I shake my head.

He withdraws from me. “Don’t!” I cry. I need him. I don’t know what to do with this need. “I’m scared,” I say quietly. I’m not scared of Pete. I’m scared of myself. Because I’d do just about anything he asked me to do right now.

His thumb brushes the front of my panties, and my mouth falls open at the sensation. No one has ever touched me like this before. Never with such soft, sinful, sweet hands. His thumb presses my panties into my crease, and he rubs against my clit, the abrasion of the fabric not nearly enough. He kisses me, and I breathe against his lips.

“Can I put my hand inside your panties?” he asks. He nips my ear when he does it, and I cry out. I nod into his neck, moving as close to him as I can get. His hand slides between my panties and my skin, and I press my bottom closer to him, giving him more access. “So wet,” he says. I squeeze my eyes shut. His fingers trail through my wetness, and then they find that little button of pleasure that has been thumping since his lips first touched mine.

He presses the pad of his middle finger against me, his touch gentle but insistent. “Pete,” I cry.

“Reagan,” he breathes. He kisses me again, but it’s broken by my breaths, which stutter past my lips. I can’t think. I can’t talk. I can only take the pleasure he gives me. “Come for me, Reagan,” he breathes against my lips.

Then I break. I nip his lower lip when I come, and he growls, thrusting his tongue into my mouth as he absorbs my every shudder, my every gasp, my every quiver. I rock against his hand, pressing against him as he plies me. I tuck my head into his shoulder, my arms around his neck, as he wrings every last bit of pleasure from my body until I’m spent and heavy against him, still quivering, still shaking, still…in love with him. I mewl into his neck, and he hums. When my body stills, he pulls his hand from my panties, lifts me so that my legs wrap around his hips, and he stands up. Then he sits down on a bale of hay with me straddling his lap.

He holds me tightly against him as I fall back to earth. When I can lift my head, I sit up and look into his blue eyes. “What the f**k was that?” I breathe. I laugh. I can’t help it, but I never even thought I would feel this free. Ever.

He pulls me to him and wraps me in a tight hug. “That, my dearest Reagan, was one hell of a first kiss.”

“Epic,” I breathe. Then I giggle. I laugh. Just because I can.

Pete

Jesus f**king Christ that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, done, or even imagined. I’ve been with a lot of girls, but I have never had one come undone like Reagan just did. I pull her against me, her skin against my shirt. She’s warm and soft and feels so damn good on top of me that I’m in danger of coming in my pants. I hold her against me, but then she sits up, looks into my face, and says, “What the f**k was that?”

That was an orgasm. A really, really good one if her cries were any indication. If the way she trembled in my arms was any indication. If the way she said my name over and over and over was any indication. “That, my dearest Reagan,” I say, trying to remain flippant, but I’m moved. Moved unlike I have ever been moved before. “Was one hell of a first kiss.”

Her body shakes and I worry that she’s crying, but she’s not. She’s laughing. Giggling, actually. “Epic!” she screams. Then she laughs again. She throws her head back, her hair falling down to reach my hands, which are just over her ass. I look down at her boob, which is still uncovered, her nipple pert and perky and…bare. God, her tits are beautiful. I look into her face because I can’t look at her boob anymore. I want her. I want her so badly. But she’s not ready for what I want. I’m sure of it. She’s just not. I slide my finger into the edge of her bra and lift it to cover her. She looks down and flushes. She just came on my f**king hand and now she wants to be shy about it?

“You okay?” I ask, brushing her sweaty hair back from her forehead.

She nods, biting her lower lip between her teeth. I can’t help it. I’m a guy. And I’m so hard I could pound nails with my dick. “I’m so much better than okay,” she says quietly. A tear forms in the corner of her eye, but she blinks it back. “Pete,” she says. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” I murmur. I pull her down to lie on my chest and stroke the length of her hair.

“Will you go on a date with me when we get back to the city?” she asks.

