Chapter Four
If Cole hadn’t shown up, I’d most likely already be inside the building we’re pulling up to. The Waffle Hut is kind of a post-rodeo morning tradition, where rivalries are put aside amid stacks of sweet, fluffy pancakes and strong, bitter coffee. I spot familiar vehicles in the parking lot. The restaurant is full of people I know, and I’m sure the hot topic at tables and booths isn’t just Cole’s winning ride or my loss, but what happened after.
“Come on, Cole,” I say softly, and hate the sound of the plea in my voice. “Isn’t enough you’re getting what you want without subjecting me to public humiliation?”
“The only reason to feel humiliated is if you’re ashamed,” he says. “And believe me, baby. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.” He winks as he flashes me a knowing smile, and butterflies surround the knot forming in my stomach. Damn you, Cole Patterson.
“Besides,” he continues. “I’m not bringing you here to embarrass you. This is going to be part of your training.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I feel a chill.
“Do you remember that time Hank Harris backed his truck into yours down at the lake? Remember how I told you I was going to kick his ass after he tried to speed out of there ‘cause he thought nobody saw it?”
I nod. I remember it well. Hank was the son of the local grocer, and a real asshole.
“I was gonna do it, too,” Cole says. “But somebody beat me to it.”
“I know,” I say. “I did.” I can’t help but smile, recalling how I got in my truck and cut Hank off on the dirt path leading to the main road, how I confronted him, and how when he denied hitting my truck I punched him right in the face. I had witnesses, I told him, and he was going to fix my truck. And he did.
“What about it?” I ask.
“I wanted to be the one to make him pay,” Cole says. “I wanted to protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting,” I say. “I’ve already told you that.”
“Don’t matter,” Cole replies. “Even if a strong woman can take care of herself, that don’t stop a stronger man from wanting to do it for her.” He pauses. “I want to be the one who stands up for you. Now we both know everybody in there is talking about us. We know the guys are gonna smirk and the gals are gonna glare. But whatever gets said? You’re gonna let me do the talking.”
“Cole…” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“We have an agreement. You do what I say. I’m your champion today. That’s my job. And if you try to do my job for me, I’m going to spank you in front of everybody in there. Got it?”
This leaves me speechless. I don’t think Cole would carry through on that kind of threat. Or would he? I weigh the humiliation of biting my tongue against the larger humiliation of being publicly spanked by Cole. Even if someone called the cops on him for assault, by the time they got there, the damage to my reputation would be done. Once again, he’s in the catbird seat.
I feel self-conscious as we walk in, like we’re both back in high school. Cole pursued me through my junior and senior years, telling me every chance he got what a tease he thought I was. He said he knew I liked him, too. And he was right. But he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know what I knew, which was that the shady investment scheme my father cooked up was losing money he’d gotten from about a dozen wealthy families in the community, including Cole’s. I knew there was no good reason to start any kind of relationship with a man whose daddy would soon hate mine. So I avoided Cole through high school. By the time everything blew up in my father’s face, Cole was a champion rider living in Dallas. I wouldn’t see him again until I ran into him two years later, when he told me that nothing mattered, that he still wanted me. And then, well… let’s just say I should have been stronger. I should have said no.
As soon as we walk in, Jeb and Boyd wolf whistle and pump the air with their fists. I want to fall through the floor and scan the room looking for Winona. Relief washes through me when I spot her, and I don’t wait for Cole as I walk over to where she’s sitting by herself in a booth. I can feel the eyes of everyone following me.
“Hey,” she says as I slide into the booth. A moment later, Cole slides in beside me.
“Wouldn’t you rather sit with your buddies?” I ask.
“I’m sitting with you, Gina Louise.” He ignores the peanut gallery as he nods at my friend. “Hey, Winona. How’s it going?”
She looks at me as she answers, confusion apparent. “I’m fine, Cole. But I’d be better if I knew what the hell was going on with you two. First my best friend leaves without an explanation and won’t answer her phone and the next thing I know everybody’s buzzing about a card bet and you two spending the night together?” Her gaze darts from me to Cole. “Are you two like… a couple now?”
“No.”
“Maybe.”
Cole and I give our answers at the same time, and I’m irked.
“I have to go pee,” I say to Cole. He stares at me, as if considering whether to allow it. “I’m going,” I add. “Whether you like it or not.”
