What Comes After
Been a hot minute since I dropped anything here, so here’s a little something I cooked up:
✨ Arthur Morgan x Self-Insert (Yes, me. Obviously. Who else deserves him?)
This is what happens when you’re still feral for a fictional outlaw in 2025 and you decide he doesn’t die, actually. He survives, settles down, rails me against furniture, and gets the soft, filthy peace he earned.
💥 Explicit content ahead. Like, really explicit. Dresser sex. Barn sex. Domestic softness. Dirty talk that could knock the hat off your head. You’ve been warned.
🔪 Canon-divergent. Emotions and filth in equal measure. Arthur lives. Dutch dies. And I get railed. Balance.
ACT I - The Fractured Family
The water stinks of rot and stillness.
Thick with moss and mud, the Lannahechee stretches out before me, swollen and unmoved, like it knows we’ve lost too much already to ask for calm. I sit at the edge of the dock with my boots dangling inches above the gator-infested water, arms wrapped around my knees as dusk bleeds into the cypress canopy overhead.
How the hell did it come to this?
What’s left of our “family” is scattered like ash in the wind. Hosea. Lenny. Sean. Even Miss Grimshaw. Dead. Charles and Uncle vanished. And Dutch… God, Dutch turned into something unrecognizable. I don’t even know what to call him now.
All I know is that Arthur told me to come here. “Copperhead Landing,” he said, voice low and urgent. “Take Tilly and Jack. Get the hell outta Beaver Hollow. I’ll come for you.”
So I did. We hid in the caves while the Pinkertons came, Tilly keeping Jack calm while I kept watch, rifle trembling in my hands. Abigail didn’t make it out. They grabbed her—dragged her away kicking and screaming while the rest of us ran.
I didn’t get a shot in. I didn’t even try. I just ran.
The guilt sits heavy in my stomach. Like swamp water I swallowed and never coughed back up.
Behind me, Tilly hums softly, her fingers combing through Jack’s hair as he lies curled in her lap, exhausted and dirty, cheeks still tear-streaked. She’s brave—stronger than most of the men who ever rode with us. But I can see the flicker in her eyes. She’s scared too.
We’re all scared. We just pretend better now.
The sudden crackle of hooves on gravel snaps me upright. I jump to my feet, rifle in hand before my brain even catches up.
Two silhouettes appear down the trail, backlit by fading amber sky. One tall and solid. The other smaller and clinging to the first like salvation.
Please. Please…
As they get closer, I let out a breath so sharp it makes my chest ache.
“Abigail,” I whisper, already moving forward. She’s slumped behind Sadie on a horse I don’t recognize. Her face is pale and her arms are wrapped tightly around the other woman’s waist.
Sadie reins the horse in. “She’s alright,” she says, already swinging a leg over. “Little roughed up, but she’s here.”
I help Abigail down—her legs shaking so bad I barely catch her. Jack scrambles up from behind me with a shout and barrels into her, and she collapses to her knees, clutching him like she might disappear again.
I barely hear them crying over the blood roaring in my ears.
“Where’s Arthur?” I ask. My voice cracks on his name.
Sadie’s face goes grim. “He went back. Said he needed to finish it.”
“What?” I take a step back. “Back where?”
“Beaver Hollow. He said Micah’s the rat.”
My stomach turns. “Then I should go. He’ll need—”
“No,” she cuts me off. Her arm is now tight around my arm. “He told me to keep you here.”
I wrench free. “Sadie—he could be walking into a trap. What if—?”
“He’s not alone,” she says, quieter this time. “John’s with him. Arthur said he’ll come back. That you’d wait.”
I open my mouth. Close it again. My jaw aches hard enough to ache.
Of course Arthur said that. Of course he’d ride into hell just to burn it down for the rest of us. And of course he’d tell me to stay behind like I’m a goddamn porcelain doll.
Sadie squeezes my shoulder again, but less firm now. “He’s strong, Zoe. Too damn stubborn to die.”
I nod, but I don’t believe her. Not fully.
I help Abigail to the shack nearby—there’s barely enough room for the four of us, but we make do. Jack curls up beside her, and Tilly brings them some stale biscuits. Sadie sharpens her knife by the fire, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the flames.
I sit beside Abigail on the floor, one arm wrapped around her shoulder, the other pressed over my racing arm.
