by Joanna Bell
It was as I pondered my husband's lifestyle – so different to my own that I couldn't even figure out if I truly envied it or not – that I suddenly became aware of a new sound, alongside the insects and the wind. For a few seconds I thought it was my own breathing.
You're riding a horse, though. Why would you be out of breath?
Because that's not you breathing.
Even before I turned around to look behind me a firework of adrenaline was already making its way up my spine, set off by instinct alone. And then I did turn around and, before my brain had even fully registered what I was seeing, my mouth was falling open.
"CILLIAN!"
He must have heard something in my voice – real panic, real fear – because even as he was twisting in his saddle, before he saw what I was seeing, he was reaching back over his shoulder for the shotgun.
Those precise moments remain crystal clear in my memory. I can replay them like a clip from a movie. Cillian's hand, the fingers splayed, wrapping themselves around the long barrel of the gun. The seamless way he managed to slide off his horse, lift the weapon and aim it at a specific spot just behind me.
"Stop looking at it," he barked, his voice as steady as his hands. "Look away. And stop making that noise."
I didn't even realize I was making a noise – but I was. Fast, panicked, shrieking breaths poured out of my throat as the huge bear on the trail behind me shambled closer. I held my breath and forced myself to look away, into the thick brush beside the trail. I couldn't move. If I'd wanted to run – which even I knew you shouldn't do – I wouldn't have been able to. I was frozen to the saddle, my heart in my throat, every nerve and instinct alive with bone-deep, primitive terror.
The bear was big. And it was still coming closer.
"Don't kill it!"
I don't even know why I said that. I didn't mean it. Not that I wanted the bear shot. No, what I wanted was to not to get mauled.
Cillian ignored me, keeping his eyes focused entirely on the beast.
"Get off your horse," he said, as the animal stopped about 10 feet away from us and sniffed the air. It was close enough that I could smell it – the smell of fur and breath and wildness. It did not smell good.
"Slowly," Cillian instructed me in that same firm, clear voice. "Astrid, slowly. Get off your horse and walk – slowly – to the front. Can you do that?"
I thought I could do it. Theoretically I definitely could. But my body wouldn't work. It stayed still even as my brain sent the signal to dismount. And when I tried to say that I couldn't do it, I found that no sound would come out of my mouth.
The bear made a sudden huffing noise and swiped one of its serving platter-sized paws over the rocky trail.
I have no memory of falling. Cillian told me later that it was the sound of the bear's claws on a boulder that spooked my horse so badly it threw me – but I don't remember any of it. All I remember is suddenly realizing I was on the ground, and then the ear-shattering roar of two shotgun blasts, followed by the sound of something very large and very fast crashing through the undergrowth.
"Stay where you are. Don't move."
I did what I was told. Cillian was standing to my left. Without once taking his eyes off the woods, he emptied the shotgun of its spent shells and reloaded. At no point did he fumble. At no point did his body or his voice betray a single sign of fear.
I managed to raise myself into a protective crouch, expending all my effort just to keep from sobbing with terror and expecting at any moment to feel teeth sinking into my flesh.
We stayed like that for a long time, Cillian's horse snorting and whinnying, me on the ground and Cillian himself staring, absolutely ready, into the trees.
Eventually, when one butt cheek was entirely numb from staying in the same position for so long, my horse came trotting back. I looked up at Cillian.
"Is it gone?"
"I think so," he replied quietly. "Get up. No sudden movements, though. I don't want the horse to spook again."
I got up, stumbling slightly as the numbness in my rear stretched down the back of one leg. Cillian backed towards me, still not taking his eyes off the place where the bear had disappeared into the woods.
And then he was so close I could feel the taut alertness in his body the way I imagine you might feel it if you ever found yourself inches away from a live electrical wire.
"No," Cillian said, easily blocking me with one arm when I reached for him. "No, Astrid. We can't stay up here."