He moves out of the way. “Don’t be gone long,” he says.
I slide out of the booth and Winona follows. A group of sullen blonde cowgirls eyes us as we walk, and Winona must know how uncomfortable I am, because she takes my arm and pulls me to the restroom. It’s a single occupancy room, and there’s a line. But Winona moves to the front and just as a woman comes out, she pulls me inside and locks the door. We can hear cursing from the other side, and I don’t blame the women we cut in front of for being mad.
“Are you gonna tell me what happened?” she asks. “Is it true, what everybody’s saying?”
I’m not going to lie, not to her.
“Yep,” I say, walking to the sink and hopping up to sit on the counter. Outside, we hear pounding on the door.
“Use the men’s room!” Winona yells. “We’re talking!”
“Bitch!” someone yells, but they move away. She turns back to me. “But you hate him!”
“Yeah,” I say, and swallow hard. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”
She walks over and takes my hand. “So, what? You don’t hate him, then?”
I put my head in my hands. “It’s complicated,” I say when I look back at her.
“Talk to me, Gina,” she says.
I’m tired. I don’t really feel like talking. I don’t feel like feeling. Everything seems weighty and intense. Pressure from Cole for something I don’t even know I can give, pressure from Winona for information. Outside I’ll feel the pressure of judgement.
When I don’t immediately answer, she lays a gentle hand on my arm.
“Did he force you last night?” she asks.
“No,” I hastily answer. “Cole’s arrogant. But he’s no rapist. It’s basically just what you heard.” I recount what happened after the rodeo. I tell her we went to the Silver Spur and admit there was an all-or-nothing bet, although I leave out the eight-second ride that makes my pussy quiver just to think about. I tell her I lost, and that I’ve agreed to spend the week with him.
“For what?” she asks, and I realize I don’t really have an answer that doesn’t sound kinky and depraved.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “It’s like he has something to prove where I’m concerned.”
She sighs. “Have you reminded him that his daddy hates you? How he tried to have you fired from the vet clinic last year?”
“No,” I say. After working so hard to separate my reputation from my dad’s, the only person in town who still wants to punish me for what he did is the Richard Patterson, the father of the man I just fucked.
“Have you considered that maybe…” Her voice trails off.
“What?” I press.
“What if Cole is trying to get back at your old man… through you.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” I say, but the idea that it may be gets me worrying just the same. “I mean, he liked me before, both in high school, and after…”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t have anything to do with him in school. And that one-night stand you had didn’t give him enough time to destroy you.”
Destroy me? I hadn’t even thought of that.
“Time’s up, girls!” The pounding on the door now is heavy, and Cole’s tone coming from the other side is persistent, and in the light of Winona’s suggestion, ominous.
“I’d better get back out there,” I say.
Cole doesn’t ask me what was said. He just escorts me back to the booth where he’s already ordered breakfast. Waffle Hut is known for its generous portions and fast service. There’s a mountain of pancakes waiting for me, along with a side of country ham, hash brown potatoes, biscuits, orange juice, and coffee. I’d be piqued that he ordered for me if it wasn’t everything I love in a country breakfast.
I slide into the booth, grateful that so far Winona is the only person here beside Cole who’s spoken to me. If I just keep my head down, I can get through this.
“So, are you coming to see the calf roping?” Winona asks Cole.
He shakes his head. “I’d love to,” he says, “but me and Gina Louise have plans.”
She looks at me. “What kind of plans?”
This is awkward. I don’t even know what he’s got planned, but he answers for me.
“We’re going to Dallas,” he says. “Or just outside of it. My father’s out of town and asked me to go look at a horse he’s interested in buying.”
Winona shoots me a look, and I tense up.
“And you need Gina to go along for that?” Winona asks.
He looks over at me. “I need Gina Louise for all kinds of things.” He brushes his hand across my face. “Don’t I, sugar plum?”
I stuff a forkful of pancake into my mouth to keep from telling him how I feel about his pet names. Across from me, Winona gives me an ‘I tried’ look.
“Hey, Cole… what’s this I hear about you not coming to the last day of the rodeo?” Jeb is dragging a chair over to the end of our booth. Boyd is following with a chair of his own. They plunk down, blocking the aisle.
“Got plans,” Cole says.