“I know you’re scared,” she says softly, eyes on the fire. “I am too.”
I nod. “But he’s coming back.”
She doesn’t answer.
So I say it again—louder this time, like it’ll make it true.
“He will come back.”
My fingers curl into the fabric of her sleeve, I stare into the flames like I can conjure him with nothing but faith and fury.
“He has to.”
The sky splits open with a crack like God’s fury, and still—no Arthur.
I sit on the floor beside the dying fire, staring at the flames like they owe me answers. Rain lashes against the tin roof in irregular bursts, and each one makes me flinch. My clothes stick to my skin, and the humidity presses against my chest.
Tilly is asleep—or trying to be—curled protectively around Jack in the corner. Abigail’s beside them, silent and wide-eyed. She hasn’t said much since getting back. I don’t blame her.
Sadie stands by the door with a rifle slung across her back and one hand braced against the frame. Every time lightning flickers across the swamp, she leans forward like she might spot a shadow on the trail. She hasn’t moved in over an hour.
Then—another crack of thunder, and through the darkness… hoofbeats.
My heart leaps.
“Sadie—”
We’re already moving, boots thudding on damp wood, the rain slicing into us as we step onto the porch.
Two horses emerge from the tree line like ghosts, soaked and trembling, their riders barely upright.
“Arthur,” I breathe, already moving.
He half-falls off the saddle and meets me halfway. I crash into his chest with a sob I didn’t even know I was holding in, locking my arms around his neck. He’s soaked to the bone, muddy and bleeding and shaking. But he’s here.
He’s here.
Hey now, darlin’. I’m alright,” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse. One hand cups the back of my head, the other pressing into the small of my back like he’s making sure I’m real. “I told you I’d come back.”
“I thought—” My voice cracks. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, rain dripping down the edge of his jaw. His face is scraped, bruised, a cut across his temple still bleeding. But his eyes… his eyes are alive.
“You really think I’d let you go that easy?” His mouth twitches into something close to a smile. “Not a damn chance.”
Behind him, John staggers off his horse straight into Abigail’s arms. She clutches him like he’s made of smoke and she’s afraid the wind will take him. Jack is crying, and Tilly rushes to help John into the shack.
Sadie meets Arthur’s eyes for a long second before nodding. “I’ll get the horses stabled. You two—talk.”
I don’t let go of him. Not even when he tries to shift his weight. I can feel the way his shoulders shake, the tension coiled so tight it’s a miracle he’s still standing.
“Come inside,” I whisper, tugging at his shirt. “Let me look at you.”
“No.” He breathes deep, like he’s been holding it in since the mountain. “Not yet.”
He guides me under the porch, out of the worst of the rain. Thunder cracks again, a roar above us as he leans against one of the posts, dragging a hand through his wet hair.
“It’s done,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Micah’s dead. Dutch too.”
My stomach flips. “Dutch?”
Arthur nods. “Pinkertons shot ‘em both. We made it out just ahead of ‘em. Got what we could and burned the rest.”
His eyes close. “Dutch… he lost himself. Maybe we all did.”
I reach out. This time, he lets me. I press my hand to his chest. His heart is hammering under my palm.
“What matters,” I say, “is that you came back.”
He opens his eyes and looks at me like I’m a miracle he doesn’t deserve.
“We need a place,” he says softly. “Somewhere quiet. Away from all this.”
Sadie steps up beside us, rain dripping off her hat. “There’s a place. Hanging Dog Ranch. Out by Strawberry. We’ve been there before—it’s empty bow. Tucked away and easy to defend.”
Arthur nods. “Then that’s where we’ll go.”
I lean into him, and this time, he wraps his arms around me without hesitation. I press my forehead to the underside of his jaw and breathe him in—gunpowder, rain, sweat and something else. Mine.
He presses a slow and deliberate kiss to the top of my head.
“I ain’t ever leavin’ you behind again,” he whispers against my hair.
I clutch his shirt like it might disappear with him, fingers fisting the soaked fabric.
“You better not,” I whisper back.
He kisses my forehead once more, lingering like he’s making a promise. Then he rests his cheek against my hair and holds me like I’m the only thing tethering him to this new world.
And maybe I am.
ACT II - The Reckoning and the Rise
The sound of hooves, for once, is a comfort.
