Change Rein

by Anne Jolin

  Fluttering my eyes a little at the realization that this is my life, I whisper back, “I love you, Branson.”

  “You better. Now”—he pauses dramatically—“do you think we could stop talking about my mom when you’re half-naked in my bed for the first time?” He grins.

  I blush hard before running my fingers over the stubble on his face. “I think I could manage that.”

  His fingers drag across my lower stomach, teasing the top edge of my booty shorts. “What did the doctor say about sex?” he rumbles, his voice deep and thick. “Will it hurt you?”

  “The doctor didn’t mention anything about sex.” The words practically drip from my mouth in a whine.

  “I guess we’ll have to be very”—he blows over the space between my legs—“very careful. Won’t we?”

  Oh, lord.

  THE BLUE IN HER EYES darkens as I blow over the thin fabric separating my mouth from where it so desperately wants to taste. I’ve needed her since the first time our skin touched, and not having had her yet has been one of the cruelest forms of torture. But I would endure it indefinitely if I had to. After our first kiss, I knew I would wait. That I would wait until she was ready to give all of herself to me.

  I’d given her all of me long before she was ready to have it.

  Kissing my way back up her stomach, I make sure to rest all my weight on my forearms so I don’t hurt her. As much as I want her, if I thought for even a fraction of a second that it would injure her, I would stop and take one hell of a cold shower.

  “Branson,” she moans as I squeeze her breasts through her thin tank top.

  Leaning over, I bite down on one of her perky nipples over the fabric. She’s writhing on the bed as I tease her repeatedly without taking her shirt off.

  “Please.”

  The plea in her voice has my already untamed hard-on pressing against my boxers. “Please what?” I croon, flicking her nipple.

  “I want to feel you on them,” she whimpers, and the sound is my undoing.

  Sitting up on my knees, one on either side of her slim hips, I curl my fingers into the base of her shirt. “Lift your arms.”

  She obeys, eagerly lifting them above her head as I inch the cotton up. When her sweet breasts finally appear, I can’t get her shirt off her fast enough. I don’t pay attention to where I toss it in the room—it could have gone out the window for all I care.

  When she lies down again, she arches her back, so I suck one of her nipples into my mouth, pinching and rolling the other with my fingers.

  “Mmm. So soft,” I praise her before repeating the process.

  “Ah!” Her hips buck.

  My girl likes it a little rough.

  “Do you like that?” I ask her, my voice thick with need. This time, I bite a little harder.

  “Yesss,” she hisses, her hands grabbing at my hair.

  After kissing in the center of her chest, I begin to nip and tease my way over her stomach.

  “I-I-I . . .” Her words aren’t matching what her brain is trying to say, and I love it.

  “Are you wet for me?” I growl before kissing just above her panty line and then blowing on the damp skin.

  She tries to squeeze her legs together, but I push them open with my elbows.

  “Answer me, angel,” I demand, my voice never rising. Then I trail a finger down the center of her shorts.

  She sucks in a breath before saying, “Yes, Branson. I’m wet for you.”

  I trail the seam until I slip a finger inside, running between her folds. “Mmm. I haven’t even put my finger inside you and I can tell you’re dripping for me. Do you know how sexy that is?”

  She doesn’t answer. Her head thrashes back and forth on the pillow as she moans incoherently instead. I think she curses at me, and that only makes me want to draw it out. Watching my girl lose control for the first time is most certainly a moment I want to savor.

  After slipping my finger back out, I hook into the edges of her shorts, pulling them down her long legs.

  I want her bare for me.

  It’s no surprise that she’s absolutely perfect there too. The space between her legs is soft and smooth, her sweet, fair skin just a little bit pink, and my mouth waters.

  I kneel at the foot of the bed, making sure to lift her with me as opposed to dragging her so I don’t injure that sweet ass of hers any further. After I drape her left leg over my shoulder, I kiss the inside of her thigh and repeat with her right.

