#godless 2017

The fabric brushes your stockings as you weave through the crush with a tray balanced on your palm, glasses chiming together every time someone jostles the crowd.

There’s a smile pinned to your mouth like a ribbon, easy and bright, the one that keeps the tips coming even when hands stray farther than they should and men laugh too loud in your face. You’re used to it by now. You can laugh around things that make your skin crawl; you can smile around more than that.

Tonight, though, you have an audience that makes your smile feel real.

Roy is already there when you look over, same chair he has taken almost every night since that third evening in town. Back against the wall, hat tipped back, legs stretched under the table. There’s a whiskey glass in front of him that he hasn’t touched yet, a deck of cards he isn’t playing with, and eyes that keep finding you even when he tries to pretend he’s watching the door.

His gaze hooks into you from across the room. It does something low in your belly, a little twist of heat that makes you walk a bit slower, let your hips roll a little more under your dress. Your bodice itched when you laced it earlier, but now you are grateful for the way it pushes your breasts high, gives his eyes something to catch on when you turn his way.

You spend the first couple of hours working like you always do—laughing, pouring, dodging hands with a twist of waist or a sharp elbow—but every time you pass Roy’s table, you feel him like a hand between your shoulder blades.

You set down a beer in front of a miner, collect his coins, and let your gaze drift over to that familiar corner again.

He’s still watching you, heat and warning tied together under his lashes.

You take that heat and you decide to play with it.

You let your fingers skim his shoulder first, a light brush as you walk past as if the saloon is too crowded and there is nowhere else to put your hand. His shirt is worn soft from use, warm from his body. He tenses under your touch, barely, but you feel it.

You keep walking, tray on your hip, heart jumping.

Later, when you finally make it to his table proper, you pretend not to notice how hard his jaw is set.

“Evenin’, Roy,” you murmur, sweet as syrup, setting a fresh whiskey down in front of him before he can ask. “Haven’t seen you look so serious since last night. You lose a hand or something?”

He looks up at you through dark lashes, eyes shadowed under the brim of his hat. The saloon’s lamplight licks over the sharp line of his cheek and the cut of his mouth. He has a bruise darkening on his jaw from something that happened outside town yesterday, and it makes him look even rougher than usual.

“I ain’t playin’,” he says. His voice is low enough you have to lean in to hear it, hair falling forward, neckline dipping. His gaze drops, lingers, flicks back up to your eyes. “Cards, I mean. Not tonight.”

“Mm.” You prop the tray against your hip, tilt your head. “Could’ve fooled me, sittin’ there all broody with your cards.”

You tap one card edge with a fingertip, just to see. He catches your wrist before you can pull back, calloused fingers circling warm over your skin. Not tight enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you he is a man who knows how to hold things still.

“Thought you were workin’,” he murmurs, mouth twitching like he’s chewing back something he shouldn’t say. “Not bothering honest men tryin’ to drink in peace.”

“Honest men,” you echo, amused, looking pointedly at the holster on his hip and the gang scattered at various tables. “That so?”

His grip tightens a fraction, thumb rubbing once over the inside of your wrist where your pulse flutters. You know he can feel it. You make sure he does.

“You’ve been teasin’ all night,” he says. There’s no accusation in it, just a rough truth, smoky as the air between you. “Spillin’ over every fool in here. Laughin’ too loud. Leanin’ too close.”

“That my job, isn’t it?” you ask, lashes lowering. “Fools pay better when they think they got a chance.”

His eyes flick to your mouth, then back up. “They ain’t got one.”

You feel that sentence all the way down your spine.

You smile at him, slow. “And you do?”

He answers by letting your wrist go, fingers dragging along your palm before he releases you. You feel strangely empty when he does, skin prickling where his hand used to be.

“Go do your rounds,” he says, voice a little lower than before. “Before Frank starts complainin’ you spending too much time at one table.”

That should be the end of it. He gives you an out, like he always does, holds himself back a step like he doesn’t trust what happens if he closes the gap.

You decide you’re tired of letting him.

The next time you pass by, you angle your body so your hip grazes his shoulder, so your ass brushes his arm. It looks accidental enough from a distance, but you feel the way his muscles jump. You lean over him to wipe a wet ring of spilled beer off the table, letting your dress pull tight across your chest, the top of your corset digging into soft flesh until it threatens to spill.

His breath hitches, so faint most men wouldn’t notice.

“Careful,” he mutters. “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

“With you?” Your voice goes light, airy, like you’re just passing the time. The heat in your chest says something else.

He lifts his gaze to yours again. There is a warning in it, but there is want too, deep as a well.

“You keep pokin’ at me,” he says, “you’re gonna find out.”

You straighten, tray against your stomach, and you feel wicked down to your toes.

“I’ll take that as a promise,” you hum, and move away before he can respond.

You pour drinks, you dodge hands, you linger a little too long at a card table near Roy, laughing at a joke that isn’t that funny, fingers resting on a stranger’s shoulder while you tilt your head and smile. You hear Roy’s chair scrape once, then settle again. When you glance back, his hand is on his thigh, fingers flexing like he is resisting the urge to drag you away by your apron strings.

The night gets louder, drunker. Someone starts singing off-key near the piano. You are halfway across the room from Roy when it happens.

You’re just setting a bottle down when a hand catches your waist. It’s not Roy’s.

“Hey now,” the man says, breath already sour with whiskey as he tugs you sideways onto his lap. “Why you spendin’ all your sugar at that table, huh? We pay just as good.”

It’s one of Frank’s. You recognize him, though you never bothered to put his name to memory. He’s been watching you all night too, but not the way Roy has. His eyes are mean in a way Roy’s never are. They weigh you like a piece of meat.

“I got work to do,” you say, voice staying polite from muscle memory even as you try to shift off his thigh. His grip tightens, fingers digging into the meat of your hip hard enough to bruise. “You let me up now.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he drawls, hand sliding lower, thumb pressing into the curve of your thigh through your skirts. “You been wigglin’ that little dress all night, girl. Don’t act shy now.”

You push at his chest, not quite willing to make a scene in front of everyone. “You wanna keep drinkin’ in here, you’ll let me up.”

That earns you a rough laugh. His other hand skims up, over your stomach, thumb brushing higher, toward the swell of your chest. The saloon feels suddenly too close. You feel eyes on you, weighing the show.

“Drink can wait,” he says, fingers tightening when you try to twist away. “You’re what’s quenched my—”

The sound of a chair slamming back breaks through the noise.

Roy is on his feet before the man can finish his sentence.

You feel it before you see him, a shift in the room’s tension, conversations faltering in the shadow of what is about to happen. The music stutters and stops when the piano player notices where everyone’s attention has gone.

Roy doesn’t raise his voice.

“Let her go.”

The man holding you looks up, still half amused. His hand stays high on your thigh. “She’s workin’, Roy. Thought you boys liked a good show.”

You catch a glimpse of Roy’s face as he steps closer. There is none of that half-smile he sometimes offers you, none of the soft warmth you’ve pried out of him over weeks. His eyes are cold and flat as he looks at the hand on your hip.

“Take them hands off,” he says. The words are quiet, edged like a blade.

The man huffs, fingers sliding a fraction higher out of spite. That’s as far as he gets.

Roy’s gun is out before you see him draw it. One second his hand is at his side, the next the barrel is leveled straight at the man’s forehead, close enough that you can see the metal glint in the lamplight.

Your breath catches. The hand on your hip finally loosens.

“You got a death wish tonight, Goode?” the man sneers, but he’s gone a little pale. “Frank ain’t gonna like you pullin’ iron over some saloon skirt.”

Roy doesn’t look at him when Frank laughs from his usual chair, lazy and entertained. He doesn’t glance at anyone else in the room either. His whole focus is on the man’s hands and your skin beneath them.

“Frank can speak for himself,” Roy says, voice flat. “Right now I’m speakin’ for her.”

Those last two words do something wild in your chest.

The man scoffs, but he releases you, hands going up in a mocking surrender as you stand quickly, skirts swishing around your legs. You step away, body buzzing with leftover fear and something sharper.

Frank waves a hand, deciding there’s more fun in letting this ride. “Relax, boys. Ain’t worth killin’ one of our own over some bar girl. Roy, you put that gun down before you scare off all the custom, y’hear?”

Roy doesn’t move the barrel until you are clear, until you are behind him. You don’t even remember choosing to go there. Your feet know where safety is. His shoulders stay tense until your hand closes on the back of his coat, fingers curling in the worn fabric.

When he finally lowers the gun, the whole room seems to exhale.

He slides it back into his holster in one smooth motion, then turns his head just enough to glance back at you. His eyes are still hard, but there’s something else there now too, something raw that makes you feel stripped naked.

“You done for the night,” he says quietly.

“I’m not,” you start, instinctively, because you need the work and because you don’t know if you can stand the way your hands are shaking while you try to pour drinks.

He doesn’t ask. He wraps fingers around your wrist, not as gentle as earlier, not rough enough to hurt, and starts walking. You follow because he is already tugging you toward the stairs, toward the narrow hallway that leads to rented rooms.

Someone whistles. Someone else chuckles. You can feel eyes on your back. You should pull away. You should tell him you can’t afford to upset the owner like this.

Instead you let him lead you, heart loud in your ears.

He doesn’t speak until he has you through an open doorway and the door slammed shut behind you, the noise of the saloon cutting off like someone dropped a curtain.

The room is small, lamplight pooling on the warped boards, bed shoved against one wall, basin and jug on a rickety table. You’ve been in rooms like this too many times, with too many men who smelled worse and cared less. None of them ever made your pulse jump like this.

