Page 22 of Texas
I meet her eyes. “Stood very still and looked like a problem.”
That earns a real laugh from her. “Good.”
Kristin glances between us. “You’re both enjoying this too much.”
Tearing a piece of croissant, Donna pops it into her mouth. “I’m enjoying the idea of him being rattled,” she says. “He’s used to control. Used to knowing the rules. You’re changing the rules.”
Leaning back in her chair, Kristin’s eyes are on me. “I’m not trying to make a statement.”
“You don’t have to,” Donna says. “Being happy is enough. That’s what scares him.” The room is quiet for a long moment as we all let the words sink in. Kristin reaches for the preserves again, spreading them over the last bit of pastry on her plate as Donna finishes her coffee. She sets the mug down and stands, adjusting the strap of her bag before looking at me. Not at Kristin, right at me. “Remember what I said,” she says.
I nod once. “I will.”
Moving around the edge of the table, Donna steps toward her daughter, and kisses her cheek. “You look good,” she says. “Lighter.”
Kristin smiles, soft and a little shy. “Thanks, Mom.”
“I’ll call you later,” Donna says, and then she’s gone, the front door clicking shut behind her.
Brow furrowed, Kristin turns to me. “Okay. What was that about?” I don’t answer. Instead, I lean in close and kiss her with heat and suggestion behind it. After a beat, her lips part under mine and she doesn’t ask again. There are other things to think about.
Fourteen
It starts with her standing in the guesthouse doorway, one hand on her hip, the other holding a picnic basket. Tight jeans, a white T-shirt, I’m pretty sure no bra, and a thin leather jacket hanging off one shoulder. Her hair’s pulled back, but a few curls have escaped to frame her face. She looks flushed from the sun that’s already heating up the day or maybe from thinking about what she’s about to say. Either way, I feel it in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m ready to ride with you today,” she says. I nod, reaching for my keys on the table. She holds up her hand. “Wait.” Stepping inside, she closes the door behind her. Her eyes find mine and hold. “I want you to do something for me today.”
Cocking my head, I try to read her, but I can’t quite get what’s in her eyes. “What is it?” She sets the basket on the floor and walks toward me. Her fingers reach for the edge of my shirt, but they don’t lift it.
They just rest there. “I want you to wear the harness.” My pulse kicks. She says it without a smile, without a wink. Like it’s not a game, but it’s like something she needs.
“During the ride?”
“Yes.”
I stare at her, and she doesn’t blink. “You want me to strap it on, pull my jeans over it, and take you on the Harley?”
She nods. “I want to know it’s there the whole time.”
Taking a slow breath, I let the silence stretch, just to feel the tension in the air. My strap-on is in the saddlebag by the bed. The black leather harness with the curved silicone shaft and a base that presses against me when I wear it. “Yeah, I can do that,” I say, moving to the bag.
Slowly, I unzip it and pull the strap-on out. She watches every movement. Her eyes don’t leave me. I strip down to nothing but my T-shirt right here in front of her. No ceremony. Just skin and muscle and purpose. Sliding the harness up my thighs, I cinch the straps and adjust the shaft until it sits snug. The base presses against my clit, and it’s already making me throb. I pull on clean boxer-briefs, then my jeans, zipping them slowly. I don’t tuck the bulge away yet. I want her to see it.
When I look at her, she’s already biting her lip. Her eyes drop to my crotch, then back up. She crosses the room, presses her palm to the denim, and looks me in the eyes. “Is that what you want?” I ask, holding her gaze. She nods. “Good. Because I’m going to feel it all day, and it will make me crazy.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” she whispers before kissing me. She doesn’t push for more. I can tell she likes the anticipation, and frankly, so do I. It buzzes beneath my skin, sharp and sweet, almost like lightning waiting for a strike. I know every mile of this ride will grind that tension deeper into my bones, but I want it too.
We pack. I attach the picnic basket to the back of the Harley with a few bungee cords I keep rolled in my saddlebag. She throws a blanket over her shoulder, pulls on her jacket, and swings her leg over behind me. Her arms wrap around my waist, and her thighs press tight. I feel her hot breath against my neck. Jesus. This will be a hell of a ride. I start the engine and roll theHarley down the driveway. At the highway, I wait, and she points left. Without hesitation, I go that way. Today is about her being in control.
The road curves through the hills, long and open; the kind of stretch that makes you feel like you’re the only two people left in the world. The bike eats the miles. Kristin holds me tighter with every turn. Her hips rock against my ass, subtle but insistent. Her hand grazes the bulge between my legs. She’s eager for it. I feel it. I feel her heat through two layers of denim and it’s driving me out of my mind. My clit is hard for miles. The friction from the base of the harness is just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. I grit my teeth and focus on the road, but every bump, every shift of her hips, sends a jolt through me.
She gives me directions with a tap to my shoulder or a squeeze of my thigh. We turn down a narrow road, then another. Eventually, we pull off onto a dirt path that winds up a small hill. At the top, the view opens wide. A canyon stretches below us, still and majestic in the mid-afternoon sun. Trees line the far side. A few birds wheel overhead. It’s quiet, private, perfect, and I kill the engine. Kristin slides off first, her movements deliberate. She reaches back and unstraps the basket, then lays the blanket beneath an oak tree. I dismount and follow her, the bulge in my jeans still heavy, still aching. I’m not sure how much more I can take, but I sit beside her on the ground. She unpacks the food. Cold sparkling water. Goat cheese wrapped in wax paper. Sliced figs. Crusty bread. A small tin of dark chocolate truffles. Everything for the perfect picnic.
We eat with our fingers. She feeds me a piece of fig, her thumb brushing my bottom lip. I lick it clean. “You always pack like this?” I ask.
“I’m trying to impress you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t need to impress me.”
