by Imani King
We were standing pretty close to each other. Too close, probably, for it to look innocent to any onlookers.
"You look good, by the way," he whispered, leaning in towards me for just a second. "You look good enough to eat. In fact fuck cooking lessons, I think I'll just have you for dinner."
I couldn't help the coy little smile that crept across my face – or the sudden flood of warmth in my belly. Forget the résumés, I could drop the rest of them off the next day.
"I've got Jenny's car," I said. "Are you –"
"I'll meet you at my place in ten minutes," Dallas cut in. I let my eyes flicker over his body and he caught me noticing the bulge in his jeans. "Look what you did, Tia."
My cheeks tingled. That wasn't the only part of me tingling, either. The look in his eyes reminded me of the previous afternoon, a certain glazed-over quality that made me want to wrap my arms and legs around his muscular body and bury my face in his neck.
"I'll meet you there," I said, my voice breathless.
"Hurry."
I hurried. I hurried so much I got to his cabin before he did, and waited outside the car petting Beau, who seemed to have decided I was his new best friend. When his master arrived, though, he abandoned me at once. I turned and watched Dallas dismounting his horse, reveling in his strength and easy physicality.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, looking at me pointedly as he walked towards me.
"You know damn well why," I responded.
"You gettin' all heated watching me on Ranger?" he asked, bending down to kiss my neck slowly, until I could hardly breathe.
"I – um, yeah. I – it was just –"
Dallas put the groceries down and took my face in his hands, slipping his tongue between my lips and kissing me hard. "I should be making fun of you for being so flustered," he said, between kisses. "But the truth is it's just working me up."
I would have responded, except I couldn't speak. I could barely stand. I needed him. Right that minute. All I could do when he pushed his hand between my legs was gasp softly, my eyes closing as raw lust shot through my body like lightning through the night sky.
"Come here, Tia."
The fact that we were outside didn't even cross my mind. Nothing crossed my mind. Nothing mattered except the feeling of Dallas Corbett against me. I lay down on the ground, cushioned by soft, dry pine needles, and stretched my arms up over my head, offering myself up to him as he pulled my pants, and then my panties, off. When I reached for him, though, he ducked away.
"No."
"No?" I whimpered.
Dallas pulled his shirt off and readjusted his cock in his jeans to a more comfortable angle, such a nonchalantly sexy move. Then he knelt down between my legs and lifted my shirt up, kissing my belly. Something about being exposed like that, totally naked from the waist down with the hot afternoon air on my bare skin, was intensely arousing. I loved it, even if I couldn't have said precisely why.
"Has anyone ever done this to you?" he asked, trailing kisses down my belly to my inner thigh.
I shook my head. "No."
"Really? No one? I'm the first man who gets to taste your sweet pussy?"
Oh my God. I couldn't take it. I pushed my fingers into his hair and let him open my legs even further, tense with anticipation.
"Yeah," I breathed. "Yeah, Dallas, you are. You – please. Please."
"Fuck," he growled, so close to my sex I could feel his hot breath on my skin. "I love that, Tia. I love the way you beg. You want me to do this, don't you?"
"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, Dallas. Please."
And then I felt his mouth, his tongue, wet and soft against my clit and it was even better than I'd ever expected.
"Oh... God," I sighed, letting my thighs fall completely open.
It didn't feel anything like my own finger. It was softer, but more sensitive somehow, like Dallas's tongue could do things no finger could manage. He licked me slowly, rhythmically, not responding when I started pushing my hips up and tightening my fingers in his hair, asking for more.
"Slow down," he murmured when I cried out, frustrated. "Slow down, Tia. I want to take my time. I want to make you come so hard you can't walk for a week."
But I was getting close anyway. The diffuse pleasure was focusing, building, and my breath was getting shallow. Just when I thought it was going to happen, he suddenly moved away, pushing his tongue between my lips and dragging it up and down between them.
"You're soaking wet," he said, his voice as deep and rough as his tongue was light and smooth. "Jesus, you are so wet."