Roy leans back against the door after he closes it, hand still wrapped around your wrist. His hat is askew from the way he moved, hair mussed at the edges.

“You got no sense,” he says, low, eyes raking over you. “Teasin’ me all night, then lettin’ some bastard put his hands all over you.”

“I didn’t let him,” you reply, stung. “He grabbed me.”

“You been swishin’ around, smiles for every man breathin’ all night. You think they won’t take that as an open hand?” he says. The words hit sharp, but there is worry tangled in them, a rough knot in his throat.

You lift your chin, even as heat curls between your legs at the memory of his eyes on you, at the possessiveness threading through his voice.

“You didn’t seem to mind watchin’,” you say.

His fingers flex on your wrist. He pulls you closer, until you can feel the solid plane of his chest through his shirt.

“I minded every second,” he answers, and now the honesty is a punch. “Been mindin’ for weeks. There’s only so much a man can take, girl.”

You swallow and feel your throat work around his words.

“I was just havin’ fun,” you murmur, though you hear how soft your voice goes.

“You were playin’ with fire,” he says. His gaze drops to your mouth, breath brushing your cheek.

Your stomach flips. Anticipation and arousal twist together so tightly they are indistinguishable.

“Roy…” You mean it as a question, maybe even a plea. It comes out more like an invitation.

Whatever restraint has been holding him back snaps then. He lets go of your wrist only to catch your hips, fingers digging into the curve of your waist as he spins you, walks you back until your shoulders meet the wall. The impact is not hard enough to hurt, just enough to jolt a breath out of you, to remind you how much stronger he is.

His mouth finds yours before you can think. There’s no gentleness to the first kiss, only pent-up hunger, teeth scraping your lower lip, tongue pushing past when you gasp. The taste of him is whiskey and dust and something that makes your knees feel weak.

You grab at his shirt, fingers fisting in worn fabric to keep yourself anchored. He presses forward, chest solid against your breasts, hips pinning you between him and the wall. You feel him, hard and hot, against your thigh through layers of cloth.

He breaks the kiss only long enough to tilt his head and take your mouth again from a new angle, like he needs more, like he’s been starving. His hands slide from your hips to the back of your dress, bunching the material in his fists, tugging it up inch by inch.

“You think I ain’t seen you,” he mutters against your lips when he finally pulls back enough to breathe. His voice comes rough, ragged at the edges. “All those little dresses, all those laughs. Givin’ ’em your pretty eyes like that.”

He drags the skirt fully over your ass, palms smoothing down over the curve of it in one slow stroke. The air hits your stockings and garters, your bare thighs above them, and you shiver.

“You do that for them,” he asks, thumbs pressing into the crease where your ass meets your thighs, “or was it for me?”

You wet your lips, feeling dizzy.

“For you,” you admit, because lying now would be stupid. “Been for you for a while.”

He exhales, a sound that is half curse, half prayer, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder. His fingers tighten, squeezing your ass cheeks hard enough to make a little sting bloom under his palms, then he smooths the hurt away with a slow caress.

“That so,” he says quietly. “You enjoy driving me near outta my mind?”

You laugh, breathless. “Maybe a little.”

He answers by cupping you more firmly, one hand sliding lower to slap lightly at the swell of one cheek. It’s not hard, more a sharp tap than anything, but the shock of it makes you gasp, makes heat flare between your legs.

“You gonna be honest with me now,” he murmurs, lifting his head to look at you. “You want this… you want me to touch you like that… you say it. I ain’t takin’ what ain’t offered.”

He may have dragged you up here like he was leading you to judgment, but he still waits. That’s who he is under all that rough. That’s why you picked him, even if you never said it out loud.

You hold his gaze, pulse roaring.

“I want you to touch me,” you say. Your voice shakes, but the words don’t. “Been wantin’ it since you first came in here. Wanted your hands on me instead of theirs. Wanted your mouth.”

His pupils darken at that last word.

“You sure?” he asks, like he has to hear it twice.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Roy. Please.”

Something eases in his shoulders. Something else sharpens.

He doesn’t go back to your mouth first. He drops his head, lips grazing down the side of your throat, tongue flicking over the damp skin he finds there. You tilt your head without thinking, offering more, fingers sliding up into his hair as he sucks gently at your pulse and then harder, leaving heat behind.

His hands climb as his mouth descends, one traveling from your hip to the front of your dress. He fumbles at the hooks, muttering something under his breath when the fabric doesn’t give quickly enough for his liking.

“Always trussed up like a damn present,” he growls softly, finally popping the top set of closures. “I been wantin’ to see what you’re hidin’ under all this.”

“You could’ve asked,” you whisper, arching your back to help.

“I’m askin’ now.”

He drags the bodice down, tugging until your breasts spill free of your corset, nipples already pebbled from the cool air and the friction. You cross your arms halfway, then drop them when you see the way he looks at you.

“Christ,” he breathes. His hands rise, rough palms cupping both breasts, testing their weight. His thumbs sweep across your nipples, skimming once, twice, then pressing harder when you gasp and your knees dip.

“Sensitive,” he notes, and there is a thread of satisfaction woven through the word. “Thought so.”

He pinches lightly, rolling the stiff peaks between finger and thumb, watching your face as he does it. The sensation shoots straight between your legs, sharp-sweet.

“Roy,” you whimper, hips twitching against him. “Please…”

“Please what?” He gives another pinch, just enough ache to make your eyes sting, then leans in and closes his mouth around one nipple, sucking it into the heat of his mouth. His tongue flicks, slow, deliberate, as his other hand keeps teasing the unoccupied peak. “You start somethin’, you better finish it. Use your words, girl.”

You bite your lip, head thudding gently against the wall as he sucks harder, cheeks hollowing. His stubble scrapes your skin, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that this is real, that this is Roy on his knees in spirit even if he’s still standing.

“I want…” You gasp when his teeth graze, when he pulls lightly at your nipple with his mouth. “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want you to make me come, Roy.”

He hums against your chest, the sound vibrating through sensitive flesh, letting your nipple slip from his mouth with a wet pop. He turns his head to give the other the same attention, tongue circling, teeth catching. His hand slides down from your breast, over your stomach, fingers slipping beneath your lifted skirts.

He finds the edge of your drawers and pushes inside, knuckles brushing through the soft hair between your thighs. When his fingers part you, you moan outright, thighs opening instinctively.

“Already wet,” he mutters, more to himself than you, voice hoarse. “Been workin’ yourself up all night, haven’t you?”

You nod, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure. “Been thinkin’ about you. About this.”

He rubs slow circles over your clit, learning you by touch, finding the spot that makes your breath hitch and your hips jerk. He focuses there, relentless, pressing and stroking, while his mouth keeps your nipples in a wet, aching state, sucking and pinching until you can hardly tell what hurts and what pleases.

Your legs begin to tremble. Your hands claw at his shoulders, seeking purchase. You feel your release building quickly, hotter and sharper than anything you’ve had alone, pressure coiling inside you until it feels like something might snap.

“Roy,” you pant. “I’m… I’m close, I’m gonna—”

He stills his fingers at once, pulling them away, leaving you empty. The sudden lack makes you nearly sob.

“Wh—” Your protest breaks on a strangled sound when he gives one last slow lick to your nipple and then lifts his head, eyes heavy.

“Not yet,” he says firmly. “You don’t get to soak my hand and be done. Not after all that dancin’ you did under my nose.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, partly from frustration, partly from the intensity of it all. “That’s cruel.”

“Maybe,” he says, but his thumb is stroking your hip, his expression softened by something like apology. “But you can take it, can’t you?”

You nod, because you can, because you trust him more than makes sense.

He kisses you again before you can say it, swallowing the desperate little noises you make. His hand leaves your hip and goes to his belt instead, unbuckling with a metallic jingle that seems louder in the small room than the entire saloon downstairs.

“Turn around,” he instructs against your mouth.

You do, palms flattening against the wall, cheek pressed to the cool plaster. He shoves your skirts higher, bunching them around your waist. One large hand squeezes both cheeks of your ass, thumbs spreading you as he looks his fill.

“Pretty,” he says, voice low. “You don’t know what you’ve been doin’ to me, showin’ all this off, walkin’ past me like you ain’t mine to look at.”

“You never said I was yours,” you manage, breath catching when his fingers trail teasingly over the wet seam of you again.

“I’m sayin’ it now.”

He spits into his hand, rough and unrefined, and strokes his cock. You hear the slick sound, feel the blunt head bump against your entrance a moment later, sliding through the mess he already made of you.

He pauses, one hand gripping your hip, the other guiding himself.

“Tell me no and I stop,” he says quietly. “We walk back down like nothin’ happened.”

Your body screams at the thought of stopping. There is no space for doubt left in you, only want.

“Yes,” you say, voice shaking. “Roy, please. I want it.”

He pushes in slow, the stretch thick and burning, the blunt head of him prying you open inch by inch until it feels like he’s splitting you from the inside out.

He’s bigger than anyone you’ve taken, girth dragging against every tender ridge, and your body fights it for a heartbeat before the slick between your thighs finally lets him slide deeper. A wet sound spills into the little room as he works his way in, your cunt clutching helplessly around him, slick muscles sucking him in.

You whimper into your forearm, back arching, the wall cold under your cheek while your core goes molten around the heavy weight of his cock.

“Shit,” he groans, breath rushing out. “You’re tight. Been lettin’ drunk fools grab at you but you don’t let ’em in here, do you?”

