He leads my hands to his trousers where I unzip him and free the thick, throbbing erection that’s pulsating for me.
I wrap my fingers around him, holding him and pulling him a little closer to me. I arch my back, rolling my hips toward him until finally he gets the hint. Not that he needs much of a hint.
He’s more than keen to buck his hips and to finally bury himself deep inside of me. He presses me up against the counter hard, thrusting until he hits all the right spots.
I cling to him, allowing the pleasure to erupt all over again.
I don’t know how he does it, how he manages to coax the orgasm from me again, but Jesse works his magic on my body.
Only this time I’m not alone as I tip over the edge. Jesse’s body is shuddering with pleasure as well. He’s grunting and groaning through the bliss.
We sink down slowly after, foreheads pressed together, breath still uneven, hands still clinging like neither of us quite trusts the ground yet.
Jesse kisses my temple, then my cheek, then my mouth again. Gentler now, but no less certain.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “We’re definitely past pretending this isn’t a thing.”
I laugh weakly, heart racing, body still humming.
“Just a little,” I say.
And I know, deep in my bones, that whatever this is, it’s already changed everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wyatt
Tuesday
If there’s one universal truth about Dusty Spur Ranch, it’s that no animal here has ever respected my personal space.
The second truth is that every man who works here has an opinion about everything, whether you ask for it or not.
I’m elbow deep in a mildly irritated heifer before I’ve even finished my first cup of coffee, one boot braced against the chute rail, sweat already trickling down my spine, when I realize, again, that my brain has wandered.
It should be on lung sounds. Temperature. Mucous membranes. Respiration rate.
Instead, it’s on honey jars.
Which feels medically irresponsible.
“Easy,” I murmur, adjusting my stance. “I know. I don’t love this either.”
The heifer shifts her weight, muscles bunching under her hide. I feel it before she does anything else. The tightening, the warning tremor that says she’s deciding whether to tolerate me or make a point.
I shift with her, calm palm firm against her flank.
“Don’t,” I say quietly.
Her tail flicks anyway, smacking my forearm hard enough to sting.
“Duly noted,” I add.
“See?” Willy Kane says from where he’s perched on the fence, hat tipped low, chewing on a piece of straw. “She’s tellin’ you what she thinks.”
“I’m listening,” I reply, moving the scope again, counting breaths under my own. “I just don’t agree with her treatment plan.”
I listen longer than most people think is necessary. Through the crackle and wheeze, the faint rasp that wasn’t there a week ago.