I moaned his name as he worked his way back up to my clit, crying out when he got there. It was coming, I could feel it now, shimmering on the horizon, the kind of bliss that takes your mind away and reduces you to an animal state. I tightened my grip on his scalp. He knew I was close. I paid no attention to the pine needles working their way into my hair and Dallas pushed me further and further, until I was pleading with him shamelessly.
When I came, he slid a finger inside me and stayed right where he was, not slowing down, not stopping until the waves of pleasure subsided and I lay panting on my back, babbling incoherently.
"Lift your shirt up."
"What?" I asked, not quite up to paying attention yet.
"Lift your shirt up, Tia. I want you watch those perfect tits bouncing when I fuck you."
I'd just had an orgasm, seconds before he said that. But as soon as he did, and as soon as I heard the commanding tone in his voice, all I wanted to do was what he'd asked. I grabbed the bottom of my t-shirt and hiked it – and my bra – up over my breasts.
"Do you, uh, Dallas – do you want me to take it off?"
He shook his head, unbuckling his belt as he knelt between my knees. "No. Just pulled up – like that. It's sexier that way."
I watched him unzip, my body limp and willing, my mind in a place where he could have asked me to do anything and I would have agreed to it. And then he pulled it out, thick and stiff, and I just about did a double-take.
"Oh my – Dallas, oh my God."
"What?" he chuckled. "You didn't get a good look yesterday?"
But I hadn't really gotten a good look the day before, I'd been too distracted, too anxious. "No wonder it hurt," I said, awed.
"I tried to be gentle," he reminded me. "You're not still sore, are you?"
"I don't know. I was a little bit, last night. But I – I don't want you to worry. I mean, it doesn't matter. I want it, Dallas."
I reached down, somewhat tentatively, and slid my fingers over the head of his cock, shiny as it was with pre-cum. He exhaled heavily and pushed his length into my hand, looking up, enjoying my reaction.
"Is that what you want?" he asked. "Is that what you want, Tia?"
I lay back down and opened my legs. "Yeah. That's what I want."
Dallas pushed his big body between my thighs and looked down, watching as he nudged the head into me and then groaning loudly as I pushed my body up, taking him all the way in. "Mmm. Tia. Tia, baby. Oh, Tia, you feel so good..."
He propped himself up on his forearms, looking down at me – at my face, my breasts, my body. I loved the feeling of being underneath him, so small compared to his masculine bulk. And it didn't hurt that time, not at all. Even though I'd just had an orgasm, and wasn't sure if the soreness from last night had fully gone away, it felt good right away. The sensation was one of being full, almost of being impaled. Every thrust, at the deepest point, made me moan and squirm. I ran my hands down his back, delighting in the rhythm of his muscles working as he made love to me.
"You like that?" he whispered in my ear, already breathing faster. "Do you like that, Tia? Do you like my cock inside you?"
I kissed him, darting my tongue into his mouth and arching up to him when he clamped one strong hand onto my right breast. "Yes," I breathed. "Dallas, yeah. Yes."
"Mmm. Good. Good girl. You know you're gonna make me come, don't you? Is that what you want?"
Something about being told he was going to come, and about hearing it in his voice – a kind of warning – pleased me. He was hitting a spot inside me, deep inside, and every thrust was making it sweeter. I looked up into his icy blue eyes. "Yes. I want you to come. I want to make you come, Dallas. I want –"
My voice cut off as he thrust into me suddenly, deeper and harder than he had before. I felt his body tightening in my arms. "Fuck, Tia. You're going to make me come, sweet girl. Oh God, you're gonna –"
He was very close. I actually sensed the moment he let go, lifting himself up a little on his arms and really fucking me, drilling his hips down hard and fast until I was clamping my legs around him and clutching at his shoulders.
"Dallas," I sighed, hearing the desperation in my own voice. "Dallas, Dallas, please. Ohhh – please!"
One more thrust and I came, my eyes rolling back in my head and an explosion of bliss, centered deep in my sex, rolling out through my body. His breath hitched in his throat at the feeling of my tensing around him, over and over, and then he bore down on me, using one hand to push my legs even further apart, and finally allowed himself to let go.
