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I step up behind her, press my cock between her cheeks, and grind until the tip notches right at her slick entrance. “Ready for more?” I ask, even though her whole body is already begging for it.

She nods, words gone, just pushing back on me, ass canting up for more.

I slam in, slow at first, letting her feel every thick inch. Her head goes back, mouth open, a fucking angel in the steam. Her pussy strangles my cock, tight and hot and greedy. I don’t hold back. Not this time.

My pace is savage, bodies slapping together, water flying off our skin. I pin her against the glass, both hands gripping her hips so she can’t run. She loves it. Rides every thrust as if she’d die without it.

She comes again, violently, body shaking as I pound into her. She screams, clawing at the glass, leaving more streaks. I watch, eating up every wild sound she makes.

I reach around, thumb on her clit, and work her through it, never letting up. Inez is all sensation, boneless and drowning in pleasure. I slap her ass, just for the sound and the way she clenches even tighter.

“Goddamn, I’ll never get enough of you,” I grunt, and it’s the truth. I could live in this moment forever. “You’re fucking perfect, Hollywood.”

She answers with a choked moan, still riding the edge. Her knees start to shake, but I hold her up, my palm spanning her stomach, keeping her pressed hard to me.

The orgasm builds in my balls, fire sweeping up my spine. I hammer into her, pace relentless, cock swelling as I push toward the edge. The slick heat of her, the sound of her begging, the way she begs me for more, breaks me.

I shudder, hips locking, and spill inside her, every spurt hot and hungry. I ride out the aftershocks, still grinding, marking her with everything I have.

The water starts to cool, steam fading from the air, but I don’t let her go. Inez turns in my arms, trembling, clinging to my neck as I haul her up for a long, slow kiss.

I clean her slowly, hands gentling now, running the lather over every inch of her spent body. She sinks into it, boneless and trusting. If the world ended outside this bathroom, I wouldn’t even notice.

We stand like that, tangled together, the spray washing away everything that isn’t us. Her breaths slow, syncing to mine, and eventually, the air goes cold and goosebumps cover us both.

I wrap her in a towel and carry her back to the bed. The sheets are still warm. The house is dead quiet. I pull her in, tuck her under my chin, and hold her so tight nothing can ever take her away.

She whimpers my name, fingers kneading my arm, then falls asleep while I keep watch for both of us, already planning how to keep her forever.

CHAPTER EIGHT

INEZ

The day starts before the sun even thinks about showing up. Pale light creeps in slowly, thick as cream poured through a dirty window. I’m already out in the barn, boots thudding over packed earth, arms braced around a feed bucket that feels about ten pounds lighter than when I started this month. Who knew that would happen?

Dolly hangs her head over the stall bar, lazy and smug. She knows the morning drill, and so do I. I scoop her ration straight into the trough with a flick of my wrist that would make Silas proud. Pellets clatter down in a quick, rough line. The mare doesn’t jump or fidget. She just nudges my arm, greedy, as her sweet hay-breath hits me right in the face.

“Hungry, girl?” I say, but my voice is low, easy. I reach to stroke her forehead. She takes it as her due.

The barn is alive with sounds that used to rattle me. The low hum of the overhead fans, the rustle of horses at their buckets, the flap and click of a bird up in the rafters.

I drag the brush down Dolly’s side, following the grain of her coat with long, steady passes. She leans into it, shifting her hips so I hit the sweet spot just above her flank. Dust plumes up, hanging in the gold bands of light that cut through the barn slats.

I scratch the mare’s neck, fingers finding the spot that makes her lip quiver. She’s spoiled, but she’s become mine, and sometimes I think she might even know it.

I tuck the brush back in its place and check the water buckets. All topped.

I latch the door with a practiced click. No hesitation, no clumsy fumbles. I’ve done this a ton of times now, and my body remembers every part of it.

The air outside is wet with dew, each blade of grass shining like it’s been painted silver. I keep my chin up and breathe deep. There’s a high whine from the cattle somewhere north, a lowing that vibrates through the cool air and settles in my bones.

I take a second to let the world in. The cut-grass tang, the slow warmth spreading as the sun climbs higher. Sweat beads at my brow, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s part of the job, part of being here, part of who I’ve become.

This is the version of me I never believed I could be. Not the show pony, not the actress pretending at grit, but the girl with dirt under her nails and sweat streaking her cheekbones. The one who doesn’t give up or quit. I like her.

I toss the last forkful of old hay onto the heap and set the pitchfork against the rail, feeling the rough wood prickle my palm. I brush my hands off on my jeans, adding another layer of dust and grime to the fabric. My hair’s twisted up in a knot that’s more wishful thinking than actual style, but it keeps it out of my face.

I call out to Hank, who’s busy soaking up the sunrise from a patch of sun near the corral fence. The lazy bones barely lifts his head. I whistle, and after some dramatic sighing, he rolls to his feet and pads after me.