Page 63 of The Back Forty
And then it’s just me. Still shirtless. Still half-hard. Still smelling like her and completely lost by what just happened with the woman I thought I knew so well.
She needs space. I can tell that much. But all I can think, standing here with the weight of whatever the hell just happened pressing down on my chest, is one thing:
What the fuck is happening?
Chapter 25 – Dani
After a long, scalding shower and an embarrassingly excessive stretch of time spent hiding in Lawson’s guest bedroom where I seriously considered faking a fever or spontaneously developing a rare, contagious rash that would allow me to skip out on working the state fair with the girls like I'd committed to, I finally heard the front door close.
His old truck coughed to life, the tires crunched against the dirt road as he peeled off toward the fairgrounds to help his brothers before they came knocking like a pack of overly muscular, meddling bloodhounds.
Only then did I feel safe enough to tiptoe out of my makeshift fortress of shame and dignity to get ready for the day.
I pulled on my tightest pair of Levi’s, the ones with the perfect amount of give in the thighs and just tailored enough in the back to make my ass look amazing. Topped it off with a plain white V-neck that I tucked in and my favorite cowgirl boots—the onesIsla and I bought from that little mom-and-pop shop off Main Street the week I moved here. They were broken in just right. Worn, a little dusty, and full of memories from another life. Just like me.
My long brown hair got the royal treatment, a blowout with soft waves, two tiny braids framing my face like armor. Then came the pep talk in the mirror.
“You can do this,”I’d told my reflection, pointing at myself in the mirror like an idiot. “You committed to helping your girlfriends run the Marshall booth, and you are not—repeat, not—going to hide out in this house like a sex-shamed gremlin because your sister showed up, lobbed some truth bombs in your direction, and reminded you of your past mistakes.”
I gave myself a thumbs-up. It was ridiculous and deeply necessary but oddly, I felt a little bit better after doing it. Then I grabbed my bag, squared my shoulders, and drove to the fair with my heart pounding and my brain replaying every single detailof the last twelve hours like a trauma reel directed by a horny teenager.
If it had just been last night, one lapse, one heat-of-the-moment, what-happens-in-the-living room-stays-in-the-living-room kind of thing, we could’ve played it off this morning. Laughed about it. Chalked it up to whiskey, beer, and poor judgment. One of our stupid bets gone way, way too far.
But then he showed up at my bedroom door this morning wearing nothingbut a pair of gray sweatpants, hair damp from the shower, looking like every fantasy I’ve had since I bought that damn vibrator last year. And just like that, I blacked out. All I remember is pulling him into my room, grabbing him, needing him. Desperate to see his cock.
I told myself it would just be a taste. There was no way I could have kept it at just a taste. The heady taste of his dick in my mouth, the smooth feel of his skin on my tongue, everything about his thick length was addicting and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to look at him the same again without thinking about the power I know he wields in that thing.
And then he surprised me, dropped to his knees like a man on a mission and made me come apart again so fast I saw constellations. I’m talking heat, tongue, rhythm, like he knew my body better than I did after only one time together.
I swear, how we went thirteen months without ripping each other’s clothes off is beyond me because now that I’ve felt Lawson’s tongue pressing on my clit, that image is burned into my brain like a brand. Permanent. Irreversible. Probably going to flash before my eyes when I die as the last memory I see.
I always figured he’d be good in bed. There’s a reason those women left his hotel room in the mornings looking blissed out and ten percent prettier—like sex with him came with a complimentary facial and a shot of self-esteem.
Butthat?That was something else entirely. That was full-body worship. That was crave-him-until-it-hurts, think-about-it-in-the-grocery-store and during-board-room-meetings, ruin-me-forever level sex.
And there was a small part of me that thought we were ready to move into friends with benefits territory. But now it all has to stop.
Because the second Catalina showed up—boom. My happy little post-orgasm bubble? Obliterated. She's always been a fun suck, but it’s impressive how quickly she ruined my morning and week. She didn’t even need to yell. Just her presence, her words,that too-knowing look... it was all one big, brutal reminder of what I already knew deep down.
I can't do this.Wecan’t do this. She wasn’t wrong. Not about any of it.
She just ripped the blinders off and handed me a reality check tied up in a bow of scowls and judgement. A reminder of whyI came to the wrong coast in the first place. WhyI left Elijah and my cute little apartment that I loved in East Hollywood. WhyI promised myself never again will I mix work with pleasure.
And yes, I know that Lawson isn’t Elijah. He’s not manipulative. He’s not selfish. He’s not trying to control me. I guess we do mostly talk about work when we’re together, but I feel like he knows there's more inside of me than what I can provide to the Marshall business. I think...
But still... what happens when you engage in these desires instead of thinking level-headed about your future and career?
Disaster.Every time.
Doesn’t matter if it’s a rom-com or real life, someone ends up hurt, heartbroken, or fired. Or hell, dead. And I’ve already flirted with death once before. I’ve used up my one get-out-of-the-hospital-free card.
And right now, I don’t have anything left to spare.
***
“Hey babe, you look cute this morning,” Regan says as I walk into the white portable booth we hauled in for the fairground’s concessions. Her eyes twinkle mischievously as she slices up onions for the omelets that we’re selling today using the Marshall farm’s eggs. “Glowy. Fresh-faced. Suspiciously well-rested.”
I blink at her, tucking my hair over my shoulder. “I do?”
