Chapter Seven - Diane

CHAPTER SEVEN

DIANE

My heart is jumping out of my chest.

His hand is big and rough around mine as I lock the front door and lead him down the hallway. I swear, I've soaked through my panties.

I didn't have a sip of whiskey at the creek, but I feel so fucking drunk—drunk off his kisses, off his mouth on my neck.

His hand on my pussy was the most intoxicating thing I've ever felt, and down between my thighs thumps a raw, hungry heartbeat.

It's wild, so strong that it feels like a primal urge I don't quite understand.

And I need to satisfy it.

His hand lingers on my lower back, guiding me as if I don't know my own stairs. It feels good; I want him to take control. I don't want to have to do anything but lie back and let him show me what he can do.

I let him into my bedroom and push down the hook and eye lock. Slowly, I turn to find he's looking at me like he's starving.

Bright, watchful hunger.

My stomach swoops. This room has been my only safe space since Nana left. Nobody comes up here but me, and now he's standing by my metal framed bed, larger than life. It's making my heart jump up my throat.

He's a lot of unknowns, but I like the edge that gives him. I like his bright, hazel eyes, his short beard, and his chestnut hair. I like that he's all hard muscle and scars and tanned skin. I like that he smells good, like fresh laundry on the line.

There's also another side to him I can't ignore.

It's the dark side I haven't tasted yet, the flicker of something rough in his gaze. Hunger . Maybe he can't control it. It's the way his voice drops deep in his chest and the gravel that comes out when he wants me.

It makes my toes curl in my boots.

My mouth is dry; it's sinking in that I'm at a pivotal point in my life. I'll always look back and remember today was the day, that he was the first man to fuck me.

It's not who I expected at all. I never expected to hope he'd be the last, either.

His belt clinks. He's taking off his gun and hanging the holster on the bedpost. Our eyes lock, and he guides me to sit, my heart picking up when he kneels at my feet.

His throat bobs, the space between his collarbones flushed. A trickle of sweat catches in the dark hair on his chest.

He tugs my boots and socks off and sets them aside. Then, without any hesitation, he puts his hands up under my dress and slips my panties down, peeling the wet fabric right off.

It happens so fast. His hands move quickly. Then, he's got my pink and white panties in his calloused palm.

His fist closes, crushing them as he brings them to his face, and my jaw drops. Heat rushes through my veins and pulses in my bare pussy. I shaved the other day; I have no idea why, but now I'm glad I did, because I'm so sensitive. My hips shift, and I feel soft skin and wet arousal.

I'm ready.

At least, as ready as I'll ever be.

"Please," I whisper .

He cocks his head. "Please?"

"I need you."

He rises, and suddenly, I'm looking straight at him, hard in his pants. I swallow, staring at the rise under the zipper. There's a raw drumbeat spinning out of control between my thighs, and I tilt my head back as he lifts me by the waist to lay me out on my bed.

He shifts between my thighs. His boots clatter to the ground, and the rough fabric of his pants pushes up as he cocks his knee. His muscled thigh presses against my bare sex. I gasp, resisting the urge to rub myself on his leg.

"It's gonna hurt, darling," he says.

I nod, swallowing. The air between us feels heated, almost feverish. My hands slip up between us and plant flat on his chest, feeling the muscle rippling beneath his shirt.

I don't know what I'm doing, but I know what I want. Dizzy, I find the buttons and start undoing them.

One after the other, until they fall open.

My eyes drop.

He's well-muscled, the kind that comes from hard, physical labor, so perfectly imperfect with ridges and scars. My eyes move lower, following the dark trail from his navel down to his belt. My fingertips hover over the hair on his chest, and then I run them through it, mesmerized by him.

He turns to toss his shirt, and my eyes widen. Across his upper back, he's got a single word etched into his muscled shoulders, almost like…like someone branded him.

Gunslinger.

My stomach twists.

He's not like the boys my age.

He's a man, and not a very domesticated one. Maybe, if I'm being truthful with myself, he's too old and too dangerous to be in my bed.

But God, I need him.

His lids flicker, and his hand runs up my hip, moving along my side to tug my zipper down. For a second, I want to hesitate. No one has ever seen my breasts before .

I clear my throat, and his hands pause, his bright eyes inches from mine.

"Why do you have that word on your back?" I ask tentatively.

His eyes flick down, like he's hiding something.

"I had a job, and I fucked it up," he says. "That's what I got for getting caught. Could have been a lot worse."