“No,” you gasp, the word broken on a shudder as he sinks another inch, then another, the slow, relentless push making your eyes sting. “Just you. Just you, Roy.”

It’s filthy and true; no matter how many coins have changed hands in this room, you never let them have this, never let them fuck you where you’re softest and warmest.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps.

He bottoms out with a low, bitten-off curse, hips snug to the swell of your ass, his balls settling damp and heavy against you.

The fullness makes your thighs tremble, cunt fluttering around the thick length seated all the way up inside you. He holds there, buried to the hilt, one hand stroking down your spine while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise, his palm broad and steady as he gives you a second to breathe around how stuffed you are.

“You tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs. “You cry, I won’t know.” his hand drags up your back so he can push your hair to the side. “So you tell me if you need me to stop.”

The mention of crying makes your throat close. You didn’t think you would, but your eyes are already hot, tears building from pleasure and the sharp ache of finally having what you’ve been wanting.

He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in, harder this time. The sound you make is half sob, half moan. He does it again, and again, setting a rhythm that is rough but controlled, his hips snapping forward, his hand tight on your waist to keep you right where he wants you.

Every drive of his cock drags along a spot inside you that makes sparks burst behind your eyes. Your fingers scrabble against the wall, nails biting into the plaster.

“Listen to you,” he grits, bending over you so his chest presses against your back. “Whimperin’ like you didn’t beg me up here yourself.”

“You’re mean,” you choke out, tears finally spilling when his hand leaves your hip just long enough to pinch one of your nipples again, tugging it sharply. The mixture of pleasure and pain makes your knees buckle. He catches you, holding you up with his body.

“I ain’t,” he says, though his thrusts stay firm. “Honey, this is me bein’ generous.”

He punctuates the words with a roll of his hips that grinds his balls against your clit. You cry out, the sound breaking, mouth open against your arm.

“There she is,” he murmurs, sounding almost reverent. “That’s it. Gimme those pretty sounds.”

He keeps you right on the edge again, driving you up to it and then slowing, grinding instead of pounding until you are keening for more. You can’t tell if your tears are for the frustration or the relief of his touch or the sheer force of having him like this at last.

“Roy, please,” you sob finally. “I can’t, you’re gonna break me.”

He bends low, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“I’m right here,” he says softly, even as his fingers dig into your hips again and he resumes his thrusts. “I got you. Let go for me.”

He reaches around, hand sliding down your belly to find your clit, rubbing in tight circles in time with his thrusts. There’s no mercy in it now, no half-measure. He wants you undone.

The orgasm hits fast and hard, your body clenching around him so tightly he curses, hips stuttering. Your vision whites out for a moment, knees giving way completely. He bears your weight, arm banding around your middle, fucking you through the climax as you sob and shake, tears wetting your arm.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice strained. “Just like that. That’s it, darlin’.”

Hearing him call you that, in that tone, sends another little shock through you. Your walls flutter around him, still milking his cock. His rhythm slips, loses its earlier control.

“Gonna fill you up,” he mutters against your hair. “Make sure you feel me for days. You want that?”

You whine a yes, unable to coherently form the word, and that’s all it takes. He lets go, spilling deep inside you with a low, broken groan, hips grinding against your ass as he rides it out. You feel the warmth flood you, feel the way he shudders, chest heaving against your back.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your breathing and his, harsh and tangled.

Slowly, he eases out of you. The loss makes you whimper, but his hands are gentle now, supporting you when your legs threaten to fold. He turns you carefully so your back is pressed against the wall.

You look down between your thighs and see his cum already slipping out of you, wetting the inside of your drawers. Your cheeks burn, but your chest loosens at the way he frowns, not in disgust but in concern.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Didn’t mean to push you so hard.”

You huff out a tired laugh, reaching to tangle your fingers in his hair.

He looks at you then, and whatever hardness was in his face earlier is gone. The lamplight catches on the damp at the corners of your eyes, the swollen curve of your mouth, the faint marks on your breasts. He looks like he wants to apologize and claim you all over again in the same breath.

“You all right?” he asks. “You hurt anywhere I need to fix?”

You shake your head, honest.

He tucks your dress back into place, fingers surprisingly deft as he fastens your bodice enough to keep you covered.

“Roy?” you murmur after a while.

“Yeah?”

“You really speakin’ for me back there,” you ask, thinking of the saloon, of his gun and his voice, “or was that just for show?”

His face tightens for a moment before relaxing with a breath.

“I meant every word,” he says. “Ain’t no one puttin’ hands on you like that again while I’m breathin’.”

You smile, shifting your weight on your feet.

“That so?”

“That’s so.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, rough mouth gentle for once.

It’s not like you were a hateful person; you were actually very nice to those who treated you with respect and kindness, which was hard to come by. The saying “treat those the way you want to be treated” was your motto, and unfortunately, Roy Goode was excluded from it.

You were the only woman in the group, the only one who had to jump over hoops to prove oneself.

The men didn’t think you had it, didn’t think you would be able to survive. But Frank saw something in you, saw potential that he could curate into something incredible. 

He taught you how to read people, look at their body language, and guess what they were thinking with a single twitch in their brow and a flicker in their eyes. 

Frank favored you. Calling you the darling of the group. Treating you like a daughter and making sure you had everything you could dream of— but,  it didn’t help that Frank also favored Roy— the only one in the group that he seemed to praise over and over like he was his true child, like he was God's greatest gift on earth.

And it’s an entirely other thing when his so-called “son” likes to rub it in your face more often than not.

There were many valid reasons you didn't like Roy. For one, he was a man, which automatically put him at the bottom of your favorites list. Men were nasty creatures with a one-track mind, the type who would take one good look at you and decide that the only thing you were good for was being a housewife and maybe begging on your hands and knees for something more.

It took you a while for the respect to come. For them to stop treating you like a helpless baby deer and instead, treat you like you were one of the guys. You knew you could never uphold those standards, knew that the world you were living in didn’t care, but eventually, they started to notice that potential Frank saw in you— and everyone else started to see it too.

There were a few good men you could count on one hand who didn’t fit the status quo and Roy certainly wasn’t on that list,

He didn’t treat you with respect, he rarely ever acknowledged you— but when he did, when he opened his mouth to critique your shooting skills or your ability to fight one-on-one, you felt your blood boil 1000 degrees over.

Usually, you could handle it, opting to ignore his comments and otherwise unhelpful notes about the way you did things.

“Gotta make sure your posture is more fixed.”

Who gives a shit?

“Make sure you hold your gun with a firm grip.”

You could hold his neck with a firm grip.

“A smile could do you good. Too pretty not to have one but then again, you insist on being one of the guys. So that clocks.”

You were going to strangle him in his sleep. Wrap your hands around his pretty neck and watch the life leave his blue eyes, make sure you remember the way he struggled beneath you and hoped to God he ended up in Hell—

 Deep breaths. 

Deep, deep breaths. 

Super deep breaths— Anything to manage your temper and keep you from acting on these homicidal thoughts.

There was only so much you could manage though, and the catalyst to your final straw happened the day you were supposed to be going on a date.

You almost forgot what it was like when there was a man who actually treated a lady like a lady. The type who didn't view you as some helpless creature but instead showed interest in a nicer, romantic aspect that never seems to come your way.

You were stuck in a rundown town, sitting outside while the others stayed in and tormented the bartender. 

You didn’t like this part, leaving innocent victims to Frank's wild dogs— but there wasn’t much you could do to stop it. Like always, you stayed out of it and enjoyed a moment of peace while you still had the chance to. 

And then you saw him.  Tall, with big brown eyes, an accent that could make anybody swoon and his horse— God, his horse was the most beautiful stallion you’ve ever seen. A rare black beauty with a mane that flowed in the wind when he rode by. 

You didn’t know who he was, where he came from, what his business was, but it didn’t matter when he jumped off his horse like a fairytale prince and took your hand in a declaration of love. 

He placed a kiss against the top of your hand and called you the most beautiful lady he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

Of course, you looked at him sideways— told him that you’ve heard that a thousand times over, and that he had to do better than that. But the way he genuinely dropped his eyes, shyness brewing over, the look of a man who was pretending to be something he wasn’t— it made you smile.

Sure, it couldn't hurt to drop the tough girl act and also pretend to.

You told him to come back the next day. Told him that if he showed up, you would give him a chance. He accepted with a large smile and promised that he wouldn’t be late.

You didn’t know somebody was listening, didn’t know somebody was watching and planning to ruin your moment for their own selfish benefits.

You waited.

You waited and waited for what seemed like forever.  Sitting on the steps with the cutest dress you stole from some poor rich woman. It was red, a dazzling show of a rose petal under the moonlight. You never felt so nervous and happy. Almost as if there was something more to life than trying to compete in a man’s world.

But he never showed.

You walked back to the inn with tears trailing behind you and an even bigger hatred towards men.

When you walked up the stairs, walking past your so-called “family”, you barely acknowledged them when they asked where you were and why your face was all puffy. 

You sat on the bed, planted your face in your hands, and screamed a tune that made anybody outside of your door afraid to come in. 

All but one. 

The knock at your door was ignored. You didn’t feel like seeing anybody. 

Another knock at your door made your jaw tighten. 

The third knock made you get up and throw the door open with a force that made it crack against the wall. 

Roy Goode,  the last person you wanted to see who was standing in all his glory, grinning from ear to ear like he knew something you didn’t and wanted to rub it in your face. 

