Buckled

by Pam Godwin

  Any panic left in my body is vanquished by the burn of his eyes. I’ve worked him into a frantic, heaving, ravenous monster who’s no longer interested in playing.

  Muscles flicker in his rigid jaw. Veins bulge along his flexing forearms. His fists squeeze and release at his sides. Yet somehow, he still holds tight to his control.

  I’ve never seen anything as beautiful or frightening as this man on the brink of losing it. He robs the air from my chest and replaces it with red-hot heat that spreads south, pulsing and raging between my legs.

  A heartbeat later, his restraint breaks. He moves so fast I feel him before I see his arms cage my waist. My feet leave the ground. My legs hook around his hips, and my hands fall through the soft strands of his dark hair.

  He hoists me higher, and his lips sweep across my chest, feasting with open-mouth kisses, brutal nips, and scorching licks.

  I arch against him, moaning. “You’re a breast man.”

  “I’m a Maybe man.” His hand stabs into my hair, cupping the back of my head and wrenching it down to plunder my mouth in a commanding kiss.

  Smashed together, we can’t seem to squeeze close enough, hips grinding, fingers scratching, lips sealed and sucking.

  I loop my arms around the sturdy column of his neck, tilting my head left and right to deepen the angle, rubbing my tongue against the whip of his, biting and groaning and coming undone.

  Desire erupts from everywhere as our connection sizzles and sparks, growing hotter, wetter. Every cell in my body buzzes and burns for his.

  I slide down his solid chest, running my hands all over him, his skin like silk over steel. With a whimper against his lips, I squirm along his body, trying to meld us together, rubbing and grinding.

  His erection prods against my aching center, his fingers digging into my backside. I could slam myself onto him and bounce on his cock while he’s standing. I’ve never done it like that, but he’s strong enough to support us.

  With my legs encircling his waist and an arm locked around his neck, I reach between us and grip him.

  “Greedy.” He groans and knocks my hand away. “Impatient.”

  “Hungry.” I rock against him, clinging to his strength. “Just body slam me.”

  “You want me to just shove it in, huh?” He grins.

  “Whatever you have to do.” I kiss him, starving and frantic. “Put me out of my misery.”

  “I want to hear you scream.”

  “Make me.” I bite his lips.

  “It’s going to hurt.”

  “Now you’re just being cocky.”

  “I’m not gentle.”

  “Stop talking and put it in me.”

  He drops to his knees in the grass and holds my legs around him so that I straddle his lap.

  Framing my face in his hands, he rests his brow against mine. “Maybe.”

  The illusion crashes away, and reality seeps in. This is real. Him, me, and the final chance to say stop. He’s giving me that, waiting on my reaction with labored breaths.

  “No maybes.” I clutch his face, mirroring his hands. “I want you.”

  He pulls me tight to his chest and kisses me until I see stars. Then he leans back and grips my hips. “Hold on.”

  My fingers tremble as I grasp the broad shoulders of his heavily built body. Muscle sits upon muscle, forming stacks down his torso. I clench my legs around his narrow waist, my gaze imprisoned by the golden glow of his.

  He wraps a hand around his cock, and that’s when I feel it. The tremors skating along his arm. The shaking in his thighs beneath mine. The quiver in the breaths against my neck.

  “Let go,” I whisper.

  His mouth parts. The fingers on my hip constrict. Then he thrusts, impaling me in one long, hard, brutal stroke.

  We cry out together, losing eye contact for a stunned moment as we adjust and feel. The tip of him presses against the deepest part of me, his girth stretching neglected muscle and tissue.

  When our gazes reconnect, he gathers me closer, making tight rocking stabs inside me, grinding without pulling out.

  “You’re fucking tight, Maybe.” He presses a hand against my tailbone, the other twisting in my hair. “Am I hurting you?”

  “A good hurt.” The overwhelming fullness and pressure urges me to push down on him, seeking freedom from this undeniable need.

  “How long has it been?”

  “Since I had sex? Almost a year.” I touch my lips to his. “Since it felt this right? Never.”

