#roy goode

When you stumble around the corner of the stables, the last thing you expect to see is Roy with a letter in his hands.

Conversations with Alice flood back to you. The letter is recognisable, of course, from the late night whispers in the warm enclosure of bed. Being as the house was small, and the extra beds were for Iyovi and Truckee, there wasn't much in the way of space. As such, the only place for you, when you'd shown up to their home one afternoon - was in Alice's bed. Somewhere in the back of your mind you remember sharing beds like this with the girls of your family, way back when. At the ranch, with Alice, you'd lay cuddled together on cold days and poles apart on the hottest.

Most nights Alice liked to pillow talk; telling you things she'd die before admitting to her son or to his grandmother. Listening to her came easy, her voice the steady warmth of sisterly whispers and ears neither of you otherwise had. She'd tell you her inner thoughts, her most secret tales, her plans, her wonderings. And most nights you'd be lulled to sleep by her talk before ever hearing the full of it.

For days after Roy's arrival, the shared bed whispers were far more of a conversation than they usually were. You'd both eagerly chatted, low voices wavering between bewilderment and wonder. And when Alice told you about the letter she'd found - Roy Goode, Lucy Cole, Jim Goode, California... it had taken Iyovi's vexed visit to your room to get you to stop talking about it and at last surrender to sleep.

The letter, she'd said, was unopened. Now, having seen Roy staring down at the folded, yellowed paper the way he was, you could only surmise that he'd at last worked himself up to reading it.

You try and duck back around the corner, but Roy calls you right back inside on the instant. His voice is low when he calls your name, but not hesitant. Purposeful. Soft.

"It's alright. Really," he beckons. "You come here needing something?"

"Nothing much. Just wanted to check on Maybelle," you nod to one of the horses in confession. "Would hate to interrupt. I'll just go on and get."

"No, no, you’re not interruptin' none. Fact I'd welcome the company. Won't you join me?"

This time you let your hands fall down your skirts in defeat and meander your way back in. The sand coloured beauty you'd called Maybelle nudges her face happily into your hands when you greet her, and you giggle lowly when you feel a puff of her hot breath between your fingers. Maybelle is all the more eager when you give her a gentle scratch about her ears, ever the easy lover.

"You got a real way with 'em," Roy mentions.

"Comin’ from you that means a mighty lot. Truckee and I got to agreeing that you're some sorta horse whisperer, you."

"Oh, is that so?" He nods in approval, "Well. My point still stands. You got a real way with them yourself, Milady."

"You always call me that. Milady. I'm no lady, Roy. I'm just some girl who the old wind blew the wrong way and won't take back." Your voice catches when you deliver the words, and you swallow, busying yourself with Maybelle's tangled mane in order to hide your expression from Roy. Talking about your old life, remembering wandering the woods, and the day Iyovi found you…it always brings a catch to the back of your throat, a sting in your eyes.

"Seems to me you could be a lady, being as you're so lost,” he tells you gently. “You could be a real regal lady, and we'd all be none the wiser, you could be. I'd believe it."

Your tears disappear before they're realised.

"And we don't know none about you, either. Seems to me you could be some Lord and we'd not know."

Roy laughs low. "I'm no Lord, Milady. That much I do confirm." He nods his head toward the pistol lying atop his jacket, over by his feet. "That ain't the common object of a Lord now, is it? Least not in my books. Well, wouldn't be if ever I read me some. Books."

"You can read them aplenty now. Thanks to Alice and Truckee and Callie's old primer, you'll be reading up a damn storm."

"Thanks to you too, Milady."

"You know you're always welcome. I'd help you over again if you needed it," you tell him. You stare into his eyes when you say it, way into his soul. You mean it. Every word.

"Help me now," Roy whispers. Slow. His ask comes in a gentle wave, entirely at the mercy of your answer. His want, the sea to ask, your willing, the moon to accept. Roy picks the letter back up and smooths the creases over his knee. "Help me read it."

"Your brother's letter? Isn't it?"

Roy nods slowly.

"I need you to help me read it. If you want to, like. If you want to. Please?" The letter flutters shut on his lap, and he sighs, running a hand wearily over his face. "It's just that...I'm afraid I don't know to read nearly enough words."

"Sure you do. I've seen you sounding them all out, and you get ‘em all eventually. You'll be dandy."

"I'm not so sure I wanna take that chance. Not with this. I wanna understand everything he's saying to me." For a moment the two of you only stare. Maybelle nuzzles your shoulder. Roy's soft blues pierce.

