"Tell me you taste as good as you look."
Then his mouth is on my pussy, and the question answers itself.
His tongue is broad, unhurried. He licks through my folds like a man with nowhere to be, pressing flat against my clit before circling it slowly, reading every twitch of my hips. Two fingers slide inside me, curling, finding the spot that makes my thighs shake.
"Oh fuck. Sully."
He groans against me. The vibration, his fingers, his tongue working my clit in a rhythm that tightens everything low in my belly. Close. So close so fast because it has been years since anyone touched me like I was worth savoring.
My orgasm breaks through me in waves. My fingers twist in his hair. His free hand grips my hip, holding me in place while I shake apart against his mouth.
Before the aftershocks finish, he's standing. Belt undone, jeans shoved down. His cock is thick, flushed dark, already slick at the tip. He rolls on a condom from the nightstand, then he's over me, one arm braced beside my head, the other guiding himself to my entrance.
Pushing in is slow. Stretching. Full. My fingers dig into his shoulders as he seats himself deep, then holds. His forehead drops to mine. Both of us breathing hard.
"You good?" Low. Strained.
"Don't stop."
He doesn't. Rolling his hips in a rhythm that builds from deliberate to urgent, driving deep on every stroke. My legs wrap around his waist. His mouth finds my neck, biting the spot that makes me clench around him. When his hand slides between us, finding my clit with his thumb, I come again so hard my vision whites out.
He follows me over the edge with a groan that sounds like my name, buried against my throat.
The storm rages outside. Rain hammers tin. Thunder shakes the windows.
We lie tangled in the dark, catching our breath, his arm heavy across my waist. His thumb traces circles on my hip, absent, gentle.
"For the record," he mutters into my hair, "Gran's got terrible timing. And perfect aim."
Laughter bubbles out of me, real and warm. His arm tightens, pulling me closer.
The power stays out all night. I don't notice.
CHAPTER FIVE
SULLIVAN
She sleeps on her stomach.
Facedown, one arm tucked under the pillow, braids fanned across her shoulders. Her back rises and falls in a rhythm so steady it makes the whole room feel calmer. Morning light cuts through the window, turning her brown skin gold where it touches. The sheet rides low on her hips.
Beautiful. And in my bed.
For a full minute, I just watch her breathe. Then I get up, pull on jeans, and go make coffee. Because lying there cataloguing the curve of her spine while she sleeps is the behavior of a man who's getting attached, and attachment is where the trouble starts.
The next three days prove me right.
We fall into each other so easily it scares me. She moves into my room without discussion. Her Bible goes on my nightstand. Her clothes mix with mine in the laundry. Mornings, she walks with me to the pasture, coffee in hand, asking about the cattle by name now because apparently she's decided each Hereford has a personality. The spotted one near the creek is Dolly. The cranky bull is Gerald. She named him Gerald.
Evenings, we cook together. Eat on the porch. Talk about nothing important until the sky goes dark, then she climbs into my lap on the porch swing and my hands find her hips and we don't do much talking after that.
At night, I learn her body. What makes her gasp, what makes her go quiet, where she's sensitive. The soft inside of her wrist. The spot behind her left ear. How she arches when I slide two fingers inside her from behind while my thumb works her clit in slow circles. How she says my name when she comes, broken up into syllables, Sul-ly, like she's trying to hold onto it.
And every morning, waking up with her warm against my chest, the panic gets a little louder.
Because this is how it goes. You love someone. They leave. My mother drove down this mountain when I was six. My father's heart stopped in the north pasture when I was twelve. Gran closed her eyes in a hospital bed three weeks ago. Everyone I've ever loved has either walked away or been taken away, and the pattern is clear enough that even a stubborn rancher can read the signs.
Naomi is going to leave. Not today, maybe not this month, but eventually. She came here with one suitcase. A woman who packs that light is a woman who knows how to disappear.