  That’s all it takes. He lifts me and slams me back down on his cock. Over and over, he drives my body onto his, using my pussy like a fist to stroke himself off.

  All I can do is hold on, shredding my vocal chords as I scream. I scream his name. I scream for a god. Maybe they’re one and the same.

  He looks like a warrior god. He fucks like a sex god. I’ll happily worship him, and I do—with my mouth on his, my hands on his body, and my pussy squeezing him toward release.

  He pounds into me, spreading my legs wider and tormenting my clit with talented fingers. His lips only leave mine to ravish my breasts, scattering brilliant sparks of need across my skin.

  Then he lowers me to my back and fucks me into the ground. With my knee bent around his hip, he hammers relentlessly, grinding and plunging. His throaty groans infuse his kisses, his body a piston of flexing muscle and endless power as he thrusts into a frantic rhythm, hands on my ass, bruising and scratching.

  He’s a vicious storm—beautiful, violent, and uncontrollable. Crashing into me, he grunts and digs as if forcing all of him into all of me. This isn’t sex. It’s something more. Something I’ve never experienced or even fantasized about.

  It’s cruelty in its most primitive form, love in its deepest, most passionate state. It’s animalistic mating, unbound and stripped bare, a connection that defies civility.

  The bite of his teeth no longer hurts. The merciless press of his fingers isn’t painful. His thrusts only scratch the surface of what he’s unleashed in me. I want every brutal desire in his body. More pain. More pleasure. More him.

  He fucks me into the night, thrusting so roughly and savagely the slam of his hips edges us through the grass. Pebbles scrape my back. Mud smears my skin. My lips throb from kissing. The heat from his body cooks me from the inside out, and still, we fight to prolong this.

  I don’t chase my release, but it creeps in, gathering and pressing against the inside of my skin in sparkling waves. I won’t be able to hold it back much longer. He’s right there with me, staring into my eyes, jaw tight, hands dropping to the ground and wringing the grass to death.

  “I can’t get enough.” He wedges into me, breathing so hard it garbles his voice.

  “We have tomorrow night.” I arch against him. “And all the tomorrows after.”

  “Hearing you say that…” His eyes hood, and his hand rests against the side of my face. “You sealed your fate.”

  “What’s my fate?” I burn with desire. Tremble with hope.

  “This.” He strokes in and out, slowing his pace. “Us. For an eternity.”

  I let myself believe that, just for the moment as he slides his hand to my throat and squeezes with ungodly pressure.

  I choke, breathe, and everything inside me submits. His gaze dances over mine, never looking away as fear fuels arousal, worry gives way to pleasure, and resistance morphs into acceptance.

  Pinned beneath this dangerous man, with his fist against my windpipe and his eyes blazing with frightening ferocity, I let go and give him my trust.

  His lips part as he searches my face and registers my surrender. His breaths come faster, harder, competing with the rhythm of his hips.

  “Together.” He restrains my gaze as tightly as he holds my throat.

  Bowing over me, he widens his muscled legs between the spread of mine and bears down. Then he rides us into the abyss.

  I’ve always wanted to come on a man’s cock, and as I fall apart around him, with him, I realize it�
��s not his cock that’s blowing my world into shards of ecstasy. It’s the collar of his hand on my throat. It’s his eyes, peering into the deepest reaches of my being. It’s his bellow as he empties himself into my body. It’s his total domination over my pleasure and his surrender to his own.

  It’s him.

  Masturbation has always gotten the job done, but a Jarret-induced orgasm rocks the foundation of my existence.

  We collapse together in a field of wet grass, heaving breaths, liquid limbs, and humming satisfaction.

  Rolling to his back, he pulls me onto his chest and kisses me languidly. His tongue swirls around mine, his hands caressing with a tenderness that burns the backs of my eyes.

  “Your body’s talking to me.” He wanders gentle fingertips down my spine.

  “What’s it saying?” I nuzzle the pocket of warmth at the base of his throat.

