22

Arthur Morgan's got a bad habit.

He stops in every other day, asking for you and only you.

Nevermind that he comes in fresh as a daisy from the last, barely a speck of dirt on him to warrant a washing.

He still comes.

Takes his clothes off real neat. Folds them and sets them aside. Takes extra care sinking into the tub while he waits, careful not to get any water on your seat.

Nobody takes care of him better than you do. He figures he ought to do the same.

Entering the room, mid-speech with one of the other girls, the sight of him stops you dead. Sends warmth fluttering through your chest, cheeks burning something awful.

You heard tell of a man who resembled him wandering around these parts again. Didn't think it'd be the man himself come to see you.

"M-Mr. Morgan," you stammer softly in greeting, shutting the door quietly behind you.

"Miss," he says after a moment, unable to meet your gaze.

His fingers tighten around the tub's edges, tips of his ears going pink.

You smile to yourself, reaching for the jar of rose petals you keep in case he comes by.

"Good for the skin," you say every time he asks. Really, you'll take just about any excuse to pamper the man.

Sprinkling a couple in, you watch his eyes follow them as they drift about.

"I brought you somethin'," he says, just as you settle in behind him.

"Again?" you ask softly, already pouring water over his hair, careful of his eyes.

Last week was peppermints—the kind you loved as a girl.

The week before that were some wildflowers he picked not far from the edge of town. They were a bit wilted, damn near crushed to death, but you were flattered nonetheless.

Bringing the soap bar to his head, you work it into a lather, scrubbing in gentle circles. "You ought'a stop bein' so sweet to me. The girls are gettin' all manner of jealous."

His head tilts back onto your lap, getting suds on the front of your dress. You find you don't mind it one bit.

"Don't care none," he mutters, eyes shutting as your fingers massage his scalp. "Only want you."

You duck your head, a bashful smile turning up your lips.

"Go on, then, tell me," you murmur, staring down at him. "What'd you bring this time."

He looks at you, dries his hand on the towel draped over the edge of the basin, and reaches for his things. Without a word, he pulls out a delicate ribbon in that shade of cream you love so much.

You gasp, eyes going wide. "Like the one I—"

"Lost," he finishes, grunting in acknowledgment. "Yeah, I know."

You swallow, drop your head once more, fixing your gaze stubbornly on the porcelain.

"You— I mean, that's real thoughtful of you..."

And just before the audacity can leave you, you utter a quiet—

"Thank you, Arthur."

Any thoughts you might've had about addressing him by his first name leave you entirely.

One look at those cheeks of his—beaming the prettiest shade of red as he rubs at the scruff of his jaw—and you're gone before you can think better of it.

You bring your lips to his temple, fingers stalling where they run along his nape. "Now, just you relax. Lemme take care of you."

He sits still as can be, the tension easing itself from his muscles with every pass of the washcloth.

While you're busy cleaning his legs, scrubbing gently at his skin, your arm grazes something—hard, heavy, and hot like fire between them.

He goes stiff as a board, brows drawn tight as he looks away from you.

"Sorry," he says quiet, gruff, shifting in the water like he's committed a grave sin worth apologizing for.

"It ain't a problem," you mumble, staring blankly at the bubbles in the water as his hands go white-knuckled where they grip the edges.

Your gaze finds his face, a sheepish look on it you'd kiss right off if given half the chance. "Oh, Arthur. Won't you look at me?"

"Ain't right of me," he says then. "Takin' advantage of the kindness you've shown me."

"That ain't what you're doin' now, is it?" you chide softly, a quiet exhalation leaving your chest as you cup his cheek, turn that handsome face toward you.

You're fussing over him—you know it. Can tell by the way you brush the wet hair clean from his face, thumbing away a stray droplet of water before it can careen down his forehead.

"Been an awful long while, ain't it? That why?" you ask curiously, voice soft with understanding. Gentle as you run your hand comfortingly along the length of his arm.

He glances at you then, searches that serene expression of yours, those eyes filled with an adoration he's too cowardly to give name to.

"...Yeah," he says finally, swallowing with an effort, jaw working. "Been some time."

It takes you a moment to gather the words—to get them right on the tip of your tongue before they spill out in a blur.

"I don't mind," you murmur, reassurance lacing every syllable. "If that's what you're wantin'. Ain't no trouble at all."

He looks at you with something akin to disbelief and an affection so severe, it sinks right down to the heart of you.

"I ain't earned that kinda treatment," he says then, shaking his head like it sits heavy on his shoulders.

"I wanna," you say in reassurance, resting your hand over his heart. It thuds a quick rhythm against your palm, his own coming up to lace your fingers with a hesitation that makes your face warm.

"Alright," he relents, eyes fixing onto you.

You smile, bring your joined hands to your lips and press a tender kiss to his knuckles, still scarred from whatever fight he must've been in last.

Your opposite one slips into the water, taking him between your fingers, not making a fuss of it.

It's just comfort.

Something to cure him of his stresses and that air of melancholy he carries about himself.

You tell yourself that's all it is, and he tells himself he ain't attached to the way you touch him—the way you move your wrist just so and give him pleasure like he's never known, the way you card through the soapy tresses of his hair and let him doze off with his head on your lap most days.

You know better. So does he.

He groans real quiet, head tipping back just enough to show the effect your grip has on him, the length of him throbbing steadily between your fingers, growing impossibly harder still.

"Show me what to do," you murmur, voice a sweet lilt in his ear. "Show me how to take care of you."

He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, letting it out slowly as he allows his eyes to shut and yield to the feeling, to your words looping themselves around him, driving him damn near out of his mind.

"Jesus, woman," he mumbles to himself.

But his hand moves to cover yours, tightening your hold around him with a careful squeeze of his fingers, helping you stroke him in long, slow drags that have his hips bucking.

Water splashes, creeping ever closer to the edge of the tub, threatening to spill over.

But you don't stop him. You wouldn't dare.

Instead, you stare, all kinds of mesmerized that a man like Arthur Morgan could be reduced to this—overflowing with desire, eager for the slightest touch that doesn't result in pain or hurt.

"That alright?" you ask quietly, peppering gentle kisses down his neck, lifting your head to meet his gaze.

He stares at you then, breathing rough, chest rising and falling with the effort it takes him.

"C'mere."

His fingers curl loose around your nape, drawing you in close to press a kiss to your lips.

You smile against his mouth, at him eagerly taking all he can when he kisses you harder, tongue dragging against yours like he's starved for it.

He tries to coax you over, onto his lap. With a quiet laugh, you pull the hem of your dress away just before it can touch the water.

"Gonna get my dress all soaked," you say, drying your hands to undo the buttons down the front.

He looks away, averts his gaze as the fabric goes slack against your form. You sigh, head tilting, eyes soft as can be.

"Don't gotta look away," you assure him, reaching out to turn his head toward you. "Don't mind you watchin' none."

His jaw tightens, reaching for you the moment your undergarments fall away. Before he can pull you onto him and into the tub, you reach for the ribbon.

He watches as you loop it around your neck—once, twice—tying it off with a delicate bow that reaches down your collarbone.

You nearly slip, a startled squeal bubbling out of you as you settle in the warm water, thighs either side of him.

"Easy now. Atta girl," he says, reaching out to steady you. You hardly fit, him all but filling out the basin beneath you.

Still, you manage—hands on his shoulders as he lines himself up with your entrance, his at your waist rubbing in slow, lingering sweeps up your sides.

"How's it look?" you ask softly.

He stares at you like he's got heaven in his arms.

"Real nice, darlin'. Prettiest thing I ever did see."

He arches up just enough for you to feel him, the head of him pushing inside making a shiver run up your spine.

"You're alright," he murmurs, fingers splaying wide along your back as he guides you down. "That's it."

It doesn't take long before he's got his face tucked in your neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your skin, his beard scraping as he goes.

His breathing grows ragged, hold on your hips tightening despite himself.

All the while, you whisper encouragements in his ear, letting his name tumble from your lips like a prayer.

A timid little moan escapes you when he sinks into you proper, striking something sweet enough to pull a shudder clean through you, toes curling tight against the porcelain.

His rhythm starts slipping, growing more and more unsteady with every thrust. Your fingers slip into his damp hair, nails scratching lightly.

"Arthur?" you whisper.

"Mm," he hums, a low, gravelly sound that has your thighs trying their best to clench around him.

He notices the change in your breathing, the way they've gone shallow and uneven, his hand slipping between you to give you the attention you need.

"C'mon. Lemme have you," he says, his eyes gone storm-dark.

The moment his fingers find what you need, circling just there with a firm pressure, you're coming apart around him.

It feels like lightning singeing you from the inside out, burning you up entirely, sending your pulse crazy where it thrums beneath your skin.

His own breath catches hard as his release finds him, his forehead dropping against your breast, a deep groan knocked loose from him.

You feel the moment his body goes taut, a shiver wracking through him at the sheer intensity of it.

He goes heavy beneath you, all at once, sinking further into the tub like the effort stole every little bit of strength right out of him.

"You okay?" he asks, his touch gentler now, more careful than it's ever been.

"Yeah," you whisper, dropping kisses to the top of his head before resting your weight on him, your cheek to his chest. "You?"

He huffs a laugh, hand running along your spine.

"Sweetheart," he says, voice wrecked. "Ain't been this good in a long time."

You beam, lifting your head to meet his gaze.

"Say you'll come back tomorrow," you murmur, hopeful eyes searching his face for an answer.

He brushes your hair back, idly winds a strand around his finger.

"I'll come back," he promises. "Maybe not tomorrow, but..."

His hand rises to cup your cheek, thumb running tenderly along it. "I will. Don't you worry."

