Page 56 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

I want him walking past a saddle months from now and thinking of me. I want the scent of straw to ruin his concentration forever.

Then, all at once, he’s pulling away.

His chest heaves. His cock shines with spit.

“Not yet,” he manages, and the words come out rough, carrying equal parts warning and request.

Before I can respond, his hand catches my jaw and guides me upward. He kisses me hard, lips swollen from everything we’ve been doing, and there’s an edge to it that makes me laugh against his mouth.

He looks genuinely annoyed that I almost got him there. Which only makes me enjoy it more.

Willy hauls me back onto the tack trunk and settles me there with unmistakable purpose. My thighs fall open as his hands grip my ass, holding me exactly where he wants me.

For a brief beat, our eyes meet. It’s the quickest check-in imaginable, but I catch it anyway: Are you sure?

The answer couldn’t be clearer if I shouted it.

Then he’s moving.

The last scraps of patience between us disappear. There’s no teasing, no attempt to stretch the anticipation any further.

One powerful thrust and he’s inside me, fast and hungry, like whatever restraint we’ve both been clinging to finally gave way.

The sensation hits hard enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

Every inch of him registers. Every movement, each twitch.

My entire body narrows around the fact of him being there.

Willy hooks his hands beneath my knees and pushes them higher, chasing a better angle. The next thrust drives even deeper, and a cry tears out of me before I can stop it.

My back arches helplessly as he drives into me again and again, each thrust landing with more force than the last. Desire builds fast, consuming everything else, and the frightening part is how obvious it feels that we’re nowhere near finished.

Willy isn’t gentle anymore. Whatever restraint he had earlier has vanished beneath a frantic urgency that feels almost desperate, as though the storm outside might reach in and tear us apart if we don’t get there first.

He catches both my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand while the other cradles the back of my skull, keeping me from cracking it against the wall every time the tack trunk jolts beneath us.

His knuckles scrape against the wood. His hips never stop moving.

Every thought, instinct, scrap of my attention gathers around the place where he’s driving into me. The friction keeps building, winding tighter and hotter until I feel stretched around it, held inside it.

My wrists twist reflexively in his grip. He doesn’t loosen his hold. If anything, his fingers close harder around them, his palm pressing the bones together while his pulse pounds against my skin.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register my nails digging into the trunk hard enough to leave marks, but the thought evaporates.

The only thing that matters is Willy.

The way he moves. The certainty behind every thrust. Sweat tracks down his chest. His hair sticks up in every direction. Those impossible blue eyes roll back whenever I tighten around him or push up to meet him.

A rough grunt tears out of him before he drops his head and bites my shoulder. The pressure stops just shy of breaking skin. Heat flashes through me anyway, racing straight to my core.

Judging by the look on his face, he knows exactly what that does to me. He wants the reaction, wants to watch me come apart.

I’m more than willing to give him the show.

Every sound leaving me is loud and unfiltered. If this were happening anywhere with actual neighbors, I’d probably be asked to leave.

Out here, with nothing but desert and storm surrounding us, nobody’s filing complaints.