  “You’re content. Relieved. And anxious.” He grips my hand, where it twists in the wet ends of my hair, and guides my palm to his chest. “Whatever you’re worried about, let it go. I’ll deal with anything that threatens us. You’re not alone, Maybe.”

  I ache to believe him.

  Tangled together under the moonlight, embraced by the velvet night, skin on skin, legs intertwined, and breathing as one, I let myself fall quiet and kiss him.

  I let myself believe him. Just for a little while.

  A little while stretches into a long while. Before I know it, summer cools into autumn, and three months gallop by.

  Conor went back to school in August. She makes the long commute to campus every day, puts in a hellacious number of hours in the lab, and returns to the ranch every night to tuck in with her text books.

  Jake is broody while she’s gone, but the moment her motorcycle rolls onto the property, he’s out the door to smother her in affection.

  The morning her classes resumed, he followed her outside to the bike, knelt on the driveway, and held up a ring. He didn’t just propose with any ring. The diamond belonged to his and Jarret’s mother. Julep’s ring. The one she was wearing when she died.

  As Conor burst into tears and nodded her consent, I watched from the porch, with my throat constricting and panic in my gut. Standing beside me, Jarret reached for my hand and wove our fingers together.

  He wants what they have, but he hasn’t mentioned marriage since that night in the field.

  In Conor’s absence, I’ve thrown myself into picking up her chores on the ranch. I’ve learned so much about repairing fences, herding cattle from one pasture to the next, maintaining seasonal grasses, and cleaning corrals.

  Jake pays me a regular salary. I was reluctant at first, but he manages the bookkeeping and argued it saves them on taxes if I’m on the payroll.

  It feels good to be independent again, earning a living and doing a job I enjoy. My skin glows brighter. My hair loves braids, and my feet prefer sturdy boots over impractical heels. I find working outdoors makes me smile more and breathe easier. I feel healthier, livelier, happier.

  Of course, a certain cowboy with an insatiable sex drive has a lot to do with that.

  Standing in the shower in his bathroom, I let the water wash away the dirt from my body and the noise from my head. It’s become my nightly ritual, my time away from the ever-present shadow at my side, to reevaluate and refocus.

  I think about the envelope under the floor mat in my car. About the secrets we’re hiding from each other. About the trust we’ve built on lies.

  I know what we’re doing isn’t healthy. I know it’s only a matter of time before everything unravels.

  I also know that I’ve fallen deeply, madly, insanely in love with him.

  With my track record, it would be easy to accuse myself of falling for every man who shows me attention. I’ve tried to compare this love to what I felt for the others, but I can’t. This is too different. Too fresh. Too forbidden. What I feel for Jarret is twisted so intricately in wrong and right I can’t make logical sense of it.

  Since when is love logical anyway?

  It doesn’t matter. Neither of us have uttered the words. We don’t talk about the future or the past. We cling to the present as tightly and desperately as possible, because we know what awaits outside our happy bubble.

  As close as we’ve grown and as strong as we stand together, it’s not enough. The truth is going to rip us apart.

  So I ignore that envelope in my car for another night. I exit the shower and close the door on our secrets for just a little while longer.

  Wrapped in a towel, I step into the bedroom and forget how to breathe.

  Jarret sits on the edge of the bed, wearing black briefs and nothing else. In the background, Hurricane by Luke Combs thrums through hidden speakers.

  He loves to play this song for me. He says it reminds him of the night we came together in a storm of electricity and blinding light.

  His dark brown hair slicks away from his stern brow. His hands rest on his spread thighs. Back straight, chin tilted down, he fixes those striking eyes on mine.

  Over the past three months, I’ve explored and memorized every inch of his gorgeous body. The hardness of his chest, the thickness of his biceps, the tight buds of his nipples when I run my tongue over them. I’ve never craved a man the way I crave him. Never been so obsessed with the carnal pleasures of flesh and sin.

  But as much as I love his body, that isn’t what holds me captive. It’s the thunderous energy that vibrates from within him.

  Like now.

  “Remove the towel.” The command in his voice is my weakness and my lifeline.

  A shivery clench of unadulterated desire hits my core.

