“I hate you!”
Conor’s husky scream echoes across the sunny meadow, spooking the livestock and hardening my cock.
She doesn’t hate me.
She never stopped loving me.
It’s been three days since her groundbreaking declaration. Three days of trauma-focused therapy, which has proven more difficult than I expected.
The therapy is straightforward. Conor is the difficult part. But fuck me, I can’t get enough of her fire.
“Someone’s going to see me, you perverted prick!”
She’ll calm down, eventually. In the meantime, I have a killer view of her flexing ass.
I cinched a saddle on the fence at the far end of the east pasture. No one’s working near here this afternoon, and the fencing in this section is newer, sturdier, with thick wooden rails that hold her restrained body beautifully.
Heavy straps buckle the saddle in place and prevent slipping. More straps cross her back and bind her legs to the fence.
It took some wrestling to get her into position—face down and bent sideways over the saddle. Her pretty tattooed arms dangle on one side, her legs tied down on the other.
I stand behind her, torturing myself with the sight of her backside in frayed cutoff shorts. Every time she squirms, the denim inches higher on her creamy white legs.
I didn’t tie her arms. Not because she’s not ready. God knows my cock is ready. But she needs her hands free for the pencil and leather-bound journal I gave her. To be honest, I’m surprised she hasn’t hurled them at me.
“I’ll write down the damn words.” She pitches a glare over her shoulder. “Stop staring at my ass and unstrap me!”
“You said you’d rather hang your saddle on the fence and throw dirt at it.”
“You’re so fucking sick.”
“Write that down.”
I spent the last three days ordering her to keep a journal of every feeling and memory that surfaces. Words, pictures, prompts, details, anything that comes to mind. I touch her wrists constantly, and her flashbacks are growing fewer and farther between. But she needs to learn how to parse her distressing thoughts.
She carries a lot of blame—for the ravine, her dad’s abuse, and Lorne’s incarceration. By changing how she perceives the past, she can change how she feels.
Problem is she refuses to write anything down. Just getting her to vocalize the memories is like pulling teeth. She needs some motivation.
So I strapped her to a saddle with the journal.
She still hasn’t written a single word.
It’s time to coax some memories out of her.
From my pocket, I remove my phone and select a Chris Stapleton song to play on repeat. The thrumming chords of Whiskey and You draw her attention. As I begin to softly sing along, she goes still, lulled by my voice.
A dreamy look settles over her face. She rests her cheek on her arms, where they fold on the saddle beneath her, the journal forgotten in her hand.
Jesus, her expression, the waves of fiery red hair around her graceful shoulders, the gentle curve of her spine… My heart clenches.
She’s the kind of beautiful that brings a man to his knees, and for whatever reason, she loves when I sing. So I spend the next few minutes serenading her with all the soul and emotion she deserves.
Once she’s soothed into listlessness, I shift out of her line of sight and slip a flask from my pocket. A few hearty swigs saturate my breath and heat my throat. Then I return the flask and continue to sing.
The taste of whiskey warms my blood, but I don’t make a habit of drinking. It would be too easy to numb my troubles with a bottle. I’m afraid it’ll consume me, and that’s the last thing Conor needs.
“You were singing to her.” She lifts her head and finds my eyes behind her. “When you were with Sara Gilly, you were singing—”
“Beautiful War.” I climb onto the fence beside her, and the wood rail groans beneath my weight. “I knew you were outside the door. I was singing to you, Conor.”
Her face pinches with pain, and her shoulders shudder.
“I read and reread your letters every day.” I stroke the leather cuff on my wrist, tracing the scratches and dents. “I never take this off.”
“You wore it when you fucked other women?”
I nod, and her eyes lose focus, dulling beneath a sheen of tears.
A bone-weakening coldness spreads through my body. Sorrow. Shame. Heavy, inconsolable regret.
“Whatever you’re feeling,” I say quietly, “write it down.”
She turns her gaze to the journal and hovers the pencil over the page. Then she writes one word.
Death.
That’s how I made her feel when I broke her heart. I knew it while it was happening, but to see the brutal truth written so clearly in five letters… It hurts on a whole new level.
I guess that’s the point.
Conor isn’t the only one grieving the crimes that were committed against her.
Straddling the thick fence rail, I lean back against the post and work my throat against a searing lump.
“Don’t stop singing,” she whispers.
I clear my voice and give her what she needs. As I sing, the pencil moves beneath the curtain of her hair.
The journal will serve as an outline later, when we step away and decompress. We’ll be able to evaluate her thoughts and talk through them. Right now, she just needs to let it out.
The song loops twice before she stops writing. “I’m finished. You can untie me now.”
I decide when she’s finished. That’s a concept she seems to have forgotten.
She needs to yield to me as much as I need to take care of her. Our natures thrive in the roles we established long ago—the leader and follower, the top and bottom, the alpha and omega.