Arthur rides beside me, his silhouette outlined in silver by the moonlight that manages to filter through the trees. The Dakota River curves alongside the trail, rushing and relentless, swollen from last night’s storm. We’re maybe two thirds of the way to Hanging Dog Ranch. Sadie and the others took a different route to avoid patrols. It’s just us now.
Just me and him.
And silence.
Not the awkward kind. Not anymore. The silence is heavy with everything unsaid—everything that’s built between us since the world fell apart.
I glance over at him. His hat’s pulled low, his jaw shadowed with stubble, a cut still scabbed raw along his cheekbone. His posture’s tired, but solid. Controlled. Like always.
He’s never looked more beautiful.
I swallow hard and look ahead again.
We ride until the moon is straight above us, and then Arthur reins us to a clearing by the riverbank. The trees part just enough to offer a break from the wind, and the fire he builds is small but warm. We don’t talk much, just set up camp like we’ve done a hundred times before, muscle memory guiding our hands.
It feels… safe. Familiar.
Dangerous.
I sit cross-legged by the fire, chewing the last of a biscuit while Arthur leans back against a log, one knee drawn up, arms resting on it. he watches the flames, face unreadable. Always watching. Always holding everything too close to his chest.
“Do you ever think about it?” I ask, surprising even myself with the question.
He tilts his head. “What’s that?”
“If we’d all just walked away. Back when Hosea said we should. Before everything went to hell.”
He’s quiet for a long time. Then:
“Yeah,” he says softly. “All the damn time.”
The fire crackles between us. I look into the embers so I don’t have to look at him.
“I think about who I’d be if none of this happened,” I murmur. “If we got out clean. If… if I didn’t lose everyone.”
“You didn’t lose me.” His voice is low and almost rough.
That pulls my eyes back to him.
He’s watching me now—really watching. That intense, unreadable gaze that always makes my skin feel too tight. My breath catches, caught between panic and want.
I nod. “No. I didn’t.”
His brow furrows like he’s thinking something he’s not ready to say. Then he shifts, pushes off the log, and walks over to me.
He doesn’t ask.
He just sits behind me with his legs on either side of me, and his chest pressed to my back. The warmth of him floods through me like a fever.
I tense up for half a second—then melt. My spine relaxes against him without permission.
Arthur reaches forward slowly, his fingers brushing a bit of damp hair from my cheek and tucking it behind my ear. They linger, calloused pads grazing the curve of my jaw.
“You’re my girl. You know that?” he murmurs.
My throat tightens. I want to turn around, want to straddle him and kiss him until he forgets everything we’ve lost. But I sit still, frozen in that one sentence.
His girl.
He pulls me back tighter against him, one hand resting low on my stomach. Not moving. Just there. Anchoring me.
I let my head fall back against his shoulder. “You say that like it’s temporary.”
“It ain’t,” he murmurs.
My chest rises with a sharp breath, and my entire body aches to turn around, crawl into his lap, and press myself into him until I can’t remember what it feels like to be afraid.
But not yet.
He lets his chin on my shoulder, his fingers absently brushing circles on my hip. Each stroke lights a fuse under my skin.
We sit like that in the firelight, the river rushing in the background, the stars breaking through one-by-one overhead. My heart thuds in time with every slow drag of his fingertips.
I want him.
God, I want him.
But I don’t move.
Not yet.
The place looks like hell.
Half the shingles are hanging off the roof, and the porch groans under every step like it might collapse out of sheer spite. But there’s land. Acres of it. Woods thick enough to vanish into, a creek just beyond the barn, and fences that could be fixed up with some sweat and time.
And more than that—it’s quiet.
After weeks of running, hiding, bleeding, and losing, the silence here feels like a promise.
Arthur dismounts beside me and stretches his back, groaning low in his throat. His hat’s pulled low, shirt clinging to his frame with the heat of the ride. I catch myself staring at the way his jeans sit on his hips and I have to tear my eyes away before I start fantasising about taking them off.
Focus, Zoe.
He nods toward the main house. “Let’s take a look inside.”
We step through the busted door and into stale, dusty air. The wood floors creak. There’s broken furniture, scattered glass, and the sharp smell of old gunpowder still clinging to the walls.
“Real cozy,” I mutter, running a hand along a shelf coated in grime.
Arthur huffs a soft laugh behind me. “Sure beats a cave or the back of a wagon.”
He walks past me toward the stairs, boots heavy on the wooden floor. I follow, eyes flicking up to the landing where the hallway yawned like a broken jaw.