  I slam my hands on my hips and give him the response that makes him harder than a rock. “No.”

  His eyes heat as he slowly rises from the bed.

  He gets off on the illusion, just like I do. The feel of me struggling beneath him, the rapid pulse in my throat against his hand, the sense of forcing me against my will, all the while knowing he turns me on in a way no one else ever has.

  I put up a good fight as he chases me through the room, bumping into walls, knocking over lamps, kicking, biting, and scratching skin. It ends with me bent over his lap, my face pressed against the mattress, and the towel long gone.

  “Every night,” he says, caressing a hand over my soon-to-be red bottom, “you come out of the bathroom with renewed tension. You try to shed it before you emerge, but it’s still there.”

  How the hell does he pick up on that? His intuition is freaky, and it really scares me sometimes.

  “I’m spanking you tonight as a reminder.” He continues to stroke my bare butt, twisting me up with anticipation.

  I writhe against his hand, earning a deliciously hard smack.

  “Nothing matters,” he says slowly, calmly, making me hang on every rumbling syllable, forcing me to focus only on him as I float in suspense for the pleasure he’ll deliver, “except you, me, and the sound of my voice.”

  He lets his hand fly, and each time his palm meets my flesh, the burn erases anxieties about secrets and lies, missing persons and unfinished business. He reduces me to a physical creature existing only in the here and now, feeling the pain and pleasure, until all that exists is him and me and this sacred thing between us.

  When my bottom becomes numb to the strikes and my body drifts on a cloud of endorphins, he rolls me onto the bed and stands, removing his briefs.

  His erection juts from defined thighs, his gaze smoldering under the V of dark brows. The cords in his neck strain against his skin, his jaw locked down tight.

  He doesn’t always fuck me like he’s fighting a war, but he needs that tonight. It’s been a long day of herding, and he has his own tension to work out.

  I flip to my stomach and scramble across the bed, yelping as his hand captures my ankle. He climbs over me, and my heart races.

  His fingers slip between my legs, and he groans. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

  I try to claw my way ou
t from beneath him, panting from exertion and growing wetter by the second. He stays with me, crawling and grunting with a fist around his cock.

  Every movement is an effort to bury himself inside me. He wrestles me, grabs at me, and I fight back, feeding off his urgency and squirming away.

  He grips my legs and tries to climb onto my back, and I twist, gasping and panting. The thrust and miss of his hips makes him hotter and harder, and his groans darken into primal growls.

  I love when he reaches this level of need, when he completely loses himself in the drive to plunder, claim, and fuck.

  He finally pins me on my stomach, with his chest against my back, trapping me in the inescapable cage of his body. His knees roughly force my legs apart, and he rams into me with so much force it knocks the wind from my lungs.

  “Christ, Maybe. Fuck!” With a grunt of relief, he gathers me close, imprisoning me with a hand against my throat and an arm around my stomach. “Always so wet and tight. So fucking perfect.”

  Then he goes wild, plunging and hammering with the strength and endurance of a stallion.

  The headboard slams against the wall. The bed frame screeches. The sheets twist and unravel in my clawing hands. He groans at my ear, and I scream into the mattress.

  He has the stamina to fuck for hours, and tonight, he does. Possessive and untamed, he impales me. Enslaved and owned, I welcome him. When his teeth sink into my shoulder, when the pleasure strangles his breaths, when the need in his body overrides his will to keep going, he tenses, presses his face against my neck, and groans long and deep.

  We erupt together, explosive, shaking, and spent.

  He crashes against my side, breathless and clinging with arms and legs. I fold into his chest and rest my lips against the warm, wet seam of his. We kiss leisurely, licking and tasting, until our heartbeats return to normal.

  I need another shower. And twelve hours of sleep.

  “I’m going to rinse off.” I untangle our sweaty, languid limbs and leave him half-asleep on the bed.

  “Hurry back,” he mumbles into the pillow. “And bring the cream.”

  The cream takes the burn out of the marks on my body, but I love the tingling pain. I also love the cuddling aftercare.