Page 35 of Slow Burn

I tried like hell, to never think about kissing Lyla ever again.

Until tonight.

Now, the urge to kiss her is still straining from within me. I knew that spending time with Lyla was not going to be good for my resolve. It was already slipping. After our day out riding together, my control was thin at best.

I shouldn’t have even walked into her house tonight. I should have given her those goddamned peaches and turned on my heel and marched straight home. Because now she is the only thing I can think about. The only thing I needed to be thinking about tonight was the business. The paperwork. But for once, none of it mattered.

The only thing I cared about while Lyla carefully read over receipts and invoices was her fucking mouth, and the way her teeth sunk into her bottom lip while she concentrated. The way she rested her pen to her lips, or the way her tongue slid across them leaving a sheen.

We were there to talk about cattle prices, hay quality, and anything related to Wild Sage. Instead, I sat there like a fucking asshole thinking about the way her skin would taste.

I stop pacing in circles when I hear movement from the bedroom down the hall. My incessant stomping is doing wonders for my sexual frustration, but it’s going to wake Dad. So I lighten my footsteps and go into my bathroom instead, where I turn the shower on cold, strip off my day-old sweaty work clothes, and step into the stream.

The change in temperature practically makes my skin sizzle. But the freezing water is doing nothing for my cock, which has become harder and harder every second I spend thinking about Lyla and those plush lips.

My mind wanders, and my thoughts turn… less honourable. Images of kissing Lyla tenderly turn into visions of sucking her tongue into my mouth, hands finding purchase under clothing. I try to shut it down then and there, but my imagination has run amok, planting pictures of Lyla kneeling in front of me, undoing my heavy belt buckle, letting my throbbing cock spring free.

I squeeze my eyes shut, letting out a tortured groan, and fisting my cock because doing this is better than indulging in this fantasy for real.

The Lyla in my mind grasps me in her small hand, eyes taking in my size and the bead of precum forming at my tip. She rubs it over her lips and then follows it with her tongue, a low hum coming from the back of her throat.

My fist works my shaft harder, pumping roughly, punishingly. Fuck, I shouldn’t be thinking about this. I shouldn’t even be entertaining the image of Lyla wrapping her lips around my cock and swirling her tongue around the ridge of my head, of her sucking in my length until my tip touches the back of her throat. But the more I remind myself of the forbiddenness of it all, the harder I get.

I lean my free hand against the wall of the shower, letting the water run over my face as I grip and tug and finally give in to the illusion. It’s the only way I’m going to get to experience it, the only way I’ll ever be able to experience her. With pillowy lips and that soft, slippery tongue.

Only in my imagination would Lyla Morgan get on her knees for anyone. Only in my imagination would she let me fuck her smart mouth until she no longer has any snarky comments left.

So I give in, I let my shoulder relax, and I let myself think about her, bobbing her head back and forth on my dick. My control evaporates and my pressure valve blows as I come hard and fast, painting the tile until there’s nothing left in me.

I bite my lip to stifle my groan, and then I stand in the water, my other hand now in a fist resting above me on the wall. My breathing slows, and only now do I feel the relief from the cold water. Only now can I put my treacherous mind to rest.

A few days later, and after the shame spiral from my self-indulgent shower has subsided, I find myself sitting next to Austin in the truck.

My neck beads with sweat. I’m not nervous, I have no reason to be nervous. There’s nothing for Austin to know. Nothing happened between Lyla and I. Whatever happened in my own mind is a different story, but harmless nonetheless. What Austin doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And I intend on taking what I did to my fucking grave.

Still, shame creeps up every time I look over at him, blissfully unaware that I was mindfucking his sister in my shower. But that’s all it will ever be, a mind-fuck. Perhaps in every sense of the word. I’m not stupid enough to do anything for real with Lyla.

I know the stakes for her, too. She’s itching for the day she can go back to the city again, get the hell out of dodge, but she needs a decent reference to do so. I would never compromise that for her, I respect her too much for that. Even if things got messy I’d do what I needed to to make sure she was going to be okay. Although I can see why she’d be hesitant, why there’s an invisible boundary between us that neither of us will cross.

“Do we have to listen to this?” I say, as Austin puts on a country song.

I promised him that he could be in charge of the aux cord if he agreed to come help me load hay bales today, and the song he’s chosen is by some twangy country singer.

It’s technically country, but almost verges on pop. It’s not the old classic country artists I like. I prefer soulful country, like George Strait and Kenny Rogers.

I grew up on that music.

“It’s fucking Billie Brooks man,” Austin argues, as if that means anything to me. “Have you seen her? She’s incredible. Released her first album this year and she’s already nominated for the Southern Sounds Music Award.”

“She sounds like every other wanna be country star out there,” I fire back. The song has changed from a pop-y, punchy, upbeat song to a croony ballad.

“Nah, man. You should see this woman perform,” Austin says. His voice has shifted to something different, almost like admiration. “She has so much emotion in her voice. And she’s hot as hell.”

“Whatever you say, buddy.” I turn the steering wheel using the heel of my hand, and pull the truck into Stillwater Ranch. “Time to stop crushing on what’s-her-nuts and get to work.”

I get out of the truck, and Austin follows me up to the expansive metal barn that looks like a fucking airplane hangar. The door is already open, and I call out to let Tate know we’re here.

I take off my aviator sunglasses as we step inside, hanging them on the collar of my t-shirt. Tate comes out of nowhere, and greets us with a firm handshake.