by Gigi Thorne
When Dancer carefully brought them to the bottom of a hill, it was a short trot from there through a break in the trees to Sandler’s Creek. Weirdness fluttered in her chest. It had been a long time since she was here, and suddenly, her reason for picking at this particular scab didn’t seem like such a good idea after all.
Bringing the horse to a stop, she nearly dropped the reins from her trembling hands. Everywhere she looked, another memory lurked – waiting to jump into her face.
The grassy bank of the winding creek where she and Wyn spread a blanket and spent hours doing nothing more than enjoying a picnic and each other’s company.
The huge sprawling maple tree planted along the creek a bazillion years ago by Junior Sandler. Back in the day, a sturdy rope swing arced over the water when you really got the thing moving. Wyn liked to push her harder and harder until she felt like she was flying. Her eyes searched the lush green tree until she spied the swing. Somehow, it gave her hope when she saw it. At least something from the past hadn’t changed.
Her attention was drawn to the massive twin boulders sitting side by side in a sharp bend of the creek. The rock formation was called Balls Rock because even without the intended sarcasm, the lumpy boulders resembled testicles. Nuts. Balls.
She smiled and patted the horse’s neck. “This place played host to a couple of my most memorable good girl gone bad moments.”
Like the one where she posed nude on top of Balls Rock while Wyn went to town with the 35mm camera his dad gave him for Christmas.
Sami shifted in the saddle, remembering other occasions when they both got naked. One particular time dragged its sorry ass front and center in her memory and pulled up a damn chair to get comfortable. That was the time they camped in the woods and under a sky twinkling with stars she’d sucked his fat, veiny cock while he stroked her hair and praised her for being a good girl.
The wicked memory was precious and without question why she’d never, ever allow anyone else to call her a good girl. Nope, that one belonged exclusively to Wyn Thomas.
Dancer whinnied and shook his head when she sighed.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
She jumped two feet in the air with shock and almost slid off her saddle. The harsh, angry voice demanding an explanation belonged to the man she was daydreaming about.
“Wyn,” she gasped.
His glare was glacial. She swallowed down the tension erupting in her gut. This wasn’t how she wanted to see him again.
They stared at each other in silence. The twenty-three-year-old from her memory wasn’t much more than a boy. But the decade since they’d last been together had transformed the boy into a man. And what a man! Oh, my god. She was in more trouble than she realized as her hungry gaze drank him in.
Cowboys were her thing. How could they not be, considering where she grew up? But Wyn took cowboy hotness to an eleven and then tweaked the dial just a little bit more.
He sat a horse with complete ease. She chomped down on her tongue to stifle a moan when his big hand gripped the reins and rested on the saddle horn. Next to him, she was a feather in the wind, but Wyn was solid and big.
He took off his hat and ran a hand through hair that needed a pair of scissors. She remembered grabbing handfuls of Wyn’s hair when his face was between her legs. An unfortunate giggle sigh escaped her stupid mouth because no shit, the man was her idea of a walking talking erotic heart attack.
Her foolish response earned a dark scowl and a sneer that sparked a blaze in her panties.
“Go home, little girl. You don’t belong here.”
He jammed the hat back on his head, gave her a fulminous glare that was not at all friendly, and pulled his horse away.
“Wyn, wait,” she called after him, but he flipped her off over his shoulder and kicked his mount into a trot.
Chasing after him wasn’t going to make things better, so with a heavy heart, she watched him run from her.
Damn. Getting him back might be harder than she imagined.
* * *
He didn’t look back as Buddha trotted away from the creek. Part of him rehearsed rude comments he could hurl her way if she was dumb enough to follow. Another part was praying she did.
Distracted riding was never a good idea, but Buddha knew the score and didn’t do anything stupid.
His brain chanted the only cowboy mantra that fit. With each rhythmic thud of the horse’s hooves, he growled, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Why the fuck was she at Balls Rock?
Why the fuck did he care?