You believe him. Not one bit of you doubts it.

He doesn't do things half-way, doesn't say things he doesn't mean. That knowledge alone brings you a comfort second only to being in his arms, just like this.

After all, if there was only ever one man you'd happily spend all of the hot water in Valentine on, you know without a doubt it'd be Arthur Morgan.

Him and his gifts, his sweet words, and the way he holds you like you're worth more than anything in the whole goddamn world.

Seems you've both got a bad habit.

The morning light comes in slats through the shutters of Leviticus Cornwall’s office, thin and pale, cut into stripes by the blinds. It does nothing to soften the dark room above the humming freight yard. The mahogany desk shines dark, the gilded clock on the mantel ticks. Outside, the city coughs and clatters itself awake: carriage wheels over stone, the groan of the riverboats' steam horns, the distant bark of men loading freight in the damp heat off the Lannahechee.

Cameron Spence stands before Cornwall’s desk with a folder tucked beneath his arm and the expression of a man carrying fresh meat into a lion’s den.

Cornwall does not sit at his desk. He stands at the window with his back to the room, his broad shoulders casting further shadow. His cigar burns between two fingers, but he has not bothered to smoke it. Ash clings to the end, glowing faintly.

“Well?” Cornwall spits, not turning around.

Spence clears his throat. “The attorneys have reviewed the matter again, sir.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, sir.” Spence adjusts his spectacles with a damp hand. “The issue remains the same. Frederick Shaw is confirmed deceased. We have that much established through witness testimony and the reports from Blackwater. However…” He hesitates.

Cornwall finally turns. The look alone is enough to make Spence wish the floor would open and swallow him neatly, paperwork and all.

“However?” Cornwall asks.

“His widow is not proven dead.”

For one small second, the office becomes terribly still.

Then Cornwall’s cigar snaps between his fingers. A scattering of ash drops onto the polished floorboards. Spence continues quickly. “Without some kind of proof of the widow Shaw’s death, or her legal consent, the deed and surrounding land interests remain tied up. The charter filings around Limpany were thorough. Shaw arranged the deed so that upon his death, his interest would pass directly to his wife. Without her signature, the land remains beyond our reach.”

Cornwall’s eyes narrow. “Do not compliment him in front of me.”

“I did not mean to, sir.”

“You said he anticipated pressure.”

“He did.”

Cornwall steps away from the window. “He was a provincial upstart playing mayor in a burned-out bend of river.”

“Legally, he was rather careful. Our research on him was that he was previously a lawyer here in Saint Denis.”

Cornwall slams his hand onto the desk. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot. Spence stops speaking at once.

“I do not pay men like you to tell me what I can and cannot do,” Cornwall says, voice low now, worse than shouting. “I pay men like you to remove impediments.”

Spence swallows. “Yes, Mister Cornwall.”

“Leland Development is breathing down my neck. I have surveyors waiting, capital waiting, oil contracts waiting, and every week that damned land at Limpany sits idle is another week that lesser men believe they can laugh at me.”

“No one is laughing, sir.”

Cornwall’s mouth curls. “You are either lying, Spence, or you are more foolish than I thought.”

Spence lowers his gaze. He has learned, over many years, that there are moments when agreement is the safest form of survival. Especially when dealing with Leviticus Cornwall.

Cornwall moves around the desk and picks up the folder Spence had brought. He opens it, scans the first page, then tosses it back down.

“So find her.”

“We are trying.”

“Try harder.” Cornwall sneers.

“That’s why Agent Milton is here.” 

At the mention of his name, the door opens. Andrew Milton enters without apology. He removes his bowler hat and tucks it beneath one arm, his pockmarked face composed into a professional calm that Cornwall finds both useful and infuriating. Milton is a tall, sharp man, built less like a soldier and more like a blade. He gives Cornwall a reserved nod, then Spence, as he stands at attention. “Mister Cornwall.”

Cornwall points at the papers on his desk. “My vice president informs me that a dead man continues to inconvenience me through his very much missing wife.”

Milton’s expression does not shift. “That seems to be the long and short of it.”

“I assume you have something more useful to offer.”

“We have widened the search.”

“Where?” Cornwall demands.

“Blackwater first. Then Strawberry, Wallace Station, Valentine. We have men posted near stage routes, depots, post offices, and hotels. If she is traveling under her own name, we will find her.”

The magnate lets out a humorless laugh. “If she is traveling under her own name. My God, Milton, do you think she's stupid?”

“No,” Milton says. “Frightened, perhaps. Desperate. But not stupid.”

Spence glances between them. “If she has fled east, she may seek Saint Denis. She lived here before, according to records.”

Milton nods. “We have men making discreet inquiries.”

Cornwall steps closer to Milton. “Discreet. I despise that word.”

“It is sometimes the more effective approach.”

“It is a word used by men who lack the stomach to be direct.”

Milton’s eyes cool slightly. “I do not lack the stomach for anything, Mister Cornwall. But a deer being hunted tends to bolt if the dogs bark too loudly.”

Cornwall says nothing for a beat. Then he smiles, thin and ugly.

“Do not mistake yourself for my equal, Agent Milton.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

“No,” Cornwall says. “You would not.”

The clock ticks. Somewhere down on the street, a horse screams at another horse. The city moves on, indifferent to the little storm gathering in that room.

Milton sets his hat on the corner of the desk. “We do not believe she is dead.”

Spence stiffens, having already given that news to the magnate. Cornwall’s gaze sharpens.

“Why?” Cornwall asks.

“No body. No grave. No record of passage under her name, but also no sign of a woman matching her description among the unidentified dead after the Blackwater business.” Milton pauses. “She is alive. We have a lead coming out of Valentine that a woman that sounds like her just spent a week there, holed up at the Saints Hotel.”

Cornwall’s jaw works.

“Then where is she?”

“That,” Milton says, “is what I intend to discover.” The leather of his gloves squeals as his hand tightens over the corner of the desk.

“You said the same weeks ago.”

“And since then, sir, the West Elizabeth situation has become complicated.”

Cornwall waves this off. “Outlaws. Ferries. Dead men. I am aware.”

Milton’s gaze flicks briefly to Spence. “The van der Linde gang has drawn a great deal of heat. Most local law is occupied with that disaster. It has muddied the water.”

Cornwall turns back to the window. “Then drain the water.”

Milton’s mouth tightens. “I will find Ruth Shaw.”

“You will bring her to me.”

Milton holds his stare. “Alive is preferable, I understand. But I cannot promise what condition she will be in if she runs into rough company.”

Cornwall lifts his chin. “Don’t be poetic. It doesn’t suit you. You and your men are as rough company as any of those miscreants outside these walls.”

“Then plainly, we will find her. We do not currently believe she is under the protection of any organized outfit. No evidence suggests she has joined with criminals or crossed into Mexico. Most likely, she is hiding alone, aided by strangers, or staying with some acquaintance from her prior life.”

Spence exhales softly, almost relieved.

No one in that room knows about the dried creek bed in New Hanover. No one knows about the wagons beneath old oak roots, or Susan Grimshaw’s sharp voice, or Mary Beth’s curls bent over a book, or Arthur Morgan stalking through camp with a bruised heart and bloodied hands. No one knows that Ruth Shaw is not alone.

Cornwall presses his palm flat to the glass and looks down at the street as if he owns every soul moving upon it.

“Then pull apart her prior life,” he says. “Thread by thread. Friends. Doctors. Land agents. Hotel clerks. Priests. Shopkeepers. I want every name. Every letter. Every charitable fool who may have looked at her and seen a woman worth saving.”

Milton picks up his hat. “Understood.”

Cornwall turns from the window.

“And Agent Milton?" Milton pauses at the door.

“If you fail me in this,” Cornwall says, voice quiet as a knife drawn slowly from leather, “the widow Shaw will be the least of your concerns.”

Milton inclines his head. Then he leaves.

Spence remains where he stands, folder clutched to his chest. Cornwall reaches for a new cigar. “Well?” Cornwall says without looking at him.

Spence blinks. “Sir?”

“Get out.”

—

Cicadas shrill from the trees above like they are sawing the sun into pieces. You wake with a headache pressed behind your eyes.

Not from drink. No, that particular misery belongs to Arthur Morgan, whose silhouette you see at once across camp, bent over near his wagon with one hand braced against the wheel and the other pressed to his brow. He looks as if the morning itself has personally insulted him and intends to keep doing so.

Good. Let it.

You sit up from your bedroll and push your hair back from your face. Your curls have worked themselves wild during the night, strands sticking to your neck in the damp heat. For one foolish second, your body remembers the heat of him crowding you against the wall, the whiskey on his breath, the terrible things he said in a voice that made your own blood betray you.

Then the memory closes around your ribs. The guilt. The wedding ring hanging from your neck. Your husband, not three months gone. You reach for your boots.

Mary Beth is already awake beside you, sitting cross-legged with her hair loose down her back, tying one ribbon with the dreamy slowness of a girl not yet prepared to face the day. She watches you from under her lashes.

“You sleep at all?” she asks softly.

You pull on one boot. “Enough.”

“That don’t sound like enough.”

“It was enough.”

She presses her lips together. You can feel her wanting to ask more. She is gentle, Mary Beth, but not blind. Not stupid. She knows something happened in Rhodes, something to make you short-tempered and snap at her. But she won’t ask, won’t prod.

Across camp, Arthur straightens too quickly and immediately regrets it. He closes his eyes, jaw tight. His hat is low, but not low enough to hide the pallor beneath his tan.

Sean laughs at something near the fire, far too loud, too bright. Arthur turns his head with murderous slowness.

Sean’s laughter dies mid-note.

That almost pleases you.

Almost.

