I slump against the tree, boneless, gasping for air.
Boone stands up slowly. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and possessive.
I reach for him. I drag him up by his wet shirt and crash my lips against his. I can taste myself on him—salt and musk and sex. It drives me wild.
I fumble with the button of his jeans. My hands are shaking, but I get them open. I push the denim down, along with his boxers.
He springs free. He’s thick and heavy, jutting out from a nest of dark curls.
“You’re so hard,” I say, wrapping my hand around his length. He pulses in my grip.
“Because of you,” he says, his jaw clenched tight. “Only ever because of you.”
I begin to stroke him. I watch his face as I touch him. His eyes flutter shut, his head falling back. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He’s fighting for control. He’s trying to hold back, to be gentle.
I don’t want gentle. I want the wildness I saw in his eyes.
I tighten my grip, moving my hand faster. I use the pre-come beading at the tip to slick the way.
“Saramaria,” he warns, his voice strangled.
“Let go, Boone,” I echo his words from moments ago.
I swipe my thumb over the sensitive head of his cock.
That breaks him.
He groans and his hips jerk forward. He comes, hot and thick, over my hand and his stomach. He pulses in my grip, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
He stands there for a moment, bracing his hands against the tree on either side of my head, his chest heaving. He leans his forehead against mine.
We stay like that, the rain pouring down around us, the cold air cooling our heated skin.
“You drive me insane,” he whispers. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I look down. My hand is sticky. My jeans are pooled around my ankles. I feel exposed. I feel raw. And underneath it all, I feel a terrifying heat that has nothing to do with sex.
I pull away from him. I bend down and pull up my panties and jeans. I fasten them with trembling fingers. The damp fabric clings to me, uncomfortable and sticky.
I feel hot. Feverish.
“I should go,” I say. My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
“Wait,” he says, reaching for me.
“No,” I say. I step back, out of his reach. “I can’t... I can’t do this.”
I turn and scramble toward the horses. My legs feel like jelly. The mud sucks at my boots, nearly tripping me.
“Saramaria!”
He doesn’t chase me. He stays there by the tree, watching me.
I reach the mustang. He nickers, sensing my distress. I grab the reins, my hands still shaking, and haul myself into the saddle. It’s an ungainly mount, lacking my usual grace. I almost slip, but I manage to right myself.
I look back once.
Boone is standing under the oak tree. He has put his hat back on. He’s watching me, his face shadowed by the brim. He looks like a statue, a monument to things that can never be.