“Why the long face sweetheart?” 

“I wish you would die— like, fly off your horse and tumble into a ditch.” You groaned. 

“It’s nice to see you too.” 

He pushed past you, looking around the room and inspecting your furniture. “Real nice dress you got on, what’s the special occasion?”

“Your funeral.”

“Funny, I’m pretty sure I made it known that I like the color green.” 

You weren’t in the mood to argue anymore. 

You sat back on the bed, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand, and sighed heavily. “Roy, please. I don’t feel like fightin’ with you.” 

“Didn’ come here to fight— just wanted to see you.” 

That caught your attention. 

“See me?”

He hummed lightly, “Heard the boys mention you looked off. Said you looked like a puffer fish dipped in red paint.” 

“Very funny. Can you leave?”

“But also—“

You looked at him, curiosity itching into your face. 

“I wanted to see the look on your face.” 

“The look on my face?” You repeated back, even more confused than you were before. 

Roy always said and did things that were off— not enough to comment on, but enough to note. You would often catch him pulling out a white envelope and staring into it like he was lost in a daze. Like he couldn’t believe what he was holding and then stuffed it back into his pockets like it didn’t matter. 

You rolled your eyes, tired and completely done with life so far. “I don’t have a look on my face you asshole.” 

“Yeah you do— had it when you came in,” He pointed to your very obvious distressed form. “Puffy eyes, flushed face, dry lips—“

“Tryin’ to say I cry ugly?” 

He smirked. “You said it, not me.“

You stood up from the bed. “Get out—“

“But I wanted to see the look on your face,” He stepped closer, inches away from you. “—After I told you that your prince charmin’ was found with a bullet wound to the chest.”

That’s when you froze, “Prince Charming? You don’t mean…” 

“Didn’ take much, seein’ as he fell easily. You know, men like that don’t have good intentions, sweetheart. I was just lookin’ out for ya—“

Processing his words was like stuffing rocks into a copy machine, it didn’t work, wasn’t compatible— and damn near didn’t make sense. 

“You…you killed him because he asked me out and you didn’t like that?”

“Basically—“ and he quickly raised his hand, “but it was for a good reason!”

And it all came crashing down on you like a tidal wave. 

The hate you felt for him, how heartbroken you were a few minutes ago because you tried to give a guy a chance and disappointment came running after. You couldn’t believe you thought any sort of a genuine interaction would last— and it was all his fault, built for his own benefit. 

It’s always his fault.

There was only one logical solution that came to mind: He had to die. 

You moved before you could truly react, jumping at him and slamming him against the dresser. 

The furniture bumped against the wall, the legs scraping against the wooden floors. You hauled him around like he weighed nothing and he pushed back against you, yelling out that it wasn’t his fault. 

“I was only lookin’ out for you!”

“You were lookin’ out for yourself!” 

Soon enough, he picked up your frail form and threw you onto the bed. You bounced, your hair frayed around your face but that didn’t stop you from jumping back at him again. 

“I’m gonna kill you, Roy Goode!” You screamed, grabbing him by the neck and squeezing. 

He held your wrist in his large hands, pinning your body down with his lower half— squatting on top of your legs so he didn’t drop his full weight on you. “Just calm down for a minute! I can explain—“

"Explain this to Frank when I snip your balls! You're a dead man!” 

You had just enough space to knee him in the balls, earning a loud groan and a heavy curse to fly from his mouth. You got up, knocking him over and off the bed, dead set on choking him out— but he quickly slipped his foot between your legs and kicked you over, causing you to flip and land on your side. 

He was back on you again, turning you over so you were lying on your stomach like a wild animal. He sat back on your legs again, this time applying his full weight so you didn’t get any more ideas to kick him again. 

He laughed, tired and done out, taking note of how chaotic this had all become. 

He didn’t think you would react this violently, didn’t think you cared about some nobody who wasn’t going to last. 

“Get off me!”

“Not tell’ you stop fightin’ me.”

“Get off me!” You tried again, twisting and turning to the best of your abilities. 

“What'cha gon do about it, sweetheart? Can't fight me off— can barely stand on your own two feet—“ 

"I'll fuckin' shoot you!"

“Final warning—“

“Fuck you!”

"Fair enough." 

He took rope that he had stored in his back pocket and twisted it around your wrist, pulling it tight around your skin— his fingers working over them to make sure it would stick. 

"Get off me!" You screeched, tossing and turning underneath him. "Somebody help me! I'm being kidnapped!"

"Jesus, girl. Can you calm down!" 

“Roy’s trying to—mhm!” You felt him stuff your mouth with some cotton material, your voice toned down— enough to keep anybody from outside from hearing but it wasn’t a lot to keep you from humming your curses and insults. 

"Now I don't want to do this. I can explain myself but you're the one who started it —" you kicked your legs, moving like a fish out of water. "If you calm down, I'll go easy on you." 

Did you listen? 

No

His warnings only made you more aggressive. 

"Let me explain—"

You tried to throw your head back, hoping you could head-bump him in the face or his chest. It didn’t work, obviously, it only made Roy sigh like you were the only one who was acting a fool. 

"Fine. Sure. I think I know the trick to get you to heel." 

You felt his rough fingers slip under your dress, over your soft skin, gliding up from the back of your knees to the underside of your ass. He pulled the hem of the dress higher and higher, bunching the fabric around your hips. 

The cool air made your legs tense, your brows furrowing in confusion, anger simmering into slight worry on what he was trying to convey—

Smack!

His hand, unyielding and heavy, flies down and lands right against your ass cheek. 

Your eyes widened, surprised and definitely perplexed. 

The smack brews a hot sting, earning a sizzling burn to erupt. You felt the unmistakable feeling of your body reacting, tears beginning to well up in your eyes. 

"Think you need another one. You've been a very bad girl lately." 

And he does it again. This time, harder. Same spot, same open palm. 

The tears come out before you can stop them. 

And he heard it.

"Shit, didn't mean to make you cry," he didn't sound sorry. "I'm just so goddamn mean— I gotta play the role to get things done around here, huh?" 

"But you left me no choice," he held your hip with one hand, keeping you pinned down. "I think you've been out of control. If Frank can't keep a tight leash on you, keep you from wanderin’ around with strangers who ain’t your family, then I guess I'll have to." 

Smack!

Your eyes break like a dam was blown up. Heavy, fat, globs of tears run down your face with snot dripping down your nose like a waterfall. Heat gathers around your cheek from pure embarrassment, entirely thrown out of the loop of what was happening. 

Roy Goode, the man you've despised your whole life, the man who's always had to one-up you and make your life a living hell— just disciplined you. 

You haven't gotten pops since you were a toddler. But here you were, now, grown and independent,  the only one who could command oneself— flat on your stomach with three burning imprints into your ass. 

“Now, you gonna listen?" He warned a final time. 

You no longer shook under his hold. 

"Well?"

You nod. 

He reached over to pull the cloth from your mouth and the first thing that came out was a harsh sniffle. 

"See? That wasn't so hard. Now, was it?"

What do you say to that? 

 I'm gonna turn you over, but the rope stays on. In case you're just itchin' to attack me again. Deal?”

You nod again, slowly, very likely that you were slipping into the void to escape. 

He tapped your leg, sharp and quick, earning a harsh jolt from you. 

"Need to hear you say it."

"D-Deal."

He hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if you'll try and make a quick turn around but you stay stock still. Frozen in place. He lifted his weight, not much but enough to maneuver you around and put you on your back. He sat back on your legs, in case you felt the need to kick him in places that only required tenderness, love, and care– and he tilted his head. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to think of." 

Silence. 

You're not even looking at him. Eyes glancing elsewhere, face scrunched into a hard glare. 

"You mad at me?" 

Of course you fucking were. He ruined you. Ruined your one trip to romance city in a world that hated you so far.

"Come on. He didn’t look safe enough for you. I could practically see his bad intentions from afar." 

In his mind, he thought you looked silly. Tied up, laid out— Pouting like a child that got caught. 

"Do I have to apologize or somethin'? Want me to kiss it better?" 

That got a reaction out of you. 

Roy shook his head. "I'm the one who was close to bein’ strangled and now I have to make it up to my future serial killer?” 

Finally, you said something that made him crack a smile. 

 “…You started it.” 

That was a start. As long as you weren’t fighting him, small steps was what he was hoping for. 

"Fine. I'm sorry."

Nothing. You only looked at him, face still scrunched, lips pursed into a deep frown. 

He felt kinda stupid now. "Are you serious?"

Nothing.

"I'm sorry for poppin' you?”

You barely blinked. 

He couldn't believe he was doing this. "I'm sorry for poppin' you and tyin' you up," Roy clicked his tongue when you didn't move. "I’m sorry for destroying your life— I was tryin’ to help you, keep you safe—“

“By killing an innocent person?”

“Who knew if he was innocent? He could have been sent here to kidnap you—“

“I want a real apology. Now.”

For someone being tied up and pinned down, Roy was starting to reap the consequences of his actions. Almost as if apologizing was his version of your current predicament. 

“I’m sorry for ruinin’ your one true chance of love.” He said sarcastically. 

“And?”

He quirked a brow. “…And what?”

“For being stupid,” You popped the “p” with a heavy emphasis that made Roy roll his eyes. 

“…and for being stupid—“

“And?”

“That’s all there is to say—“

“And admit that I’m better than you.” You smirked. 

“You're really taking advantage of this, huh?” 

“I’m never goin’ to forgive you— but this is a start.”

"So after this— what? I Gotta make it up to you?” 

