him. I miss him in a way that feels disproportionate to the few hours we’ve been apart.
It’s ridiculous to care about someonethismuch. Yet, I do.
When we pull into the rodeo grounds the following morning, the place is already buzzing. Trucks and trailers line the gravel lot. Horses stamp and snort in portable pens. The concession stand is in full swing, filling the air with the delectable smell of funnel cake.
This is my world. This is where I breathe easiest.
Knox hops out and stretches. “Let’s go make you famous.”
“I don’t want to be famous.”