How the fuck was it possible that she was even more gorgeous? And he didn’t mean gorgeous in a Hollywood way. When she was Samantha Hayes, superstar, she was easy to ignore. He didn’t know that person.
But Sami in her natural state was a shock to his system and something he had not expected. It was disconcerting to find her looking like they’d stepped out of a time machine and the only thing that had changed was the year.
Wyn tried to push away the thoughts crowding his head, but it was no use. Seeing her in the flesh robbed him of the sanctimonious position he’d spent ten years honing.
As Buddah slowly moseyed, he thought about things that every guy knew weren’t smart. Mostly stupid stuff like, don’t eat a bucket of chili and beans before church. Farts for Jesus were funny in the telling but embarrassing as fuck when it happened.
Or don’t get caught making off-color jokes when mom was within hearing range.
But it was the one “don’t” that hadn’t come up in years that was making it difficult to keep riding.
Don’t get a hard-on while in the saddle.
Nothing strangled a throbbing dick faster than a pair of Wranglers and an unforgiving leather saddle.
The powerful pull of red-hot lust that Sami inspired made him hate himself double-time with each step the horse took. He shouldn’t want her this way. It was fucked up and wrong. Wrong for his mental health.
The horse plodded on.
Fuck his mental health. He was way beyond giving a shit what was good for him and what wasn’t.
What if he could fuck her out of his system? The notion of starting a controlled burn to render her lure powerless had merit. It’d be easy; after all, he knew all her triggers – had fashioned quite a few of them for his own pleasure.
His tongue tingled thinking about Sami’s sweet nectar. She tasted exactly like sin was supposed to taste. Hot, decadent, and delicious. He’d taught her how to get off from his tongue back in the day. Had they pushed the envelope? Fuck, yeah.
Knowing her since he could remember, Wyn took the detour from childhood friend to salivating teenage boy the summer she turned seventeen. Being three years older and with some college under his belt, you’d think he’d know better, but Sami’s delicate curves and country girl sexiness wiped his brain of any sense.
That was the summer shit got serious. Five minutes after dropping his bags at the ranch house, he was in a truck on his way to the Crossroads where she was waiting for him. Her innocent desires made him question his sanity, but that hadn’t stopped them.
They rode together, chatted over long picnics, and challenged each other to a marksman contest that he shamefully lost. Some weekends, they drove to the nearest town and saw a movie, but mostly, they tested the boundaries.
Sami Colton was his from their first kiss. He shouldn’t have, but Wyn claimed her anyway. He wouldn’t fuck her till she was eighteen and gave consent, but that didn’t mean the wait was all blue balls and jerking off. She was too inquisitive for that, and her naughty streak was off the charts.
So they sucked, fingered, and jerked a path through her senior year. She wiggled out of her jeans with little provocation and was endlessly eager to blow his dick … and his mind. By the time she was old enough and he took her innocence in a wild, unleashed night of pure fuckery, they were so deep in each other’s heart and head that the occasion stood out – and haunted him every day and night since the relationship cras
hed and burned.
Did any of that retrospective make even a little difference in the state of his arousal? No, none. The rhythmic undulation of the walking horse made things worse. It reminded him of Sami rocking her hips. She liked when he got on top and pinned her to the bed with his big body and demanding cock.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. This wasn’t helping.
Frustrated, annoyed, a little bit angry, and a lot embarrassed, he led Buddha to the old bunkhouse he was converting. It was small, rustic, and off the beaten path – perfect for being left alone. Plus, no one with a lick of sense had the balls to invade his sanctuary.
He put the horse in the small corral and left him to enjoy some water and a time-out. Inside the bunkhouse, he slammed the door and tossed his hat on the big wood island he built that separated the working kitchen from the rest of the building. It was just one huge room with a guy’s bathroom and a fancy kitchen – his idea of a man cave.
The sun from another clear sky and beautiful summer day made the cabin stuffy. He switched on the overhead fan to get the air moving and removed his flannel shirt, stripping down to nothing but jeans and boots.
