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* * *
It’s an antsy day without Holt, but I keep busy.
I’ve got kids to teach, and if a few of them ask why I’m riding sidesaddle, well, I tell them I just messed up my back a little and this way’s easier for now.
They don’t need to know my nethers are twinging like I’ve taken a bad jump on horseback, and they sure as hell don’t need to know why.
I get through the lessons, mucking out the stables with the help of the part-time hands I can still afford to pay, then check the sheep’s legs to make sure nobody’s come up wrong on some gopher holes.
It’s good work, satisfying work, despite the heat of the sun making me drip sweat, but the day drags on longer than usual.
I can’t deny the wash of heat that rushes through me—not a damn thing to do with the sun—when I see a beat-up old truck heading toward me in a cloud of dust, framed against the setting sun.
Holt gets out battered and covered in construction grime.
Just how I like him.
We don’t say a single word, drifting toward each other like we’re magnetic.
We barely get a foot inside the house before my clothes are flying off and he’s got his hands cupping my ass, lifting me up to straddle his hips.
Holy hell.
He takes me just like that: mounted on him, standing up, those big hands swinging me up and down on his massive length while he wants to break me.
I grab tight to his shoulders and ride hard, pushing him faster, desperate for more when it’s so good I could scream, losing myself and biting him all over again, leaving love marks up his neck and jaw.
Holt gives it right back, bringing his devil’s tongue to my nipples, pulling softly with his teeth and then grazing his stubble up my throat.
I’m. So. Gone.
And I show it with my hips swiveling, the hot whimpers pouring out of me, the way I say his name.
Yep, the man’s got me begging again.
If I weren’t so far gone, I might be ashamed. But when he drives into me so deep and hard, when he looks at me with that glint in his eye?
Shame isn’t in the makeup of the desperate, sex-crazed creature I become.
He asked for this storm.
He brings out this manic wildness I didn’t know I had.
He makes every part of me clench, burn, and melt into bliss.
Oh, God.
I can’t even last that long before I forget who or what I am.
For now, I’m just a steaming hot puddle for Holt damn Silverton as he growls honey, fuck right in my ear, grinding his pubic bone sweet against my clit.
He brings me off just like that.
It’s all frantic rhythm and sharp hissing through my teeth before I blow apart. Then it’s just ecstasy, raw and real and overwhelming.
My body convulses like I’ve been hit with a current.
Coming!
“Holt!” My fingers sink into his shoulders and my hips might break, ratcheting down on his fullness again and again.
He snarls back. His hands crash against my hips, just the right tart whack! with both hands, and then we’re colliding together in a chain reaction that might rival an atom bomb.
His seed pours into me, so hot and deep, it sets me off again.
I can’t stop until we’re both a spent mess on the sofa, gasping and sweaty and tangled up in a daze before we catch enough air to burst into laughter.
I don’t even know what’s so funny.
Don’t think he does, either.
Maybe it’s just having a reason to feel good for once.
* * *
Holt gives me more reasons to laugh as the days pass by.
For a while, it’s almost like I can forget what’s happening to my life, my home, my memories, my family.
It fades in our own secret nights spent defiling each other, tired mornings over breakfast, and now and then when I give in to that urge to see him in the middle of the day.
It’s not like I’m falling for him, okay?
I sure as hell ain’t his little woman.
But hell, we’re sharing space.
He’s keeping an eye on me. I can’t help but want to make sure he gets a good meal while he’s working his britches off day and night. Almost literally.
Not like I’m planning to make it a habit.
So that’s why I’m washing up after I finish a morning run with a few of the horses folks send here for me to train, putting them through their paces on a long lead. I’m sweaty and dusty for my troubles.
I’m not making myself look cute or any crap like that for him.
That’s what I tell myself as I shower off and then brush out my hair.
But maybe my little off-the-shoulder ruffled blouse shows an inch more cleavage than it needs to.
And maybe I’m fine driving out to the Paradise Hotel site in the valley in my little cutoff jeans.