Laughter bubbles within me. She just came sitting on my leg with my hand in her panties and she wants to know if I’ll take her on a date. “Of course,” I say. “I wouldn’t like anything more.” Well, I’d kind of like to come, too, but I can wait. I can wait for when she’s ready.

“Was that an orgasm?” she whispers. I imagine she’s smiling against my chest because I can hear it in her voice. She turns her head and hides her face in my shirt.

“A big one,” I say with a laugh. “Fucking huge.” I am the man. Yes, I am.

She laughs, her shoulders rocking with it, her bottom wiggling against my dick. Shit. I wish she’d stop that. “Thought so,” she whispers.

I pat her butt. “We need to get you dressed,” I say, encouraging her with a squeeze to climb off me.

She stands up, and I help her fix her clothes. Her horse makes a noise, and she looks over the stall door. She heaves a sigh. “It’ll be a few hours yet,” she says. She makes a twittery, nervous sound that might be laughter and avoids my gaze. Is she suddenly feeling self-conscious?

I scrub a hand across the back of my head and force myself not to think about the way she felt in my arms. I’m already feeling the loss of her and she’s just standing a few feet away from me. “For what?” I ask.

“Tequila is going to foal tonight.”

She’s speaking a language I don’t know.

“She’s going to have her baby,” she clarifies.

“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that. “Do you need to call a vet?”

“No, I’ll sleep here with her.” She points to a stack of blankets in the corner. “She does most of the work. I’m just here for moral support and to help if something goes wrong.”

I scratch my head, not sure what to do with myself. “Should I go?”

She worries her lower lip between her teeth. “Want to stay with me?” she asks quietly.

God, I want nothing more. I want to sleep with her and hold her against me. Yeah, I want to have sex with her, too, but that’s the least of my desires. I nod.

She spreads out blankets on top of the hay bales where we were sitting. She motions for me to lie down and then crawls into my arms. I let out a contented sigh. “What time is it?” she asks.

I look at my watch and yawn. “Eleven thirty.”

“Late,” she whispers.

She lays her head on my chest and wraps her arm around my middle. “Let me hold you,” I say, and I press my lips to her forehead.

Her exhales tickle the hair at the neckline of my shirt, and I’m instantly hard again. I pull her leg across my lap, and she snuggles even closer to me.

“Hey, Pete,” she whispers.

“Yeah?” I whisper back.

“I want to kiss you again tomorrow,” she says quietly. She giggles, and it shakes my chest. That’s the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

I want to kiss her again tomorrow, too. A lot.

###

In my dream, I’m running toward the sound of Reagan’s voice. I can hear her clearly, but I can’t see her. I know it’s a dream, and dreams can be f**ked up, so I’m not panicking. But she is. She’s clearly upset, and I look for her everywhere in the mist. I can’t find her. Suddenly, I’m jerked from my dream and find myself lying beside Reagan in the barn where we fell asleep. She’s making choked little cries from the back of her throat. I look down at her. She’s the one dreaming. Her eyes are squeezed shut and she has curled herself into a ball. When we fell asleep, she was draped across me. When did she scoot away?

“Reagan,” I coo softly. She flinches and bats at my hand. She’s still dreaming, and I don’t know how to pull her out of it. “Reagan,” I say with more force. Her eyes blink open as she slowly wakes. She bats her lashes at me as I look down into her face. She’s breathing hard, but she quickly calms.

“I was dreaming,” she says. She looks around and settles back against the blanket, her body softening.

“Bad dream?” I ask.

She nods. I roll onto my side and rest my head in my hand so I can look down at her. She scoots closer to me, and I drape my arm around her waist. “Sorry,” she murmurs.

I tug her waist, pulling her to me. “Don’t be,” I say.

“I used to take medication to help with the dreams, but they made my head foggy so I stopped them.” She looks up at me, her green eyes blinking slowly. “Sometimes I don’t sleep well.”