  “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long,” I growl as I slide my finger between her lips again before pushing one inside her.

  She’s absolutely soaked as I work her. I stretch her with one finger. Then I add a second. She fists her hands into the bed sheets, attempting to buck her hips, but my forearm is keeping her from relieving any of the torturous pleasure.

  After pulling my fingers out, I lift them to my mouth. She’s given me her full attention now at the loss of them. Sucking both fingers into my mouth, I groan involuntarily.

  “So fucking sweet.”

  “Please, Branson. I need more,” she begs, watching me desperately.

  Dipping my head, I lick from the opening of her sweet pussy up to her clit and suck it into my mouth.

  “Oh, God.” Her hands fist into my hair, pushing me closer to her.

  She’s unashamed of how badly she wants my mouth on her, and it’s beautiful. It also makes me a goddamned ravenous animal wanting to devour her.

  I lick and suck, adding fingers or my tongue, until she’s worked up a thin sheen of sweat all over her body. “Are you going to come for me, London?”

  Her head bobs up and down, heavy eyelids working desperately not to lose focus.

  “Tell me.” It’s more of a rumble from my chest than actual words.

  Sweet lips open and close a few times before, finally, words filter into the heated air between us. “I want to come for you. Make me come, please, Branson.”

  That’s all I needed to hear.

  Curling my fingers, I pump them in and out, hitting her G-spot over and over again. When I know she’s right on the edge, I suck her swollen clit into my mouth, gently biting down as she falls apart. The sound of her screaming my name in ecstasy makes me want to pound on my chest like some kind of primal beast—ridiculous, but true.

  Her body quivers and she whimpers as I pull my fingers from inside her. The sweet ridges of her chest are quickly rising and falling, and her small fists are gripping the sheets so tight that I’m not sure the pattern will ever leave them.

  I lace our fingers together. “What are you holding on so tight for?” My voice is husky and playful.

  “I think you know why.” She bats her eyelashes at me, the deep blue behind them still wickedly tempting.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, angel,” I growl, standing up over the bed. “Scoot back to the headboard now.”

  She crawls backwards until the top of her head falls onto the pillow.

  “Are you on the pill?”

  I hate asking her this, partially due to the fact that, if she says yes, I might go green with jealousy. But it’s something I’m willing to risk as my desperation to have her bare increases every second I watch her lie here as she rides the wave of her orgasm.

  “Yes.” Her voice is low, and my fists clench at my sides. “My, uh . . .” She fumbles for the words. “My periods are really painful, so I’ve been on it for years, but I haven’t”—she watches me nervously, but somehow knows I need to hear her say it—“done this with anyone in a really long time.”

  “That’s okay, angel,” I tell her, palming myself through my boxers. “I don’t need to be your first, but I’ll damn sure be your last.”

  Her mouth parts, little breaths forcing their way out.

  “I’m clean, and it’s been a while for me too, but I want to take you bare. Are you okay with that?”

  Messy, blond hair bobs up and down. “Yes. I want to feel you inside me.”

  After pushing my boxe
rs down, I kick them to the side while fisting the length of my cock in my hand. Her eyes widen at the sight, but she licks her lips.

  I stalk towards her across the bed. While missionary isn’t my favorite position, I want to be able to see her when she comes around me, and I’m not sure pounding into her from behind would do her injury any favors.

  Settling between her thighs, I kiss her chastely on the mouth, dragging the head of my dick through the wetness of her folds, coating it in her juices.

  I position my cock at the entrance to her pussy and wait until she looks at me to see what the holdup is. “You are mine, London.”

  She glares at me, probably wanting to put my ass in its place for saying caveman shit, as she calls it, but I cut her off.

  “And I’m yours. This is about more than fucking for me. This is about us.”

  The glare softens to something warmer.

  And as I push inside her for the first time, I whisper into her ear, “I love you.”

  Her fingers entangle themselves into my hair again, pulling and tugging as I slide in and out of her.