Nothing had ever been as viscerally intense as experiencing it, as being there, when Dallas came. He was just all man, all guttural groans and burly cords of muscle, his hot breath on my neck and his thick, rigid cock filling me his cum. It didn't seem possible that anything – or anyone – could ever be sexier.
When he pulled out I exclaimed at a sudden warm, gushing sensation. I reached down between my legs.
"Is that –?"
"Cum? Yeah, it is. I think I've made a huge mess of you, Tia. Jesus Christ I feel like I just came ten gallons."
I giggled proudly. "Because of me? I did that?"
He laughed. "Of course you did it. You're so fucking sexy, Tia. I – damn. Just damn, woman. I feel like I'm in high school again with you around, you know. I had a fucking hard-on all morning because of you."
I sat up and reached around, trying to brush the pine needles off my back and out of my hair. Dallas helped, and then it was his turn.
"I can't believe we just did this here," I said. "Outside, I mean. Someone could have seen us."
"Nah, no one comes to visit me without telling me first. And Beau would bark his head off before anyone ever got near the house."
I leaned my head against him and kissed his shoulder, filled with a kind of intense affection I didn't remember feeling before. "Are you hungry?"
"I'm goddamned starving."
"Good. We should go get some vegetables from the garden. You got olive oil, right?"
Dallas smiled. "Yeah, I did. Just give me a minute, OK? I don't think I can walk yet."
"OK," I whispered. "You can take as many minutes as you want. I just want you to be happy."
He looked at me suddenly. "Do you mean that?"
Maybe I should have realized the question was more serious, but I was still recovering from two mind-blowing orgasms myself. "Of course I do," I told him. "I just want to keep that smile on your face for as long as possible."
We brushed ourselves off, pulled our clothes back on and headed to the garden, which was fairly bursting with produce.
"I can't believe you feed all this to the chickens," I said, shaking my head. "Produce is expensive, Dallas. You could save so much money!"
"Eh," he shrugged, "I don't buy produce at the store, either. And I don't really check how much things cost."
That comment struck me as dismissive, but I tried not to get offended or make any smart remarks about how he could also donate it to a food-bank. Besides, maybe he was rich enough to not care about saving money? Maybe having a herd of cattle and a chunk of property in Montana was more lucrative than I thought?
It was nice, being out there in the sun-dappled garden with the man I was starting to fall for. Five minutes with him somehow felt like days worth of therapy. I could feel my heart warming up, opening up after a couple of months of being on a kind of necessary lockdown. Necessary because if I didn't keep it on lockdown, I was just going to be the girl who spent every waking moment crying.
When we had enough vegetables – sun-warmed zucchinis, greens, peppers and huge, juicy tomatoes, we headed back to the cabin.
"So, Julia Child, what are we cooking?" Dallas asked, clearing the table so we could prep.
"Who's Julia Child?"
"Who's Julia Child?! I thought you said you could cook?"
"I can cook – because my mom taught me. It doesn't mean I know who Julia Child is."
Dallas laughed. "To be honest, I don't know who she is, either. Some famous French chef – my mother used to be obsessed with French cuisine. Not that she could cook it, but she certainly knew a lot about it."
It was the second comment he'd made that afternoon that seemed to hint at a background I was starting to think might have been very different to my own. I didn't question him about it, but I was definitely curious.
"Well," I said, "we're actually making something French. So maybe I am the new Julia Child?"
He was laying the vegetables out on the table – I had to remind him that they needed to be washed first. He tried to act like it wasn't necessary, but gave in after some gentle prodding.
"So what are we making?" he asked, standing in front of the sink and washing a tomato like he'd never held one in his entire life.
"Ratatouille. Well, a version of it anyway, my mom's recipe. I loved ratatouille when I was a little girl, she said it was the only way to get any vegetables into me."
"Rata – what?"
I repeated myself. "Ratatouille. It's basically just vegetables and olive oil and herbs."