“With her?” Boyd nods in my direction, and there’s resentment in his voice. “First time you’ve come back around in months and you’re ditching us for some piece of ass?”
It’s a good thing my mouth is full. Even in high school, Jeb and Boyd were nothing more than hangers-on. I can feel Winona looking at me, waiting for me to give them what-for. And I want to, but Cole’s threat hangs over me like an anvil.
“You’re the ass,” Winona says when I don’t speak up.
“Shut up, you lezzie,” Jeb says, and without thinking, I pick up my orange juice and throw it in Jeb’s face.
“Goddamn it!” Jeb jumps up, knocking his chair into a group sitting behind him.
“Watch it, asshole!” a larger man growls.
I can feel Cole’s glare and meet it with my own. “You said to let you do the talking,” I hiss. “You didn’t say I couldn’t throw things.”
His mouth twitches. He’s trying not to smile. Then he looks up at Jeb and the mirth disappears from his face. Jeb is pointing his finger at me, his expression menacing. Cole reaches out and grabs his hand. The whole restaurant goes quiet.
“First of all,” he says, “you don’t go calling Gina Louise a piece of ass. Second of all, it don’t matter one bit whether Winona here likes guys or girls. Got it?”
“Cole, what the…” Jeb is looking betrayed. Beside him, Boyd is staring like he doesn’t know what to think.
“Now, the way I see it, you owe these two young ladies an apology.”
Jeb’s eyes dart around the room. When Cole’s not in town, he and Boyd strut around like alpha males. But he’s not about to buck the man holding onto his hand. What’s true for me is also true for Jeb and Boyd—one word from somebody as admired as Cole Patterson can ruin a reputation.
“Hell, I didn’t mean nothing by it,” Jeb says. He offers the explanation through a tight smile that looks more like a grimace.
“Go on,” Cole prompts.
“Sorry,” he says.
Cole lets go and tosses him a napkin. Jeb turns away, mopping the orange juice off his face.
“Thanks, Cole,” Winona says, but she’s looking at me again, as if wondering why I remained quiet. I feel shackled, both by Cole’s restrictions on my reaction and by the newfound doubt raised by what Winona suggested earlier about his motives.
On the upside, if anyone else was planning to say anything, they’ve changed their minds. Cole turns his attention to Winona, who won yesterday’s mounted shooting event, and I listen—fascinated—as my skeptical friend falls into easy conversation with the man who’s keeping me his sex slave for the week. I keep waiting for her to question what’s going on, but I am not really surprised when she keeps the conversation to small talk. Winona is pragmatic, and she knows I can handle myself. But that doesn’t stop her from addressing the point when Cole gets up to pay the bill.
“You have my number,” she says. “And if anything isn’t right—anything—you call me, okay?”
“You know I will,” I tell her. I pick up my purse and slide out of the booth. “I’d better go.” She stands and hugs me, and when she sees Jeb glaring, squeezes my ass for good measure. I turn to see Cole grinning as he winks and tips his hat in Winona’s direction.
Outside, the Texas sun is already blazing down on the parking lot, sending up visible waves of heat from the asphalt.
“So,” I ask. “Are you going to spank me for what I did?” We’re on the way back to the car, and I feel like I need to know.
“You want me to?” he asks.
I frown. “No,” I say.
“I thought about it.” He fishes in his pocket for his keys. “But I had to let you off on a technicality.” He opens the door to the Mustang. “I have other plans for that ass, anyway.”
I don’t even want to think about what that means as I slide into the seat. The leather is hot against my still-tender ass, even though the dress and panties. I keep my thighs up from touching the blistering upholstery. As soon as Cole climbs in and starts the engine, he turns on the AC. It blasts arctic cold. By the time we pull out of the parking lot, the interior is comfortable.
Cole puts on the radio, flipping through the stations until stopping at one that has George Strait belting out a song about being honky-tonk crazy. I stare out the window at the passing scenery. Asking where we’re going makes me feel so passive, so I try to guess by the road he’s taking. For the third time, the path he drives fills me with dread. I resist the urge to say anything until he turns left onto Flagstaff Road. At that point, I can’t help myself.
“Cole… this is the road to your parents’ ranch.”
“Yup.”