  “So tight.” I say it like it’s painful, but it’s absolutely fucking perfect. The walls of her pussy are clamping down on me so hard that I’m not sure I’ll last a goddamn second.

  She rocks her hips up in time with my thrusts, and we move together like I knew we would—heavenly. It doesn’t take long before we’re both starved for release, our slick bodies working up heat as we claim each other.

  “I’m going to come!” she gasps, her mouth searching for mine.

  Kissing her hard, I press my forehead to hers. “Come for me, London.”

  She does, calling out my name at the same time I growl into her neck, our bodies left heaving and clinging to one another.

  “Damn,” she whispers.

  Rolling to my side, I take her with me, pulling her up against my chest. “Is your ass okay?” My concern is evident in the tone of my voice, even with my cock still inside her.

  “Always the gentleman. Only you would be concerned about my ass after just fucking me to within an inch of my life.” She laughs, tucking her head into the space between my neck and shoulder. “But yes, my ass is just fine, cowboy.”

  I trail my hands up and down her back. “I like when you call me that.”

  “I know.”

  Her lips curl into a smile against my skin before sleep quickly takes us both.

  MY EYES FLUTTER.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A sound in the distance tugs at my brain. Finally, I register the sound of someone knocking on the front door. Sometime during the night, our bodies disconnected, and mine now mourns the loss of his as I lift my head off his chest.

  The clock on the nightstand reads eight-thirteen a.m., and even for a barn girl, that’s early for a Sunday morning. After slipping out of the bed, I pull one of his shirts over my head. Then I find my discarded booty shorts on the floor and put them on.

  Quietly, I sneak out of the room, shutting the door behind me. Branson never sleeps in late, and the fact he is still out cold only shows how much he really needs it.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Something buzzes on the table by the front door as I pad across the hardwood floor. After turning over the lock, I open the door so whoever is on the other side doesn’t wake up my very sleepy and very satisfied man.

  When my eyes land on that ever-present, stupid braid, I wish I’d stayed curled up on his chest.

  “You.” Charlotte scowls, resting her hand on her hip.

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes at her obvious statement. “Yup, me. Good morning. Can I help you with something?”

  “What are you doing here?” Her tone is accusatory, and once again, her statement is particularly absurd.

  I cock an eyebrow at her. “You’re a smart woman, Charlotte. I think you can figure it out.”

  “You know we slept together, right?” She turns her nose up and smirks at me.

  She backs up onto the porch as I shut the door behind us.

  “I think I’ve been particularly generous where your lack of respect towards me is concerned, but I think it’s due time we cleared a few things up.”

  She shifts from one foot to the other. I imagine she wasn’t expecting a lecture from a woman with bed head wearing men’s clothing when she came by this morning, but it’s what she’s gonna get.

  “One”—I hold up a finger—“I know you spent a single night. Let me make that clear—one night with Branson a while back. He told me after the first week, and it was my decision to keep you employed at Willow Bay. He left that right up to me.”

  She gapes at me.

  Yeah. How ’bout that, Equestrian Barbie?

  “Two”—I lift a second finger—“I think we can cut the you-don’t-know-what’s-going-on-between-us bullshit. It’s been almost six weeks, and you see us together nearly every day. Branson is my boyfriend and your boss. Should you wish to keep your job, I suggest you remember that, as it’s not a line he’s willing to blur, and neither am I.”

  She tugs at the strands of her braid.

  “Lastly, it is a Sunday morning well before an appropriate hour to be showing up at your boss’s house. So, unless there is an emergency that either he or I am currently unaware of, I’m going to give you exactly sixty seconds to get off this porch. And I don’t want to see you here again unannounced. Are we on the same page, honey?”

  “Y-yes,” she stammers.

  Smiling brightly, I squeeze her shoulders like adults do to children. “Glad to hear it.” I gesture towards her car. “Have a nice day.”

