Jesus Christ. She sucks like she was born for it, hollowed cheeks, tongue swirling, hand stroking what her mouth can’t reach. Best I’ve ever felt. Hands in her hair, gripping just enough. She hums around me, vibrations shooting straight to my balls.
She pulls off with a wet pop, stands, straddles me. We’re kissing messy, desperate. She grinds down, my cock sliding against her slick heat. Then she grabs me, lines up, and sinks down slowly.
Perfect fit. Perfect damn fit.
She starts grinding, bouncing slowly at first, biting my neck. I slide a hand up, grip her breast, swirl my tongue around her nipple through the dress. She moans loudly.
“I’m going to cum,” she gasps.
“Are you on birth control?” I ask, suddenly aware.
“You didn’t care to ask me earlier today,” she laughs, breathless.
“Well, are you?” I stopped cold—realizing I came inside her at the creek and didn’t even think. Shit.
“Yes!” she squeals.
Relief floods me. I grip her hips, thrust up hard from underneath. Faster. Deeper. She digs nails into my shoulders, crying out as she comes, clenching tight around me. I follow right after, burying deep, spilling inside her with a low groan.
We’re panting, foreheads together.
“I never fucked in a barn before,” she giggles, voice wrecked.
“First time for everything, city girl.” I kiss her slow, soft, taking in those perfect lips.
As we’re making our way back up toward the house, I slow my steps just enough to really look at her. Not the quick glances I’ve been stealing all night—the ones that make my gut twist—but a long, deliberate one. Layla’s walking a half-step ahead, hips swaying easy in that sundress, hair loose and catching the last purple streaks of sunset. She’s as pretty as a picture, like one of those old oil paintings Mom used to hang in the hallway, soft light, warm colors, the kind of beauty that stops your heart for a second.
I know she’s going to leave. It’s been the quiet drumbeat in the back of my skull since the day she showed up. Temporary. Guest house. City girl with a life somewhere else. Right now, though? Right now I just want to drink her in while she’s still here, memorize the way she laughs, the way she smells like vanilla and roses, the way her thighs feel wrapped around me. But that knowledge sits heavy anyway. It’ll always be there, lurking.
We hit the stairs of the main house and her phone starts ringing, sharp, insistent. She glances at the screen and hesitates, thumb hovering.
“I’ll be a minute,” she says, eyes flicking to mine. “I gotta take this.”
Her whole mood shifts, shoulders tighten, smile fades. I nod, even though every instinct screams to stay right there and eavesdrop like some jealous teenager. Instead I push through the screen door.
Inside, the living room is loud and warm, family sprawled on couches, charades in full swing, empty beer bottles scattered like casualties. Maggie’s acting out something ridiculous with wild hand gestures; Dad’s laughing so hard he’s wheezing. Normal chaos. I grab a cold one from the cooler, crack it, and take a long pull. Through the big window I can see Layla on the porch steps, pacing now, free hand waving, talking fast. Worried lines on her forehead. Anxious. Who the hell is on the other end of that call?
“Where’s Layla?” Maggie asks, sliding another beer into my hand without asking.
“She’s on the phone outside.”
“Work?”
“Probably.” I nod toward the window. “She doesn’t look too thrilled. I’m giving her space.”
Maggie studies me for a beat, little sister radar pinging—then nudges the fresh beer closer. “Go check on her.”
I don’t argue. Grab the bottle, head back out. The screen door creaks as I step onto the porch. Layla’s sitting now, elbows on knees, head dropped into her hands like the weight of the call crushed her. She hears my boots on the wood, looks up. Those brown eyes are glassy, tired.
I sit beside her, close enough our thighs touch, hand her the beer without a word.
She takes it, sips and lets out a shaky breath.
“Everything alright?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle, low.
“Not really.” She stares at the bottle label like it holds answers. “They’ve bumped up my due date for the draft. Which means I have to leave here by the end of August. Which means I only have about ten weeks to finish this book, polish the draft, survive edits, all that bullshit. Which means… I really need to focus. Lock in. Write. I can’t be playing around as much with you. I have to—” She cuts herself off, voice cracking. “I hope you don’t get mad or think I’m—”
“It’s okay,” I interrupt, soft but firm. “I get it. It’s work.” I reach over, brush my thumb along her jaw. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, okay?”