He tugs at my dress, and it slips down my body. His eyes are distracted, lingering on my bra. I made it—I make most of my clothes—and I feel a little pride that he likes what he sees. I'm a good seamstress.

Or maybe he's just looking at my breasts. That's more likely.

"Is the word…a scar or a brand?" I whisper.

"It's a brand," he says.

I don't have time to process his words before his hands are on my back, flicking my bra open. He peels it off, and my breasts fall out, exposed.

His eyes drop. My nipples tighten.

I don't have to ask if he likes them. From his expression, it's obvious the rest of the world has fallen away. He moves in, pulling me closer and sliding one hand around my back to hold me up. With his other, he bends me until my spine arches and my breasts push into his face.

"Jesus Christ," he groans.

"What?" I whisper.

Instead of answering, he kisses the underside of my left breast. My body lights up. His mouth is pure heaven. My head falls back, and the ceiling of my room spins. His hot, strong tongue runs over the tip of my nipple, and a tiny gasp slips from my lips.

It circles the sensitive peak as he moans, and I pulse deep inside.

His free hand tugs my dress until it slips off. Then, he lowers me onto my back, thighs spread, no panties.

"Wait," I gasp.

He's not listening. Those piercing eyes are locked between my legs. I squirm, uncomfortable with being inspected so closely.

"Be a good girl," he says, flicking his eyes up to mine. "Stay right there, darling."

"You're staring at me," I manage.

"You've got the prettiest cunt I've ever seen. Of course I'm staring."

Something about that word, one I've never had the courage to say, falling from his lips makes me weak.

My brain hums, and I worry my lower lip, stalling and unsure how to respond. I don't get a lot of compliments, especially not dirty ones, but thankfully, I don't have to answer him, because he leans down and kisses my stomach so gently, I shiver.

His tongue darts out and circles my navel. The sensation shoots down to my clit, making my thighs tremble. Then, he moves down past my dress bunched around my waist and starts kissing along the inside of my thigh.

His mouth is dangerously close to my sex, and a tremor runs down my leg at the idea.

"What are you doing?" I whisper.

He looks up. "We've got hours, darling. And I've got nowhere to be but between your legs."

"What?"

He doesn't answer. My heart patters out of control, and for a second, I consider begging him to stop so I can gather my thoughts.

But what's the point of thinking when just feeling is so much better?

He takes my wrists, wraps them up in one hand, and holds them to my lower belly. I'm pinned down and exposed. My pulse hammers, and I wait with bated breath.

I feel it—his tongue, hot and hungry—curl over my sex and drag up to my clit.

Oh God, I'm going to die.

He licks over me again and zeros in on my clit, lapping gently with the tip of his tongue. I want to bury my hands in his hair and keep him right there forever.

I squirm, twisting my wrists. His grip tightens, steady and firm, and my brain buzzes. There's something so deliciously dirty about being in bed, in the middle of the afternoon, with a man's head between my legs.

This is everything I never knew I wanted.

My toes curl on the quilt as my lower back arches and I push my pussy up against his mouth. Just a little, to let him know I like what he's doing.

He growls softly, like an animal, but doesn't lift his head. His tongue keeps working over my clit, keeping a slow, steady pace. I'm the only one who has ever touched that place. It feels good when I do it, but not the way it does under his tongue.

Something sparks deep inside me, and I can't help myself. My eyes flutter, the ceiling spins, and a moan works its way from my mouth. It sounds strange, like it came from someone else, not me.

He releases me and grips my hips, driving into me harder with his tongue. Hazily, I realize my hands are in his hair now, holding his head right where I want it.

When did I get so bold?

The spark gets hotter until, suddenly, it catches fire. Then, my pleasure is a train leaving the station. I can't stop it, not even if I wanted to. I'm dimly aware of my legs going stiff, of my hips lifting off the bed, needy for more.

His rough hand moves to rest on my belly, keeping me down.

His tongue never stops, never relents.

My head spins. Sweat breaks out across my skin, the sheets sticking to me. I'm on the edge of a cliff about to plummet off. It might ruin me, but there's no stopping it now as it hits me like a thunderclap.

"Westin," I cry out.

He groans and buries his face deeper between my thighs, giving me his tongue to ride. It's warm and a little rough as I grind my clit on it, eyes rolled back, savoring the swells of ecstasy rolling through my body.

It isn't the same kind of pleasure I give myself. It's glorious and dirty, and so much better because it's forbidden.

We shouldn't be here together; he shouldn't have done this.

But here we are, and he did it.