I run my hand over the frayed denim, intimately familiar with this particular pair of cutoffs. The worn hole near the zipper has been stretched over time by my prodding finger, and if she bends just right, I can see the crease between her perfect ass and thighs.
“You’re quiet.” I slide a hand under the back of her knee, tickling the soft skin there.
Mosquitoes buzz in the hush, biting my bare arms.
She swats at one on my neck and leans up to brush her lips against the sting. “I’m nervous.”
“If I was a good guy, I’d tell you we can wait.”
Not happening.
I’ve waited years, fantasizing, wanting. I wanted her when her kisses made me stutter. I wanted her when my dick started hardening in my hand. I wanted her when her boobs grew, and dark hair appeared under my arms. I really wanted her when I discovered porn and watched all the licking, sucking, pounding, filthy ways I could want her.
Over the past couple of years, I spent my nights kissing and humping the space in my bed that should’ve been filled with Conor Cassidy. But I couldn’t have her the way I wanted.
Until now.
Some might think sixteen is still too young for what I have in mind.
Fuck them.
I’ll be seventeen next month. We’re the same age for only two weeks, and tonight feels like a long-awaited rite of passage. A momentous coming-together. The beginning of our future.
I don’t know where this sentimental shit comes from. I was raised by a hard-ass man’s man, who has neither the time nor the inclination for romantic ideals.
I’m cut from the same cloth, fashioned from the rugged land on which he raised me. But all my soft parts belong to Conor.
“No more waiting, Jake.” She shifts her hand on my abs, dipping bold fingers beneath my belt buckle.
“Damn right.” My breath runs away from me, chopping my voice.
I might be wildly worked-up and hard as a rock, but this desperation, this need, is bigger than just getting off inside my girl.
She’s the nexus of my world. A world that goes beyond sex and wedding bells and riding off into the sunset. I’ll ride east, if that’s where she’s going. I’ll drive a sedan, if that’s what she wants. I’ll wear fucking loafers, if it makes her smile.
Hell, I’m so in love with her I don’t even need feet. I’ll just float on the high I get whenever she’s near.
“It’s going to be great.” My cock thinks so. I’ve never been this painfully aroused. Pretty sure I can hit a home run with the wood in my pants.
“Oh, it’ll be great for you.” She shoves her hand deeper into my jeans and grips the ramrod length of me. “But this thing is gonna hurt.”
“Conor…” With a choked groan, I pry her fingers off my dick. “I’ll go slow.”
“I know.” She rests her cheek on my spine and sighs. “I love you, Jake Holsten. Even if you don’t go slow. Even if it’s not that great.”
“Damn, baby.” I press a fist against my chest, laughing. “Not the vote of confidence I was looking for.”
“You don’t need that with me.” She lifts the Stetson from my head, strokes a hand through my hair, and returns the hat. “It’s just us.”
“And it’s meant to be.” I grasp her thigh and squeeze. “That’s all we need.”
When we reach the ridge, I tether Barnabe to a tree alongside the other horses. The trail continues down a steep slope and ends in a ravine surrounded by cliffs. That’s where I’ll take her when there’s no light in the sky but the stars. We have about an hour till complete darkness.
While Lorne starts a fire, I recline against a log at the edge of the clearing with a direct line of sight on my girl. She stands near the fire pit and tunes her acoustic guitar, watching me watch her with a smile glittering in her eyes.
Long auburn hair falls to her waist in natural waves—the perfect length to tangle around my fist. She’s a petite little thing, but those shorts make her legs look miles long. The rugged square toe boots are an added tease. Not to mention the way the flannel shirt hangs open and unbuttoned below her tits, revealing her satiny, toned midsection. The view makes me so damn hot I feel delirious.
I think she’s trying to kill me.
Jarret pulls out his harmonica, and a few minutes later, he and Conor slip into a southern rock jam session. It’s a bluesy warm-up melody with a little Skynyrd influence, maybe some Outlaws, but mostly just good ol’ homegrown rockin’.
As the humming notes of guitar and harmonica swirl around me, I can feel exactly where the song comes from—our family roots, the soil of our beloved ranch, and the heart of our unbreakable friendship.
Lorne stokes the fire into hypnotic, crackling flames and sprawls out beside me with his guitar. Conor started playing guitar when she was the annoying kid-sister who wanted to do everything her brother did. She still idolizes him, but her musical talent surpassed him years ago.
“If you get her pregnant…” Lorne strums the strings, voice quiet and dark eyes fixed on Conor. “I’ll kick your nuts so hard your grandkids will sing soprano.”
“She’s on the pill.” I lean forward and capture his gaze. “I would never fuck with her plans.”
After high school, she wants to study veterinary medicine an hour away at Oklahoma State University. She dreams of becoming the resident vet on our cattle ranch, and she’s smart enough, tenacious enough, to make it happen.
He nods, his expression pensive. “My dad is promoting me to foreman.”
“’bout damn time.” I give him a hearty thump on the back.
Lorne knows the stocker cattle operation better than any of us, and the employees respect the hell out of him. He’ll run the entire ranch someday, and no one will stand in his way.
“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the brains.” He eyes me from within the shadow of his hat. “We’re all counting on you to improve the profit margins.”
Only reason I have perfect grades in school is because I study hard. I’m a numbers guy. Accounting and finance. I’ll be ready to take over the books full-time when I graduate.
Jarret, on the other hand…
My brother leans his back against Conor’s as they play their instruments, laughing and swaying their hips. He says he’s going to be an international man of seduction when he grows up. Truth is, he’ll never give up the core part of cattle ranching. He was born to be a cowboy, riding and herding and working with his hands. I suppose there’s a lick of that in all of us.
Conor changes the harmony and finds my eyes through the haze of campfire smoke. With a flirty smile, she strums the notes that make my blood thrum and my legs move. I don’t play an instrument, but I can carry a tune, and I love to sing this song to her.
I rise to my feet and prowl toward her, mouthing the lyrics of Run by Matt Nathanson and Sugarland. She steps away from Jarret, and I slide up behind her, letting a twangy drawl thread through my voice while singing softly at her ear.
She hums happily, plucking the strings and grinding her ass against me. I drop my hands to her hips and drag my nose along her neck.
Good God, she smells pretty, like wildflowers and sweet cream frosting. I ache to sink my teeth into her. So I do, right in the soft part beneath her ear.