Abigail appears carrying a basket of laundry against her hip, Jack trailing after her with a stick in hand, drawing lines through the dust. She takes one look at you, one look across camp at Arthur, then gives the kind of sigh that suggests she has seen more than enough of men and women and the trouble they make when their hearts start chewing through their good sense.

“Well,” Abigail says, dropping the basket near the wash tubs. “Ain’t this morning just brimmin’ with joy.”

You stand and brush your skirt smooth. “I’ll help with washing.”

“You don’t gotta.”

“I said I’ll help.”

Abigail looks at you sharply, “Alright then.”

The two of you fall into work. Water sloshes. Soap roughens your hands. Your knuckles ache from scrubbing shirts that belong to men who never seem to notice laundry unless it is missing. 

Tilly joins after a while, then Mary Beth, and the four of you make a small ring of labor at the edge of the camp.

Arthur is impossible not to notice.

You try. You fail.

He moves around his wagon with jerky irritation, gathering cartridges, checking a saddlebag, stopping once to swallow hard like his own stomach has turned traitor. He snaps at Bill for standing too close. He tells Sean to shut his damn mouth before Sean has even opened it. When Pearson asks him if he wants coffee, Arthur says something too low for you to hear, but Pearson takes three steps back and suddenly remembers business elsewhere.

“Lord,” Tilly murmurs, wringing out a shirt. “Somebody oughta put him out of his misery.”

“Or ours,” Abigail chimes in.

Mary Beth looks at you. You keep scrubbing.

The shirt beneath your hands is already clean. You keep scrubbing anyway, dragging the fabric against the washboard until your wrists burn.

Abigail notices.

“You’re gonna scrub holes through that,” she says.

You stop. Slowly, you wring it out and stand to hang it on the line. Of course, it’s one of Arthur’s shirts. Of course it is. Your skirt brushes your ankles, damp from splashed water. Your head throbs. Your heart throbs worse.

You do not look at Arthur. You look at the shirt. At the line. At the wooden pin in your hand.

Then Arthur’s voice cuts across camp.

“Where’s my goddamn gun oil?”

The whole creek bed seems to pause.

John, seated near the fire, lifts his head like a dog hearing thunder in the distance. “How the hell would I know?”

“I seen you messin’ with that crate.”

“I didn’t touch your oil.” John snaps back, the scars on his face rippling with his scowl.

Arthur stalks toward him. “You sure?”

John rises halfway, eyes narrowing. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem is everybody in this camp touches what ain’t theirs and then looks stupid when asked about it.”

“Oh, you wanna talk stupid?”

“Don’t,” Abigail snaps from the washtub.

John looks toward her. “I ain’t started nothin’, woman.”

“You never do,” she says. “Somehow it always starts anyway.”

You hang the shirt. Your fingers tremble against the clothespin.

Arthur glances toward the women’s side at Abigail’s voice, and for one second, his eyes catch yours. It is not soft. That might have been easier.

His gaze is bloodshot and bruised with hangover, shadowed by anger and something beneath it that he refuses to name. Your own anger rises to meet it, hot and immediate, a dog straining at its chain.

You look away first and hate that you do.

Behind you, Abigail makes a small sound. Not a sigh. Not a word. Something in between, edged with pity and annoyance. Like she knows everything that has gone on between the two of you.

“Don’t,” you say quietly.

“I didn’t say nothin’.”

“You were about to.”

She wrings a union suit so hard that water rains into the tub. “Fine. I won’t.”

Mary Beth ducks her head, but her gaze keeps slipping between you and Arthur like she is reading one page, then the next, trying to understand how the story got so ugly overnight. Like one of her stories that she fawns over. 

You lift another shirt from the tub.

“Some things ain’t worth asking after,” you say, trying to backpedal on your tone previously.

Abigail gives you a sidelong look. “That so?”

“Mhm.”

“And some things rot if nobody airs ’em out.” She says, with wisdom beyond her years.

You turn to her, anger flaring again. “Some things rot whether you air them out or not.”

The words come sharper than you intend.

Mary Beth stills. Tilly looks down at the water.

Abigail’s brows rise. For a moment, you think she might snap back, and some ugly part of you almost wants her to. Wants a clean fight. A simple one. One that has nothing to do with Arthur’s hands, Arthur’s mouth, Arthur’s wounded pride, Arthur’s talent for making you feel both safe and foolish in the span of a single breath.

But Abigail only nods once.

“Alright,” she says. “Then we won’t.”

That makes you feel worse.

You drop the shirt back into the tub and turn away.

“I need more soap.”

“There’s some by Pearson,” Tilly says.

You know that, but go anyway.

Crossing camp feels like traversing open ground under fire. You feel eyes on you, or imagine them. Maybe both. Camp is too small for secrets. Grief can hide in tents and sorrow can tuck itself under shawls, but anger walks around in daylight. People notice the aura of it.

You reach Pearson’s wagon and find the soap near a stack of tin plates. Pearson himself is busy stirring the pot with a grave expression, as if the future of civilization depends upon his continued punishment of carrots.

“Missus Shaw,” he says. “You uh… need somethin’?”

“Soap.”

“Right. Right there.”

“I see it.”

You take it.

Behind you, boots scuff the ground.

You know before turning.

Arthur stands a few feet away, hat tipped low, one hand resting near his gunbelt. Up close, he looks worse. His eyes are bloodshot. Stubble shadows his jaw. His mouth is set in a grim line, but there is a faint unsteadiness to him, a man held together by spite, leather, and the last bitter fumes of whiskey from yesterday.

You should walk away. You do not.

His gaze drops to the soap in your hand. “Mornin’.”

“Ain’t a good one.” You breathe back, trying to choke back a snarl that you wish desperately to let out.

Pearson suddenly becomes fascinated by the stew.

Arthur glances past you, toward the women at the tubs. Then back. “You alright?”

You laugh once, low and sharp. “That’s what you want to ask me?”

His expression hardens. “Ain’t allowed?”

“Not after yesterday.”

The two of you stare at each other. There are things you could say. Honest things. You could tell him you barely slept. That you felt something at his drunken confession. But your pride is like a thornbush, and you are standing in the middle of it barefoot.

Arthur rubs at his brow. “Look, Ruth…”

The sound of your name in his mouth twists something in you, “No.”

His eyes narrow. “No?”

“You do not get to say my name like that after yesterday.”

His face closes. “Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking with anything other than your cock.”

That hits.

He looks away, nostrils flaring. “That ain’t fair.”

Your jaw catches as your eyes narrow. He wants to talk about fair? After yesterday? Pearson makes a very small squeak and shuffles backward from the fire.

Arthur takes half a step closer, then stops himself. His voice drops. “You wanna do this here? In front of everyone?”

You look around. Abigail is watching openly now. Mary Beth less openly. John pretends not to. Sean doesn’t even bother pretending until Charles gives him one quiet glance, and he turns away fast.

“No,” you say. “I don’t.”

“Then quit talkin’ like you do.”

Heat blooms in your throat. “Don’t give me orders.”

His face goes pale beneath the tan. Anger flashes bright, but hurt is quicker.

For one heartbeat, the whole camp falls away. There is only Arthur Morgan, hungover and furious and wounded, looking at you like you are a door he cannot open without breaking the hinges.

Your fingers tighten around the soap. Instead of going any further, you turn and walk away.

The back of your neck prickles all the way to the wash tubs. You do not look back, though every part of you feels him watching. You sit down beside Abigail, toss the soap into the water, and plunge your hands after it.

No one speaks for a while.

Then Mary Beth murmurs, very softly, “Ruth…”

“Please don’t.”

Her mouth closes.

Abigail watches you with a curiosity and reservation that nearly undoes you. “Alright.”

Across camp, Arthur’s voice rises again, harsher than before, “Marston, move your damn saddle!”

John barks back. Bill laughs. Susan shouts at them all to quit acting like a pack of rabid dogs before breakfast.

The day continues because days are cruel that way.

—

By midmorning, the camp has settled into a wary rhythm.

You keep to the wash tubs with Abigail, Mary Beth, and Tilly, working until the skin at your knuckles goes tender from soap and water. Across camp, Arthur has finally stopped barking at every man within ten feet of him, though that only means he has retreated into a silence so foul it seems to sour the air around his wagon.

You are pinning the last of the shirts to the line when hoofbeats sound from the road above camp.

Charles looks up first. Then Javier. Then Arthur, one hand drifting toward his gun out of habit before recognition stills him.

Hosea Matthews rides down into the dried creek bed with his hat low and his coat dusty from the road. Silver Dollar picks his way between roots and wagon tracks with practiced patience, the grey horse’s ears twitching toward campfire smoke and voices. Hosea looks tired, but there is a brightness in his eye that suggests he has brought back something more useful than sundries.

Dutch steps out from beneath the shade of his tent before Hosea has even swung down.

“Well?” Dutch calls, spreading his arms as if welcoming some grand performer to the stage. 

“What song does Rhodes sing, old friend?”

Hosea dismounts slowly, one hand pressed briefly to his lower back before he lets go of the reins. “An ugly one.”

Dutch smiles. “The ugly songs are often the most profitable.”

You look down at the shirt in your hands, but your ears tilt toward them despite yourself.

Hosea leads Silver Dollar to the hitching post and pats the horse’s neck before joining Dutch near the big tent. Arthur, who had been oiling a revolver at his wagon, looks up but does not move closer. Not at first.

Dutch gestures for Hosea to sit, but Hosea waves him off and pulls a folded newspaper from inside his coat.

“Rhodes is rotten straight through,” Hosea says. “Pretty little place on the surface. Clean streets. Fresh paint. Men smiling like they were born for town socials and fraud.”

