Page 25 of Eight Seconds

“Fuck, you’re squeezing my cock so tight,” I tell her, moving my hand from the wall to run up and down her back, stirring the peach scent in the strands of her loose hair. I tilt my hips back, giving an experimental thrust, dragging my cock slowly inside her. Charlotte gasps, reaching a hand for her breasts. I intercept her movement, guiding her hand back to the wall while growling in her ear, “No, no, baby. I get to do this. You wanted me to. Asked me to fuck you, down and dirty, so now your pleasure is mine.” I nip at the flesh of her lobe and bring my hands to the collar of her shirt, my hips and her hands keeping us balanced. “You trust me to do that, don’t you? Give you exactly what you’re after?” I get no answer, so I push myself as deep as I can go, prompting a response.

“Yes, Wild!” Charlotte pants out, so I pull back a little again. She’s nodding enthusiastically and looking at me over her shoulder. I kiss the tip of her nose to settle her down and reassure her. I’m gifted the most beautiful and trusting smile in return.

“That’s my girl,” I soothe before taking each side of her shirt and pulling. The snaps break apart, bearing her lace-clad breasts to the night, and I start pumping into her. With her arms still through the sleeves, I pull her shirt back toward me, removing her hands from the wall. Charlotte wobbles unsteadily when she loses her support, but I take the disruption in my stride. My hips continue driving into her as I lean back, bringing her upright against my chest.

“This—”thrust“perfect—”thrust“pussy—”thrust“can take anything I give it.”

I’m barreling toward my orgasm, but I won’t get there without her. I slide my hand into the cups of her bra, bring it down to free her tits, and play with her hard nipples as Charlotte continues to bounce on my cock. Her rider’s instincts have taken over, her core engaged fully to stay upright and handle the firm way I move inside her. The distinct smack of my balls against her ass when I bottom out blends well with the grunts and sighs we’re slowly being reduced to.

“Please,” Charlotte’s breathy voice pleads as I trace the flat of her belly, my fingers creeping closer to where we’re joined. “Oh, please, Wilder, touch me.”

“I don’t think I will, baby.” I don’t do what she asks. There are no soft touches or light brushes to tease her into completion. Instead, I give her swollen clit a swift tap, the hit landing like a punch as Charlotte cries out, and her pussy clenches so tight around me I can barely move. “Yeah, I think that’s what you need.” I tap her again, groaning into her shoulder when I feel the tightness turn to flutters. “One more.” I strike as I speak, the final impact enough to tip her over the edge, dragging me with her.

Charlotte screams out her completion as I twist her shirt in a death grip and pull her closer, my teeth finding her shoulder. I bite down, moaning as I spill into the condom with a force I’ve never experienced. I thrust once, twice, three times more as Charlotte’s pussy continues to spasm around my cock, drawing out the sensation. I can’t resist trying to soothe any sting I left behind, so I rub her clit gently.

“Oh, God!” Charlotte shrieks, a second orgasm ripping through her at my touch. I release my grip, cradling her against me as best I can as she comes down from the high. My cock twitches half-heartedly in interest, but it is rapidly deflating, spent from the best fuck of my life.

Carefully, I extract myself from Charlotte, tying off the used condom and setting it to the side. I tuck myself away quickly so I can help strip off the rest of her clothes and get her in her pajamas. She’s relaxed and loose, the post-orgasm haze clouding her beautiful eyes. Without resistance, she lets me tuck her into the cot, now loudly protesting any further use, then reaches for me when I climb into the sliver of space at the edge. I coil myself around her, trying my best to cocoon her from the remains of the horrible day. Satisfaction and that nagging feeling of love fill my chest when Charlotte lets out a contented sigh and drifts off to sleep in my arms.

14

CHARLOTTE

COEUR D’ALENE, IDAHO — LATE AUGUST

“Good girl!” I pull the reins and lean forward over the saddle horn, giving Vesper a loving rub along the side of her neck. Her jet-black head and mane shake with appreciation, gleaming in the bright sunshine. We trot back to the rails of the practice arena, where Wilder stands with a foot hooked on the bottom rung. His arms are thrown over the top, hat tipped back as he watches us approach, and Vesper picks up her stride when she spots him.

I think she might be more in love with him than I am.

I’m not ready to say it out loud, the voice of doubt and fear still speaking up when I so much as allow myself to think about it. But that voice grows quieter every day, its protestations faltering under kisses, text messages, cups of coffee, and waking up beside him. It happened like a monsoon in the desert: a sudden shift in the air, a quiet awareness, and then a downpour. My feelings for Wilder have covered every inch of me. I thought it would make me want to run for cover. Instead, I’m spreading my arms wide and embracing the sensation.