You nodded, earning a slight groan from him. “If that's what it takes. You’ve got a lifetime to make it up to me— but first, you could untie me for starters.” 

“Not doin’ that. Scared you might try and take a chomp out of me.” 

“Oh, I definitely will,” you gave him a sly smile. “The moment I get out of this, you'd better hope and pray you can run fast enough from me.” 

Of all the threats you’ve thrown his way, this one actually scared him.

 “Nah, I've gotta better idea and I’m sure you’ll change your mind about threatenin’ me again afterwards. Take this as my way of ‘makin’ it up to you’ ” 

You were going to ask him what that meant, because clearly,  he’s lost his marbles since the moment he told you he shot a man for trying to ask you out on a date. 

“What are you goin’ on about—“ and your world stopped when his hands found your hips and he bunched the hem of your dress back up, fingers interlocking under the band of your panties. 

His eyes drop towards the scene, grinning from ear to ear like before, knowing something that you thought people didn’t know— But he knew. It was painfully obvious. 

“You ever been touched here?” He questioned, looking back up at you to gauge your sudden quiet reaction. 

“W-What? Course I have—“

“Nah, I can tell. That’s why you're always so damn angry all the time. Need someone to come kiss it all better and I’m thinkin’ it has to be me.” 

You think he’s joking, he couldn’t have been serious. After all, there’s never been a show of attraction on either end of your parts. It’s always been a silly game of “whose ego is bigger” And today, you thought you had him. You were finally going to get that big break you’ve deserved— 

But, your eyes flickered down when he pulled the waistband of your panties down in one swift flow, feeling it glide against your legs, and you swear panic began to steam out of your ears. 

“R-Roy— untie me.  This isn’t funny.” 

“After I finish I will,“ he hummed, licking his lips slowly. ”You just sit back, relax, and let me apologize.” He repositioned himself, climbing down low so he could move up and off your legs to get them to spread open in front of him. 

You don’t try to fight it, don’t try to stop him from slotting himself between your thighs— you could barely understand what was happening. 

Roy Goode, the man you hated, the man you wouldn’t let touch you with a giant ten-foot pole— was spreading you open for his eyes to see and preparing himself to do the unspeakable. 

Jesus Christ, this day couldn’t get any worse. 

“Would you look at that,” he whistled, peering down at your cunt on full display. “prettiest girl I’ve ever seen— probably the only prettiest girl I’ve seen.” 

“Roy—“

“Not now, focusing on something else at the moment. I’ll get back to you in a minute.” He shushed. 

You tried to say something else but your jaw dropped instead when he leaned forward, and a hard knot in his pants pressed against the surface of your cunt and he rutted forward, slowly teasing you with what to expect when he finally got free from the tight constraints of his pants. 

“Feel that? Feel how hard I am ‘cause of you?” He pulled his hips back to bump his bulge against your ass. “Fought me off so well— almost won in fact. Couldn’t stop myself from reactin’ like this.”

He pushed your legs up, holding the back of your knees in the palm of his hand to keep your legs straight up like a tower. “Wasn’t gonna let nobody else have this— have you. Especially not anybody who didn’t belong in our lil’ family Frank talks about.” 

He began to hump your ass, slowly moaning at the friction, holding your legs close to his chest and hooking them over his shoulders. 

It was all beginning to be too much. 

Your hands were trapped underneath your back, legs in an awkward position that didn’t check well with your terrible flexibility, and worst of all? 

You actually started to like it. 

He could feel you squirm, not from distress or being uncomfortable—but he could tell that you were trying to deny what your body wanted with what your mind had already closed off from.

He knew you didn't like him. Knew that you hated him with a passion, and yet that was never an issue for him. 

What could he say? He liked women who could curse him out and beat his ass, and you fit the box perfectly. 

“Don’t fight it sweetheart— just let me in.” He cooed softly, rutting his hips faster to build a chaotic pace.  “This is what you wanted right? Me, makin’ up for my mistake?”

Like Frank, Roy seemed to pick up the talent of twisting someone’s words for their own benefit. 

His hand moved to dip in between your closed thighs and you felt his fingers graze over your clit, feeling wetness build and dribble against the fabric of his pants. “Didn’t take much to make you drool— must mean this was meant to be.” 

“R-Roy— I can’t— I can’t do this—“

“'Cause I’ll be your first, right?”

You really wish this day would swallow you whole and never bring you back. 

He stopped humping your ass to spread you open again, noticing the wet trail line from your cunt to the front of his jeans. He chuckled like it was all so very funny suddenly. 

“That’s it darlin’— shit, never noticed how much hate you had built up for me— gonna kiss it all better and make sure you don’t get any more ideas about talkin’ to someone else.” 

He dropped one of your legs from his hold, using the same hand to palm the front of his pants and he grunted low, cursing to himself. “Know it’s your first time, but I’m not gonna treat it like one. Not tonight— but tomorrow? We can try and reenact this moment again if you like.” 

You jumped like he spanked you again when you heard him unbuckle his pants and the zipper popping open next. It felt like your world tilted over when his cock slipped out and landed right over your cunt, eclipsing you with all of its entirety. He was big, swollen, red around the tip, and leaking white against your skin like silk. 

That wouldn’t be able to fit—

“Yes, it will certainly be able to fit.” He commented, like he could read your mind. “And no, I can’t read your mind, it’s all over your face sweetheart.” 

“Y-You don’t have to make it up to me anymore— I was only jokin—“

“I figured, but no cowboy takes back on his word. Not even a cowgirl.” He wrapped his hand around his length, pumping himself a few times, spreading your warmth around him like honey. 

He slipped his bottom lip between his teeth, focused and fully prepared to slip inside of you for the very first time. He can admit that he thought about it— dreamed that one day this would happen. 

He didn’t think it would be so soon. 

He assumed it would be much later, maybe in the middle of a storm, trapped inside an inn and needing company to pass the time. But this? It fitted much better in the story of how you two would elope. Arguing and fighting because of something that he most likely caused and ending up tangled in each other's embrace. 

“Can’t wait anymore, I gotta feel you around me—“ he sighed, positioning himself to your opening. “Ready for me?”

“Please, Roy—“

“You’ll be okay, I’ll go slow.” 

Your voice transcended when he pushed the fat head of his cock past your folds, slipping in like he belonged. 

You wrapped instantly around him, squeezing him with a death grip— fingers pressing crescent moons into your palms, mouth flying open like a fish out of water. 

"Relax f'me baby— there you go. Just hold me in." He pushed in further, testing the waters, getting a feel for how far he could go before you would start whining that it was too much. 

Surprisingly, to his amazement, you took it all without any of those complaints. Yeah, you were teary-eyed with short soft gasps that sounded like heaven, but not once did you try and run away from him. 

"Shit, girl—  whole time I've been arguin’ with you, listenin’ to you hatin’ my guts an all—  Should've done this instead. Who knew you were made just for me?" 

He swore he could feel your cunt purr around him like a well-loved house cat. 

"You like that? Like that I'm complimenting your star quality?" 

Your eyes drop to where you're both connected, heat blossoming into your cheeks. 

"Got you wrapped around me— all nice and warm,” He noted out loud, “but we don’t stop there.” 

He finally moved, slow, feeling the slickness of your heat. He pulled his hips back, losing the warmth, grunting when just the tip was the only thing left and you squeezed around him like a glove— like you were trying to keep all of him from leaving. 

"Baby— relax. Promise I ain't goin' nowhere." He breathed, clicking his tongue when you ignored his criticism and squeezed around him again. 

“F-Fuck you,” you grunted, a soft moan slipping out soon after when he pushed back in again. “G-Gonna tie this r-rope around your neck—“

“Mhmm, love it when you talk dirty to me. Keep em’ comin’.” 

Soon, the room was filled with your poorly timed threats mixed in with loud gasps and skin slapping against skin. 

He had gone slow, really tried to, slowly testing how much you could take him, but it soon died out when you kept gripping him too tightly and a particular moan punched out of your mouth when he pushed in too fast. It was loud and breathy, the type of sound he’s never heard from anybody— especially you— and he had to hear more. 

Like any man— only the ones who knew their priorities like the back of their hand— he picked up the pace, holding one of your legs wrapped tight around his waist and fucked into you like the day was going to end once the clock struck 12. 

He was not kidding when he said he wasn’t going to be nice about it, after all, he could say, technically, it was your fault he had to result in shooting a man dead. 

He didn’t like killing innocent people, rarely ever liked joining in on Frank's tyrants around towns— but for you? He would do just about anything to get under your skin. 

Like this. 

His hips snapped into you, rapid-firing like gunshots. Fingernails digging into your knee while his other hand pinned your leg open towards your chest. 

"Goddamn— all I had to do was rough you up a lil’ and fuck you nice and hard?" He groaned, noting every little gasp and grunt from your pretty mouth. "spent all this time fightin’ when we could've been fuckin’ like crazy.”

You stopped denying your attraction way ahead of the curve. Every sharp snap of his cock inside of your walls, every tight squeeze he applied to your legs involuntarily, the way he was talking and noting how badly you needed this— It slowly turned your hate into a desperate need that you never felt before. 

“Roy— y-your inside— feel you— deep—"

"I know baby, feel me all the way in there?" The hand that was pinning your leg down moved to rest over your stomach. "Gonna change you from the inside out, make you good just for me." 