The bear disappeared from the horizon of my consciousness as swiftly as it had appeared behind my horse. Cillian was with me, the shotgun still in his hands, the smell of gunpowder hanging in the air. And my reaching for him in that moment was as driven by instinct as my fear of the bear had been not 5 minutes earlier.
Cillian wasn't having it, though. Not for one second. When I reached for him a second time he physically picked me up and plunked me down a couple of feet away.
"No. We have to get back. That furry bastard is probably still close."
When I moved towards my horse, he simply steered me towards the other one.
"No. You ride with me the rest of the way."
So I mounted the horse, moving slowly and robotically like I was in a dream. Cillian got on behind me, wrapping one arm around my waist and yanking me back against him.
And that's how we rode back down the mountain, me limp with relief and shock and a strange, reflexive kind of lust and Cillian holding the shotgun across his chest and not relaxing once the entire way.
The adrenaline began to wear off when we came out of the trees. Soon we were back in the foothills, trailed by the rider-less horse in the rear.
"There's Patrick's truck."
My body jerked as if from a stupor.
"Huh? What?"
Cillian stretched one solidly muscled arm out in front of me, pointing slightly to the left. "Just there, in the mud. Can you see it?"
A creek bed ran along the base of a small hill and disappeared around a bend. Just at the point of the bend I spotted one corner of what looked like the back-end of a pick-up truck sticking out of the mud.
"Fuckin' idiot," he added. "It's way too early for off-roading."
We weren't back at the stables yet, but we were apparently close enough that Cillian could relax again. When I turned around in the saddle to look at him I saw that the shotgun was once again over his shoulder. He was smiling, too.
And what a smile it was. It somehow managed to say everything – that he knew exactly what I was feeling and why even better than I did – even as no words passed his lips. There was quite a lot in that wide grin, actually.
Chapter 21: Astrid
I've never had sex with someone out of gratefulness before. I think if you'd asked me I would have said it was a silly, sexist trope. What kind of ridiculous floozy gets wet panties because some big, strong man saved her from a bad guy or freed her from the train tracks at the very last minute – or scared off a wild animal?
Me, apparently.
Standing beside the horses in the still, quiet air of the stables, I found that I could hardly see straight. I could hardly stand up.
My mind swam with sounds, images, scenes from the encounter on the mountain. One in particular: Cillian's arm reaching back over his shoulder to grab the shotgun before he even saw the bear. How did he know? There was no suppressed panic in that gesture. No hesitation.
And then, afterwards, there was no hesitation in me. I almost felt like I was going to choke on lust when I looked down and saw the bulge in his jeans.
I could feel the countering desire in him, too. In the way he, when he didn't have the patience to unpick each finicky button on my blouse, simply took hold of the collar and, looking me right in the eye, ripped it the rest of the way open. I could sense, answering my own deep need to give, his need to take. He kissed my mouth, trailing his fingers down my neck, over my collarbone, and slipping them into my bra to cup one of my breasts. And then he broke the kiss so he could look down
, watch his own thumb encircling my nipple as it pebbled obediently.
"Fuck, Astrid," he breathed, pulling my hair back so he could kiss my neck. "I love your tits."
He bent his head down further, flicking his tongue over the tip of my nipple and then closing his mouth around it. I exhaled heavily and pushed my fingers into his hair, holding him against me, thrilling to the feeling of his rough stubble against the soft skin of my inner arm, the underside of my breast.
Everything felt slow. As slow and thick and warm as molasses. Every time I inhaled it was like the air itself was thickening, like I was having to work harder to draw it into my lungs. My limbs felt suddenly heavy, every movement a sweet effort. I could feel my panties becoming slick with wetness as Cillian kissed me.
"Take your pants off."
"What?"
He repeated himself: "Take your pants off."
I fumbled with the button a couple of times, my fingers clumsy with desire, and then got it open.
"Take them off, Astrid."