I brush her hair back from her face. “You dream about what happened that night?” I ask.

“Sometimes.” She looks away and avoids my gaze. She doesn’t want to talk about it, apparently.

I want to ask questions, but I don’t want to bring it all back up for her if she has pushed it from the forefront of her mind. “Do you relive it in your dreams?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not the rape, specifically,” she says. She says it like it’s such a common word. My gut clenches. “I dream more about the feelings. Regret, mainly.”

“What do you regret?” I ask.

She looks up at me, almost like she’s seeking a connection with me, and I like it. I f**king love it. “I regret going to that party,” she says. “I should have been in my dorm studying.”

“Did you know him?” I ask. “Or was he a stranger?”

“I had never met him. That’s why I feel so stupid over it. I never should have been alone with him in the bathroom. Alone with a man I didn’t know.” She heaves a sigh. “One minute he’s kissing me, and then I’m calling out to stop because it just doesn’t feel right. But he wouldn’t.”

She shivers, and I want to draw her inside me and protect her. A tear slips from the corner of her eye and tracks down her temple.

She sniffs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cry on you.” She chuckles, but it’s a watery sound.

“You came while riding my knee, princess,” I say quietly. “I think you can cry on me, too.”

Her face colors, but she smiles. She whispers, “I’ve never done that before.”

“No one has ever made you come?” I ask. I know the answer to this, but I want to hear her say it. I don’t know why. I just need it. I slide my leg across her thighs and put some of my weight on her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I really want to open her dress so I can lay my hand on her belly. But I settle for this moment, instead.

She shakes her head.

I run my finger down her nose. “You never did that yourself?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No.” She looks into my eyes. “Thank you,” she says.

“Anytime, princess,” I say with a laugh. “I am at your disposal.”

“You’re such a giver,” she taunts, shoving my shoulder.

“I aim to serve.” I laugh. God, she makes me feel so light and free. “I think I could have some very real feelings for you,” I blurt out. I want to bite the words back as soon as I say them.

“Good,” she says, and she smiles as she rolls into my chest and wraps her arm around me. She buries her face in my shirt. I think she might be embarrassed.

“I pour my heart out and all you can say is good?” I jostle her in my arms.

“Mmm hmm,” she hums. I feel her lips against my shirt, her breath warming the fabric. She laughs. “You can’t really call that pouring your heart out, Pete.” She mocks my tone, making her voice deep. “I think I might have some very real feelings for you.” She laughs, and damn it all, it’s such a pretty sound that she can’t annoy me with it.

She lifts the tail of my shirt, and her fingers slide up my stomach. I cover her hand with mine to stop her exploration. I’m too turned on. I don’t think my erection ever eased from before, and it’s pressing hard against my zipper now.

“Why can’t I touch you?” she whispers.

“Because I’m too turned on right now,” I whisper back.

She sits back so she can look up at my face. “What does that even mean?”

I press my lips to her forehead, lingering there. “It means I’m a guy. And the wind is blowing.”

Her eyebrows draw together. “What?”

I laugh. “Nothing.” But now I can’t stop chuckling. She slaps my chest.

“It’s not funny unless more than one person is laughing.” She gets quiet for a minute, and then she says, “How many women have you slept with?”

I close my eyes and wince. “I stopped counting them a long time ago. When I ran out of fingers.”

“More than ten?” Her voice is small.

“Yeah,” I grunt. I don’t like my own answers so I can’t expect her to like them.

“More than your fingers and toes?” she asks.

“Probably,” I breathe out. “Hell, I don’t know.”

“Do you know their names?” She sits up in front of me and crosses her legs criss-cross-applesauce style. She tugs her dress down to cover her knees.

I sit up, too, so I can face her. I lay my hand on her knee and draw circles on it with my thumb. “Some of them.” I hold up one finger when she starts to ask me something else. “But there hasn’t been anyone in a really long time. Since before I got locked up.” I squint at her. “Does that count for anything?”