He switched positions, dropping the leg around his waist, and moved to place his hands beside your head. You followed like a coordinated dance, wrapping both of your legs around his waist in hopes of feeling him deeper. And it worked, because the tip of his cock started to punch your cervix, hitting against that tight ring, forcing his way past at every snap. 

“Feels so— so, mhmm, so fuckin’  good—“ you cried, completely lost in him. 

"F-Fuck baby— all it took to get you to be nice was a fat cock, huh?" 

"O-Oh shit— Roy—"

"That's it— that's it, baby," he groaned, practically hauling your ass up and against the headboard with every rapid smack of his hips. 

The slick sounds of your pussy were hard to ignore when he was pounding you open— molding you to fit him and only him. 

"Shit, shit— there you go. That's all for me isn't it? Cryin’ already, droolin’ all over me cause it feels too damn good?” 

You were nodding already, sobbing with heavy pants and sharp gasps. 

“Fuckin’ knew it— Wanna feel you cry on me— as you did before— wanna feel this sweet pussy weep." 

When you felt his hand smack against your clit, dropping down in hard, rough drops, you damn near cried like a baby. 

The weight became too much, his attention suffocating— his hand relentless and mean against your delicious wet pussy. Your eyes crossed, mouth dropping open into a silent scream. You felt pressure first, right in your chest until it traveled down into your stomach and then nothing but heat eclipsed your body. 

Roy couldn’t help but whistle, feeling you come around him in a flurry of convulsions from your cunt and warmth flooding his lap. 

"Atta girl, there you go," he praised, still rutting into you. Still pistoning his cock like he was trying to get inside of your guts and more. "Knew you could do it. Fuckin’ knew it." 

You cried for the second time that night. Another set of fat tears flowing down your already dried and ruined makeup— curling your legs around his waist while he kept moving his hips and slapping his hand down to feel more of your devastation. 

“Maybe that potential Frank saw was this,” he grinned, petting your cunt over with sudden light touches, with fingers wet and slicked. “Wish I could keep you here all night like this— would you like that?” 

You breathed, hard and loud. Trying to catch some form of air back into your lungs. “N-Not forgiving you for killing him.” You huffed, trying to gather yourself, tired and spent. “He was—“

“I didn’t kill him.”

Your face went blank. “…what?”

“I lied about that.” He admitted it easily. 

“What…what did you do?” 

He smiled, patting your leg softly. “Just clipped him in the foot, should have seen the way he limped.” 

“And you said you weren’ like the rest of us.” You scoffed, gasping for air. 

“I’m not, but for you? I don’t mind bein’ the villain.” 

“You shit head— can you get off and untie me now?”

"I didn't say we were done darlin'," he chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "I didn't get an apology from you."

"Oh, fuck you—"

"Uh-uh, did all this for you. Apologized and made you see stars and you can't return the favor?" 

"Favor? You're the one—“

Your complaint fell when he turned and maneuvered you both over, forcing you to sit on top of him. 

You quickly tried to find your balance, finding it hard to hold yourself on top when your hands were still tied behind your back.  

"Gonna make you do all the work now. Or else I'll do more than spank you with my hand."

"Or what?" You pursed your lips, eyeing him down below. Whatever he was going to say next wasn’t going to surprise you. 

Tonight has been wild enough. 

"I'll use a belt next time."

Well…that did surprise you.

Roy had been there from the very first desperate mile. You had grown up together under Frank’s dark wing, two children trapped in a den of wolves, but the moment you broke free, Roy became your anchor.

For seven years, he had been your shadow, your protector, and the only soul alive who knew the exact shape of your nightmares. He was a man who hoarded his words like gold coin, but in the suffocating silence of the high plains, his steady, quiet presence was the only thing keeping the madness at bay.

You had survived the cold nights and the close calls because Roy knew how to bleed for you. But as you stared out into the vast, unforgiving emptiness, a cold realization settled deep in your chest. Survival wasn't enough anymore. You were tired of being the one who needed saving.

So you had begged him—not with tears, but with the raw, jagged edge of a voice tired of whispering in the dark.

He hadn't argued. Roy never argued. He had simply looked at you, his blue eyes holding a heavy, sorrowful understanding, and reached for his gun belt.

Now, the mercy of the morning coolness was long gone.

And the midday sun hung overhead like a polished brass plate, beating down on the high plains until the horizon waves and shimmers with heat. Dust stuck to the sweat on your neck, grimy and sharp. While across the dirt yard, sitting on a sun-bleached fence post, was a single green glass bottle. In the glare of the noon light, it caught the sun, glinting like a mocking, emerald eye.

You squinted against the blinding brightness, your vision swimming. The Colt in your hand felt entirely too heavy, a lump of cold iron that makes your wrist ache and your fingers slick with sweat. To you, that bottle looked miles away, an impossible target shifting in the heat haze. You don't understand how he did it—how he ever made the iron an extension of his own hand, how he moved with that effortless, lethal grace while you are left squinting, breathing hard, and feeling entirely out of your depth.

You lowered the barrel, the weight of the iron dragging your arm down toward the dirt. A frustrated, ragged breath escaped your lips, tasting of dust and defeat.

Then came the crunch of boots in the dry dirt.

Roy closed the distance between you without a sound. He didn't speak—he didn't need to—but the sudden shift in the air told you he was there, blocking out the harsh glare of the midday sun. He stepped up directly behind you, his chest brushing against your shoulder blades. The heat radiating from his body was different from the oppressive sun; it was a fierce, protective warmth that enveloped you completely, smelling of leather, horse sweat, and the sharp, clean scent of gun oil.

Your pulse gave a sudden, wild flutter against your ribs as his large, calloused hands slid down your arms. His skin was rough, a stark reminder of the hard life you both shared, but his touch was incredibly deliberate. Unyielding.

"You’re fighting it," he murmured, his low voice a gravelly rumble right beside your ear, sending a sharp shiver down your spine despite the sweltering heat.

His hands moved to your hips. The grip of his fingers were firm and heavy through the thin fabric of your clothes, physically shifting your weight, forcing your boots deeper into the sun-baked earth until your stance was grounded and unshakeable.

"If your feet aren't planted, the iron owns you," he whispered, his breath warm against your neck.

He slid his hands back up to your arms, his palms tracing the line of your muscles until his fingers wrapped directly over yours around the cold steel of the Colt's grip. His hands completely engulfed yours, massive and steady. With a gentle but unyielding pressure, he lifted your arm, forcing the heavy barrel back up toward the shimmering horizon. He adjusted your wrist, tilting it just a fraction of an inch until the front sight aligned perfectly with the glinting green bottle.

The intimacy of it was a sharp, aching pressure in your chest. He was holding you so close you could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your back, guiding you into a posture meant for killing, even as his touch offered the only true safety you had ever known.

"But you don't ever sit still," you sighed, your voice ragged against the wall of his chest. Your heart hammered against your ribs, trapped between his unyielding grip and the sheer frustration of the impossible task. "You can shoot off a god damned horse."

A low, vibrating rumble started deep in his chest—a sound that was almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it, only the grim reality of a man who had been baptized in gunpowder.

"The horse does the standing for me," Roy murmured, his grip tightening just enough to steady the tremble in your fingers. His thumb stroked the back of your hand, a heavy, calloused reassurance that felt like fire against your skin. "My boots don't move from the stirrups. The saddle is my dirt. You find your ground, wherever it is, and you lock yourself into it."

He pressed closer, his torso completely bracketing yours, forcing your shoulders to square against the blinding glare of the noon sun.

"Just breathe with it, okay?"

You tried not to roll your eyes, but the sheer force of keeping the gun steady took every ounce of your attention—even with his massive hands reinforcing your own. But you listened, begrudgingly.

You closed one eye, letting the rest of the shimmering desert blur into nothingness as you focused entirely on the glinting green glass at the tip of your front sight. You moved slowly, deliberately, letting him guide your movements with effortless ease until the muzzle and the target lined up perfectly in the heat haze.

The silence stretching between you, thick and heavy with the midday heat, until Roy’s voice broke it, low and steady against your ear.

"Breathe," he commanded softly. "Deep."

Before you could draw the air in, his left hand slid away from your arm and pressed flat against your lower abdomen. The warmth of his palm seared through your clothes, heavy and grounding, mapping the rise and fall of your stomach.

A sudden, fierce heat rushed to your face, deepening into a burning flush that had nothing to do with the New Mexico sun. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs, but you forced yourself to stay absolutely still, locked in the cradle of his frame while his other hand remained a solid bracket over yours, keeping the heavy iron aimed true.

"In," he murmured, his palm rising slightly with you.

You inhaled the scent of him, the dust, the leather, filling your lungs until they ached.

"Out."

You let the breath go, your shoulders dropping, your frame settling completely into his chest. In that microscopic space between the exhale and the next breath, the world went entirely still. The heat haze stopped shimmering. The wind died.

"Shoot," he whispered.

You squeezed.

The Colt roared, a deafening crack that shattered the midday silence and sent a violent tremor straight up your arm, absorbed instantly by the solid wall of Roy's body behind you.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The lead bullet tore through the shimmering heat, a lethal line cutting across the dirt yard until it found its mark. The green glass bottle didn’t just break; it exploded. A sudden, brilliant burst of emerald shards erupted into the air, catching the blinding glare of the sun like a handful of cheap diamonds before raining down into the dust.

The heavy tension holding you together snapped in an instant.

A wild, breathless squeal of pure excitement tore from your throat, and you completely forgot about the heavy iron, forgot about the phantom of Frank Griffin, forgot about the seven years of running.