I glance over at him and then back at the road. The last time I took this route, it was in the front seat of my daddy’s Hummer (since repossessed). We were on the way to the Patterson ranch for dinner. Cole hadn’t been home; he’d been on some trip with his mom, and I’d sat bored silly while my dad had smoothly pitched his investment plan to Richard Patterson. In my mind, I can still hear his sweet sales talk. “Do you like poker, Richard? I play, you know. I was this close to turning pro. It takes instincts to play at that level. You’ve got to know a good bet when you see one. You’ve got to know when to back away, and when a gamble is going to pay off big. Richard, I’m about to hand you a winning hand…”
Cole’s dad had no way of knowing it was all a bluff. Neither did I. I was just a kid. How could I know that my father was keeping the wolf away from the door by taking money from one investor to pay off the previous failed one? My dad could win at poker, but his investment business was nothing more than sleight of hand.
“Cole, I can’t go to your folks’ house,” I say.
“I told you, honey bun, they ain’t home.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. My voice is high with anxiety.
“I just have to pick up some paperwork on that horse he wants,” Cole says. “We won’t be long. I promise.”
We were heading down a long, oak-lined lane now. The white house at the end of the lane is the kind my father always described as ‘needlessly large.’ Even though it’s one story, it sprawls across the open land at the end of the drive that ends in a circular loop that winds around a fountain.
Beyond the house are acres and acres of fenced pasture. Cole Patterson comes from old money. Richard Patterson wouldn’t have missed the money if the investment scheme had worked out the way my father planned it to. But of all the victims, the one with the least to lose was the most incensed.
“I’ll sit in the car,” I say.
“No, you’ll come with me,” Cole says. “You’ll bake out here.”
“So, leave the car running,” I say.
“You’ll come with me, Gina Louise.”
I can’t see the point, but I know that arguing won’t get me anywhere. As I follow him up to the house, I take in the character of the place. Two stone horse heads look imperiously down from huge pedestals that flank the walkway. Columns hold up a roof that extends over a long porch that looks like it’s never been used. At my house—or what was my house—there were comfy rocking chairs and dogs on the porch. It was home. This place looks sterile. I try to imagine Cole growing up in a place like this. I know he has his own ranch now a few miles west. I wonder if it’s anything like this.
Inside, the décor is just as I remember—over-the-top Texas chic. The marble foyer opens to a huge room with a center fireplace topped by a sprawling set of horns from a longhorn steer. That’s not the only animal represented. Cole’s daddy is a big game hunter, and the last time I was here, I couldn’t help but gawk at the wall covered in mounted heads of ibex and gnu and other exotic hoof stock, many shot in compounds where the animals have no escape. The heads have been joined by a mounted bear in a menacing stance. A zebra skin is draped over a leather sofa. A zebra is a horse with stripes. What kind of asshole kills a zebra?
I’d ask Cole if the circumstances were different, but since it’s rude to insult someone in their own house, I think the better of it. Not that it matters anyway; Cole has disappeared, leaving me to rattle around in the huge, garish room by myself. I walk around slowly, looking at the pictures on the sofa table. There are lots of shots of Richard and Mina Patterson at social events. There are several shots of them with the former governor and first lady of Texas. The four of them look chummy. There are pictures of Cole showing champion halter horses with names like Double Bar’s Fancy Playboy and Doc Bar’s Hightop. There are shots of him riding cutting horses. I realize with surprise there’s none of him doing what he’s famous for, which is bronco busting. There are a few pictures of him with his mom and dad. In each one, the three are wearing tight smiles, as if someone ordered them to say cheese just before the camera flashed.
“You want something to drink?” Cole is back in the room. I don’t ask him where he went, but he’s got a folded paper in his hand so it looks like he got what he came for. “There’s all kinds of stuff in the kitchen—water, soda, tea…”
“Water’s fine,” I say. I look around the room. “This house is so big. I always wondered why you didn’t have parties here when we were in high school, you being so popular and all.”
Cole shrugs. “I did have parties, just not here. The lake house was better for parties.”
I’d almost forgotten. The lake house. It’s an example of how different we are. I can’t fathom having another house.
“My mom would have shit a brick if she came home to find so much as a scuff mark on the floor in this place,” Cole continued, ushering me to follow him. I walk through the house until we are in a cavernous kitchen. The track lighting above the cabinets bathes them in a soft glow. The countertops are granite flecked with black and gold. The three ovens, gourmet cooktop, and subzero fridge are shiny stainless. Cole informs me his mother insisted on a chef’s kitchen, but has never cooked a meal. And the appliances certainly look unused. I think back to my kitchen at home, where sauce from last weekend’s spaghetti has stained the stovetop.