In the killer bathroom that he designed in his head one night after deciding women had too damn much to say on the subject, he looked around and grinned. The whole place was a study in rustic charm with a heavy, masculine vibe.
Instead of a shower stall, he put down a flagstone floor and used natural stone on the walls to create an open design. His only concession to the fairer sex was a large, double-wide copper tub beneath a half-moon window. The damn thing cost an arm, a leg, and half his ass, but it was worth it. The massage jets and clever wall-mounted towel bar-slash-warmer that the salesman threw in for free made sloshing around in the tub shit tons of fun.
Cleaning up at the galvanized washtub sink, he scowled at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked like warmed over shit.
On his way back to the kitchen, his boot hit the corner of an armless chair he built from a DIY plan that Burke found on the internet. The sturdy piece of furniture was better than any of the crap Ikea had. His mom made the dense cushions and covered them in a funny and very tacky Wild West print, suitable for a boy’s room.
Yanking the fridge open, he grabbed a single-serve orange juice and power slammed it in several gulps. It was starting to cool down. Dropping onto the comfortable chair, he leaned back and sighed.
One glance at his lap revealed what he couldn’t ignore – a bulge bigger than the boulders at Balls Rock.
A powerful fantasy shot fully formed in his brain. He gripped the seat cushion and shifted his weight around.
Yep, this baby would be perfect for a lap dance.
He imagined Sami doing a sexy striptease until she was naked except for her cowgirl boots. She had a body that made his breath catch. Full handfuls of tit, beautiful nipples that obediently stood at attention when he was around, and sweet hips that, while slim, offered the perfect fuck handles.
It was all kinds of fucked up, but he was past caring when he unzipped his jeans and gave his strangled cock some breathing room. Thinking about her cute ass obliterated what was left of his self-control.
Wyn studied his hand where it gripped the shaft of a fearsome hard-on. Claiming the title of master cocksman wasn’t conceit on his part. His was a prizewinner in the size and girth categories.
He stroked his fat cock and growled. Sami’s delicate hands were no match for his grade A Prime. She had to use both for full coverage. A snarl of lust curled his lip. He worked his shaft and squeezed until a groan of pleasure split the air.
His fantasy provided enough heat to make the simple act of jerking off a full serving of pleasure.
After she used her hands, he’d tell her to get on. Imagining her licking her sweet kissable lips while she threw a leg over his lap and straddled him made Wyn pant harder.
Fuck.
He liked when she spread her swollen pussy lips and offered her dripping cunt for his pleasure.
His cock jerked in his grip and precum flowed from the tip as he remembered what it felt like to push his fat cock into her tight hole. She moaned so beautifully – even if it hurt. The look of triumph on her face when he sank deep fucked with his head all these years later.
Nobody rode like Sami. Her ass was perfection as she rose and fell on his dick. The cowgirl boots made the whole thing hotter than the lobby of hell. Something about a seductive country gal getting her sexy freak on spoke to his soul.
Her cunt gushed, and she moaned her desire.
He stroked his cock faster, harder as the fantasy drove him on.
At some point, he’d lavish her with praise. She liked when he called her his good girl, especially when on the receiving end of his pounding dick.
Eventually, she’d beg. He liked the begging, moaning, and pleading. If he laughed off her demands, she’d go wildcat on him. He liked that too.
The climax she inspired from a memory molded into a fantasy started in the soles of his feet. He tensed. The muscles in his thighs twitched.
He heard his voice, through the years, taunting him with a pleasure so powerful he wanted to cry. “Say it, Sami. Say it and mean it.”
“Oh, Wyn,” she’d sob. “Please. Come inside me. I need you so much.”
His cock started erupting when he imagined plucking her juicy clit until she exploded, and her contractions milked every drop of come from his balls.
Jerking to a slow conclusion, he was staggered by the power of his climax. Whacking off was supposed to be quick and easy – not deeply carnal and a thousand times more frustrating than a simple hard-on.
