“I've noticed,” she murmurs, leaning into my chest. Her head hits my right shoulder, but for once, I don’t feel the deep ache. “It’s not too different from West Virginia, but after living in New York for so long, I guess I forgot how bipolar the weather can be.”
I want to ask her to keep going, but I’m afraid opening my mouth will make her close hers, so I tighten my arm low on her waist, and when she immediately sighs into me, I decide no question is better than this feeling.
She feels so perfect against me. Too perfect.
But then she has to go and snuggle her ass against my dick, and like the traitor it is, it perks right up.
I haven’t stopped thinking about how her body felt back at the house—soft and warm, those perfect tits smashing against my chest, nipples tight and begging to be sucked.
I shift in the saddle, torn between hiding my erection and grinding against her ass like an animal.
God, I want her.
I don’t know if it’s that damn body, curvy and strong, all that creamy skin dusted with freckles, or that face I can’t stop thinking about. Her smart mouth and smoldering eyes. That hair I want fisted in my hand while I fuck her so deep she forgets her own name.
Don’t know if it’s the image of her cheeks flushed and lips wrapped around my cock while I watch tears build in her pretty eyes, or the way she laughs like she’s never been allowed to be this happy before—but it’s all stuck in my head.
She’sin my fucking head.
“I love the rain.”
The words hit me like a brick to the skull. I blink, dragging myself back to the moment—just in time to stop myself from rutting against her on the back of a goddamn horse.
I clear my throat, voice like sandpaper. “What’s that?”
“I said I love the rain.”
“Why?” I ask, eyes locked on the way tiny stray curls spring from her destroyed braid.
“I love the way it makes me feel.”
“Wet?” I ask, low and teasing.
She laughs, soft and throaty, and mutters, “Not as wet as I am right now.”
My arm tightens on instinct. “You can’t say shit like that. I’m barely hanging on by a thread.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“We talked about this. Saying it didn’t happen doesn’t make it true.”
“Yes it does,” she huffs.
I roll my eyes, palm stroking her heavy jacket, every ounce of me mad it’s in the way. “Fine. You didn’t say anything.”
“I know.”
“I’m still thinking about the words youdidn’tsay, though,” I whisper against the crook of her neck. “You can pretend all you want, but it’s burned into my fuckin’ brain now.”
She exhales sharply. A little whimper escapes—and it nearly ends me.
Then she moves. Subtle at first. A shift of her hips. Maybe keeping time with the horse. Maybe not.
Silence falls between us, but soon enough, she does it again, bumping the hard ridge of my cock digging into her back.
There’s no way she can’t feel it, right?
“Tell me about the rain, freckles,” I rough out, teeth gritted.