I’m inspecting a large wine cooler as Cole retrieves drinks from the fridge.
“There’s more in the cellar,” he says.
“There’s a wine cellar?” I can’t keep the wonder out of my voice. “Yeah,” he says. “My dad has a wine cellar and doesn’t drink wine. Go figure.”
A gourmet kitchen for a mother who doesn’t cook and a wine cellar for a father who doesn’t drink wine. Is there anything genuine about these people? I look at the man in front of me, with his half-open plaid shirt and his low-rider jeans. How did they produce someone like him?
“Hey,” he says. “Wanna see my old room?”
“Your…” I stare at him, surprised. “I… um… no, Cole. I don’t. I shouldn’t even be here…”
“You’re right,” he says. “What the hell am I thinking.” He drains his soda and slams the empty can down onto the counter. “I don’t have to ask you, remember?”
I protest as he takes me by the arm and leads me through the house. We were only supposed to be here long enough for him to get some papers. Now I’m being hauled through this gourmet-kitchen-dead-animal-museum despite my objections. I look back to make sure my boots aren’t scuffing the genuine teak floor leading us down a long hallway. There are bedrooms to the left and right—huge ones that look like pages from furniture catalogs. At the end of the hall, Cole throws open a door.
I know what a boy’s room looks like. Or at least, I know what a boy’s room is supposed to look like. Having male friends and male cousins, I’m used to tattered posters on the walls, smelly shoes and clothes littering the floor, shelves crowded with model cars or trophies, maybe even a girlie magazine peeking out from under the bed. But this room is like the rest of the house. The bedspread is wrinkle free, the furniture dusted, and the only things on the wall are a framed print of a sunset behind a windmill and a framed movie poster of John Wayne.
“Your parents must have cleaned up good after you left,” I say.
“Nah.” Cole walks over to the dresser and picks up a small glass horse, one of the few objects on the top. He studies it as he replies. “It was always like this. I wasn’t allowed to make a mess.”
“Wait…” I can’t help but laugh. “Your room looked like this when you lived in it?”
He nods.
“No unmade bed or food wrappers or jockstraps lying around?”
“My folks aren’t the kind to tolerate a mess,” he says.
“I’m not talking about a mess, Cole,” I argue. “I’m talking about… living. Like we did last night at the hotel. When we woke up, there were Chinese takeout boxes on the table. That’s normal. You make a mess, you clean it up. But if you don’t make a little bit of a mess once in a while, how can you relax?”
He puts the horse down and regards me. “You know what, Gina Louise,” he says. “You’re exactly right.” And the look in his eyes makes me realize I should have kept my mouth shut. Because he’s grinning now and walking toward me. “It’s a shame this room was never lived in. Hell, I was afraid to jerk off in here for fear the maid would find a stain on the sheet and tell my mama.” He looks around. “Poor room. Been in this house for nearly thirty years and hasn’t once been properly defiled.”
He takes hold of me. “No time like the present.”
“Oh, no…” Now I do pull away. “Cole, I am not going to fuck you in this room.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m gonna fuck you. And John Wayne here’s going to watch, ain’t you, Duke?”
“No, you’re not,” I insist, and he turns back to the dresser where an old sheriff’s star is lying among a few other old mementoes. I watch as he affixes it to his shirt.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m sheriff in these here parts.” He pulls me to him and spins me around, and I feel the zipper of my dress slide down just before he slips the garment from my body.
“Damn it, Cole,” I say.
“That’s Sheriff Cole, ma’am.” He unsnaps my bra and pulls it off. My breasts bounce lewdly as he holds it just out of my reach, swinging it around his head like a lasso. I’d laugh, but he’s being a jackass.
“Ma’am, we’ve had reports of smugglers in the regions. I’m going to have to check that pussy for contraband.” I cry out in surprise as he pushes me back onto the bed and reaches beneath me to grab the cheeks of my ass.
“Now, ma’am, if you’d just take the heels of your cowboy boots and put them up on my shoulders, I can proceed with the inspection.” He delivers the line in a deadpan John Wayne accent, and I look up to see the Duke staring down at us. I don’t want to laugh. This isn’t funny. It’s not funny, and it’s not right. So why am I giggling?
