"You were forcing it past the threads," he says without looking at me. "Needs to catch first, then tighten. Like this." He holds out his hand.
Taking it, I let him pull me close until I'm standing between him and the trough, his body solid against my back, his arms bracketing mine. His palms cover my hands, and he guides them to the valve.
"Feel that?" His words are warm against my ear. "You want to turn it until you feel resistance, then back off a quarter turn before tightening. Gives the threads room to catch."
We work the valve together, his hands over mine, his body a wall of warmth behind me. My pulse hammers in my throat, and I'm aware of everywhere our bodies connect: the press of his thighs against the backs of mine, the way his ribs expand and contract against my shoulders.
"There," he says into my ear. "Now it'll hold."
The valve sits tight, no dripping. I test it once, solid, and the small victory feels bigger than it should.
I should step away. Should put distance between us before I do something reckless like turn around and kiss him in broad daylight with ranch hands working fifty yards away.
Instead, I lean back into him. Just slightly. Just enough that he knows it's deliberate.
His arms tighten around me. "Sloane."
"I'm yours." The words come out with more conviction than I expected. "You said it in the truck. And you were right."
The air between us goes still. Then he turns me around, hands on my hips, and backs me against the fence post I set earlier. His gaze is intense and hungry, and there's something in his expression that's both claiming and careful.
"Say it again."
"I'm yours, Cash."
He captures my mouth in a kiss so absolute it leaves my lungs aching, his hold on my waist a lock to keep me there. It’s a desperate, grounding contact, and I surrender to it completely, kissing him back with all the fear and frantic need I’ve been hoarding in the dark. The dam finally breaks, and I let the weight of seventeen years of wanting him flood the space between us.
He breaks the contact, and we’re left shaking and short of breath.
"Come with me," he says.
"Where?"
"Somewhere we won't be interrupted." His voice drops lower. "I want to taste you again. Want to make you come so hard you forget your own name."
Heat coils low and heavy in my pussy, and the way my thighs clench against his weight draws a slow, dangerous grin to his face. He watches the realization dawn on me, his eyes sparking with the satisfaction of a man who knows he’s won.
"Yeah," he says. "That's what I thought."
He takes my hand and leads me toward the barn. The sun is high and bright and I should protest, should remind him that it's the middle of the day and people are working and this is reckless. But my body is already moving, following him like it knows something my brain hasn't caught up to yet.
The air inside the barn is thick with the sweet, heavy scent of hay and old saddles. He doesn't pause to shed his gear; his focus is entirely upward as he guides me toward the loft, his hand steady on the rungs of the ladder.
The space is empty except for bales stacked along the walls and shafts of dusty light coming through gaps in the boards. It's quiet up here. Private. The sounds from below are muffled and distant.
When Cash finally faces me, the sheer weight of his hunger pins me in place. My chest tightens as I realize he’s finally done waiting for me to catch up.
"No one comes up here during the day," he says. "We're alone."
"Cash, we can't—"
"Tell me you don't want this." He steps closer, backing me toward a stack of hay bales. He spreads out a plaid blanket that sits folded nearby. "Tell me you don't think about my mouth on you every time you close your eyes. Tell me you didn't come apart the other night and spend the next few days wishing I'd stayed over."
I can't. Because he's right.
"That's what I thought." He crowds me until my legs hit the hay. "Sit."
The command in his voice makes my pussy dampen. I sit. He kneels in front of me, hands on my knees, and the position puts him at eye level with my sternum.