“We’ll need to clear it out,” he says, low and thoughtful. “Reinforce the windows. Maybe gut that chimney.”
“Fix the porch,” I add, stepping closer. “Before it sends someone ass-first into the dirt.”
He smirks over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t mind seein’ that, actually.”
I shove him lightly, and he catches my wrist, holding it just long enough to make my breath catch.
Then he keeps walking.
The bedroom is the largest one upstairs—still full of cobwebs and cracked plaster, but the light cuts through the grime on the windows just long enough to paint everything gold. There’s an old bedframe shoved against the far wall. No mattress. Yet.
“Think this one’s ours?” I ask, turning in a slow circle.
Arthur’s already at my back.
“Could be.”
His hands come down lightly on my waist. Firm. Possessive. They linger.
I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.
“You like it?” he asks, voice a little lower.
“Room’s a wreck,” I whisper. “But I’ve made worse places feel like home.”
He shifts closer. I can feel the heat of his chest against my back. One hand slides from my waist to my stomach, pulling me in. I gasp—quiet, but not quiet enough.
When I turn to face him, we’re too close. the air thickens between us, charged and humming. His eyes flick to my mouth.
And then he kisses me.
It starts soft—just lips against lips, searching, unsure. But it doesn’t stay that way. Not for long.
Arthur’s hand moves to cradle the back of my head, tilting it just right. The other grips my hip tight enough to bruise. His mouth claims mine again, deeper this time—hungrier. A groan escapes him, low and guttural, as I press closer.
I open my mouth under his and he takes that as permission.
His tongue slides against mine, and everything in me breaks.
I fist my hands in his shirt, dragging him forward until my back hits the wall. He groans again, and God, that sound—like he’s been starving and finally got a taste.
I bite his bottom lip.
He growls.
That’s when I feel it—his thigh sliding between mine, his hand grabbing the back of my neck and pinning me just a little. His mouth trails down to my jaw, then lower, teeth grazing my throat.
“You got any idea what you do to me?” he murmurs, voice like smoke and sin.
“Maybe,” I whisper, tugging at his belt with a wicked grin.
He grabs my wrist, hard enough to stop me. But not hard enough to make me want to stop.
His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, we’re not waitin’ for a damn mattress.”
“Oh?” I breathe, tilting my chin up. “You planning to bend me over the windowsill or just throw me on the floor?”
Arthur smirks. That wolfish, you asked for it look I’ve seen right before bar fights—and better things.
His hands slide down to my thighs.
“Neither,” he growls, lifting me off the floor like I weigh nothing. “I’m going to take my time with you, sweetheart.”
And then he kicks the door shut with his boot.
The door slams shut behind us, and then—nothing.
No words. No hesitation. Just heat.
Arthur crashes into me like a storm, his mouth on mine, hands already possessive and demanding. His fingers dig into my thighs and lift me clear off the floor again, slamming me back against the nearest wall. I gasp against his lips, and he eats the sound like it feeds something primal in him.
“Been thinkin’ about this for weeks,” he growls into his neck, his voice soaked in gravel and hunger. “Every goddamn night. You ridin’ next to me, starin’ like you wanted to be ruined.”
His mouth descends on my throat, biting hard enough to make me cry out. The sound bounces off the walls—echoes in this half-dead house like a promise of what’s to come.
I try to speak—some half-witted tease—but his hand is already up under my shirt, rough palms skimming over my stomach, then gripping my breast through the thin fabric. His thumb drags across my nipple until it peaks, and I moan against his mouth.
“Fuck, Arthur—”
That’s all I get before he grabs the collar of my shirt and rips.
Buttons skitter across the floor like panicked bugs. Fabric tears. He doesn’t stop until the whole thing hangs off me in shreds.
“Goddamn,’ he mutters, staring at my bare chest like it’s the first time he’s seen me. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you’re wrecked.”
He dips his head and bites down on one nipple, dragging his tongue over it a second later, lips sucking hard enough to leave a mark. I whimper, arching my back off the wall, but he just keeps going, switching sides, licking, biting, and sucking until my knees tremble.
“I haven’t even touched your pussy yet, and you’re already shakin’,” he mutters. “You wet for me, sweetheart? Or just desperate?”
I shove at his shoulders. “Both. Fucking do something.”