“Hey there, ladies.” Wilder reaches for Vesper’s nose strap, laughing when the horse avoids his hand in favor of pushing her head over the rails to knock his hat to the ground. “Aw, c’mon now, sweet girl, that’s not very nice!” He stoops to pick it up, brushing the dust and pieces of grass from it. He holds it in one hand as he reaches into his jeans pocket with the other. “Especially not when I brought you a treat.”

I roll my eyes when Vesper hears the magic word and pulls back from Wilder’s space. If an animal could bat her eyelashes and act coyly, that is exactly what she would be doing in appreciation for the sugar cube that appears in his hand. With unexpected delicacy, she drops her muzzle and extracts the cube between her lips. While she chomps happily, I finally shift my focus to smile at Wilder as he puts his hat back on.

“Why does she get to be ‘sweet girl’?” I tease. I throw the reins at him to tie off, swinging a leg over to move from my saddle to the top rail of the fence. Wilder steps up to stand between my legs, hands bracketing my hips. I balance on the narrow pole, hooking my boots under the middle bar to stay upright. He has a slightly abashed twist in his lips, and I cock my head to give him a pout. “What about me?”

“Baby, we both know you’d kick my ass seven ways from Sunday if I called anything about you sweet.” He pauses, leaning forward to suck a kiss below my ear and drop his voice. “Except maybe your pussy.”

He presses a growl into my skin, teeth nipping. It’s a not-so-subtle reminder of how he devoured me last night in our hotel room. Despite the way it makes my core throb, I shove his shoulders for the crassness, knocking him off his perch. He laughs at the dramatically scandalized look I’m giving him. Vesper whinnies next to us, her commentary on our behavior making me laugh, too. I climb down, unhitch her, and start for the gate. Wilder keeps up on his side of the arena.

“Ves looks good. Handled that last turn and run at the end like she’s been doing this her whole life. You ready to race?” Wilder asks.

The morning after Rooney’s injury, Wilder had his recovery site booked and the trailer ready to transport him. I hated the thought of leaving him somewhere, but the vet who attended to him had a clinic in a nearby town where he could be monitored and rehabbed. Staying with him twenty-four-seven wasn’t going to help him get better any faster, as Wilder reminded me. Instead, he asked if I wanted to get back to work. If I had been struggling with naming my feelings toward him, that one question took care of it for me. He knew me well enough to realize how important sticking to my racing schedule was, and how burying myself in accomplishing it would help me.

We loaded into his truck, and he drove three hours out of the way to Rolling Hills Ranch in Casper. Waiting for us were Cora and Nathaniel Carver, some of the best horse traders in our industry. Wilder shook their hands like they were all old friends and told me what I needed would be in the stable. Vesper was waiting.

“She’s done really well,” I say, looking at her. The onyx-coated, six-year-old Friesian mare is gentle and responsive. She lacks Rooney’s cutthroat instinct, but she’s been easy to train and is eager to please. We’ve gotten along well, and I’m excited to see what we can do at this weekend’s event. “I still can’t believe you bought me a horse.”

Wilder slides up next to me as we pass through the gate, making our way across the grounds to the temporary stables for Coeur D’Alene’s annual rodeo. He brings an arm up behind me until he can sink his hand into my back pocket. I love it when he walks with me this way; it’s possessive and practical. I need to have my hands free to tend to Vesper, but it lets us still be close. Every little squeeze he gives my ass is an added bonus.

“I needed to do something.” He shrugs, like it wasn’t a life-changing gesture. Having Vesper meant I didn’t have to sit out events until Rooney recovered, losing money and—potentially—my National standing. “Besides, it’s what you do for people you lo—care about,” he finishes lamely.

I keep my eyes on my boots, sparing him from confronting the fact that we both heard him catch himself. But I can’t help the way my heart beats wildly, or the warmth spreading through me at the smallest hint that Wilder McCoy loves me the way I love him. For two people who make a living in dangerous occupations, we are both full of chicken shit.

“Hey, want to go somewhere with me?” Wilder shifts topics, opening Vesper’s stall for the weekend. He walks the perimeter, checking carefully under the soft hay lining the floor. When he finishes, he takes Vesper’s reins and settles her inside.

“You know, we’ve listened to episodes ofMurder, We Heardthat start like this, right?” I say, pulling off my saddle and starting to remove my tack. I toss a brush at Wilder, who immediately starts working Vesper’s coat, much to her pleasure. The unamused look I get from him over the mare’s back has me laughing lightly. “Where are we going?”

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