Page 55 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

After that, we’re finally skin against skin. When he settles me back onto the tack trunk, the movement lacks elegance but makes up for it with enthusiasm.

At this stage, I couldn’t care less about the state of the surface beneath me. The only thing occupying my attention is Willy’s mouth at my neck and the scrape of his stubble against my skin.

The sensation burns just enough to make me crave more.

His hand slides between my thighs, leading with his knuckles, and even though I’m already wet, he takes his time. Two thick fingers trace along sensitive skin, exploring, teasing, nudging at my clit with the confidence of a man who already knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You like this,” he says.

The smugness in his tone would be infuriating if it weren’t completely earned.

As if my hips chasing his hand aren’t already providing a detailed answer.

“Fuck. Just…”

The rest dissolves when his thumb presses harder. My mouth falls open and whatever I intended to say breaks apart into a gasp.

At this point, language feels wildly overrated. Willy’s reading my reactions more accurately than words ever could.

While he’s busy dismantling my ability to form complete thoughts, I work his waistband down. His cock springs free, thick and already leaking, and desire hits me with enough force that trying to describe it feels pointless.

I wrap my hand around the base and stroke him, feeling the slick movement of skin beneath my grip. The hitch in his breathing rewards me.

I’ve spent years chasing applause, laughter, audience reactions, every form of external validation available, and somehow none of them compare to discovering I can make Willy sound like that.

I want more.

Encouraged, I wet my lips and slide from the tack trunk to my knees on the straw-covered floor. I take him into my mouth in one determined swallow.

He absolutely isn’t prepared for it.

His entire body locks up around a curse. One hand flies to my head and closes in my hair. From the strain in his arm, it seems more like he’s trying to stop himself from thrusting forward hard enough to choke me.

My mouth stretches around him, my jaw already protesting, but backing off never crosses my mind. I want more of him.

I want every inch, every reaction, every shift beneath my hands.

My tongue traces along the underside before flattening against the head, and the taste of him hits me all over again.

Salt, skin, minerals, heat. Alive. Entirely, undeniably alive.

His cock pulses against my lips, and the sound that slips out of me earns a quick response. Willy bites back a noise that lands somewhere between a curse and a plea, and it sends a spark of satisfaction through me.

Maybe that’s the surprise hidden underneath all this. I enjoy pushing him right to the edge. I like watching control slip through his fingers, giving him more than he expects and seeing what happens next.

I hollow my cheeks and glance up through my lashes. It’s hardly an original move; I’ve used it before. The difference is that nobody has ever looked back at me the way Willy does now.

His pupils swallow almost all the blue, and he stares down at me like I’ve performed a miracle instead of a very specific skill.

A rough breath leaves him. His hips begin to move, restrained enough to tell me he’s trying to hold on, but not enough to hide what he’s feeling.

I take him harder, then ease off, working my hand around the base of his cock while my mouth does the rest. Every response I draw from him only makes me greedier.

When I lift my gaze again, his mouth is parted. The expression on his face is pure want, stripped down and impossible to miss. His hand tightens in my hair.

The movement of his hips loses whatever control it had left. He starts thrusting into my mouth in uneven bursts, caught between restraint and instinct.

I want him wrecked. I want this memory lodged so deeply in his brain that rainstorms become a problem.