He laughs—growls—and spins us toward the dresser. It groans under my weight as he drops me onto it with my bare skin against dusty wood, thighs forced open between his.
“I’m gonna ruin you,” he says, pulling my boots off, then dragging my pants down with zero finesse. He sees the lack of underwear and pauses, mouth quirking. “Of course you’re not wearin’ nothin’ underneath. Filthy girl.”
“Like you’re complainin’.”
He doesn’t answer. He just drops to his knees.
I barely have time to process the sight—Arthur Morgan, war-scarred and furious, sinking to his knees between my thighs—before his tongue is on me.
He devours me.
No teasing, no slow build. Just a hungry, wet suck to my clit that makes my entire spine bow off the dresser. I cry out—loud, uncontrolled—and he moans against me like he’s addicted to the taste.
His beard scrapes my thighs. His tongue flicks in rapid, devastating circles. And then he pulls back just enough to breathe against my soaked folds.
“You’re drippin’, baby. So fuckin’ ready for me.”
“Then get up here and fuck me, Morgan.”
He stands and unbuckles his belt, slow and deliberate like he’s dragging it out just to torture me. his cock springs free—thick, flushed, aching. I reach for it, but he catches my wrists again with a smirk.
“You think you’re in charge now?” he mutters, lining himself up and dragging the head through my slick folds. “That’s cute.”
Then he thrusts into me hard.
I cry out—raw and unfiltered—clawing at the edge of the dresser as he sinks in to the hilt. He doesn’t wait or give me time to adjust. He fucks me like a man possessed.
Each thrust slams into me, jolting the dresser against the wall. The wood creaks in protest. Dust rises around us. His hands are on my hips, gripping tight enough to bruise, dragging me back into every brutal thrust.
“Look at this tight little cunt,” he snarls. “Takin’ me like you were made for it.”
“You’re fucking—oh fuck—you’re so deep—Arthur—”
“That’s right. Let everyone hear how good I’m fuckin’ you.”
He pulls out halfway, then slams in again, and I swear I see stars.
I’m moaning, swearing, legs wrapped around his waist, trying to hold on but already unravelling. He leans forward, one hand grabbing my jaw, forcing me to look at him.
“Say it,” he pants, lips brushing mine. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, Arthur—”
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he growls, slamming into me faster now. “Gonna come for me?”
I nod helplessly. My body coils tight, then snaps all at once. White hot pleasure crashes over me like a flood. I scream, clawing at his back and shaking through it.
He groans, deep and guttural, and pulls out just in time to pump himself over my stomach. Hot release splashes across my skin, and he groans again, mouth pressed to my collarbone.
For a few long seconds, we just breathe.
He leans down, presses his forehead to mine, still gasping.
“You’re… you’re fucking incredible,” he says hoarsely.
I reach out and thread my fingers through his damp hair. He cups my face like I’m something fragile, thumb brushing over my cheek.
“I love you,” he murmurs reverently.
My throat tightens. I press a soft kiss to his lips.
“I love you too.”
Then—”
“Morgan!” It’s John, yelling from downstairs like the world’s not still spinning.
Arthur closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. Then he flips off the ceiling. Middle finger high and proud. “I’ll be down when I’m damn ready!”
ACT III — The Life They Built
A Few Weeks Later
The hammer slips from my fingers for the third damn time, clattering down the porch steps like it’s personally offended by my lack of carpentry skills.
“God dammit,” I mutter, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my arm.
“Need help?” Arthur calls from the other side of the yard where he’s digging post holes like it’s a hobby instead of punishment from hell itself.
“No,” I call back, “Unless you know how to stop a hammer from throwing a tantrum.”
He chuckles, low and rough, and keeps working. His muscles flex under his rolled-up sleeves as he drives the spade deeper into the earth. I catch myself staring again—distracted by the way the sun lights up the hair on his forearms, the soft sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, the curve of his smirk when he knows I’m looking.
“I can feel that stare, you know,” he mutters.
I roll my eyes to retrieve the damn hammer again, muttering under my breath about rebellious tools and how maybe I should just supervise from the shade like Sadie does when its her turn to cook.
We’re settling in. For real this time.
Tilly and Sadie are still here, helping keep the place running while we get our feet under us. John’s fixing the barn roof, swearing every few minutes when he misses a nail. Jack is running wild with a dog he “rescued” from town that barks at everything. Abigail’s cooking more than she probably wants to, and I catch her smiling every now and then like she can’t believe we’ve made it this far.