It took us an hour, but eventually we had everything chopped, placed in Dallas's single beat-up saucepan and doused in olive oil and herbs.
"Damn, that smells good," he commented, leaning over the pot. "That's it? We don't have to do anything else?"
"Nope. Easy, right? Now you can be sure you won't get scurvy."
When everything was finished and we sat down to eat, Dallas pulled a tea-light out of a cupboard and set it between us, grinning when he saw the look on my face. "I keep them for power outages. Not candlelight dinners."
He loved the ratatouille. I tried to act blasé about it, like it was no big deal, but it was secretly immensely satisfying, somehow, to watch him enjoying the meal we'd prepared together. I almost wanted to bounce around in my chair from happiness. When we were finished he leaned back in his chair, man-style, and patted his belly.
"Well that was totally fucking amazing. I always thought vegetables were so boring. Your mom taught you how to make that?"
I nodded. "Yeah. She taught me a lot of different dishes – this is a pretty easy one but I know a few. I can teach you how to make your own mac-n-cheese if you want."
The ever-familiar lump in my throat rose up as I remembered grey winter days in our small kitchen on Fort Street in Philly, the way my mother and I could while away whole afternoons just chatting and stirring and laughing together. My eyes blurred with tears but for once I didn't immediately flee the room or make a big production of blinking and wiping my eyes and acting like everything was fine when it obviously wasn't. Dallas reached out and took my hand.
"It's OK, Tia. You can talk about your mom. It's normal to get a little teary, but I don't want you feeling self-conscious about it, alright?"
I don't know if he knew, at the time, how badly I needed to be with someone who treated my grief like that – as something natural, not something to be hidden away from polite society. After a few moments of tears I took a deep breath. "Yeah, I can teach you how to make mac-n-cheese. Or cornbread. Have you had cornbread?"
He gave me a look. "Tia, did you forget the part where I'm from Texas?"
"Do they eat cornbread in Texas? Huh. I thought it was just a black-people thing."
"Don't you go claiming cornbread," he scolded. "It's definitely a Texas thing. Although we put jalapenos in ours."
I
made a face and we both laughed. It just felt so good to be with him. So cozy and safe. It was hard to believe we hardly knew each other. Dallas must have been thinking the same thing because he suddenly got a serious looked on his face.
"It's so weird, Tia. I feel like I've known you for a long time. You're really easy to hang out with, you know that?"
I got out of my chair and went to him, curling up on his lap and resting my head against his chest. "Yeah, it does feel like that. Although I'm kind of waiting for you to remember you don't like anyone and tell me to get lost."
It was only when he didn't respond that I realized I was actually asking a question. It was difficult, in my sex-and-affection-drunk state, to put the things Dallas had said about himself – and that almost everyone I knew in River Bend said about him – together with the way it felt to be with him. He didn't seem bitter or angry or wounded. And, snuggled in his strong arms, it was way too easy for me to believe he wasn't.
Before I left, we exchanged numbers. It was his suggestion, not mine, and I admit it reassured me. Maybe more than it should have.
Do you know that feeling you get after spending a whole day in the sun? It's not just physical, it's not just the warm, dreamy slowness of heading home after a day at the lake, it's mental and emotional, too. You feel content, alive but sleepy and there's a sensation of well-being that permeates your body as well as your mind. That's how I felt driving through River Bend's winding back-roads on my way back to Jenny and John's house. It was as if Dallas himself had taken over the role of being the sun. He had warmed me, body and soul. When I fell asleep that night it wasn't that any of my grief or problems had disappeared, it was simply that the tender attentions of Dallas Corbett had wrapped a kind of psychic blanket around me, buffering me from the all the hurt and pain.
I shouldn't have been so naive. I was that naive, and it wasn't entirely my fault, but I shouldn't have been...
Eight
Dallas
I didn't see Tia for a couple of days after our dinner together. My alfalfa field was on the cusp of needing to be harvested and I was working from dawn to dusk trying to arrange for a couple of farmhands to help bring it in, arranging the equipment rental and just making sure the livestock were fed, watered and healthy.