Hell. Jim's letter sure ain't no primer.

"What do you say?” Roy punctuates his question by patting the hay beside him.

You'd never much enjoyed sitting in the hay, being rough, scratchy and poking as it is. Sometimes the stuff would stick right in places you'd rather it didn't, and other times would strike through ripped holes of the thrice mended skirt you wore. Alice's old one, naturally, faded and many times patched, thin enough to make sure you'd feel every bit of that hay. Still, the invite of Roy's morning blues was proving themselves a feat to resist.

Roy smooths out his letter after he unfolds it. When he begins to stumble over the words, you realise he's sitting so close you can feel the vibration of his voice through his arm, pressed against yours.

Later, in bed, you lie awake for hours longer than is your usual. Sometime after too much tossing and turning, you lie flat on your back and admit your truth with a breathy sigh.

"He wanted me to read his brother's letter with him," your whisper is sleek and barely there in the night. "And I did."

A lilt of silence drifts as a stray breeze cools your shoulder. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Roy Goode is a fool in love." Alice's words have you smiling stupidly into the dark. You had not known if she was awake to hear you, though you were not surprised; Alice was always there when she was needed, and Alice was always right.

The afternoon memory is a ghost in front of you, as if you're watching it all happen in the shadows of the night. His letter fluttering to the floor. His hand finding yours. Your arms encircling him. His arms tight around your back, hand on the back of your head. The way your hair stood on end as his breath graced your neck.

Then, as if she can see the memory with you, Alice laughs a soft laugh. "And I'd say he's not the only one. Whatever are we to do with you?”

You roll over onto your back. It’s a few minutes later when Alice’s muffled breathing announces she’s at last surrendered to sleep.

“Will you miss me when you go on, to your brother?”

Roy Goode had taken your face in his hands. From this angle, the sunlight hit his glistening eyes just right. From this angle, the face of this wanted killer was fragile, expectant.

“Not if you come with me.”

The man had been the one to pull you back into his lap after you both swore you needed to catch your breath, his hands sliding over your bare thighs like he had every intention of behaving until you settled over him and felt him hard against you all over again.

Now the room is hot enough to feel mean about it, the sheets are twisted beneath both of you, and Roy’s head is tipped back against the wall with his jaw tight as you ride him slow enough to make his restraint everybody’s problem.

California has the nerve to stay warm even after sundown, and Roy Goode has the nerve to look pretty with sweat sliding down his chest.

You’re naked in his lap, knees pressed into the thin mattress, body sore in ways that should probably make you quit but only make every roll of your hips feel filthier.

His cock fills you with that deep, aching stretch that keeps making your thighs tremble, and because you’re a terrible person, you keep grinding down just to feel the way his breath breaks when your cunt squeezes around him.

“Darlin’,” he warns, voice rough and low, one hand gripping your hip while the other spreads warm across your lower back.

You look down at him, mouth swollen from all the kissing, skin damp, pride absolutely undeserved considering your legs are seconds away from giving out. “What?”

Roy’s eyes drop between your bodies, watching himself disappear into you again, and whatever decent thought he had leaves his face immediately. “You keep doin’ that, I ain’t gonna last.”

Which is bold, really, considering he’s already come twice and still has the audacity to be buried inside you like neither of you have learned a single lesson all night.

You sink down slowly, taking him until your hips are flush with his, and Roy groans like you’ve finally managed to shoot him properly.

His fingers dig into your waist, his stomach flexing under your hands, and when you start bouncing on him with what little strength you have left, he tries to help you without making it obvious he’s losing his mind. His hips rise into you in short, rough thrusts, then harder than halfway, until the rhythm turns sloppy while he watches your tits bounce with each lift of your hips like it might fix something in him.

The whole thing is too much: his cock, the heat, the wet sound of you taking him, the way his eyes keep moving over your naked body like he can’t decide where to look first.

Apparently, Roy decides the safest option is nowhere at all, because he kisses you hard and slips out from under you before your cunt can finish milking him empty again.

You whine at the loss, embarrassingly loud, but the sound catches in your throat when his hand wraps around his cock.

Roy sits there between your spread thighs, flushed and breathing heavy, stroking himself with rough, lazy pulls while his gaze stays fixed on the mess between your legs.

His cock is slick from you, flushed and thick in his fist, and you would be more offended about being left empty if he didn’t look so good jerking himself off in front of you. His thumb drags over the tip, his jaw flexes, and you watch his self-control crumble by inches.

