There was a loud crack overhead, louder than any before, and I jumped. The mug slipped from my fingers and rolled, spilling the last of the coffee onto the packed earth.
I felt stupid, juvenile, and looked away.
But Macon didn’t laugh. He reached out, slow and careful, and put his hand on my shoulder. His grip was gentle, but the strength underneath was obvious. “You’re fine,” he said, and the words were heavy, like they meant more than they should.
The contact electrified every inch of me. I wanted to lean into him, bury my face in his chest, maybe just for a second. Instead, I stayed frozen, terrified he’d pull away if I moved.
“Is this okay?” he asked, voice even lower now, a whisper for just us.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My face must have betrayed something—fear, hope, the stupid ache of wanting to be seen—because his expression softened.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did, and the look in his eyes was nothing I’d ever seen before. It was raw, unfiltered, like he was seeing me—really seeing me—for the first time.
He slid his hand up to cup my jaw, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. “Still okay?”
“Yeah,” I breathed.
He closed the distance, mouth brushing mine. Not a kiss, not exactly. More like a claim, or maybe a promise. His beard scratched my skin, and I shuddered, surprised at how much I liked it. My lips parted, instinct more than intent, and he caught the corner of my mouth in a gentle bite.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched mine for something I didn’t have words for.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
I shook my head.
He kissed me again, this time for real. It was slow at first, exploratory, as if he was waiting for me to change my mind. I didn’t. I leaned in, let him taste the rain on my lips, the tremor in my breath.
He deepened the kiss, one hand tangling in the back of my damp shirt, the other sliding down to my hip. His fingers were rough, but the way he touched me was almost reverent.
It felt dangerous and perfect, like stepping off a ledge you’d spent your whole life avoiding.
When we broke apart, I was shaking. Not from fear, but from the weird rush of being wanted. Of being chosen.
He pressed his forehead to mine, hands braced on either side of my face. “You smell like rain,” he murmured, and I laughed, stupidly, because I didn’t know what else to do.
“So do you,” I said, and he grinned, quick and wild.
Outside, the storm had moved on. But inside, in the half-dark, the air between us was charged with something that felt a hell of a lot like hope.
And for the first time in a long time, I wanted more.
He kissed me again, this time like he’d been waiting years for the chance, and maybe he had. I didn’t know the language of bodies the way he did, but I was learning, and fast.
His hands were everywhere—my jaw, my neck, the line of my spine through the thin thermal shirt. I was grateful for the thickness of the horse blanket, because I would have sunk through the hay bale if he’d pressed any harder.
The barn was all shadow and flickering lamplight, but Macon O’Reilly could have made a gas station toilet romantic if he wanted. He angled us so we slid off the hay bale together, landing on the rough mats that lined the empty stall. The floor was cold, but his hands on my waist were warm enough to make me forget.
He paused, chest heaving, just long enough to search my face. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“I won’t,” I said, too honest, too fast. My voice came out higher than usual, but if he noticed, he didn’t comment.
He braced his forearms on either side of my head, crowding out the rest of the world. There was nothing delicate about the way he kissed—he owned every inch of my mouth, tongue probing, beard scraping, lips insistent. He tasted like bitter coffee and smoke and some animal thing that must have been his alone.
He pressed his knee between my legs, parting them. The movement wasn’t rough, but it was absolute. I let him, every muscle in my thighs going loose, my cock stirring against the inside of my jeans. I’d never wanted to be undone this badly before, had never let myself want it.
Macon pushed my shirt up, exposing the cold strip of skin above my waistband. He bit my lower lip—hard—and growled, “You have any idea what you do to people?”
