I let out a harsh exhale.
How was I supposed to say no to that?
I kept my hand on her and used my other hand to reach between us and unbutton my jeans, then yank down the zipper. My cock was hard as a fucking rock when I pulled it out of my boxers, and I rushed to pull her pants down just enough to bare her ass.
I pressed my cock between her thighs…felt her pussy clenching, searching for me.
Eased in.
“Christ,” I cursed. I’d thought she felt good with a condom, but this…? She was so fucking wet, so hot, and the friction and clench?—
“Oh god,” she groaned, too loud. “Oh god, oh god…”
“You gotta be quiet, baby,” I growled in her ear.
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.
“Ican’t?—”
I pulled my fingers away from her clit and shoved them in her mouth—and she sucked them in without a moment’s hesitation, sucking her own juices off my fingers.
She was perfect. She was perfect, and I thought this was just an arrangement, but I wanted to fuck this woman for the rest of my life?—
I grabbed her hip and started to move.
No easing into it. No soft and gentle, not this time. Just Haven braced against the saddle rack and the slick heat of her and the specific filthy sound of it in the quiet tack room. I was so gon I couldn’t think past the next thrust and the next, curled around her, fucking her hard.
She sucked on my fingers and I drove deeper and she clenched and I had to stop and breathe through it.
"Haven—"
She moaned around my fingers.
I pulled them free and smacked her ass cheek, then set a piece that had her knees shaking. She buried her face in her arm and the sound she made was muffled but I felt it—felt it in the way she tightened around me, the way her whole body shook with the effort of staying quiet.
I did it again.
Same result.
She pushed back harder, taking more, hips rolling to meet me, and I watched my hands on her—one gripping the curve of her waist, fingers pressed into the soft skin there, the other coming down again light on her ass—and thought about the parking lot two nights ago, Haven with her back against the limestone wall asking me for one thing.
Just a kiss, she'd said.
I drove into her and she grabbed the saddle rack and the leather smell of the tack room and the warm animal smell of the barn and the specific sound of her—muffled and desperate and trying so hard to stay quiet—all of it hit me at once and I tightened my grip and kept going and felt her start to shake.
She reached back and grabbed my thigh. Just held on.
That small thing.
That one small thing and I was done for in a way that had nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with Haven Sinclair, who showed up forty minutes early and asked me to come on her like she already knew I couldn't say no.
She clenched around me and I smacked her again and she grabbed the saddle rack harder.
"You feel so fucking good," I gritted out. "Every time. Every single time?—"
"Wyatt—"