Dutch’s expression warms with interest. “Go on.”

“You were right about those two families. “You were right about the Grays and Braithwaites,” Hosea says, pulling a folded newspaper from inside his coat. “Rhodes belongs to them in all but name. Sheriff is a Gray. Leigh Gray. Cousin to the family, and apparently as purchasable as any other man with a badge.”

Dutch’s eyes brighten. “And the Braithwaites?”

“Catherine Braithwaite runs that place like an old queen holding court over a ruined kingdom. There is moonshine moving somewhere between the two houses, and enough talk of buried Confederate gold to keep every drunk in Rhodes dreaming.”

Dutch laughs low. “Now there is a woman worth meeting.”

Hosea gives him a look. “Careful.”

“My dear Hosea, I am always careful.”

Arthur snorts. Dutch ignores him.

Hosea folds the newspaper again, but keeps it in his hand. “There’s bad blood between the families. Not ordinary neighborly hatred. Generations of it. Land, liquor, pride, old murders, stolen horses, burned barns. Depends who tells the story. Truth is likely buried under a few generations of lies.”

“Old feuds,” Dutch says softly. “They make men careless.”

“They also make men violent.”

“Yes, yes.” Dutch waves a hand. “Violence is the language of lesser minds. Fortunately, we speak many tongues.”

Hosea’s eyes narrow slightly. “Dutch.”

Dutch steps closer to Hosea, lowering his voice just enough that you have to strain to hear.

“So what are you suggesting?”

“Between the two families, there’s all this talk of confederate gold.”

Dutch smiles slowly. “You don’t say.”

Hosea almost smiles, wiping his brow again.

Dutch’s gaze sharpens, “Listen to what Hosea is saying. Two powerful families. Both proud. Both rich. Both hating each other so deeply that they likely cannot see the ground under their own feet. That, gentlemen, is opportunity.”

Arthur folds the rag over his revolver, finally entering the conversation. “Or a trap.”

“Everything is a trap if you walk into it blind,” Dutch says. “We won't be blind.”

Hosea tucks the newspaper back into his coat. “There’s also talk of moonshine. Lots of it. Braithwaites may be moving liquor. Grays may be trying to stop it, or steal it, or tax it. Depends who’s talking.”

Dutch’s smile widens.

“There,” he says. “Commerce.”

“Crime,” Hosea corrects.

Dutch spreads his hands. “In America, old friend, the distinction is mostly paperwork.”

That earns a tired chuckle from John near the fire. Even Javier grins into his coffee.

Arthur is not smiling. His face is hard, shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, but his gaze is fixed on Dutch and Hosea with the wary attention of a man who can already hear hoofbeats in the distance.

Hosea continues. “The Braithwaites think the Grays are beneath them. The Grays think the Braithwaites are poison. Both want to be seen as the true power in Scarlett Meadows.”

“And both will want outside hands,” Dutch says. “If those hands are useful.”

“Maybe.”

Dutch points at Arthur. “That is exactly why I need you to be subtle.”

Arthur’s expression sours. “Christ.”

Hosea looks toward him then, more serious. “Dutch is right about one thing. We need to know the ground. You take Lenny and maybe Bill into Rhodes again. Not to start anything. Just listen. Find out where the Grays drink. Where the Braithwaites send their wagons. Who hates who. Who owes money. Who’s scared. And for Christ’s sake, don’t start another bar fight. I heard that you slugged a man last night.”

“And Sean?” Dutch asks.

Hosea grimaces. “Only if you want subtlety shot dead in the street.”

Arthur gives a short laugh despite himself, though it fades quickly.

Dutch clasps his hands behind his back and looks pleased, almost serene, as if the day has offered him a shining apple and he has not yet seen the worm beneath the skin.

“Good,” he says. “Very good. This is precisely what we need. A divided kingdom.”

Dutch goes on talking, already spinning the first thread of the scheme.

The day is still hot. The creek bed still smells of clay and smoke. Arthur is still angry. And somewhere south, two old families sit behind gates and painted walls, waiting to be discovered by wolves who think themselves clever enough to prey on both.

-

By early afternoon, Arthur’s head still feels full of broken glass.

Each sound cuts. Sean’s voice cuts. Pearson’s ladle scraping the pot cuts. John’s boots in the dirt cut. Even the damn cicadas up in the trees sound like tiny saws worrying at his skull. But none of it cuts as deep as you walking away from him with that look on your face.

Arthur stalks toward his wagon because motion is easier than standing still. He finds the offending gun oil exactly where he left it.

That makes him angrier.

He snatches it from the crate and slams the lid shut. The bang sends a lance through his head. He swears, low and vicious, and presses the heel of his hand to one eye.

“Rough mornin’?”

Arthur does not turn. “Not now, Hosea.”

Naturally, Hosea comes closer.

The old man moves quietly when he wants to. Today he wants to. Arthur hears the faint crunch of dry clay beneath his boots, then the soft exhale as Hosea leans against the wagon.

“You and Missus Shaw seem cheerful.”

Arthur uncorks the oil. “Ain’t your business.”

“No,” Hosea says. “But that ain’t stopped me before.”

Arthur looks at him then. “I said not now.”

Hosea’s expression is mild, which means he is already angry. “You can snarl at me all you like. Won’t make you less a fool.”

Arthur laughs without humor. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“You callin’ me stupid. Always gets there eventually.”

“You certainly make it easy.”

Arthur turns away, jaw clenched. He picks up a revolver and begins cleaning it with more force than necessary. The cylinder spins under his thumb. Oil glints dark in the morning light.

Hosea watches him for a moment.

“You drunk?” he asks.

“Was.”

“Hungover, then.”

Arthur says nothing.

“Explains some of it.”

“Some of what?”

Hosea’s voice hardens. “I saw the way she looked at you this morning. Then I rode into Rhodes and heard why.”

Arthur’s hand stills. His eyes flick toward the laundry tubs despite himself. The laundry is done, and the women disbanded, but Hosea knows who he is looking for.

“She’s mad,” he says.

“Course she is.”

“She got a reason to be?”

“Probably,” Arthur admits, rubbing at his temple again.

“Did you frighten her?”

Arthur’s jaw tightens.

Hosea’s voice goes quieter. “Arthur.”

“I said things.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Arthur looks at his foster father. “You here to help or peck at me like a crow?”

“Depends whether there’s anything useful left on the carcass.”

Despite himself, Arthur almost smiles. Almost. It dies before it reaches his mouth. He sets the revolver down and drags both hands over his face. The hangover pulses behind his eyes, but beneath it is something worse. A sick, low ache. Not the easy kind that can be beaten out of a man in a fistfight or drowned under whiskey.

He thinks of you saying he gives orders. He thinks of Owanjila and the moonlight. He thinks of Valentine. Of leaving you.

“I ain’t mean to be ugly,” he says, so quietly Hosea almost does not hear.

“I know.”

“That don’t fix it.”

“No,” Hosea says. “It doesn’t.”

Arthur picks up his hat from the wagon and puts it on, tugging the brim low. “I need to get outta camp.”

“Arthur.”

“I need air.”

“You need sense.”

“Fresh out.”

Hosea steps in front of him before he can move off. The old man’s eyes are clear and tired and full of that terrible fatherly disappointment Arthur has never learned how to withstand.

Arthur exhales through his nose.

Hosea sees it all. Of course he does.

“Arthur,” he says softly. But Arthur steps around him. He does not go far, only to the far edge of camp, where the old creek bed narrows, and the roots claw out from the banks like fingers. He lights a cigarette with hands that are steadier than he feels. Smoke fills his lungs, bitter and familiar.

Behind him, camp carries on. Ahead, the road waits.

Arthur smokes half the cigarette before throwing it down and crushing it beneath his boot.

By early evening, the heat has gone coppery and mean. It sits low in the creek bed, caught between the white clay banks, trapped under the roots and wagons and canvas, pressing sweat beneath collars and sourness into every look. Supper comes and goes with little ceremony. Pearson’s stew is ladled out. Tin spoons scrape against tin bowls. Someone laughs on the far side of camp, but the sound dies quickly, as if even joy knows better than to linger too long in this fetid air.

At your end of the fire, there is mostly silence. Abigail eats with Jack tucked against her side, her eyes occasionally lifting toward you but never staying long. Mary Beth sits close enough that her skirt brushes yours, a quiet kind of comfort she does not force. Tilly picks at her food and watches the flames with a thoughtful frown.

Arthur keeps to the far side of camp.

He speaks only when spoken to. Even then, his answers are short, gruff things, half-swallowed before they can become conversation. His shoulders stay tight beneath his shirt. His hat is pulled low. 

You feel Arthur’s eyes on you more than once.

You never give him the satisfaction of meeting them.

Let him look. Let him sit over there with his wounded pride and his hangover and all those things he refuses to say. Let him stew in it the way the rest of you stew in this cursed heat.

That is what you tell yourself. It doesn’t help.

When the sky finally darkens into a deep indigo, and the first stars blink through the branches overhead, you stand without a word and carry your bowl to Pearson’s wash basin. The campfire snaps softly behind you. Somewhere near the horses, leather creaks. Dutch’s voice murmurs low from his tent. The rest of camp begins to loosen into the night, bodies drifting toward bedrolls, bottles, cigarettes, and whatever small comforts can be stolen before sleep.

You slip away to the women’s lean-to.

Mary Beth offers you a small, worried smile as you pass, but she does not follow. Abigail is already curled beside Jack, one arm thrown over him, her breathing slow and even. Tilly is a dim shape in the corner, snoring softly with her shawl bunched beneath her cheek. Susan Grimshaw is absent, likely still making some final round of camp like a general inspecting a battered army.