“Well,” you breathe, smiling even though your body feels wrung out, “don’t stop now.”

Roy gives you a look, dark and almost amused, hand still moving. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

“Maybe.”

Roy leans forward and kisses you hard enough to steal whatever smart thing you had waiting, his bare chest pressing to yours as he pushes you down with more hunger than grace.

The mattress gives beneath you, damp sheets sticking to your skin, and by the time your head hits the pillow, he’s already between your thighs again, guiding himself through the slick mess you’ve both made like his self-control died somewhere around the second round and nobody cared enough to bury it.

Roy hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, kisses the inside of your knee like he’s sorry in advance, and thrusts back into you so deep your mouth falls open with nothing useful coming out.

The angle is downright evil. His cock presses exactly where it shouldn’t, and you feel every inch of him because there’s nothing between you but sweat, skin, and the filthy stretch of him filling you again.

“Oh, there?” he breathes, quiet as ever, but there’s enough smugness in it to make you want to bite him.

You settle for clawing at his arm while he fucks you into the mattress, both of you messy, sticking together everywhere your bodies meet.

His chest brushes yours with each thrust. Sweat drips from him onto your skin. The room smells like heat and sex, and the bed creaks loud enough that you’re half sure the whole boarding house knows Roy Goode is not nearly as polite as he looks.

When you come again, it’s not graceful.

Your hands grab at his shoulders, his wrist, the sheets, anything you can reach while your cunt pulses around him and your leg trembles against his shoulder.

Roy drops his forehead close to yours with a rough groan, his rhythm faltering as you clench down on him again and again, milking every ounce of restraint right out of his body.

The man never stood a chance.

He comes buried deep, hips pressing hard between your thighs as he spills into you with a shudder, one hand gripping your raised leg while the other braces beside your head. He stays there afterward, breathing heavy, cock still twitching inside your sore, messy cunt like he hasn’t learned a single lesson all night.

You turn your face against the pillow, smiling even though your body feels entirely wrung out. “You done?”

Roy lifts his head just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, hair damp at his forehead, mouth swollen from kissing you, and there’s something almost innocent about him right up until his gaze drops between your naked bodies.

His hips give one slow, mean little roll that makes you gasp.

“Not if you ain’t,” he murmurs.

Not in any poetic sense either. Actual dirt. Dry, mean, gritty dirt that stuck to your tongue and cheek and got beneath your collar because apparently the Lord saw fit to make men broad, fast, and absolutely too pleased with themselves when they got the upper hand.

His arm had been locked around your waist barely three breaths ago, dragging you backward through the scrub with your boots scraping the ground and your skirt catching on every thorn that had ever held a personal vendetta against you.

You had done what he told you to do, mostly, because you dropped your weight, twisted hard, jammed your elbow back into his ribs, and reached for the revolver sitting low on his hip with all the fury of a woman who had no intention of being hauled anywhere by any man—training or not.

For one glorious little sliver of time, you thought you had him, and then his boot hooked behind yours and the whole world rolled sideways.

He came down with you, annoyingly careful even when he was throwing you into the dirt, catching enough of your weight that your head did not crack against the ground. Still, the landing was ugly.

Your shoulder hit first, then your back, then the breath flew out of you in a furious little gasp that you would never admit sounded more offended than hurt. Before you could get a knee up, he was over you, one hand pinning both of your wrists above your head while his knee pressed into the dust beside your hip and his other leg braced near your thighs so you could not twist free without making a whole spectacle of yourself.

The sun had gone low enough to sit red on the ridge behind him, throwing his face into shadow beneath the brim of his hat. His shirt was damp at the collar, dust smudged along one sleeve, and his breathing was heavier than he clearly wanted it to be.

Roy looked down at you, jaw tight. “Dead.”

You sucked in air through your nose, mostly because your mouth still had dirt in it, and glared at him from beneath the loose pieces of hair stuck to your sweaty forehead. “That was rude.”

“That was slow,” Roy answered, his grip staying firm around your wrists even as his thumb shifted, checking without asking whether he had held you too hard.

“You're heavy,” you argued, trying to buck your hips enough to disturb his balance, though all it did was make his thigh press higher between yours.

“Most men are,” he said, and when you narrowed your eyes, he had the gall to look patient.

“Most men don't throw women into the desert for educational purposes,” you muttered, still squirming beneath him, still trying to pretend the heat rising under your skin had more to do with anger than the way his body caged yours.