He was insistent and oh, God, I'm not sure anything in my life has ever driven me quite so perfectly crazy as Cillian Devlin's insistence. He was standing back by then, impatient, his eyes taking in the modest, stiff-nippled fullness of my breasts and the pale skin of my belly as I pulled my zipper of my pants down. His hand was in my panties at once, his fingers sliding up between my wet folds, dipping into me and then pulling out again.
"Astrid."
"Wh – what?" I whispered, falling back against a low work table as my knees buckled.
"Take them –" Cillian replied, grabbing my pants and panties in both hands and yanking them roughly down over my hips, "the fuck –" he continued, pulling so hard I had to grab a hook on the wall to stay upright, "OFF!"
Then he lifted me up onto the table in a single, swift motion and placed one hand – one big, rough-skinned hand – on my inner thigh.
Before him, I didn't even know what it was to be opened by a man. I don't just mean the physical gesture. I mean the feeling of being cracked open from top to bottom, from psyche to body. Only he did that to me. Only he took me utterly apart.
It's overwhelming to be taken apart – and completely terrifying, even as you crave it so much you can't think. Because you crave it so much you can't think.
My husband laid me out on that table and then bent to kiss the inside of one thigh – and I damn near forgot my own name. When he kissed me right next to the spot that needed his touch the most, my hips jerked up involuntarily. I pushed myself up on my arms and looked down, watched my fingers disappearing into his hair as he tortured me.
And then he slid his tongue right up against my clit, right where I needed it, and the sound of my own moans filled the air.
That's what being opened up is. It's how you've spent your whole life insecure, embarrassed, uptight about your body, about how attractive this man or that man finds you, afraid of the hungers and lusts you sense lurking inside yourself – afraid of what they might make you do. It's all of those things, and then it's how completely, how instantly they cease to exist. There is suddenly no room in your soul for anyone or anything but the one man who finally manages to take you right out of yourself. There is no room for a single thought that isn't about him, no room for a feeling or a sensation that he isn't causing.
"Fuck," he breathed, as he sensed the tension rising in my body. "Astrid, baby."
I knew it was coming. There was never any doubt. I felt that orgasm arriving like a ship sailing full-steam into a storm – there would be no turning around. So I lay back and enjoyed it, let it come naturally, conjured up on the tip of Cillian Devlin's tongue.
The pleasure was diffuse at first. There was a general warmth in my lower belly, stretching down into my thighs, warming and loosening my hips. And then slowly, wonderfully, it became more focused. Cillian drew it in, winding me up tight like a spring, gathering the various strands of my gratification together one by one until I was writhing underneath him, begging.
"Cillian –"
My voice was shaky, breathless.
"Cillian – please – I –"
He slid his tongue up and over me again, and then again and again and he didn't stop until I arched up off the table, screaming mindlessly as a dark tidal wave of bliss came over me.
My fingers tightened in his hair – so much I found strands of it wound around my fingers afterwards – and my thighs fell open. The waves kept coming, too. It wasn't just one. It was one after the other after the other until I was wrung out, limp and panting and unable to speak.
Not that he needed me to speak. And somehow, even in my own taken-apart state, I knew we weren't finished. I knew he wasn't finished.
Cillian stood up, grasping the leather strap of his belt and pulling it off the prong of the buckle in a movement that reminded me, in its smooth singularity of purpose, of the way he reached over his shoulder for the shotgun not 2 hours previously.
I almost swooned when he took it out of his jeans. The muscles in the back of my jaw tightened at the mere sight of him, so hard that every detail, every ridge of eager flesh stood out. He didn't push himself into me right away – I knew he was trying to cool off a little first. I slid a hand up over one burly shoulder and caressed the back of his neck.
And then my husband looked at me and his eyes, normally as bright and blue as the Montana sky, were dark. There's no turning away from that look. Not for me, not when it's him – not ever. And I knew somehow, in that moment, that there never would be. I knew he was going to be my undoing. It was right there in his eyes, the future written in a feverish desire neither of us could control – or deny.