You are grateful for the quiet.

You crawl into your bedroll fully dressed, boots kicked off, but skirt still tangled around your legs. The canvas above you sags low, patched and stained, the pitch of the lean-to pressing down like a held breath. The night air is thick and humid, carrying the distant snorting of the horses, the hum of insects, and the occasional pop of the dying fire.

Every small sound feels too loud. A murmur near the men’s wagons. A horse blowing through its nose. A tin cup knocked softly against wood. Your own breathing.

You turn onto your back and stare up at the sagging canvas.

You are furious with him.

Furious at the way he looked at you this morning, like you were something he both wanted and resented. Furious at the way he pushes and pulls, saves and wounds, touches tenderness with one hand and reaches for cruelty with the other.

Furious that even now, hours later, your body still remembers him. The shape of his hands.

The rough scrape of his voice when he told you what he wanted to do to you.

You close your eyes tightly.

You will not do this. Not here. Not with Tilly sleeping several feet away and Abigail breathing softly beneath her blanket. Not with the camp spread around you in the dark, full of ears and gossip and ghosts. Not with anger still sitting hot beneath your ribs.

But your body is a traitorous thing.

It remembers yesterday in pieces. His weight. His breath. The way his frame caged you in, covered you, and smothered you.

You press your thighs together beneath the blanket, trying to will the ache away, but it only sharpens.

“Damn you, Arthur,” you whisper into the dark.

The words vanish into the canvas and humid night.

Your hand slides down before you can talk yourself out of it.

The fabric of your skirt bunches at your waist. Your fingers slip beneath the thin cotton of your drawers and find you already wet, shamefully so. You bite the inside of your cheek to stay silent, eyes shut so tightly that little sparks bloom in the dark behind your lids.

You think of him anyway.

Of his broad shoulders braced over you yesterday. Of the ragged scrape in his voice when anger tipped into want. Of his hands braced beside your shoulders, keeping you there without touching what he threatened to take.

You imagine those same hands between your legs instead.

Thick fingers. Calloused skin. His mouth at your ear, voice rough and low, telling you to be quiet so the whole damn camp doesn’t hear.

Your breath hitches.

You circle your swollen clit with two fingers, quick and angry, chasing the feeling. Like if you can make yourself come apart fast enough, hard enough, you can burn him out of your blood. The tension coils tight in your belly, winding higher with every stroke of your most sensitive skin. Then it hits sharp and bright. You shove your face into the crook of your arm to muffle the small, choked gasp that escapes. Pleasure flashes through you in fierce waves, pulsing outward until your thighs tremble beneath the blanket and your fingers still against your own slick heat.

For a few seconds, there is nothing but the rush of it. The relief, the heat. Then it fades.

And the anger is still there.

Worse now, somehow. Now something thin and aching.

You lie there panting quietly, fingers still pressed between your legs, the cooling slickness of your arousal making you feel suddenly exposed despite the blanket pulled over you. Your heart beats too fast against your ribs. Your eyes sting with something that might become tears if you let it.

You withdraw your hand, wipe it against the edge of your blanket, and stare up at the sagging roof of the lean-to.

The ring at your throat has slipped loose from beneath your chemise. Frederick’s ring. Cold against your damp skin.

You close your fist around it until the metal bites your palm.

The ache between your thighs fades eventually.

Trust Dutch and Hosea to be up to no good, and rope you and Arthur straight into it.

They didn't say much, didn't give you any details. Just pressed a wad of bills into your palm and told you to head into town.

"Make yourself look proper," Dutch said. That was all.

And with money in your hand and the big city at your feet, who are you to argue?

You're certain the dress hugging your figure is something the women in higher places wear to just about any old party. Near enough to silk for the sort of men Dutch means to fool.

But to you? It's a marvel.

Satin that sits just right, stays that cradle instead of poke, petticoats that whisper with every step.

You look like a thousand dollars and some change.

Least, that's what Mary-Beth says.

All Tilly and Karen can muster are jaws on the floor, eyes all but falling from their sockets.

"Arthur sees you, he ain't gonna make it," Tilly utters, fanning herself.

Molly just rolls her eyes. She always was a woman of few words.

Even still, she mutters a quiet, "Guess it ain't half bad," before turning her attention elsewhere.

The girls are fussing over you—fixing an errant curl into place, straightening your gloves, adjusting a ribbon—when a familiar voice cuts in.

"Ladies."

You glance up, and there stands Hosea—hands tucked easy into his vest pockets, looking you over with quiet approval.

He nods, then asks, "Mind stealin' a minute?"

Your eyes narrow immediately.

"That depends. What you need?" you ask, tilting your head. Curious, cautious.

Hosea's always had a way of convincing you to do things, and it almost always has to do with—

"Arthur's havin' himself a little crisis."

Karen snorts. You don't so much as blink as you glance behind him toward the house.

"That so?"

"Mm," he hums, rocking back on his heels.

"Claims he looks ridiculous."

Your face softens despite yourself.

Hosea notices—of course he does. Everyone knows as much as the two of you butt heads, you can't help yourself where Arthur's concerned.

Apparently, neither can he.

"Thought maybe someone might talk sense into him."

You don't budge, huffing indignantly.

"Why me?"

A moment passes, the girls watching on as it stretches in the air between you. Then—

"Because you're his date, aren't you?"

Mary-Beth's hand claps over her mouth, and Tilly? Well, she looks like the cat that got the cream.

"Oh, I knew it!" she exclaims. "How sweet."

You make an attempt to catch your bearings, but all your thoughts fall apart like a wagon wheel come undone.

"I ain't his—"

"For appearances," Hosea says innocently.

Whatever he finds in your expression, it's enough to make him pause, sighing fondly.

"Though I suspect Arthur may disagree."

With that, he wanders off, leaving you staring after him, lips parting like a fish out of water.

Now what the hell are you meant to do with that?

"Well?" says Mary-Beth, staring at you expectantly. "Ain't you gonna check on him?"

You huff, drop your arms to your sides. "Yeah, yeah. I'm goin'."

Javier gives you a whistle as you pass, saying something about you holding out on them. Rolling your eyes, you grin, passing him by with a thump to the back of the head.

"Where you goin'?" he calls out, rubbing where your hand connected with his hair.

"Gotta see about a man in a suit."

You round the corner, take the stairs two at a time, holding up your skirts as you go.

Doesn't take you long to find him. Could've picked the right door blind, with the way your heart's carrying on.

Without a word, you slip inside, shut it gently at your back.

And good grief, the sight of him stops you in your tracks, kills every quip you were holding on the tip of your tongue.

There he stands—tailored suit, bowtie undone, hair fixed up like you've never seen before.

A sight for sore eyes.

Reckon you've been parched for quite some time, the way you're drinking him in like water in a barren desert.

When his gaze finds yours in the mirror, you both freeze at once.

But you see it.

The way his eyes drop to the dress clinging to you in all the right places—lingering at the neckline long enough to make your pulse jump—before jerking forward once more.

You don't miss the way his jaw tightens, wrought with tension.

Taking a deep breath, you cross the room slowly, heels clicking with every step.

"...You alright?" you ask quietly, watching him shift on his feet, discomfort on his face plain as day.

He snorts, looking back to his reflection, fingers yanking at his tie.

"Look a damn fool," he mutters.

"Oh, hush," you chide, inching closer. "Let me—"

"Naw." He bats the offer away before you can finish. "I got it. Don't worry none—"

But you're already there, hands sliding beneath his, easing them down.

Your fingers brush the warm skin at his throat as you take hold of the bowtie at both ends, doing it up easy.

"Mm," you hum, fighting a smile. "Makin' a right mess of it."

A quiet little laugh escapes your nose. Arthur watches closely as you fix the knot into place—not too loose, not too tight.

Just right.

You smooth your hands along his jacket—adjust his lapels like they aren't sitting fine already, brush away imaginary dust from his shoulders, fingers taking their time running down his arms.

"There. All done," you murmur, eyes on his mouth.

He doesn't look at you. Not until your finger hooks beneath his chin, angling his head until he can't avoid it any longer.

"Nervous?"

He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet room.

"I look nervous?" he asks, voice low.

The laugh you give him is soft, a smile curling your lips before you think better of it.

"Your tie sure did."

He stares so long, your cheeks start to burn beneath the rouge dusted over them. But you don't look away. Even as his eyes flick down to the fabric draped along your body once more before returning to meet yours.

"New dress?"

His fingers brush the fabric, curiosity getting the best of him, his hand settling at your waist. When he's certain you won't shy away, his fingers curl around your hip—steady now, no hesitation left in him.

You nod, bite the inside of your cheek before asking what's been on your mind since you walked through the door.

"You like it?"

He glances at you once—quick, like looking too long might lead to him doing something he can't take back.

"Looks nice."

He pauses.

"Real nice."

Your hand rises to rest on his chest—unmoving, just feeling—before slipping beneath his jacket to feel the heat of him through his underclothes.

"I like the suit... Looks good on you," you murmur.

His lips twitch—almost a grin, but not quite enough.

"Ain't nothin' special."

You frown at the way he shifts, looking at himself in the mirror like the man staring back just ain't quite right.

"What are you on about?"

He shrugs, rolls his shoulders. His hand finds yours, covering it on his chest, holding it there.

As if you'd ever dream of pulling away.

"Arthur—"

"Just ain't much to look at is all," he mutters.

You blink, a couple times, half-convinced he's lost his damn mind.

He's looking at the floor now, touch going slack against yours. You turn your hand, lacing your fingers, press the back of it flat to your chest where your heart thuds a rapid pace.

"That what you think?" you breathe, letting him feel it.

