by Pam Godwin
“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 reason
ing, 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.”
TWENTY-TWO
Jake
I steer Conor through the next week with more of the same. More kissing and touching. More light bondage. More therapy.
Grueling memories fill the pages of her journal front to back, and conversations about those memories fill our days.
At night, we find sanctuary on the back porch with Jarret, reminiscing, singing, and playing guitar. Then we retire to our bed, her body wrapped around mine, and pretend we don’t want to fuck each other’s brains out.
It’s been a long goddamn week.
I lean against the kitchen island and watch her flit along the back counter, wiping down surfaces and putting things away. Jarret drove into town to bang his flavor of the night, and the house is deafeningly quiet and still, as if holding its breath.
I’m the one not breathing.
The wait is finally over.
The bodies in the ravine, the blackmail with my dad, the news of Levi Tibbs’ release, the planning and secrecy, the therapy sessions, her declaration of love—all this had to materialize and culminate, to bring us to this pinnacle point. Tonight, I’ll lift her out of that dark tortured place in her mind, where she’s held herself captive for six years, and set her free.
She pauses at the sink with her back to me and sighs. “Two days.”
Levi Tibbs walks in two days.
The three of us formulated an ironclad strategy to take him out without getting caught. The details of that plan have been occupying her mind all day.
After visiting Lorne last week, I know she has reservations. The consequences of killing a man stared down at her with her brother’s hardened eyes.
“You can sit this out.” I prefer she did, but I know she won’t.
