When he pressed into me, the stretch was perfect, that edge of almost too much that made every nerve sing. I braced myself on my forearm, letting him set the pace as he sank deeper.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he groaned, voice strained with the effort of going slow.
“Move,” I demanded. “I'm not made of glass.”
He pulled back and thrust forward, hitting that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. The rhythm he set was deep and steady, each stroke deliberate and devastating.
The stone beneath me was solid, real, anchoring me to this moment while he took me apart with precision. One of his hands splayed across my lower back, the other braced beside my shoulder. I could hear his breathing, rough and uneven, matching the pace of his hips.
This wasn't just about proving my body worked or getting off or even escaping the withdrawal for a while. This was Dusty choosing to see me at my absolute worst, hostile and panicking and falling apart, and staying anyway. This was him trusting me with his own pain, his own fears about his father and his future. This was both of us being brave enough to stop hiding.
“Fuck, Cord,” he gasped against my shoulder, voice ragged as he rolled his hips deeper. “Been watching you all day, wanting to get my hands on you like this.”
I pushed back against him, taking him deeper, loving the stretch and fullness. “Been wanting this since we got here,” I admitted, my voice breaking as he hit that perfect spot. “Needed to feel something besides pain.”
His rhythm intensified, one hand sliding down to grip my hip. “Tell me how it feels now,” he demanded, voice low and rough against my ear.
“Like fucking heaven,” I groaned, my body arching as he angled just right. “Like my body's mine again. Don't stop—right there.”
He sped up then, his control slipping as much as mine. The sound of skin against skin mingled with the sound of water over stone. My orgasm hit like lightning, pleasure shooting through every nerve ending as I spilled over my hand and onto the smooth stone. My body clenched around him, pulling himdeeper, and he followed me over the edge with a hoarse cry that echoed through the oak trees.
We stayed like that for long moments, both breathing hard, his body covering mine like a blanket. The morning sun was warm on our skin, the sound of the stream constant and soothing.
He pulled out and helped me turn over. I was boneless, satisfied in a way that went deeper than physical release.
“How do you feel?” he asked, using his discarded t-shirt to clean us both.
“Like I just remembered I have a body that can feel good things.” I stretched, feeling muscles I'd forgotten existed. “Like maybe I'm not broken after all.”
He kissed me then, soft and sweet, tasting like satisfaction and something more I wasn't ready to name. “We should probably head back.”
“Probably.” But I made no move to get up, content to lie there on the limestone with him beside me, the endorphins buzzing through my system better than any pill.
“Cord?”
“Yeah?”
“You're going to be okay, you know that?”
“Yeah.” And for the first time in months, I believed it. “I think I might be.”
The sunlight had strengthened to that bright midday intensity that made everything look sharper, more defined. After twenty minutes or so we gathered our clothes and headed back down the trail, and neither of us complained about the delay. The walk back was quiet but comfortable, our bodies loose and sated, the tension that had been building for days released.
When the cabin came into view, I realized I wasn't dreading the rest of the day. For the first time since we'd arrived, I felt like I could handle whatever came next. Not because I hadeverything figured out, but because my body remembered what it was like to feel good again. The endorphin high wouldn't last forever, but right now, with my blood humming in my veins and Dusty's steady presence beside me, that was okay. I could face tomorrow when it came. For now, this was enough.
Chapter Nine
Dusty
Cord was still asleep when I woke, sprawled across the bed with one arm flung over his head. I sat cross-legged in the worn armchair, sketchbook balanced on my knee, pencil moving across the page. His features had gone soft in sleep, those worry lines smoothed out. Without that constant guard he kept up, he looked different. More like the college kid from those highlight reels Ramon showed me than the guarded NFL player who'd shown up at The Ranch.
I was turning into a total creep, always sketching him like this. But I couldn't help it. Something about him made my fingers itch for a pencil, made me want to capture the way he existed in space. I'd drawn plenty of people before, bodies in motion during yoga classes, quick studies of hands and faces. But this felt different. More urgent somehow. Like if I didn't get it down on paper, I'd lose something important.
I sketched the slope of his shoulder, keeping my touch lighter on the injured one. Even on paper it needed gentler handling. The sheet draped low across his hips, revealing his chest risingand falling with each breath. My fingers worked almost on their own, translating what I saw onto the page. Not just his body, but something of that vulnerability he only showed when he wasn't performing.
Last night we'd watched some old Western I found on Vincent's shelf. Cord pointed out all the historical inaccuracies—history minor in college, apparently—while I just enjoyed the weight of his good arm draped over my shoulders. Easy silence between us, broken by occasional commentary or laughter. Different from the charged intensity of our fucking by the stream, but just as intimate somehow.
The domesticity of it was dangerous in a way I wasn't ready to think about.