How he affects you.

How the sight of him now is doing little good to your composure.

How his touch, and the weight of those eyes on you, shakes you to the core.

His jaw loosens at your whispered words.

"Don't look myself," he says quietly.

"It's just a suit," you reassure him. "Same man wearin' it."

He doesn't believe it—not even close. But you won't leave it there.

"Arthur Morgan, have you looked at yourself?"

He scoffs, shakes his head.

"Every damn day."

"Then I reckon you ain't lookin' hard enough."

Cupping his face, your thumb grazes his cheek.

"I'm s'posed to find somethin' wrong with this?"

"Don't you start—"

Before he can protest, you're on your toes, pressing a kiss to his lips that lasts longer than it needs to. Enough for you to feel the hitch in his breath, his fingers tightening where they hold you still.

"What kinda woman you take me for?" you whisper against his mouth. "Think I don't know what I got?"

You trail kisses to his cheeks—the left, then the right, a firm press of your lips to his skin.

"Think I don't love the man beneath all this?"

You move along the strong line of his jaw, down his neck to where his pulse flutters relentlessly beneath the hot press of your tongue.

"Darlin', ain't a thing about you that doesn't drive me wild," you murmur, nipping lightly at the space beneath his ear.

"Christ," he mutters. "The hell you doin' to me, woman."

He rubs at his jaw, all flustered and red. You'll never tire of seeing him like this—not for a second.

"We got places t'be."

"Don't you preach at me. We ain't in no rush," you say, watching him sigh when his fingers find the scar on his chin.

You notice—ain't a thing about the man that slips past you.

"Almost forgot," you say suddenly, rising again to press a slow kiss to the mark. Long enough to remind him it's just another thing about him you can't help but love.

His brows draw tight, watching you in surprise, reverence taking its place soon after.

Stepping back with a playful grin, you adjust his collar and make your way to the door.

"Go on and finish up, cowboy."

Then, tossing his words right back, you say, "'We got places to be,' after all."

He doesn't get a word in before you're gone, slipping out of the room, the smell of your perfume lingering long after.

Out front, you nearly collide head first with Hosea where he leans against a railing, watching you with thinly-veiled amusement.

He knows too much. Old man's got eyes in the back of his head.

"He alright in there?"

You pause, the memory of what you just did flashing in your mind, and cast a brief glance back at the house.

"He's just fine," you say, a lilt in your voice you couldn't hide if you tried.

Hosea studies your face a beat too long.

The pleased little curl of your mouth, the way you won't quite meet his gaze, cheeks a touch too flushed.

His lips twitch.

"Thought as much."

You'd only snapped out of your idle, aimless thoughts while staring through the barred cell window when a set of keys had been tossed over the Sheriff's desk with a raucous jangling. Irritably, you only spared him a peripheral glare before bringing your knees up toward your chest, hunched over to interlock your arms across them; You still needed to ruminate on a solution of this bullshit situation.

Some loud-mouth had gotten smart with you in the saloon down the way a couple days back, and you'd biffed him something fierce. He'd socked you good in return, tried to turn a knife from behind the bar on you before you'd shot him.

It was instinct; Defense, you protested.

They threw you in a cell nonetheless.

This town was a good distance from their current camp, but you had a reason to be all the way out here in New territory; Let it be evident that folks in this corner of Montana didn't take manslaughter so lightly.

You were to be hung tomorrow.

The soft scrape of a match against a bootsole drew your attention back to the deputy -- whom, as of now, was temporarily occupying the Sheriff's shoes -- once more. He arrogantly kicked his feet up on the edge of the varnished table while cupping a hand around the butt of his cigar as he lit and puffed the cherry full; His eyes met yours with a pearly grin to crease the corners, blowing the tangy smoke from the corner of his mouth like a locomotive's scathing exhaust.

"So," he started casually, his dark mustache quirking with aloof amusement, "considering your condemned status; Any final meals on your mind before execution, sweetheart?"

You visibly turned your nose up at the impudent suggestion dancing on the young deputy's tone, scoffing at the impression you decided to leave hanging in the stuffy air. Not even if he were the last man on earth, would you let him even get a peck on the cheek.

"Aw, what's the matter?"

His chastising lilt grated on your nerves like a cat being stroked against the grain; And if you possessed a tail, it might have snapped in agitation. You shot him another glare instead, watching chapped lips suck around the end of the cigar and puff out another furl of smoke into the still air.

"It's just the pair of us here, darling," he attempted to negotiate, letting the cigar hang from between his lips as he stood with a flourish of his coat lapels to begin striding toward you.

A click from the door to his left would halt him in his tracks, each pair of eyes in the jailhouse shifting to the threshold as a figure engulfed the doorway.

Your eyes naturally flickered up toward the man's face hidden by the brim of a sand-blasted leather gamblers hat, and saw the familiar frayed wax-hemp for a hatband before you got to see the rest of his face.

Arthur had come to save your sorry-hide once again.

Your heart had soared with relief upon knowing that the gang had caught wind of your disappearance, but it plummeted right into your guts when you caught the brief, pointed snarl on Arthur's face when his eyes flickered to you in the opposite cell.

"Deputy," he began, cool as ice, shutting the door behind himself as he set his hand on his hip and kept the other on the door handle, "why ain't this young lady ready for transport?"

The deputy just gawked before he found his authority again, "Excuse me, mister?"

Arthur slowly advanced on the deputy with a curl set in his nose like a buggered mutt, hand retreating from the doorknob to snatch the lapel of his duster aside, flashing the brass star of a United States Marshal with a short-tempered growl; The Deputy followed Arthur's hand, and you could see his face go white as a sheet. "Go ahead and ask me another goddamn question, and I'll have your Sheriff tearing your ass raw," the undercover gunslinger barked as he jabbed a finger in the younger man's sternum.

"Y-Yes, Marshal, sir," was all he could muster under Arthur's intimidating shadow.

"Either you're too goddamn ignorant to be trusted with federal telegrams, or your Sheriff just didn't give a rat's ass to tell you in the first place -- here's hopin', for your sake." Arthur's ire was evidsnt on his voice, and you had a hunch that most of it would've been meant for you if this deputy hadn't been such a greenhorn.

Oh, but Marshal Morgan wasn't finished.

"You ought'a know the broad in that cell has a federal bounty, I've come to collect for my superiors, and I'm already way behind my schedule without this wench situated in a wagon upon my arrival, boy," Arthur lowed, leering over the deputy until his cigar smoke wafted near his face. In a fraction of a second, Arthur angrily snatched the cigar from his fingers to sneer a question that came off as an order, "Where the hell is your Sheriff, I want a word with him."

"Oh! Oh-ho, uh -- that's unnecessary, sir -- Marshal -- I'll get that all arranged for you right now. I just -- I had no idea --" the deputy scrambled in place for a moment to remedy this unfortunate coincidence before darting off toward the Sheriff's desk.

"I'll bet," Arthur deadpanned, unimpressed as he took a long pull from the cigar, watching the deputy scurry to the entry door before he hissed sharply. "Just -- For Christ's sake, boy, I'm already behind! Just bind her, I'm hittin' the damn breeze."

The deputy gaped again before padding past Arthur with a purpose, fiddling with the keyring he'd retrieved to unlock your cell. It was all you could do not to grin like a moron at the scene before you; Arthur quelling his ire with the deputy's smoke while the latter shat himself over being reprimanded by an alleged Fed.

You managed to rein it in by the time your hands were bound at the small of your back for 'transit' to your Federal reprimand, or whatever the hell; It didn't matter on this day. Still, you shot the deputy a look and feigned a silent gag as Arthur escorted you toward the door, if only to save your bruised pride after being catcalled by grass-bellied bastards all weekend.

The look on his face was befitting of an entitled man that could get a badge for a handout, and not pussy.

Arthur mumbled his gratitude -- for what it was worth -- as he passed the deputy, flicking the fresh cigar into the mud with a final drag once the door was shut behind him as you trampled down the pinewood stairs. Your small victory dissipated like dew under the high sun when you became aware of the thick, heavy air Arthur tensely exuded in his silence as he escorted you down the road by the elbow.

"You're goddamn lucky I caught wind of this," Arthur finally spoke up once they were out of the office's ear-shot, the vestiges of the cigar smoke from his last pull wisping in your periphery, his grip tightening on your arm. "I should'a left you to swing in the mornin'. Let y' think we'd forgotten all about you."

It could've been an empty threat, but that wasn't likely the case with a man of his caliber.

Your responsive chuckle was more to ease your own nerves than to annoy Arthur further; It wasn't received as such, evident in the way he jerked you outward and back into his side as if you'd been fighting your binds, "All you do is provoke me, woman."

"You don't even know what happened, you got no right to be --" you'd began with a start, head whirling around confrontationally before Arthur curtly cut you off.

Between the deputy and your incarceration, as well as your attitude, he seemed to be at his wits end. His hand tightened into a painful vice on your upper arm while the other snapped up to scruff you and yank your head backwards. While you jerked to retaliate Arthur's abrupt temerity, he practically hoisted you up by your bound arms and hauled-off into an alleyway within three strides.

It was a blur of stars and streetlight between your strands of hair, eyes transfixed on the sky above as you were moved between two tall buildings, dizzy with an adrenaline spike as Arthur threw you face-first into the oak shingles. You stumbled to catch yourself as your legs buckled, unable to flail your arms and spare yourself that way, you just wobbled upright the best you could. Right as you'd caught your footing, a numbing crack split the air and spun you around, pain blooming across your cheek in waves as you gasped aloud.

