As we finished the plans, Rawley pulled me in close, his arms wrapping around my waist. He rested his chin on my shoulder, and for a while, we just stood there, watching the rain streak the windows.
He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. I felt it in the steady beat of his heart, the way his hand never left my skin.
We had work to do. The world outside was getting meaner. But here, in this kitchen, in this house, I was safe.
I was his.
And, for the first time, I thought—maybe I could be happy here.
Night fell hard and fast, the cold wind rattling the windows while the house itself stayed warm, lit from within. Rawley and I spent the evening putting the finishing touches on the coop plans, then ate a dinner of scrambled eggs and the last of the sourdough bread.
Afterward, we washed the dishes together, moving around each other in the kitchen with an easy rhythm, both of us a little high on the quiet.
When the chores were done, he poured two fingers of bourbon into a mug and handed it to me. “Helps you sleep,” he said, though I wasn’t sure if he meant the drink or his company.
I sipped, feeling the burn warm my chest. He watched me over the rim of his own cup, eyes gone soft and liquid in the lamplight. There was something in his gaze that made my skin buzz, an anticipation that went deeper than hunger.
He set his mug down, then crooked a finger at me. “C’mere.”
I came, because it was always easier than pretending I wouldn’t.
He took my hand, led me up the stairs to the master bedroom. The house was quiet except for the slow creak of wood and the tap of wind-driven branches on the siding. It felt like a world apart—a bunker against everything outside.
He closed the door behind us and then turned the lock, a click that sent my nerves jangling. “Take your clothes off,” he said, voice pitched low.
I did, feeling my face burn as I peeled the shirt over my head, shucked my jeans, left everything in a pile at the foot of the bed. The room was cool, and the fine hairs on my arms stood up. I waited for him to undress, but he just watched me for a moment, hungry and deliberate.
Then, without a word, he picked me up and laid me down on the bed, pinning me to the mattress with his body. His hands slid down my wrists, capturing them above my head in one large fist. The pressure was firm but never cruel—just enough to remind me who was in charge.
He kissed me, deep and slow, his beard rough against my lips. I moaned, arching up to meet him, but he held me in place, grinding his hips against mine until I was shaking.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, the words vibrating through his chest. “You know that?”
I tried to answer, but his mouth was already moving down, licking and biting at the column of my throat. He found the old claim mark, then bit me again, harder this time, until I gasped. The pain went straight to my cock, and I felt myself leaking onto my own stomach.
He growled, the sound animal, then released my wrists just long enough to hook my thighs over his shoulders. He buried his face between my legs, licking at my hole, tongue soft and hot and relentless. I clawed at the sheets, shaking so bad I thought I might break.
He worked me with his mouth until I was begging, then pulled back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He flipped me onto my stomach, spread me open, and pressed two slick fingers inside. He stretched me, slow and thorough, until I was keening, the noise too loud in the hush of the old house.
“Please,” I said, voice cracked.
He didn’t make me wait.
He lined up, then pushed the head of his cock in, slow at first, letting me feel every inch. When he bottomed out, I almost sobbed, the stretch and fullness nearly overwhelming.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he said, voice wrecked.
“Don’t stop,” I begged.
He didn’t.
He set a rhythm, hips snapping against my ass, his hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to bruise. Every thrust hit deep, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls. He bit my neck, my shoulders, left a trail of teeth and tongue across my back. I felt each one like a brand, like he was writing his name on me.
He reached under, wrapped his hand around my cock, and stroked me in time with his thrusts. I came so fast I barely registered it—just the rush, the burn, the white-out behind my eyes.
He fucked me through it, relentless, then came with a shout, driving in one last time and holding there, body shaking with the force of it. I felt the heat of him inside me, the pulse and throb as he emptied out, and I never wanted the moment to end.
He collapsed over me, pinning me to the bed, both of us slick with sweat and spent. We lay like that for a while, the only sound our ragged breathing and the wind at the windows.