We both crave that pecking order. We find harmony in it. If I have any hope of making us work in the long haul, I need to maintain our dynamic.
This is the other reason I strapped her to the saddle.
I slide off the fence, lowering on the side she faces. Behind her, the sun makes its decent toward the hillside, taking some of the heat with it.
After a quick check on the straps against her back, I stand before her, a couple of feet away.
“Obey me.” I tilt my head, studying her face. “And I’ll tell you what happened when I went to Chicago.”
“You went to Chicago?” She inhales sharply. “When?”
“The day after you rode away on your motorcycle.”
“Why did you…?” Her eyes flick nervously between mine. “Oh my God. You saw the bruises that day. You knew he…” Her mouth closes and opens. “What did you do?”
“The journal,” I say firmly, nodding at the book in her hand.
“Okay, I’ll write.” She wags the pencil. “Just tell me.”
“The day after I saw your bruises, I hopped on a plane, went directly to his apartment, and beat his face in.”
Her throat bobs. “He died three weeks later.”
“I didn’t kill him.” I toss off my hat and stab my fingers through my hair. “I wanted to, Conor. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to end his life for what he did to you. But he was your father. Your only living parent. I couldn’t do that to you.”
Her breathing falters, and her shoulders tighten. She glances down at the journal, blinks a few times, and jots down some words.
Good girl.
I pace along the fence as she writes. A few minutes later, her hollow voice stops me.
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yes.” I go to her and bend my knees, putting us at eye level. “I told him I saw the abuse he inflicted. He didn’t deny it.”
“Was he drinking?”
“Yeah.” Fucking wasted. “I demanded answers about the threats on your life, but he refused to give me anything beyond what I already knew. He wanted you back in Chicago, away from the ranch. He was belligerent on that point.”
I inspected the apartment while I was there and found food, clothes, everything a girl her age needed to live comfortably. He provided for her well enough, but in his attempt to numb his pain, he didn’t give her the security and love she needed.
So I beat him into unconsciousness and left his bleeding, drunk ass on the floor.
She stares at the journal, the pencil pressed to the paper, unmoving. A bullet-point list of single words lines the page beneath her hand. Lonely, hurts, scared, hopeless, and so on.
Then there’s my name, in caps and underlined, with a slew of adjectives beneath it. Arrogant. Manipulative. Revengeful. Kinky… I like that last one.
But she didn’t write any specific memories about Chicago. She needs to address what happened with her dad.
I stroke the backs of my fingers along her delicate face. “Tell me what he did.”
“No. Please, Jake. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Write it down.”
She shakes her head briskly, adamantly, and directs her gaze to my phone on the fence. “Turn off that song.”
I’ll have to trigger her memories of the abuse. I expected that, but I want her in my arms when I do it.
“Hold onto the journal.” I move around her, releasing the straps on her back and hopping over the fence to untie her legs.
She slides off the saddle and turns in my arms.
My muscles tense, bracing. Then I direct her face to mine and exhale.
She sucks in a breath and freezes.
“You smell like…” She gasps, and her entire body locks up. “Why do you smell like whiskey?”
“Breathe. Deep, slow breaths.”
Her chest heaves, and sudden, convulsive intakes of air pull more of my whiskey-scented breath into her nose. She chokes and tries to push me away.
The pencil and journal drop to the ground, and I follow them down, arranging her to sit sideways on my lap with her shoulder against my chest.
By the time I position her, she’s in full panic mode, thrashing and sobbing and ripping my heart out.
“I’m with you, Conor.” I hold her tight against me, breathing against the side of her face. “Don’t fight it. Let it out. Purge it. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
She sobs and struggles in my arms for an agonizing eternity. Then her battle wanes into low, keening cries, soaking her cheeks and trembling her body.
I curl her fingers around the pencil and set the journal on her lap, silently urging her.
A stretch of reluctance lingers before her walls break, and her grief explodes in a brutal flood.
She talks while she writes, detailing the horrors of his abuse—every slap, punch, kick, and hateful word.
As I absorb her vicious memories, the backs of my eyes burn. My blood runs hot, and adrenaline crashes through my veins. But I keep my mouth shut and my hands gentle, caressing her arm and stroking her hair.
An hour later, the sun touches the horizon, and Conor sets aside the journal filled with pages of her flashbacks from Chicago.
She curls up against my chest, breaths even and muscles languid. “You’re very patient with me.”
“I want to do this right, and the process is important. Besides, I know what’s waiting at the end of this.”
She turns in my arms and peers up at me beneath wet lashes. “What’s that?”
“You, where you need to be, with who you’re meant to be with.”
“I love your persistence.” She edges closer, resting a palm on my cheek and hovering her mouth a kiss away. “I need that, Jake. Even when I’m fighting you. Especially when I’m fighting. I need you to not give up on me.”
