Page 37 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Cyrus barks out a laugh, then rubs at the back of his neck. His mind pulls Alana back into focus, of the two of them together on the property. A couple of barn cats, maybe. But kids? An image of her emerges, a sundress stretched across her swollen belly as she relaxes on the porch while he tends to the ranch. He finds that it isn’t a completely unappealing thought.

“Not likely,” he mumbles, heat flushing his cheeks. “The best I can do now is a pony or something.”

Jade rolls her eyes, but relents. “Alright, they’ll take it. I really do think you’d make a good dad, though.” With that, she bids Cyrus goodbye and heads out to the driveway. Cyrus watches them take off, tires kicking up dust down the old dirt road.

When they’re out of view, he closes the door with a deep, heavy exhale. The room falls quiet in their absence, and it feels the same as the night Alana left him at that apartment. Lonely.

He likes his alone time, his quiet. Waking up to lazy mornings where he creates his own schedule and doesn’t have to worry about tripping over toys or stepping on scattered bits of food. It’s definitely not the absence of a kid he’s longing for right now, but something else. Someone else. Cyrus rubs his face and falls onto the couch; his eyes close, and his brows pinch while he tries hard to get his mind back on track. To the tasks he needs to finish and the plans he needs to make. There’s so much to do, but he can’t seem to start any of it.

He can only think about pale blonde curls and paint strokes of vitiligo. Of sweet laughter and the heat of soft, gorgeous lips moving down the length of his body.

Fuck. No, Cyrus. No.

He tries to will the images away by imagining something less pleasing. Taxes. Chores. The check engine light on his old truck that he’s put off for over a month now. That one is usually able to sour his mood. Not today, though. Alana rests on the forefront of his mind, Jade’s words in his ear.

You really would make a great dad.

Does he want kids right now? No. Does the thought of getting Alana pregnant stop the rush of heat flooding to his dick? No, not even a little bit. If he did, that Minotaur bastard would stay clear; that’s for certain. Everyone would. He can see it so clearly: Alana, with a permanent bite mark on the side of her neck and his scent etched so deeply into her skin that he becomes a part of her. There isn’t a person for miles who would touch her then.

A low, throaty groan filters from Cyrus at the idea.

His needs hardly distinguish the fact that he’s probably no better for her than Connor, really. Alana is soft, where he’s jagged and frayed and rough around the edges. The last time he felt like this for someone—the last time he imagined a future beyond the confines of a bedroom—he was quickly reminded of his place. Cyrus Castillo was not a man made for the long haul, even if he wanted to be.

And Alana deserves that long-haul kind of love.

Cyrus digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. He’s better than this. He should force himself up and do something productive. But his hand finds his belt and loosens it enough to allow him to slide a hand past the hem of his boxers instead. A hiss of air is blown out through his nostrils when he takes himself in hand, half hard, swelling at the slightest touch already. It isn’t often that people stay in his mind after a session; none of this— these thoughts surrounding Alana—make a lick of sense. It should have been easy to go about his life as normal. To pin their experience together as a nice memory and just move on.

Shame curls in his lower belly at his inability to do that. His imagination supplies him with an image of Alana on her back, legs over his shoulders, as he drives into her with the sole intent to breed her full of him. He’d made her cry during their time together, hadn’t he? Fuck, he’d smelled it, the salty brininess of her tears. His position limited his view at the time, and he obsesses over what a pretty picture that must have been. She probably looks stunning with her face puffy, left stuttering in a vain attempt to catch her breath. Those big, bright eyes staring up at him like he’s the only thing that matters.

“Alana,” Cyrus croaks.

His free hand comes up to cover his mouth, lest his invisible audience hear the pathetic longing in his voice. He creates a pace of slow, long strokes that send beads of pre-cum swelling up from the tip of his length. He runs his fingers over it to use for additional glide, and another soft grunt escapes him. God, she’d been so tight. He’s never been brought so close to devastation that quickly before. The heat of her body, the breathless gasps when he slipped in for the first time. His pace picks up, practically fucking into his hand as Alana fuels his urgency. Maybe instead of crying, she holds him by the face, that sweet, angelic voice encouraging him to give her everything he has with a look of hunger that burns into his memory.

Please, Cyrus, baby.

Look how well we fit together.

You feel so good.

I want to make a daddy out of you.

Cyrus hisses as he bucks into his hand, his hips lift off the couch, and he spills himself in violent spurts that seem never-ending, trickling after each shuddering gasp. When his body settles, he grimaces and wipes his hand on his jeans, then covers his face with his arm. Suddenly, it’s way too hot and way too goddamn sticky.

Outside, the chickens fuss, and there’s a distinct clicking of the sprinkler system going off. His labored breathing slows, and his chest falls with a heavy sigh, mind hazy.

He hadn’t planned to see whatever great light existed beyond this realm of existence until he was old and the Gods had willingly beckoned him over. But it’s safe to say this woman might just thwart his plans and send him to an early grave.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ALANA

Trial and Error.

That’s what dating primarily consists of—lots and lots of trial and error. Alana knows this. In fact, she might know this better than anyone, considering just how many failed dates she’s been on in the past year alone. So after far more errors than anything else, she has learned not to get her hopes up too high. Which means she’s left pleasantly surprised by the bull known as Connor Moore.

He ends up being not far off from what she had initially anticipated in terms of personality. He’s a boisterous man. Haughty, funny too—she must admit, despite the amount of unfiltered testosterone that seems to pump through his system at a higher-than-normal rate. Their time spent together at Carl’s consisted of conversations around workout routines, protein intake, and hockey teams that Alana honestly couldn’t care less about. She’d listened to them anyway, having found the fire that lit up behind his eyes as he spoke to be rather endearing in spite of the topic. It may have been a turn-off, if not for the fact that he was genuinely enthusiastic to hear about Alana’s interests in return.

She’s had countless dates where she’s been subjected to people who enjoy talking about themselves too much for their own good. Alana has sat through several life stories without a single question about herself thrown her way, often forcing her to insert herself in the one-sided conversation, only for them to have the audacity to seem bored. However, Connor asks in-depth questions about her bakery and her success. Neither of which he seems intimidated by. He’s surprisingly enjoyable to be around, even if he does seem like a little bit of a meathead.