"I did it!" you gasped, the words tumbling out in a breathless, radiant laugh. "Roy, I actually hit it!"

A slow, genuine smile broke across his face—a rare, beautiful thing that transformed his rugged features, clearing away the shadows that usually hung over him. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, bright with a sudden, fierce pride.

"You sure did," he murmured, his voice lower than usual, carrying a thick, gravelly warmth that vibrated straight through your chest.

But as the echo of the gunshot faded into the vast emptiness of the plains, the excitement in the air began to shift, thickening into something heavy and consuming.

You were still trapped within the bracket of his arms. You hadn't moved, and neither had he. His left hand was still resting against your lower abdomen, the heat of his palm seared into your skin, while his right hand gently took the weight of the Colt from your fingers, lowering it to his side without ever breaking eye contact.

Standing this close, you could see the fine gold flecks in his eyes, the dust coating his eyelashes, and the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his chest. He was looking down at you not just as a protector, and not just as the boy you grew up with in the dark. There was a raw, aching hunger in his gaze—a fierce, possessive reverence that he had spent seven years trying to hide behind his silence.

His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against your waist, a tiny movement that made your breath catch in your throat. For seven years, you had bled for each other and run from monsters, but in the quiet space between your heartbeats, the greatest danger in the territory was the sheer, terrifying depth of what lay unsaid between you.

"Uh-uh, Roy," you murmured, a soft, breathless laugh bubbling up from your chest. You leaned back just an inch, your eyes dancing as you looked up at him through the heat. "I know that look."

The corners of his mouth twitched, the rare smile lingering on his lips as his gaze tracked the movement of your mouth. He didn't pull away. If anything, his grip on your waist tightened, anchoring you against him so completely that the rest of the world just fell away.

"Do ya?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that felt like a physical vibration against your ribs.

"I do," you whispered.

The playful tease faded as quickly as it had come, swallowed by the heavy, sudden memory of a time before the trail grew so blood-soaked and bitter. You had known that look since you were teenagers, wrapped in stolen blankets in the dead of winter while Frank’s camp slept.

He had been your first—the first boy to hold you gently in a world full of monsters. You hadn’t been his only one back then, in the wild chaos of the gang, but it had never mattered. Not really. Because through all the dust, the shootouts, and the women who came and went, Roy had always come back to you. Always.

Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right hand—the one that had just guided yours to kill—and brushed the back of his knuckles against your heated cheek. His skin was rough, calloused from reins and iron, but his touch was so incredibly gentle it made your throat ache.

"Seven years," he murmured, the words scraped raw from the back of his throat. It was more than he usually spoke in an entire day, each syllable heavy with the weight of every mile you had traveled in the dark. "Seven years of watching over you. Running with you."

His hand slid down, his thumb hooking beneath your chin, tilting your face up just a fraction more. The scent of leather and parched earth enveloped you, thick and intoxicating.

"You think you know the look," Roy whispered, his blue eyes darkening with an ancient, familiar hunger. He leaned in, his forehead brushing against yours, his breath a warm, ragged caress. "But you don't know the half of it. No matter where the trail takes us... I’m always gonna find my way back to you."

The promise was an unyielding devotion delivered with the gritty, unvarnished honesty of a man who knew just how easily the world could bleed. Your breath hitched, your hands instinctively coming up to bunch into the rough fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because the seven years of waiting were suddenly entirely too much to bear.

"Then stay right here, Roy," you breathed against his lips.

He didn't need to be told twice. Roy closed the remaining distance, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was fierce, protective, and desperately hungry. It tasted of salt, dust, and a profound, aching relief—the familiar, beautiful ghost of your youth, finally reclaimed in the desert sun.

The kiss went deep, hard and heavy, a desperate reclamation of everything the years had tried to steal from you both. His mouth was unsparing, tasting of the noon heat and the sharp, metallic tang of gunpowder, but beneath the grit was a fierce, protective reverence that made your knees go weak.

Roy’s hand left your chin, his fingers tangling into your hair, tilting your head back to possess you completely. He groaned into your mouth, a low, starved sound that rattled against your teeth. His other arm wrapped like a steel band around your waist, hoisting you up until your toes barely brushed the dirt, burying your front into the solid wall of his chest.

For seven years you had been ghosts on the wind, running from a man who wanted you dead, but right here, locked in Roy's arms, you were entirely, fiercely alive.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He rested his cheek against yours, his chest heaving as he drew the hot desert air into his lungs. His fingers stayed tightly knotted in your hair, his grip possessive, unyielding—the grip of a man who had finally found his ground and refused to let go.

"You don't need to learn to shoot," he rasped against your ear, his voice thicker, rougher than before. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck, sending a delicious shiver straight down your spine. "Not while I'm breathing. I'll take every god damned bullet Frank sends our way before I let one touch you."

You leaned into him, letting your forehead drop against the hollow of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of horse sweat, sun-warmed leather, and him.

"I know you would," you whispered, your hands smoothing over the tense, knotted muscles of his shoulders. "But I'm still gonna hit that next bottle, Roy."

A low, genuine chuckle vibrated against your chest. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, those striking blue eyes softer now, crinkling at the corners with a quiet, enduring devotion.

"Alright," he murmured, his thumb tracing the swollen contour of your lower lip, a lingering promise of what was waiting for you when the sun went down. He stepped back just an inch, his hand sliding down to engulf yours once more, lifting the heavy Colt between you. "Let's see it then. Line it up."

You took a deep breath, swallowing the dust and the lingering taste of him, and faced the horizon. Across the dirt yard, another green bottle sat waiting, a fresh emerald eye mocking you from the fence post. Your hands were trembling, the adrenaline of the kiss and the heavy weight of the Colt making your wrist ache, but you forced your boots down into the parched earth, just like he’d shown you.

Find your ground.

You lifted the iron. You closed one eye, squinting against the blinding glare of the sun until the shimmering desert blurred into nothingness, leaving only that glinting green target at the tip of your front sight. You didn't look at the wind. You didn't think about Frank Griffin. You just breathed. In. Out.

In the quiet space between heartbeats, you squeezed the trigger.

The gun roared, kicking violently against your palm. For a terrifying second, you thought you'd missed—and then, the sharp, beautiful crack of breaking glass echoed across the plane. The bottle shattered into a dozen glittering pieces, raining down into the dirt.

A breathless, wild scream of pure, unadulterated triumph tore from your throat. You didn't care about being a hardened survivor; you spun around, jumping slightly, your face split by a grin so wide it made your cheeks ache. "I did it! Roy, I did it all by myself!"

Roy just stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, but the look on his face was worth more than all the gold in the territory. That rare, devastating smile soft on his lips, his blue eyes burning with a fierce, quiet pride that made your heart roll over.

"Told you," he whispered. "You just had to find your ground."

And so you had. So you kept on with it until the time the sun began its slow bleed into the western horizon, staining the sky in bruised shades of amethyst and gold, your knuckles were raw and your wrist throbbed with a dull, heavy ache. You had lined up twenty more bottles. You had shattered twelve, the glittering green shards forming a mini graveyard in the dirt, but the eight misses still rankled, tasting like dust in your mouth.

You raised the Colt again, your forearm trembling with pure exhaustion, squinting through the creeping twilight at the next target.

"That's enough," Roy’s voice cut through the quiet, a low, unyielding rumble from just behind your shoulder.

"Just one more," you muttered, refusing to lower the iron. "I almost have the lead on the wind. Just let me—"

Before you could finish, a large, calloused hand clamped gently but firmly over the top of the barrel, forcing the gun down. Roy stepped into your space, his massive frame blocking out the fading light, and with a swift, effortless motion of his fingers, he slipped the Colt cleanly out of your slick palm.

"I said that's enough," he murmured, a trace of amusement dancing in his blue eyes as he holstered the weapon. "Your wrist is shaking like a leaf. You keep going, the iron’s gonna win."

"God dammit, Roy," you breathed, a sharp, ragged curse slipping past your lips as you stepped into his space, the heat of your frustration rolling off you in the cooling twilight. "I was right there. Why you gotta go and ruin the only good thing I’ve felt all day?"

He just stood there, completely unbothered by the bite in your voice, though his blue eyes darkened as they tracked the fierce, stubborn rise and fall of your chest. With that slow, agonizingly calm grace that always made your blood run hot, he cleared the cylinder of the Colt and holstered it.

"Your arm is dead, and you're shooting angry," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration in the quiet yard. "Tomorrow."

A wicked, defiant spark flared in your chest—a sudden need to break that unshakeable composure of his. Before he could anticipate the movement, you lunged forward, your fingers brushing the rough skin of his forehead as you snatched the heavy, battered Stetson clean off his head.

"Hey—" Roy growled, a low, predatory sound snapping from his throat as his brows came together in genuine surprise.

But you were already moving. You jammed the oversized hat onto your own head, the scent of him—sweat, tobacco, and old leather—instantly enveloping your senses as you took off across the dirt yard, a breathless, wicked laugh trailing behind you into the gathering shadows of the high plains.

The silence of the plains swallowed his response, but the sharp, sudden twitch of his jaw told you everything you needed to know. Roy didn't chase you on foot. He didn't waste his breath calling after you.

Instead, he turned with a fluid, lethal grace and swung his long leg over the saddle of his bay horse.

The thud of hooves against the sun-baked earth sounded behind you, a heavy, rhythmic thunder that made the adrenaline spike raw and sweet in your veins. You didn't even make it to the edge of the brush before the horse’s shadow engulfed yours, blocking out the last violet rays of twilight. Roy leaned down from the saddle, a massive, unyielding silhouette, and wrapped a single, iron-hard arm around your waist.