He’s not waiting for me to comply. He’s knelt down between my legs and has thrown my calves up onto his shoulders.
“We’re very thorough in this neck of the woods, ma’am, so this will be an oral inspection.”
He rubs the stubble of his cheek against the softness of my inner thigh. His mouth is inches from my clenching pussy. I’m scandalized by how easily I’m capitulating. Twenty minutes ago, I was refusing to come in. Now I’m spreading myself open on his childhood bed, and all I can think of in the moment is the impending feel of his tongue on my pussy.
But Cole is teasing me. He’s alternately kissing and nibbling the inside of my thighs, and my hips are leaving the bed as I wantonly push myself toward his mouth. I grit my teeth and grasp the coverlet of his impeccably made bed. The least I could do in this situation is play coy, but I’m all but shoving myself at him. And it’s because I know how skilled he is with his tongue; I remember how it felt last time, how my toes curled, how I screamed.
Damn. I don’t want to scream this time. Not here. Not in this house.
“That’s a mighty eager pussy you’ve got there, ma’am.” He John Wayne drawls the comment from between my legs, and I can feel his breath tickling my inner labia. How does he do this? How does he artfully use sexuality and humor and charm to weaken me?
And then it happens. His tongue snakes out, the tip of it finding the clitoral hood. He flicks, jabs, stabs, laps. The ache I felt turns into a sweet, deep throb of pleasure. He’s working me over, his technique a mind-blowing blend of gentle ministrations and aggressive laps and nibbles. He pushes me forward, and just when I think I’m going to come, he backs off. Then I feel two fingers slide into me as his mouth finds my sensitive button and claims it. He draws on it as he finger fucks me, and my hips are off the bed, my legs shaking as my body trembles. I’m a pressure cooker about to blow. I can feel it building like never before. I catch my lip between my teeth and bite down. I squeeze my eyes shut. My head thrashes from side to side. The dam of pleasure breaks and it’s as if thunder is rolling through my body. I feel shocked and rocked. I can’t breathe. Cole’s fingers move in and out. His mouth is tight against my pussy. He moves back to lap up the arousal I’ve offered him.
“So sweet,” he says, and rises up. His face is shiny, his eyes glassy with lust. He is undoing his pants, and I can’t move. I can only watch as he pulls off his shirt and then climbs onto the bed beside me. I’m still weak from my orgasm as he pulls me to my knees. Cole has pulled his jeans down to mid-thigh. He moves behind me and I realize that we’re facing the mirror over his dresser.
I can’t help but look. He looms over back of me, his sculpted bronze chest visible over my shoulder. His arm is looped around my middle. My naked breasts jut forward, the dark nipples prominent and hard. My legs are parted, and my inner labia visible through the parted outer lips of my pussy. The sparse, soft hair is drenched, my inner thighs covered in a sheen of my own desire. My face is flushed, but the woman in the mirror looks different. She looks wanton, but satisfied. I feel as though I’m looking at my shadow self, the one that only emerges in the company of the man behind me.
Cole slides his cock into me without preamble. “Watch us,” he says. “I want you to watch.”
He begins to move. I can’t help but move, too. Our bodies are locked in a slow, seductive dance. This is different from the rough ride in the hotel room. There’s no hard thrusts, just slow, deep strokes that touch the parts he couldn’t reach with his mouth and fingers. He seems to know just how to move, just how to bend and tilt me to put pressure on the inner triggers only he can find. The orgasm is building slower this time, but it’s deeper somehow. I feel it start low and blossom outward, like an opening lotus. It’s beautiful, but how can that be? He’s not for me. He’s not the one. We know it. We both know it.
But those denials, the doubts about his motives, the resentment and fear… they all melt away as Cole fucks me, as he whispers in my ear that he wants me to come on his cock, that he wants to feel my tight, hot pussy grip and squeeze him.
“Who knew a good girl could be so fucking bad?” he asks, biting my shoulder. The wanton woman in the mirror throws her head back onto her lover’s chest. She moans, cries out, shuddering as she comes. Cole pulls her close, reaching up to pull and roll and pinch her nipples. Above them, John Wayne looks down, smirking at the rodeo cowboy fucking the cowgirl in his childhood bedroom.