And me?
I’m standing in front of what’s supposed to be our bedroom, holding a swatch of floral wallpaper I found in town.
Arthur walks past with a bucket of water, raises an eyebrow at the paper in my hand.
“What in God’s name is that?”
I grin. “It’s wallpaper.”
He looks personally insulted. “Looks like someone threw up a flower garden.”
“Exactly! It’s cheerful.”
“It’s a goddamn ranch house, not a whore’s parlour.”
I gasp dramatically and clutch the wallpaper to my chest. “How dare you insult my feminine aesthetic.”
“I’ll show you an aesthetic,” he mutters, and chucks the entire bucket of water at me.
It hits dead centre.
I scream. “Arthur! You son of a—!"
The water hit cold and heavy, soaking my shirt and pants, and for one stupid second, I just stand there, dripping and stunned.
Then I drop the wallpaper, sprint across the yard and tackle him straight into the dirt.
He grunts as we hit the ground with me landing on top, fists already full of his shirt. I straddle him, laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
“Take it back,” I demand, pushing my soaked hair out of my face.
“Nope,” he says smugly. “That paper is ugly as sin.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“You won’t.”
He reaches up, brushes a thumb across my cheekbone, slow and tender. My laughter stutters, caught on the shift in his touch. His eyes soften—no mischief now, just that quiet, steady love I’m still getting used to seeing in full daylight.
“You laughed,” he murmurs. “A real one. Haven’t heard that in a while.”
I blink, swallowing against the sudden burn behind my eyes. “Yeah, well. You’re still an asshole.”
He chuckles, pulling me down until our foreheads rest together.
“An asshole who loves you,” he says, warm and easy.
I kiss him.
Soft. Sweet. With a smile still tugging at the corner of my mouth.
It’s messy here. The porch is half-built, the fence needs redoing, and the animals are feral.
But this? This is ours.
THREE YEARS LATER
Some mornings still don’t feel real.
Three years ago, I thought I’d die in a cave, in a shootout, or in Arthur’s arms with blood between us and not much else.
But here I am. Barefoot on the creaking floorboards of our front porch, coffee in hand, hair still messy from sleep, watching my husband—my goddamn husband—train a mustang we pulled in from the edge of the Grizzlies last week.
The sun slants low across the fields, soaking everything in gold. The horse snorts and circles in the paddock, ears twitching, but Arthur moves with calm authority, slow and certain like he was born to do this. He murmurs soft words I can’t quite make out, but the rhythm of his voice carries on the breeze like music anyway.
He doesn’t know I’m watching him.
He never does when he’s like this—completely in his element, relaxed, happy.
Happy.
That still knocks the breath out of me sometimes. We made it. Not just survived. Made something.
There’s no gang here. No running. No Pinkertons. Just wood to chop, fences to mend, horses to break, and each other.
We decided not to have kids. It wasn’t sad. Just honest. Neither of us wanted to bring another little soul into the world we’d clawed our way out of. Instead, it’s us. A few horses. The land. And John’s crew, who drop in often enough that it still feels like family.
Arthur sees me before I can call out. He straightens up, brushing his hand over the horse’s flank, and waves once. The smile he gives me is lazy, radiant, and just for me.
I step down off the porch and wander out across the grass, barefoot and warm in the sun.
“You’re up late,” he says, looping the reins over the fence post. “I was about to come drag you outta bed myself.”
I grin and rise up on my toes to kiss him.
“You’d love that,” I murmur, mouth brushing his.
“I do love that,” he mutters back, sliding an arm around my waist. Then he lifts me like it costs him nothing—like I’m weightless—and spins me once before setting me down again.
I laugh, burying my face in his neck. He smells like hay and sweat and leather. I press a kiss just under his jaw.
“You’re insufferable,” I tell him.
“You married me.”
“I was tricked. You looked good in the moonlight.”
He pinches my ass, and I squeal—then run when I see the gleam in his eye.
“Get back here, Mrs. Morgan!”
“Make me!”
He chases me halfway to the barn before catching me around the waist. We crash into the side of the building, laughing, tangled together. I twist in his grip and kiss him again—harder this time. His hands roam without apology, slipping up the back of my shirt as he presses me against the wooden wall.
