Page 26 of Westin

My brain is empty as my hips move of their own accord, thrusting hard. She gasps, eyes rolling back. I’m bare inside her, skin against skin. I made a choice when I walked out of that convenience store that I wouldn’t wear a condom. It feels like a crime to put something between us.

We’re way past that anyway. If she gets pregnant, it doesn’t matter. Either way, she’s my woman. Fuck that I’ve known her for a grand total of two days.

I shift closer, letting her body meld with mine. We’re both hot and dotted with sweat, mingling together and staining the sheets. She’s bleeding more than I expected, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe she likes the pain—she’s writhing like she does.

Her hips move with mine as I fall into a steady rhythm, and she’s rising to meet my thrusts like she loves it.

The bed hits the wall, clattering. The hot breeze makes the window screen shake. The room is permeated with the scent of metal and summertime honeysuckle.

I’ll remember it as long as I live. It smells like the day Diane Carter became mine.

CHAPTER NINE

DIANE

He hurts me, fills every part of me to the brim, but he feels like being alive. If he breaks me in the process, I’m happy to be broken.

I’ve been rusting away at Carter Farms, hoping for my life to start, and here he is, all muscle and sweat and a maybe-it-could-be-something-more. I’m delirious, but I swear, I can see him coming back to me at night.

He kind of looks like he could make me his bride.

And I like the thought of that, though it sounds ridiculous, considering we barely know each other. He’s different. I’ve never held much stock in romanticism, but I wouldn’t mind hearing him whisper sweet things to me or bring me flowers from the field in July.

Maybe even promise to be more than just a kiss and a fuck in the afternoon.

His body stiffens abruptly, pulling me from my silly thoughts. His eyes change; he goes from fucking slowly to rutting hard, chasing something that makes his breath come in harsh pants.

His gun, hanging from the bedpost, clatters.

I whimper.

Then, in one, fluid movement, he jerks his hips back and swears under his breath. I look down, and his cock is out of me and in hishand, wet with my arousal. He comes on my inner thigh, and it’s warm as it hits my skin. His jaw goes tight as his hips jerk one last time before he’s done.

I’m faintly disappointed he didn’t do that inside me.

But also relieved.

He sits back on his heels. His pants are still on, a leather belt hanging open at the hip. His chest heaves, glittering with sweat. He tucks his cock back into his boxer-briefs and runs a hand over his face.

“Let me clean you up, darling,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You got any washrags?”

“In the bathroom,” I whisper.

He stands and flashes the brand on his broad, muscled shoulders. The scar tissue is thick, like someone took a hot poker and raked it over his skin, digging in to make sure he was branded for life.

My stomach twists. People are cruel, I know that, but sometimes, it shocks me just how much.

He comes back to the bed and cleans the cum off my thigh before he wipes his hands and tosses the rag in the laundry basket. I sidle over to make room for him.

He stretches out, looking absurdly big on my twin bed. I let my gaze run over his hard stomach. It’s so sexy, and I feel my battered pussy tighten.

I look up at him, head spinning. He bends and kisses my forehead, something gentle and dark in his eyes, but I don’t know enough to understand it. It reminds me again that I’m out of my depth.

Too much, too soon.

Maybe he was right to ask me that on the riverbank.

What he did to me in this bed while all the men were in the city was too much, too soon. I should have refused instead of welcoming him like rain after a drought.

---