“I won’t. Never.” I take a sip of her sunset lips and lean back. “Can you taste the whiskey?”
She nods, and little lines appear between her eyebrows. “I don’t like his scent on you.”
“It’s not his scent.” I kiss her again, just a brush of mouths and breath. “We’re making new memories. The next time you smell whiskey, think about this moment. The grass beneath your legs. All the colors in the sky. The way we feel together.”
“I’ll think of Whiskey and You.” She glances at my phone, where the song plays on repeat, and returns to me. “Sing to me, Jake.”
With a soft smile, I intone the lyrics in the deep, rumbling drawl she loves.
The longer I sing, the quicker her breathing becomes, her nose pulsing wider to accommodate the change in airflow. Her pupils dilate, and those lustrous green eyes hold me in such an intense, lingering stare I grip her hips and position her legs to straddle my hips.
Head down and cheeks slightly flushed, she rests her gaze on my mouth. “I think… I want you to—”
I devour the rest of her words, shaking as they bloom into an electrifying rush of heat through my body.
There’s a hunger in her that matches my own, an expectant urgency that collapses the air between us.
I eat at her lips, ravenous to sink deeper, reach farther. She tastes like my girl—raw and wild like the land around us. A heavy groan rips free, and my cock strains against my zipper.
I can’t fuck her. Not until she knows why I’ve been protecting her and what I’ve done to keep her alive. When we have sex, I want it to be honest, fully open, with nothing between us.
But I have no qualms about stripping her bare and making her come.
I don’t know when my hands started roaming or how my teeth drew blood. Maybe she’s the one biting, but I taste the coppery essence on our tongues like molten fire. Our combined need hammers at my control, making me crazed and greedy.
Reaching behind my head, I yank off my shirt and spread it over the grass. She trembles on my lap, her lust-glazed eyes shining with anticipation.
I swing her around and lay her out on the shirt.
“It’s been six years.” My hands shake as I release her fly and slide the shorts down her legs. “Six years since I’ve seen your body.”
“Jake, I need…” Her skin flushes a delicious shade of pink as she tugs off her top.
Up until this point, I’ve managed to control myself. Not easily. But I haven’t fallen on her like a rutting animal, despite how badly I want to shove inside her and fuck the shit out of her.
The sight of her breasts in the lacy white bra, the pretty bloom warming her flesh, and rise and fall of her chest as she regards me—all of it unravels me. It banishes my reasoning, and everything else becomes an insignificant blur in the backdrop of her beauty.
All that matters is touching her, kissing her, and stripping that lacy obstacle from her body. I fumble with the clasps, trying not to shred the damn bra from her body, but the fastenings are too small and intricate. My hands are made for bucking hay, working heavy machinery, and driving cattle. Not delicate hooks on lace.
She laughs at me as I unlock the fastenings and toss the bra. Her tits fill my view, round and rosy. So fucking stunning. I have to remind myself to breathe.
When she reaches for me, I remember why we’re here and catch her wrists in my hands. Her rising panic is immediate—rasping breaths, trembling chin, and stiffening neck.
“Talk to me.” I tighten my grip, aching to draw her heaving tits into my mouth.
“Don’t stop.”
Christ, I love this girl. My pulse accelerates as I shift around her.
With her head angled toward the fence beneath the saddle, I gather her arms in one hand and raise them toward the hanging saddle strap.
“I’m binding your wrists.” I wind the leather strap once, twice, and tuck it through, leaving it nice and loose. “A hard pull and your hands will slip free.”
“Okay.” Her voice creaks, and tremors quake along her limbs.
She’s been home for five days, and we’ve spent that time focused on her trauma related to me and her dad. We have yet to ride out to the ravine or discuss the details of the rape.
I keep a close eye on her distress as I move along her body, touching her curves, teasing her flesh, and chasing away her fear. The hour-glass shape of her waist, the crescent curves of her breasts, and the ticklish terrain of her flat stomach—she’s a quivering, panting meadow of silky skin and temptation.
She moans as I caress her nipples, melts as I glide fingertips along her abs, and sighs as I remove her panties.
Kneeling between her legs, I cup the backs of her thighs and spread her open. It’s been three years since I tasted her in that barn. Six years since I’ve rested my gaze on her auburn triangle and tight pink pussy.
Excitement buzzes through my nerve endings, and I give myself a moment to soak her in.
“Jake.” She wriggles beneath my attention.
I travel my gaze up her body and find her watching me with the look she used to give me when we were younger, the one that tunnels so deeply into the core of me it unlaces my self-restraint, stitch by stitch.
Lowering to the ground, I settle into the apex of her toned thighs and inhale her sweetness. My cock swells and throbs, threatening to explode.
“I don’t want to be gagged.” Her eyes don’t move from mine. “Ever. Promise me.”