He hoisted you off your feet with effortless, terrifying strength, plucking you right out of the dirt. A breathless gasp tore from your throat as he hauled you up against his thigh, his grip possessive and entirely unyielding as he turned the horse back toward the small, weather-worn shack you were hiding out in. He didn't look down at you, his features set in stone, but the heavy thud of his heart against your shoulder told you the quiet frontier man was done waiting.

He dismounted in one smooth motion, dragging you down with him, and practically carried you over the threshold. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the howling wind of the high plains and plunging the room into the deep, shadows of the candlelit cabin.

"You think you're fast enough to run from me?" Roy rasped, his voice a low, dark growl that vibrated straight through your bones.

He reached up, plucking his battered Stetson off your head and tossing it onto the table, before his large hands came down to grip your hips, pinning you firmly against the rough wood of the door. The heat radiating off him was thick, suffocating, and entirely consuming—the exact promise that had been lingering on his lips out in the dirt yard.

"And you think you can take my things without paying the toll?" His blue eyes burned with a fierce, predatory light, stripping away the quiet protector to reveal the lethal man underneath. His thumb pressed firmly into the dip of your waist, a heavy, deliberate reminder of who owned your gaze. "I told you out there, the iron wins if you fight it. And you've been fighting me all day."

He leaned in close, his breath a hot, ragged caress against your neck that sent a delicious, terrifying shiver straight down your spine. "You want to play the outlaw, sweetheart? Fine. But you're gonna learn what happens to thieves in this territory."

"You ain't no saint, Roy Goode," you breathed, a defiant, wicked smile curving your lips even as your heart battered itself ragged against your ribs. You leaned up, your front flushing flat against the hard wall of his chest. "An outlaw got no right accusing a thief."

A low, dangerous growl started deep in his throat, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath a scorching contrast to the chill seeping into the cabin.

"Watch me," he rasped.

The last shred of his unshakeable frontier patience snapped. Roy gathered you up in his arms, his grip iron-hard and possessive, and hauled you back against the mattress. The heavy canvas and straw hissed beneath your weight as he came down over you, a massive, suffocating shadow that blocked out everything but the heat radiating off his skin.

There was no more running. No more ghosts from Frank Griffin's camp, no more miles of bitter alkali dust between you. There was only the raw, consuming friction of the last seven years finally burning to the ground.

His mouth found yours with a fierce, punishing hunger that stole the breath right out of your lungs. It was an unsparing, desperate kiss, tasting of salt, heat, and the heavy reverence of a man who had died a thousand deaths watching over you in the dark. Your fingers bunched frantically into the rough fabric of his shirt, tearing at the buttons, needing the heat of his bare skin against your palms.

Roy groaned into your mouth, a dark, starved sound as his heavy hands pinned your wrists to the mattress, locking you down, a silent reminder of the punishment he’d promised. But when his fingers slid down to tangle in yours, squeezing tight, it was the same steady anchor that had held your hand steady on the iron.

He stripped away the thin fabric of your clothes with an agonizing, deliberate slow grace, his calloused palms mapping every inch of your skin until you were shivering, your skin flushing a deep, burning pink in the dim candlelight.

Roy moved over you with the same slow, unyielding gravity he used to cross the high plains. He didn't rush; a man who had survived seven years on the run knew the value of patience, knew that the greatest rewards were the ones fought for in the dark.

He parted your thighs with a heavy knee, settling his weight fully between them. The sheer, massive bulk of him was a suffocating, beautiful pressure, pinning you to the straw mattress until you couldn't have run even if the devil himself was at the door. He leaned down, bracing his forearms on either side of your head, his blue eyes black in the dim candlelight as they searched your face.

"Look at me," he commanded. It wasn't a growl this time, but a low, raw plea, his voice thicker and rougher than you had ever heard it.

You met his gaze, your breath catching as he pushed inside you. He went slow—agonizingly, unbearably slow—stretching you open, filling the empty, aching spaces that had belonged to him since you were kids. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, your fingers clawing into the tense muscles of his back as your body adjusted to the thick, unyielding intrusion of him.

Roy paused, burying himself to the hilt, his chest heaving against your breasts as he let you take the full weight of him. He didn't move for a long, heavy beat, just gripped your hips with fingers that left bruises, anchoring you both to the bed.

"You're mine," he rasped against your lips, his hot breath mingling with yours. "You hear me? From the day we left that camp. Every mile. Every bullet. It’s always been you."

He began to move, a deep, bruising rhythm that was entirely unsparing. Roy wasn't a man for sweet words or soft poetry, but every heavy thrust against your hips was a confession, spoken in the ancient language of sweat and skin. He knew exactly how to break you. His calloused hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding the slick, swollen heat of you, pressing and rubbing with a practiced, deliberate friction that sent a violent jolt of lightning straight to your core.

Your head flung back against the mattress, an undone, shameless cry tearing from your throat. The pleasure was too sharp, too intense, mounting like a prairie fire fueled by the wind. You arched into him, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, demanding the absolute wreckage of his restraint.

The frantic, breathless rhythm of the mattress suddenly stalled as Roy caught his breath, his chest heaving against yours. The heat rolling off his skin was thick and suffocating, but before the fire could even begin to cool, a wicked, defiant thought sparked in your mind.

You didn't want him to take the lead anymore. Not after seven years of being the one who was shielded, the one who was followed.

With a sudden, burst of adrenaline, you planted your palms against his massive shoulders and pushed. Roy let out a low, surprised grunt, but he didn't fight you; he let his weight shift, rolling onto his back beneath you with a heavy, fluid grace.

In one swift, breathless motion, you straddled his hips, sitting up straight in the dim candlelight. Your gaze dropped to the wooden table beside the bed where his battered Stetson lay. You reached over, snatching the heavy leather hat, and jammed it right back onto your head, letting the wide brim cast a dark shadow over your eyes.

Down beneath you, Roy’s jaw went completely slack. A dangerous, incredibly dark look flashed across his striking blue eyes as he stared up at you, his large hands coming up to grip your thighs with a bruising, possessive intensity.

"You're a menace," he rasped, his voice a gravelly rumble that sent a thrill straight down your spine.

"I told you, Roy," you whispered, a slow, triumphant smile curving your lips as you tilted the brim of the hat up just enough to lock eyes with him. "An outlaw can't accuse a thief."

You lifted your hips and came down hard, impaling yourself back on the thick, unyielding length of him. Roy let out a strangled, predatory groan that shook his entire frame, his fingers digging so deep into your thighs that you knew they’d leave marks by morning.

You began to ride him, your movements slow and deliberate at first, setting a heavy, agonizing pace that made his eyes roll back. The oversized Stetson wobbled on your head with every roll of your hips, a visual taunt in the flickering shadows of the cabin. Roy’s hands slid up from your thighs to your waist, his thumbs pressing hard into your hips, trying to control the rhythm, but you held your ground, keeping him pinned beneath the absolute wreckage of your control.

"Look at you," he choked out, his chest heaving, his face flushing a deep, dark red as he looked up at the wild, breathtaking sight of you wearing his crown while taking everything he had to give. "God dammit... look at you."

The praise was the ultimate fuel. You picked up the pace, the heat between your bodies turning into a blistering, friction-heavy storm. You arched your back, the leather hat finally tumbling off your head and discarding into the sheets as you threw your head back, riding him fiercely into the dark until the prairie fire consumed you both entirely.

You rode him fiercely, each heavy down-drop of your hips driving him closer to the absolute edge of his restraint. Roy’s hands were no longer just holding your waist; his fingers were clawing into your skin, his knuckles white as he fought to keep from throwing you off and taking the lead back. His eyes were wide and dark, completely fixed on you, tracking the wild tangle of your hair and the slick sheen of sweat on your collarbones.

The friction between you was blistering, a chaotic, unsparing rhythm that echoed through the quiet cabin. The cliff was looming, sharp and sudden for both of you. You could feel the tight, electric coils of your own release winding up deep behind your navel, matching the frantic, shallow pace of his breathing.

"Roy," you gasped, your voice a fractured, undone thing in the dark. "Roy, I'm—"

"I know," he choked out, his jaw locked, the cords in his neck standing out like iron cables.

He didn't let you finish. With a sudden, explosive burst of his hidden strength, Roy's hands gripped your hips and hoisted you slightly, shifting your weight just enough so he could drive upward with a brutal, unyielding force. He hit the deepest, most sensitive spot inside you, and the world simply shattered.

inside. At the exact same fraction of a second, the heavy coil inside Roy snapped completely. He let out a raw, deafening growl—a sound that belonged more to a wild predator than a man—and surged up into you one last time, emptying himself entirely, spilling his thick, burning warmth deep inside you.

The sheer force of it left you both breathless, collapsing forward until your chest hit his. You buried your face in the hollow of his neck, your heart hammering a frantic, chaotic rhythm against his skin while he wrapped his massive arms around you, locking you down against him as his body shuddered through the last remaining waves of his release.

For a long time, the only sound in the shack was the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, slowly evening out against the cold mountain air outside.

Slowly, Roy’s hand came up, his rough fingers gently stroking the damp hair away from your forehead. He pulled back just an inch, enough to look down at you in the fading candlelight. The dangerous, dark look was gone, replaced by that rare, devastating smile that crinkled the corners of his striking blue eyes.

He glanced over at the mattress where his battered Stetson had fallen, then looked back up at your flushed, triumphant face.