As soon as you'd registered that Arthur had slapped you, his bare hand seized your jaw with a bone-breaking grip, yanking you toward himself to snarl, "You're a fuckin' idiot, girl. Every town from here to Custer's heard about you shooting half a man's face off in a bar; Just how often do you think that happens?"

His breath was hot and seething, and from what you could see past the mess of your hair, he was enraged, now.

"He pulled a knife on me, Arthur!" You'd whinge, biting your lip when you felt it tremble with the waver in your voice.

"You shouldn't have been there in the first goddamn place," Arthur roiled like thunder, pushing your head back into the wall as he shifted his grip to your throat. "Should'a let you believe I'd let 'em stretch this pretty fuckin' neck o' yours, maybe then you'd be more thankful for what I do."

"I'm sorry, Arthur," you puffed while nervously wetting your lips, tasting a hint of copper on your tongue. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that -- I know, thank you for busting me out."

His lips pursed as his head reeled back in feigned contemplation, his other hand was gloved, reaching up to messily pet your hair out of your face. With a hum, he shook his head and shrugged, "Uht-uh. That's just not good enough for me this evenin'."

Before the words had even fully ran off his tongue, your world spun again, facing the wall with an airless gasp when Arthur flattened his chest against your back, his bare hand replacing itself around your front to cup your throat as he pressed his erection up against your ass with a groan.

"W-What are you doing?"

It was all happened quicker than your addled mind could keep-pace with, twisting at the hemp that bit into your wrists as Arthur flattened you against the wall and slotted his face against your neck. Squirming was goddamn useless; You were only grinding backwards into the tent of his trousers without your hands free, fruitlessly pressing him back and away only afforded him more opportunities.

"Arthur, stop it!"

When your ass pressed back into his cock as it jumped againat the fabric, Arthur reached around to palm your clothed sex in his gloved hand. His fingers kneaded into the seam of your jeans, bringing you up on your tiptoes by his grip under your cunt, lifting you backwards onto his dick as it throbbed against your mound.

"Shut the hell up," Arthur mumbled lackadaisically, entirely unamused by your chaste protests as he rutted into your clothed ass. "You owe me, woman, and I ain't letting your interest stack-up."

You bucked with a stifled whine when Arthur pulled his hand back and slapped your pussy through your jeans as if to drive his point. Then he was fumbling at the buttons in the front, only enough to loosen your waistband, giving himself ample room to shove his hand down your pants, plunging into your bloomers and between your legs while you writhed and thrashed.

"No! No, Arthur -- please, not there --"

"Shut your goddamn mouth, before I gag ya the rest of the way home!" Arthur thundered, shucking your pants past your ass to deliver two harsh slaps that lingered against your naked thigh. "I don't want your filthy fuckin' cunt, anyway. Christ-knows where you've been."

His hand found the front of your sex again, cramming past the hem of your jeans to swipe two fingers up the seam of your sex, an unbridled, throaty moan breaking past his locked teeth. You were drenched, embarrassingly so; Sticking to the inside of your bloomers, your cunt was absolutely drooling over his fingers.

"I can feel you through my damn gloves, dirty fuckin' girl," Arthur rasped into the crook of your neck, grazing his teeth over the column as he rutted against your bare ass with temptation. You knew he wanted it. No man in his right mind would pass-up a quick, sloppy fuck in this situation, but Arthur held onto his resolve.

He had enough discipline to know how he wanted you at the end of all this.

His leather-clad fingers slipped along the folds of your cunt from your clitoris to the fluttering ring of muscle that wept for his attention. He was appalled, if his open-mouth breathing beside your ear had anything to show for it; You felt his cock pulsing and jumping against your ass with each pass of his fingers.

"You're gonna stay quiet and make this shit up to me," Arthur whispered, his tender, careful tone misleading you into a false sense of security as his erection stirred against you. "Or I'm leaving you here when I'm done and you can fuckin' walk home.

All you could do was concur with a nod against the rough oak panels, a soft whine betraying your distress as Arthur twirled his finger around your clit.

In the same heartbeat, Arthur shifted focus and crammed two of his thick gloved fingers into your sopping cunt, tightening his grip on your throat when you instinctively tried to fold and buck away. He only adjusted his angle, fully sheathing his two digits into your spasming walls as his hips pressed you against his palm from behind.

Your hands fisted at the front of Arthur's shirt as he pumped his hand, jackrabbiting his hand into your pussy with a lewd, wet slapping noise as you struggled to acclimate. "You'd better make-do with this, sweet thing, 'cause this is all I'm giving you," Arthur huffed out, meeting the frenzied contortion of your hips with the outline of his cock, pulling back from biting at your shoulders only to watch the wet patch of pre-cum on his breeches spread.

Occasionally, the thumb-seam of his glove would nip into your clitoris and leave you spasming frantically, whimpering in frustration as you sought it out for a modicum of relief. Your arms flexed and pulled at your restraints, kneading at Arthur's shirt as he pummeled your cunt raw and pink.

He moved in a way that utilized your grip on his shirt, your desperate fumbling pulling the hem up from where he'd tucked it into his jeans earlier. His murky brain seemed to come-to once more, the firm collar around your throat retreating between them to thumb-open the buttons on his breeches, maneuvering his cock out of his union suit and into your restrained hands.

The hot, velvety flesh knocked against your palms with a heavy weight, feeling his bare hand wrap your fingers around his shaft as the other persisted until your knees buckled.

"Shit, baby, le'me fuck those hands," Arthur growled like a depraved hound in rut, his dribbling cock already humping into your clasped hands.

With your grip secure, Arthur wrapped his arm around you in a bear-hug, fixing his hold on you as he centered his attention once more as your moans rose in pitch, his wrist snapping harshly.

His entire glove must've been drenched at this point, gliding easily against your folds as you rolled into the seam at the heel of his palm, head canted back against Arthur's shoulder with ragged, uneven gasps for air. Arthur almost matched your octave when your grip strangled his cock, zeroed-in on your pleasure for now. "This is all you fuckin' get, all y'get --"

Your nails bit into Arthur's shaft when your mind blurred around the haze of your pleasure, spasming between him and the wall as you pursued your permitted summit, fucking yourself onto Arthur's fingers as your clit ached and your guts rolled with a blinding-white heat. Your orgasm was practically ruined against the seam of his glove, his cock throbbing in your hands instead of where you needed him most, clamping around absolutely nothing as Arthur withdrew his fingers at the last second to abuse your clit and draw-out your climax almost painfully as your brain fought between stroking him or bucking into his hand as you babbled nonsensically.

Arthur's warmth and presence separated from you almost instantly, your glossy eyes shooting open against the wall as you turned around to find where he'd gone, your thighs still shivering from the aftershocks. He stood with his cock in his gloved right hand, stroking your slick over the engorged, mauve head of his uncut dick as he took a mental image of your disheveled visage. It was always rather evident when he was committing something to memory for his journal later, and that inking on its own made you clench around nothing.

"On your knees, sweetheart," Arthur chuffed, rolling his hand over his shaft wetly.

Of course, until now, you might've spat on his face and tore off in the other direction just go spite him. That was before he'd fingerfucked you within an inch of your life, however; Your legs were still trembling and your breath still short, so you obeyed and lowered yourself to the gravel that bit into your knees.

Arthur groaned openly as he watched your slow descent, hissing inwardly when he reached out to paw at your flushed, teary face. "You look so fuckin' good like this, baby," he huffed, his pupils engulfing the sunflowers of his irises in the dark, stroking your hair back from your face to grab a fistful of it and guide her head toward his erection, "Go on, so I can take us home."

You yourself got a big photographic with him displayed before you like this; Thick, long legs parted in a wide stance, fully-clothed and absolutely debauched with his battered cock in-hand, damn-near drooling over the way you looked.

Small victories.

And brief ones.

Once your tongue rolled out of your mouth, Arthur tapped his head against your cheek and then your tongue, just to watch your face blench before thrusting into your hot mouth with a heady moan. His fist twisted your bundle of hair around his fist, admiring the way your lips stretched around his shaft, delving halfway into your mouth before you'd gag and attempt to withdraw. Your screwed-up expression made Arthur grin in that crooked fashion he always did, feeling it bolt straight to your mistreated sex in response.

"You can do much better with that filthy lil' mouth, pumpkin," Arthur purred misleadingly, petting your hair out of your face before slapping the opposite cheek to elicit a cry from your full lips. "All 'at talk earlier? For this kitten-lickin' shit?" Arthur slapped you again, his opposite hand pushing your head a tad further when you found a rhythm.

He continued like that, gripping your hair close to the scalp to hold your head in place as he began to fully thrust into your mouth, passing the wedge of your throat with a perverted, broken moan as you gagged, "Mh-hmfph -- My cockdrunk girl, look at'cha... Show your Marshal just how goddamn grateful you are, baby, go on -- Mmf-fuck."

Your face had flushed as tears sprung into your eyes, choking and gagging simultaneously as Arthur sheathed himself to the hilt, pressing your nose flush against the dirty-blonde curls at the base of his cock until you coughed and his thighs shook. Eventually, his second hand would join the other behind the crown of your skull, bringing your face to meet his hips with each thrust as his balls applauded against your chin, switching between drilling into your throat and holding you in place until your throat clicked.

He was speaking absolute nonsense as your head bobbed, babbling and cooing praise in spite of his temper from earlier, peppering his affection to keep you from breaking away entirely. Arthur cussed as his head rolled back on his shoulders, shuddering before he folded over to watch you, "Fuck-baby-I'm-gonna-cum -- Christ alive, fuck!"

With a wheeze that tapered-off into a weak roar, Arthur exploded down your throat with a final thrust, panting hoarsely as he basked in the warmth of your mouth for a moment. He let you pull back from his musky pubic hairs a smidge, but refused to give you full control just yet as he let himself grow soft on your tongue.