“You’re askin’ for trouble,” he growls, voice thick with heat.
“Then give it to me.”
We stumble into the barn, the door half-hanging open. Dust dances in shafts of sunlight, and the smell of hay and horses wraps around us like a familiar blanket.
Arthur grabs my thighs and lifts me again, this time carrying me toward the stack of hay bales near the tack room.
He drops me onto the bales and tugs my pants down in one smooth motion. “You really shouldn’t taunt me like that out in the open,” he murmurs, already pulling his belt loose. “A man can only take so much.”
“I want you to lose control,” I pant, tugging his shirt open, palms on his chest. “I like when you do.”
He growls—actually growls—and flips me over like I weigh nothing, pushing my hips up as he kneels behind me.
“Good,” he says, dragging the head of his cock through my soaked folds. “Then you’re gonna love this.”
He slams into me from behind, and I scream, one hand bracing on the wood wall, the other clutching a fistful of straw. The stretch still shocks me—even after years—but I’m so wet, so ready, the burn turns to bliss instantly.
He grabs my hips and thrusts hard, driving into me like the world’s on fire and I’m the only thing that matters. His belt jingles around his knees, spurs scraping the floor. He leans forward, mouth at my ear.
“This what you wanted, baby?” he rasps. “Gettin’ fucked like a mare in the middle of the damn barn?”
“Yes—fuck—Arthur, yes—”
He brings one hand around to rub my clit, fast and rough. My body jerks—tensing, unraveling—and I come with a choked sob, thighs shaking, pussy clenching hard around him.
“That’s it,” he snarls, slamming into me faster. “Come for me. Let everyone know who this cunt belongs to.”
I gasp, already twitching from overstimulation, and seconds later he pulls out with a strangled groan, pumping himself over my back with hot, shuddering release.
We collapse together into the straw.
Breathless.
Sweaty.
Grinning.
After a long moment, he lifts his head and kisses the side of my neck. “We’re animals,” he mutters.
I snort. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He laughs into my skin and rolls us onto our sides, pulling me in close.
Outside, the horses nicker. A bird trills from the fence post. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear Jack yelling and John swearing.
And still—somehow—it all sounds like peace.
The table is cluttered with empty plates, sticky fingers, and the low hum of contentment.
Abigail’s clearing dessert plates with Sadie—both of them laughing at something John said. Jack’s chasing one of the twins through the yard, while the other twin has taken up residence on Arthur’s lap, asking for the tenth time if he can ride the new colt in the morning.
“No, Billy,” Arthur chuckles, ruffling the kid’s hair. “You’re not even tall enough to reach the stirrups.”
“Am too,” Billy pouts, arms folded like a little outlaw in training.
“You gotta grow another couple inches first. I’ll make you a deal though—you help me muck the stalls tomorrow, and I’ll think about it.”
The boy narrows his eyes, clearly suspicious, but then nods and scampers off—presumably to tell Jack he’s got a Very Important Job tomorrow.
Arthur leans back in his chair with a satisfied grunt, his palm finding mine beneath the table like it’s instinct now. His fingers are still calloused, always warm, always grounding.
“Y’know,” I say softly, “they’re gonna keep comin’ here forever.”
“Who?”
“The Marstons,” I tease. “Every other week, full caravan. Kids, dogs, chaos.”
He grins. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The breeze lifts through the open windows, carrying in the smell of wildflowers and hay, the chirp of crickets, and the sound of kids shrieking with laughter somewhere beyond the porch.
I glance at Arthur. He’s watching them with that rare, easy smile—the kind that smooths out the years etched into his face. His other hand still holds mine, thumb brushing lazy circles over my knuckles.
It hits me all at once.
The quiet.
The peace.
The life.
We have a home. We have people. We have each other.
And for the first time in what feels like forever… we don’t have to run.
I squeeze his hand and lean over slightly, voice barely more than a whisper.
“We made it.”
His eyes slide to mine, soft and full of something I can never quite name without breaking open. He brings my hand up slowly, presses his lips to my knuckles with the kind of reverence that makes my heart ache.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “We did.”
Outside, the twins burst into another round of squealing laughter. Jack’s shouting something about fireflies. John yells back that it’s almost bedtime, and no one listens.
I look out across the fields, the last of the sunlight painting the world in gold.
And I let it wash over me.
The love.
The quiet.
The peace at last.