I reached out and gently slipped two fingers along the underside, just under the head.
"Don't," he said, his voice so low I could hardly make out what he was saying. "Astrid – don't."
"I want you to come, though," I told him. "I don't care when. I just – Cillian, I want you to come."
He brought one hand up to his mouth, breathing heavily out through his fingers and I slid off the workbench and onto my knees.
He saw what I was doing and closed his eyes, leaning his head back and clenching his fists at his sides.
"Look at you," he whispered when he looked back down again. "Look at you, baby. You're so beautiful. Oh Astrid, honey. Baby, you're beautiful. You're so b–"
I dragged my tongue across the spot where my fingers had been a few moments before and his whole body shuddered.
"Fuck!" He growled, pushing his hips forward, sliding himself into my mouth.
It felt like a lot. In my mouth, it felt like all of him – or close to all of him. It wasn't even half. It was barely a third. I made an effort to relax the muscles of my jaw and managed a little more. He was right at the back of my tongue.
"Astrid –"
I pulled back off him, trying to collect myself to try again.
"Astrid –"
"What?" I asked, leaning forward and kissing his thigh.
"I want you to do something for me."
I lowered my lips onto his head again, looking up, watching his face as it contorted with pleasure. Then I pulled back again.
"What?"
"I want you to look at me."
"I am looking at you," I smiled.
"No," he replied, reaching down and brushing his fingers across my cheek. "The whole time. I want you to look at me the whole time. I don't want you to look away or close your eyes. OK? Can you do that for me, baby? Can you look at me when I come in your mouth?"
There was no verbal response to that series of questions. There didn't need to be. If I could physically have done it I would have swallowed the entire generous length of him right then and there. All I wanted was to give him what he wanted. So I turned my gaze up, locked eyes with the man who was still my husband, and took him back into my mouth. All the way in, until his breath was catching in his throat.
"This isn't gonna take long," he breathed, pulling out and then pushing right back in
again. "Oh – oh Jesus, Astrid. This isn't gonna take long at –"
His voice dissolved into a groan. The next time he filled my mouth he went a little too far. Anyone else I would have stopped. Not him, though. No part of me, as I knelt on my own torn-off blouse and wet panties on that old wooden floor, wanted anything other than to give Cillian Devlin exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted was more of my mouth around him – so that's what I gave him.
He watched me. The whole time, as his cock stiffened even further between my lips and I managed to get used to the feeling of him right against the back of my throat – he watched me.
"Baby," he moaned as his hips moved more frenetically – and as I had to concentrate hard to take him so quickly. "Astrid – oh. Oh fuck, baby. I'm – I'm gonna –"
But I already knew what was going to happen because we were gazing into each other's eyes the entire time. Honestly it was one of the most intimate, erotic moments of my life. His eyes widened, just a little, as he settled himself against the back of my tongue one last time. Later, he said mine did, too. He said I almost looked surprised when that first warm spurt hit my throat.
I swallowed it. I had to, because there was a lot more to come and nowhere else for it to go. But I swallowed it because I wanted to swallow it, too. And because I couldn't think of a way to be closer to him than to take the evidence of his desire into my belly.
Cillian held himself in my mouth until he was entirely finished. Until every last twitch and spill and drop was done. And then he collapsed next to me and fell asleep.
***
I did not fall asleep. I could have. I could have called the charter company and cancelled my flight back to Miami and then I could have curled up next to my husband and lived the rest of my days orbiting him like a happy little planet orbiting its sun.
But I had to face my parents. I had to face myself, too. I had to face what I'd done – and what I was going to do about it.
Those were all good, solid reasons to fly home. I really did have to talk to my parents. I really did have to figure out what I was going to do about my hasty marriage. But what I also had to do – and this is the part I wasn't so enthused about admitting – was run away.