"Show me," his command surprised you as he pulled his hips back, your lips releasing his cockhead with a soft pop as he pulled your head back to inspect your flushed, tear-tracked face. Astounding yourself, you unrolled your tongue to show him the pearlescent cum congealed on your tongue, studying Arthur's own scrutable astonishment as he cupped your jaw.

"Swallow it."

And you did; Closing your mouth, you gulped his tangy seed down with a sigh, absentmindedly licking your lips of any residue as Arthur's mouth fell open with a lewd moan.

He said nothing when he pulled you back up to your feet and wrapped you up in his arms to seal his drooling mouth to your own, lapping against your tongue to taste himself, allowing you a sample of that cigar from earlier along with it. You could've came again right then and there as Arthur practically devoured you, reaching around to knead the bare globes of your ass, dangerously close to your pulsating cunt, licking into your mouth until he'd had his fill, withdrawing only to reprimand you half-heartedly.

"Don't you ever do this shit again. You wait for me from now on," Arthur demanded, pinching your stinging cheeks together to drive his point home as you blinked at him.

You only nodded. He seemed pleased with that.

Arthur helped you put yourself back together after stuffing himself away into his jeans again, fixing your bloomers and breeches back into place, neatly tucking your shirt back in while your hands were still bound.

"Hey, d'you mind, Marshal?" you teased, smirking to yourself as you turned and flapped your hands at him pointedly.

Arthur just scoffed, perching his hands on his hips, "And how would that look on my record, lil' lady?"

"Wouldn't be the first time a U.S. Marshal partook in negotiations, no?"

He barked a short laugh, "Not this one."

He moved quicker than you again, even with most of his blood still accumulated in his cock, Arthur managed to grapple you to the dirt quickly. You almost shouted on instinct before remembering yourself, and you were only able to writhe for a moment anyway before his weight was on you, tugging at your ankles after bringing them together.

"The fuck are you doing, Arthur?!" You hissed in annoyance, feeling something cinch your ankles together before Arthur rolled you onto your back, pulling you up by the collar to sit-up so he could haul you up and over his shoulder.

Then you yelped, struggling to wriggle away as his arm strapped across the backs of your knees. You knew he wore that crooked, facetious grin.

"That's Marshal Morgan to you, ma'am," Arthur correctly truffle as he turned out of the alley, you watched the world pass from above behind Arthur's back as he made his way toward Boadicea. "Now, I'd hate to gag a lady, so please keep the complaints to a minimum," Arthur piped, reaching up to pat your ass before depositing you over Boadicea's dappled croup with a wheeze.

"You really are a fucking asshole," you growled, going limp once you knew your protests would get you nowhere.

Arthur mounted up with ease, turning Boadicea down the uneven road out of town, her gait punching into your diaphragm with each stride. Your alleged captor reached backwards to give your upper thigh a reassuring squeeze through your jeans, his pinky covertly stroking your sensitive pussy as he did.

Opportunistic pervert.

you had chirped with as much politeness as your small frame could muster, the proprietor, holden, had tasked you with watching the shop, to welcome every soul unless they drew a gun or smelled of trouble, and to keep the interior pristine, to which you had agreed eagerly, joyous to be entrusted with such an important responsibility, this man was your first visitor of the day, looming in the doorway with a rugged presence, weapons anchored to his hips and a belt buckle that caught the light fracturing through the glass door, seeming taken aback by your vibrant energy, but his smile only widened

the corner of his pale lips lifting in a slow, amused curve, stepping inside with a heavy, swaying gait, managing the weight of his gun belt as he reached for the chair you had offered, not waiting for you to return from the corner where you’d stowed the broom, instead, he tucked his hat behind his back and sank into the leather, stifling a groan of relief as the seat met his aching spine, voice emerging gravelly, sleepier than he cared to admit, as he silently vowed to let this be a day of rest, all while the steady clatter of your heels against the tile heralded your approach.

“arthur is fine, no need for sir, sweet missy, but ah do wonder now.. just how bad i look if ya understood what aah'm here for so quickly”

his nonchalant compliment brought a shy smile to your lips, making you appear far sweeter than he could ever have expected, you laughed softly at his self deprecating humor, truly, he was anything but a mess, compared to the men who usually frequented the shop, those premature balding or wearing absurdly styled mustaches, he was undeniably handsome, his voluminous hair had grown long, but it suited him, though you could already see the shaggy ends in need of the trim you were about to provide, his patchy beard requiring shaping

yet it could not mar such a face, with it's strong, slightly crooked nose and a chiseled jawline, the scatter of freckles and moles across his tanned skin giving him a rugged, boyish charm, but it was his piercing aquamarine eyes that captivated you most, framed by long lashes that fanned against his cheekbones as he tilted his head back, welcoming the wet warmth of the towel against his jaw with a startled chuckle as you gave a sheepish reassurance, burying your fluster in the task at hand.

“you don't look bad at all, actually”

oh, how attentive you were, ensuring his skin was as soft as a babe’s before applying the cloud like lather, the razor, straight and sharp, was a mere ghost against his skin as you traced the line of his jaw toward his ears, repeating the motion with meticulous care, you were determined to make him the handsomest outlaw in the territory, though you remained blissfully unaware that this was his identity, flitting around him, checking his reflection from every angle to see if the shape of his beard matched the vision in your mind

and when you tilted his chin upward and beamed down at him, pretty eyes crinkling with pride, he prayed his sun scorched cheeks wouldn't betray a deeper flush, feeling himself melting under your touch, a foolish old soul undone by the simplest kindness, you were perhaps a decade his junior, though a woman’s age was ever a mystery, yet, that gap did nothing to douse the smoldering heat pooling in belly's pit, an unacknowledged, unmistakable spark, one that made him dwell on thoughts he had no right to harbor, that made his trousers strain it's crotch seams.

this shouldn't have been such an ordeal, truly, he had survived bullet wounds and brutal beatings, yet faltered at the sight of a lovely girl and the impossible tenderness of her hands, sitting still as you combed through his hair, untangling knots and dampening the ends to judge their unevenness before bringing the shears to trim them away, arthur did not move, his eyes flickered shut as the struggle to keep his heavy eyelids open proved futile, the sensation of your fingertips massaging his scalp and your nails grazing his skin sent a jolt of sparks up his spine

a bowing shiver he fought to suppress, trying to avert his gaze whenever he opened his eyes, only to find your curvy cleavage right there, swaying beside his face as you reached for a comb, dress collar gaping enough to let him glare on the curvy tits held there, squeezed within fabric and a couple buttons, you were an innocence no whore or bath girl could possess, an untouched softness that made his pulse thrum with a quiet hunger, wondering, tongue rolling over upper teeth, just how malleable you might be beneath his weathered hands.

when you had finished and set aside the basin with a towel and shears, turning to sweep the remnants of his hair from the floor, arthur finally stole a glance at his reflection, for perhaps the first time in his life, he was truly pleased with what he saw, gone was the grime, the grease, and the patchy, unkempt beard, it had been trimmed to a length that was practical for his way of life, short enough to remain clean in the grime and heat of the road, yet well formed, his thumbs tracing the line of his jaw, finding the skin softer than it had ever been, the ridged scars pale beneath his touch, his hair now framed his face

squaring the lines at his temples while remaining long enough at the nape to curl against his collar, held in place by the pomade you had expertly applied, it had been an age since he felt no urge to turn away from his own image, with the seat's leather creaking softly, he donned his hat, tipping it back so his face remained out the shadows, approaching as you brushed your blue hem clean, and when he saw the way you looked at him, as if he were a man truly worth seeing, he extended three dollar bills, a payment far more generous than you could accept, lips parting round in surprise, refusing when anyone would've accepted with a lie.

“just take 'em, darlin', ain't gonna git robbed by payin' for such a fine skill ya have”

one does not refuse money twice, not in a world as lean as this, so you accepted the bills with a grateful bow, tucking them away into the small leather satchel that sat upon the wooden table, just beneath the shelf of personalized shaving mugs. arthur wondered if he might ever have a mug of his own there, but that would imply a return, and he was not a man of habit, save for his visits to the gunsmith, yet, as he watched you, his legs felt like lead, anchored by a sudden reluctance to leave, he knew then, with a quiet certainty, that he would eventually find his way back to this too bright shop, as he turned to depart

tipping his hat in farewell, yet not even stepping out to the street before your hand caught his wrist, a small scrap of paper pressed into his calloused palm, fingers brushing yours in a fleeting, electric touch, he didn't need to smooth the parchment to see the name scribbled there, your name, granting him the chance to return, to know exactly whom he would seek, and whose name would haunt his panting grunts in the tent's solitude, palm gripping at twitching cock, hard and straining upwards, weeping thick beads of precum.

a proper man doesn't dreams a lady that caught his eyes in such position, fingers carding through the sweaty hairs at his nape, nails biting down when his thrusts would quicken, gummy cunt clamping around hammering girth, hips tilting to align with every movement, dripping wet to coat his wiry pubes in a translucent sheen, how you would sound when whining a little, blabbering his name, those tits bouncing, flesh jiggling and bruising beneath fondling palm, mouth lax with pleasure that ends up in quaking limbs

eyes all glazed and hidden beneath clumped lashes, gaze even more sweet when so lost, and he wonders if you would smile the same when licking his own cum off his roughened digits, hooked at your lower teeth and massaging down wriggling tongue, cheeks hollowing, thrusts faltering in dripping, needily spasming hole, every moan punched to it's pitch, the chirps only he could hear, having you pinned to the bed, legs wrapped loose at his broad hips, fucked by a not proper man at all.