When it was over, he slumped in the chair and eyed his cock. Masturbating in the middle of the day after a chance meeting with a girl he shouldn’t care anything about wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped. In no way did he feel relieved or calmer.
Nope. The exact opposite. Now he wanted to lure her to the bunkhouse – after all, this was where he took her virginity – and do unspeakable things to her until this mad passion was extinguished once and for all.
God-fucking-damn if his damn dick didn’t start rising from the thought.
Shoving it into his pants and zipping up before shit got out of control again, he grumbled to himself and grabbed a bottle of tequila from a cabinet. If Sami Colton was going to ruin his fucking day, then he was going to handle it shitfaced.
* * *
“What’s all this craziness, Sami?” Her father was chuckling as he stepped around the backdrop and equipment she set up outside her motor coach.
She laughed at his amusement and looked at the setup, trying to see it from his perspective.
“Well,” she explained, “this is what you call a backdrop. I can set it up anywhere. Was a bitch at first to put together, but after a couple of times, it’s a breeze.”
“Why do you need this? The view from here suck or something?” His hand waved nonchalantly at the breathtaking Wyoming scenery.
“Nah.” She giggled. “You know there ain’t nothing finer. Here, sit down,” she told him. Pointing at an empty lawn chair, she motioned for him to bring it closer.
Sitting on a spray-painted folding seat, she crossed her legs and fiddled with an earring. “I’m doing a video journal thing, and I wanted a consistent visual that won’t distract from my words.”
He blinked, and his brows drew together as he thought about it. “Honey, help your Pa out. I’m pretty sure I’m missing something. April says I only get half of whatever she’s going on about!”
“Dad”—she smirked—“she’s being nice. You get about a third, and that’s cutting a shit ton of slack.”
They cracked up laughing and high-fived so hard she nearly toppled over in her five-dollar plastic chair. Dad’s lady friend was a rare find for a guy his age living quite literally on the edge of nowhere.
April Johnson Spencer was a city gal from Yankee country – Philadelphia, PA. A colorful community theater sort, she had a career in public relations
when she met Brad Colton at a cattleman’s convention in 2015. They clicked right off the bat and for a year tried the long-distance thing. Sami was pleasantly startled when April pulled a life-changing fuck-it and traded her Manolo footwear for boots and jeans. For the past two years, the two fifty-something lovers had been living together.
She often wondered whether April knew that her boyfriend asked his daughter’s permission before moving her in. Sami loved the holy crap out of her dad for doing that. He was concerned whether a woman living in the house her mom loved, and everything that meant, was something she could live with.
Live with? The truth was, she couldn’t count the gazillion ways she found their relationship swoony. Her dad was fifty-five. He’d been a widower for decades. Technically, April was an older woman – by almost a year. As a couple, they were adorable, and why would she find fault with something that took ten years off her father’s age and made his eyes sparkle with enjoyment?
Letting out a little sigh, she sat back and fixed him with a serious look. “You aren’t missing anything, Dad.” She touched her temple briefly. “This is all coming from up here. Maybe I’m overthinking, but it just feels like my life got hijacked. I’ve told you this before,” she murmured as he nodded. “Anyway, without turning into a whiny bitch because fame and fortune were sooo hard, I’m leaving it all behind. Including far too much-unfettered access to my life.”
“Coloring inside the dark border outline that you draw.”
“Exactly.” She raised her brows and gave him half a smile. She wasn’t surprised he understood. “I don’t know yet what I’m going to do with the video journal. At first, I went at it like it was going to anchor a YouTube channel, but right away, I realized it’s more like therapy. It’s my story, Dad. Not anyone else’s. Not an agent who wants to boost every word or a management team looking for an angle. Maybe I’ll never share it. I’m really not sure – but something small and maybe insignificant to someone else – like waving my hand at the scenery – that’s private. This is my real life, not a manufactured version for public consumption. I’m done with that.”