Roy’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, but he pushed it back down because apparently teaching you how not to get dragged off and murdered required the demeanor of an undertaker. “You went for the gun too early.”

“I touched the grip,” you insisted, lifting your chin a little despite the fact that you were pinned in the dirt and in no position to be smug.

“You brushed it,” he corrected, and when your lips parted in offense, his eyes dipped there before he caught himself.

“I brushed it with intent,” you said, feeling more than seeing the way his attention snagged on your mouth.

“You’d be halfway to God knows where by now,” he replied, and the words came out carrying just enough truth to scrape the flirt clean off the moment.

That shut your mouth, though not because you wanted it to. You knew all about men who thought a woman alone was a gate left open. You had known it before him, and you knew it better after the night he stepped out from behind the livery and made one of those men bleed for putting hands on you.

Roy didn't bring that up often, and he didn't have to. Because it sat between you every time he taught you how to break a grip, how to keep your thumb away from the hammer, how to aim center instead of trying to be fancy. It sat there now, too, right under the dust and the heat and the very inconvenient fact that he had your wrists pinned above your head while your skirt had crawled halfway up your legs.

His gaze dropped, not far and not long, but enough to notice your dusty stockings, one knee bare where your skirt had bunched. Sweat had your bodice sticking to your skin, and your hair was halfway out of its pins, which meant a proper lady would have been horrified, but you, tragically, were too busy noticing the way Roy’s hand felt around both your wrists.

“Well?” you breathed, your chest rising a little harder beneath him.

Roy’s eyes came back to yours with a look that suggested he knew exactly what you were doing and hated that it was working. “Again.”

“Oh, of course,” you said, letting your head fall back into the dirt with all the drama you could manage.

Roy eased his grip but didn't let go yet, his knee shifting beside your hip. “You learnin’ or complainin’?”

“I've been doin' both with remarkable skill,” you said, and when he huffed once through his nose, low and almost amused, he finally released your wrists and rose.

He offered his hand, and you took it, though you made sure to look put upon about it.

He hauled you upright so quickly you stumbled into his chest, your palms landing flat against him. His body was hot beneath his shirt, all sun and sweat and lean muscle, and the smell of him hit you hard enough to make you lose the argument you had been preparing. Awful, really, how much a man could smell like work and trouble and still make your stomach dip.

The two of you stood in the wash behind the old shed, out of sight from the road, far enough from town that no decent woman could stumble upon you unless she was already doing something she would lie about in church. That was how most of your meetings with Roy went. Hidden places. Back doors. Half-lit rooms. His horse tied far off. His voice low at your window after dark. Frank Griffin’s name never spoken unless it had to be, and even then, spoken like something that might hear you.

Roy had kept you a secret with the devotion other men reserved for wives or guns, which would have been romantic if it didn't also mean every kiss carried the faint threat of someone riding over and ruining both your lives.

“You remember what I told you?” Roy asked, his hand still warm at your waist.

“I remember plenty,” you answered, looking at him while your fingers curled once in the damp cotton of his shirt.

His gaze dipped to your mouth again, and his voice came lower when he said, “Then act like it.”

“Bossy,” you muttered, but the complaint came out softer than it should have.

Roy leaned closer, his breath brushing near your ear. “Alive women get to call me bossy.”

That had no right to affect you the way it did, and you were grateful when he moved behind you before your face could give you away.

His arm slid around your middle again, your back pressed to his chest, and you could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, slower now, controlled on purpose. His other hand caught your wrist and held it low near your stomach. The revolver at his hip brushed your outer thigh, close enough to taunt you.

“Don’t pull straight away,” he said, mouth close enough to stir the hair near your temple. “Turn into me.”

“I know,” you said, bracing your boots in the dirt.

“You keep sayin’ that,” Roy replied, his arm tightening around your waist as if to prove his point.

“You keep puttin’ me on the ground,” you shot back, trying not to notice the heat of him behind you.

“Then prove me wrong,” he murmured.

A dangerous thing to say to a woman already full of dust and spite.

You dropped your weight, turned hard into him, and drove your elbow back.

This time it landed better, right under his ribs, and Roy made a sharp sound that you knew you would be revisiting privately later as his grip loosened.

You twisted, shoved your hip back, and your hand went for his gun, only for his fingers to catch your skirt instead. Fabric pulled tight around your thighs, jerking you back against him so fast your backside hit the front of his trousers.