  The normally confident woman suddenly seems so nervous, and I have the urge to yell, “Boo!” to see if she screams, but I don’t. Instead, once I’m satisfied she’s leaving with no intention of coming back, I walk back into the house.

  It’s still quiet, which means my altercation with Charlotte didn’t wake Branson up. In the kitchen, it takes me a few minutes to find everything I’m looking for, but once I do, the heavenly smell of coffee permeates the air as it brews.

  Taking advantage of my time alone in the house, I wander through it, soaking up the masculinity and warmth. I could live here. The idea pops into my head without warning and I stumble a little as I consider it. I suppose that’s where we are headed, neither of us being the type to date simply for the sake of dating.

  My hand runs over the back of a brown, worn, leather couch as I wander into the living room. There’s a large TV on the wood mantel of the stone fireplace, flanked by more of the floor-to-ceiling windows that also run along the back of the house. To the left of the couch is the matching loveseat, and to the right is a large armchair. The room might feel empowered by testosterone if it weren’t for the hints of warmth that are sprinkled across the space. Whether they were done by his own accord or his mother’s doing, I can’t be certain, but I like them.

  The leather of the couch is offset by a series of yellow pillows, some solid and others with patterns that play off the color of the wood flooring. On the coffee table were fresh flowers, and throw blankets adorned the armrests of the various seating arrangements.

  All in all, this room and the others in the house were exactly Branson: the perfect balance of masculinity, power, class, and most of all, happiness.

  When I return to the kitchen, the coffee is ready, so I pour a mug for each of us. Then I pad back into the bedroom, where he’s still asleep, the morning sun making the strands of honey in his brown hair stand out.

  After placing the coffee mugs on the bedside table, I lie on my stomach next to him so I can admire how gorgeous he is as I place a light kiss on his full lips. But also because, if I’m honest, my injury flamed up a little, thanks to our activities the night before.

  He stirs at my touch, his face coming alive but his eyes not opening. “Why are you wearing clothes?” he huffs, rubbing a hand over my back.

  “There was a knock on the door. I
woke up,” I answer nonchalantly.

  Opening one eye at a time, he frowns. “Who was it?”

  “Wrong house,” I tell him before dropping another kiss on his lips. “I made coffee.”

  Sitting up, he leans his back against the wooden headboard. “I knew I loved you for a reason,” he whispers, taking the mug from my outstretched hand.

  “Ouch.” I sigh dramatically, laying my head down so I can look up at him. “Did you sleep well?”

  Winking at me, he takes a sip. “Like a rock.”

  “Your house is beautiful,” I tell him, realizing in saying that I’ve confessed to snooping around while he was asleep.

  “Good”—he kisses the top of my messy hair—“‘cause you’ll be living here just as soon as I can convince you to.”

  I gape at him as he climbs off the bed, his perfect, naked cowboy ass strutting into the bathroom.

  “Were you planning on mentioning that to me at any point in time?” I ask, quickly following behind him.

  He sets the mug on the bathroom counter before turning the shower on and testing its temperature with his hand. “Mentioning that as opposed to what?”

  I know the smartass is taunting me on purpose, but it does nothing to deter me from letting it get under my skin.

  “As opposed to bashing me over the head and dragging me here like a caveman.” I tap my foot, waiting for him to give me clarification.

  While I do enjoy a good alpha moment now and again, I consider myself very much his equal. Thus decisions like moving in together are things I would hope we could make together. Even if I were ignoring the little butterflies floating around in my stomach at the mention of living together.

  “If I thought for even a second you would move in if I did that, I would, but I know you better than that, London. Nonetheless, you will live here sooner rather than later, I hope.” He kisses my lips before stepping under the shower spray. “Are you coming?”

  My body finally recognizes that he’s completely naked—and not only that, but he’s hard as a rock. “Um.” The synapses in my brain fire off in rapid succession. “I . . . uh . . .”

  “You uh what, exactly, darlin’?” He flashes a cocky grin, running a soapy hand across his midsection.