Page 30 of Kicking Up Dust

I nod and clear my throat, blindly reaching behind me for the door handle to try and shut the door for her. She huffs out a laugh, but pushes the door closed anyway.

With a groan, I start rifling through the bag I brought in. I’d had a feeling we’d be making this stop tonight, so I’d packed a couple of changes of clothes, just in case. Only one hat though. I grin as I toss it onto the dresser.

Girl Dad.

Every once in a while, I’m reminded and it feels like that moment on the back of the bull all over again. I’m gonna be the best fucking dad in the whole fucking world.

The shower cuts off during my daydreaming, and Blair walks out with a tiny little hotel towel wrapped around her body a few minutes later.

“Sorry, forgot my clothes,” she says, cheeks pink. God, she’s gorgeous.

I clear my throat again and avert my eyes, snatching a T-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs out of my bag.

“No problem. Are you done in the shower then?”

“Yep. It’s all yours.”

Thank fuck because I needed these jeans off yesterday. I turn the water as cold as it’ll go—even though I know it’s not going to help anything—tripping over my boots as I kick them off in a rush to pull my jeans down. My mind automatically measures time in seconds now. Eight seconds on the back of a bull feels like an eternity sometimes, but the seconds it takes to get my hand around my cock somehow seem even longer than that.

The chilly water is enough to ensure the friction isn’t painful, and the smell of whatever soaps Blair used hangs in the air, giving my mind even more fuel for the fantasy of getting to fuck her again.

God, it’d been so fucking good last time. More than good. I knew good sex. I used to have it pretty regularly. But Blair? Fuck.

Just the thought of her naked and dripping wet with only a door between us is enough to make my hips flex, thrusting against my grip.

“Fuck,” I whisper as quietly as I can manage, pressing my forehead against the tile. I probably shouldn’t do that. Hotels aren’t exactly known for their cleanliness, but⁠—

“Colt? Do you have a preference for which side of the bed I take?” Blair’s voice sounds through the door, and my abs tighten in response, desperately hurtling toward the point of no return.

“Colt?” she asks when it takes me too long to reply.

“Yeah, uh.” I try to remember what the room looked like, the location of the bed related to the door, but focusing on that when all I really want to do is beg Blair to keep talking is a bit hard. “I’ll sleep closest to the door,” I finally settle on, praying she leaves just as much as I’m praying she keeps talking to me. It wouldn’t be right to bait her into talking more, right? To use her voice as spank bank material without her knowledge?

She must leave because she doesn’t say anything else, but my mind has already taken her reminder that we’ll be sharing a bed and ran with it, because it doesn’t take much longer for my thighs to tense in a way I’ve long since recognized. I hold my forearm against the wall, biting down on it as I fuck my fist until I’m spent. My cum mixes with the water and swirls down the drain as I try and catch my breath.

“Fuck.”

My legs are jelly while I wash off, realizing too late that I’d forgotten to grab my shampoo and body wash out of my bag in my rush to get in here quickly. I use the hotel’s piddly sample sizes and hope for the best.

When I finally get back into the room, the lamp on Blair’s side is off and she’s made herself comfortable under the covers. She must not have been kidding about her exhaustion, because I can hear her cute little snores already as I slip into bed beside her. It takes everything in me to turn my back on her instead of spooning her.

I turn out my lamp and pray for a quick night.

SEVENTEEN

BLAIR

21 Weeks

Baby is the size of a grooming brush

I’ve never met a boyfriend’s parents before.

Not that Colt was my boyfriend. He was… less than that. More than that? Some odd in-between. No title, other than the—arguably—largest title a man could hold in someone’s life… the father of my child, but somehow not my boyfriend.

Perhaps this was the reason the phrase it’s complicated existed.

Colt takes one hand off the wheel to squeeze my hand. It’s the first time he’s taken his attention from the road since we got in the car, but I think it’s because we’re in more familiar territory for him now. The roads are less busy, the scenery much less populated.