“You have my word.” I turn my head and bite her thigh, eliciting a yelp from her. “I love your sexy little sounds too much.”
“What else do you like? I know what turns you on when we kiss and when I used to…give you head. But when it comes to sex…” She nibbles on her lip. “We’ve only done it the one time, and it was dark and loud.” She coughs. “And quick.”
“Yeah, it was fucking quick.” I give her thigh another nip. “I was an amped-up virgin with the most beautiful woman in the world on my cock.”
Her eyes soften. “I love that I was your first.”
“Me, too.” I trail my nose along her slick slit, indulging myself as I consider her question.
What else do you like? She’s asking about my turn-ons. Because it’s in her nature to please. Because she’s thinking about the future.
Our future.
“Clearly, you’re into bondage.” She gives the leather strap a light tug.
“Bondage, yes.” I lick her clit. “And choking. Spanking. Dominating.” I bury my face and curl my tongue through her folds, delighting in the flutter of her lashes. “Anal.”
“No.” Her gaze snaps to mine. “Anal is a hard no.”
I keep my eyes on hers and push a finger deep inside her pussy, swirling and lubricating. She tracks the movement of my hand, twitching, as I slide it back and press against her tight ring of muscle.
“Jake. Please.” She clenches her ass, but something flashes in her eyes. Something heated and lustful.
Other than me, Miles York is the only man she’s willingly had sex with. After the conversation I overheard on the porch, I know she didn’t allow him anywhere near her ass.
“Relax.” I press in my finger to the first knuckle, not deep enough to cause discomfort. “That’s as far as I’ll go tonight.”
The tension in her legs slackens, and she blows out a breath. “I don’t want to ever experience that kind of pain again.”
Holding my finger in her rectum, I slide my thumb into her cunt and kiss her clit. “When you’re aroused and fully lubricated, it’s extremely pleasurable.”
“How would you know? Have you ever had anything forced into your ass?”
“No.” But the women I fucked in the past loved it enough to beg for it. “Have you ever watched a video with anal sex?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They’re actors.” The muscles in her pussy contract around on my thumb. “They’re paid to make it look tantalizing.”
But she likes it.
“Tell me about your favorite one,” I say.
She sets her jaw and looks away, stubborn as ever.
I return my mouth to her clit and feast, licking and sucking until she writhes and moans and trembles beneath me. Then I remove my touch and pull away.
Her frustrated glare shoots a sadistic thrill to my cock.
“Your favorite video.” I wet my lips.
“You’re mean.”
“Persistent.” I wink.
“Dangerous.”
“Dangerously in love.”
She drops her head on the ground and stares up at her wrists in the straps. “I found this one video online. A movie clip from a foreign film.”
I lower my mouth to her pussy and wait.
Her throat moves through a swallow. Then she describes a woman acting out a rape scene, one that includes bondage, choking, and anal.
Her nipples tighten as she talks, her voice raspy and breaths growing shallow. She explains how she pauses and restarts it, controlling the pain and getting off on the power in that. By the time she finishes, her pussy is wetter than I’ve ever seen it.
With my hands under her thighs, I yank her to me, bury my face and finish her off within seconds. She comes violently, rolling her hips, grinding her cunt against my mouth, and screaming my name.
Fucking hell, she’s exquisite. I’m so damn turned on it takes great effort to not bust a nut in my pants.
As she calms down, I pepper kisses along her inner thighs. Then I climb up her body, trailing my lips across every delicious inch of her, nibbling and tasting with unhurried touches.
I release the strap on her wrists and take her mouth gently, kissing her because I have to, because I’ll lose my mind if I don’t.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, and her lips intoxicate my soul. My tongue guides her. Her moans meet mine. Our breaths fuse, and our hearts beat as one.
It’s impossible to describe the bond we share. We’re too great for words. Too sacred. We’re a feeling that goes beyond starts and stops. We’re stronger than hellos and goodbyes and deeper than beginnings and ends.
We’re an existence that can’t be measured. It doesn’t matter where she is or what I’ve done. We’ll always come back to this place. A place that can’t be found on a map or a time line. Nothing in the world can touch us here.
Stretched out beneath me, she returns my kiss with a hungry mouth, her hands traveling the length of my body and reaching for my zipper.
“Conor.” I capture her wrist and bring it to my lips. “You want to have sex with me?”
“I…” Her trembling body screams yes, but her eyes taper into suspicious slits. “I’m attracted to you.”
“So you’re ready to go for it, yeah? Your way.”
Her mouth forms a flat line.
“When I fuck you, we’re doing it my way. Let me give you a hint…” I pinch her nipple, hard enough to make her gasp. “I love all the positions.”
“You know I can’t—”
“Not until I earn your trust.”
“If you would tell me everything you’re keeping from me…”
“Soon.” We still have a hard road ahead, but one thing’s for certain. “You’re mine, Conor Cassidy.”