Page 29 of The Widow and the Wanted

I let him look his fill, wearing the look that says there ain’t a corner of me he can’t claim, no place he’d ask me to go that I would refuse.

Fingers wound tight in my hair, he pulls me close till my lips brush the slick tip.

I take him in deep on the first slide, lips sealed tight, tongue flat along the underside. He fills my mouth perfect, his thickness stretching my jaw, salty and alive, until the sensitive tip hits my throat. I hum and a shudder rolls through him. Fingernails claw against my scalp, but he don’t make a sound beyond that first soft exhale.

I set a slow, steady rhythm—down till my nose brushes the coarse hair at his root, back up till just the head rests on my tongue, then down again. The sound makes my heart race, every noise breaking through the dark silence like a snitch—every click of my throat, the schlick of my spit-slick lips dragging over velvet skin. Lula best stay in bed. If she catches us, Okee will never forgive me.

But after the few days we’ve had, I need him. Need this. He does too.

My hands grip his thighs, thumbs digging into hard muscle to keep him still when his hips try to lift. If he bucks the way I know he wants to, there won’t be no question what we’re doing.

“Easy cowboy,” I tease, twirling my tongue around the tip. His chest rises, eyes flutter. A firm hand takes my head, pressing it down as his hips rise.

Above me he’s fighting for silence—breath coming shallow and fast through his nose, ribs rising sharp under his shirt. I glance up once; his head’s tipped back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted just enough to show clenched teeth. Okee is bridled, taut as a drum, and watching him lose his tight grip on control is a beautiful thing to behold.

My own need is a pounding ache now, cock straining painful against my trousers. I shift my knees wider, trying to ease the pressure, but it only makes me grind against nothing. I don’t touch myself; this is for him tonight. My pleasure’s in the taste of him, the feel of him sliding over my tongue, the way his thighs tremble under my palms. In watching the tightly wound threads of him slowly unravel.

He thickens against my lips and comes with a silent gasp, hips jerking once, hard, as he spills. I drink every pulse, till he softens against my tongue.

When I rise, my legs are shaky. He hauls me in quick, pulling me half into his lap. His mouth finds my temple, then the corner of my lips, tasting himself there. His hand slides down between us, bold now, palming the length of me through my trousers.

I bite back a groan. “Okee⁠—“

“Quiet,” he murmurs against my ear, voice rough with afterglow. But his fingers are already working my buttons open, freeing me to the cool air. He wraps his big hand around me—calluses rough, grip perfect—and strokes once, slow and firm, thumb dragging over the slit to spread the wetness. I bury my face in his neck to muffle the broken sound that tears out of me.

It never takes much after tasting him. Two more long, tight strokes and I come hard, sudden, heat spilling over his knuckles and spattering onto my shirt. He works me through it gentle, hand slick and shining, thumb circling the sensitive head till I’m shaking in his arms.

I’m still spending when he eases those slick fingers behind my balls, pressing them against my hole. He gentles them inside, reaching for the spot where he knows I’ll break, and I forget we’re trying to be discreet.

“Oh my God,” I cry.

His other hand flies to my mouth to quiet it. My whole body seizes. The last of my sense goes white and useless, and more spend punches out of me, messy and sudden, over my belly. He makes a pleased sound behind me, low and mean. “Thought so,” he murmurs. “You weren’t finished.”

After, he wipes his hand on the inside of his own shirttail, then pulls me down till we’re lying side by side on the narrow bed, my back to his chest, his arm locked around my waist. My heart’s still hammering in my ribcage.

Upstairs stays silent. We don’t speak. Don’t need to. His breath evens out against my neck, warm and steady. My own body feels loose for the first time in days. I shift in his arms, slow, careful not to break the quiet. His grip adjusts like instinct, tugging me closer, tighter. Our legs tangle, nose to nose in the dim. His eyes flick to my mouth.

I tilt my chin and he leans in, capturing my mouth in a slow, open-mouthed kiss. Nothing rushed. Just the two of us breathing each other in. My hand comes up to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the scratch of stubble. He lets out a soft sound against my lips, something almost like a sigh. “We shouldn’t take risks like this.”

“Can’t help it. Been wantin’ you since you told that Hollister guard off.”

He leans in again, another kiss, this one softer, our mouths barely moving, just warmth and breath shared between us. Holding my face between his rough palms, thumbs brushing the corners of my mouth, he says, “I can’t help it either.”

I believe him.

I know what loving me has cost him. But he’s in my bones the way I’m in his—two halves of the same restless creature, two stars in the same sky that can’t quit circling each other. We’d find each other in the dark of a cell, in the smoke of a lynching fire, in whatever hell they tried to consign to us. There ain’t a law, nor Alfred Collins, nor the whole damn Confederacy risen from the grave that could tear us apart.

Upstairs, a floorboard gives a tiny pop, and our heads turn toward the ladder, holding our breaths. Has she heard? The wind outside shakes the eaves. Reckon it’s just the cabin settling.

Chapter 11

Lula

Ipeek outside the loft window and find the Aces clearing a trench through the snow, lining empty cans along the fence rail for target practice.

Hmm.

I half expected the novelty of playing protector to have worn off by now.