The whole world seemed to stop in a very stupid, very embarrassing way, because he was hard. Not fully, maybe, not yet in the shameless way a man got when he had no prayer of hiding it, but enough that you felt the ridge of him press from against the cleft of your ass through his trousers when your body hit his.

Roy let go of the fabric like it had burned him, his voice rougher when he asked, “You alright?”

“Yes,” you answered, trying not to shift against him just to see what he would do.

“You sure?” he pressed, still close behind you, still breathing through his nose like a man trying to walk himself down from a ledge.

“Roy,” you said, his name coming out softer than you meant it to, and that was probably where the trouble truly began.

Not with his hands on you. Not with your body against his. Not even with the way he had dragged you around in the dust for the better part of an hour like some outlaw brute in a cautionary tale told by church women who had never had any fun.

The trouble began when you heard how badly he wanted to keep asking if he had hurt you.

You turned your head enough to look back at him. He was still so close, still breathing a little too carefully, with dirt on his cheek, sweat at his throat, and his hat tipped low, though not low enough to hide his eyes.

“Again,” you said.

Roy’s jaw worked before he answered, and his hand flexed once near his side. “You’re tired.”

“I’m mad.”

“That ain’t the same as ready,” he said, though his gaze had already dragged down your body and back up again.

“It is today,” you told him.

Roy looked out past the shed, toward the low rise that hid the road, and you thought he might actually stop, which was the most irritating thing about him.

A worse man would have taken what you were offering and called it nature. A better liar might have pretended he had not noticed the way your thighs pressed together every time he put his mouth near your ear. Roy had the nerve to want you badly and still act burdened by morals.

Then he looked back at you, and there went the morals.

He stepped away, giving you just enough room to turn, and came at you before you could get your footing. This time, he didn't ease into the lesson. His arm hooked your waist, his boot knocked yours wide, and his body crowded yours with a force that made your pulse jump into your throat.

You fought him hard, cursing under your breath, twisting through the hold, trying not to focus on the heat of him against your back. He dragged you three staggering steps through the wash, and you knew exactly what he was doing.

He was making you panic. Making you forget the gun. Making you feel how quickly a woman could be moved if she let fear lock her knees.

You refused to give him the satisfaction.

You went loose all at once, dropping so suddenly that his grip slipped. Roy grunted, caught himself, reached for you again, and you turned into him the way he had been telling you to all damn afternoon.

Your shoulder hit his ribs. Your hand found the holster, almost, before his hand closed over yours and twisted it away.

“Too obvious,” he said, his voice tight from the scuffle.

“You're impossible,” you snapped, trying to shove your knee between his.

Roy caught your waist again before you could slip behind him. “You're predictable.”

That was simply uncalled for.

You shoved your knee between his anyway, ducked under his arm, and nearly slipped behind him before he caught you at the waist and took you down again.

The ground rushed up, your body turned, and then you were on your back with Roy following you into the dust, one knee between your thighs, one hand locked around your wrists, his weight pinning you down.

“Dead again,” he said, voice rougher now.

You lay there panting beneath him, angrier than you had any right to be, because he was right and because his thigh was pressed high between yours and because he was looking at your mouth again. Truly, men were simple creatures—even the quiet ones.

His grip had your wrists trapped, but not well. Sweat made his palm slick. His attention had dropped to your lips, then lower, to the rise and fall of your chest beneath the dusty cotton of your bodice. All that focus, all that grave outlaw intensity, and it still took one damp dress and a few hard breaths to ruin him.

So you let your hand go slack.

His fingers adjusted too late, and you rolled your wrist exactly the way he had shown you, slipping free before pulling the revolver from his holster in one quick, clumsy motion that somehow worked anyway.

The barrel came up under his chin, cold metal pressing into sweat-warm skin.

Roy went still over you, and for once, the man had nothing smart to say.

His eyes dropped to the gun, then back to your face, and the expression that came over him was so open it nearly embarrassed you on his behalf. Surprise first. Then pride, bright as a struck match. Then something lower and dirtier, something that traveled through his whole body until you felt it against your thigh.

Well, well, well.

You breathed out a laugh and tipped your chin toward the unmistakable press of him. “Would you look at that.”

Roy swallowed against the barrel, his voice low when he said, “You got my gun.”

“I surely did,” you replied, your own breath still unsteady from the fight.

His eyes stayed on yours, though the flush creeping up his throat betrayed him plenty. “That gun ain’t cocked.”

“No,” you said, tipping his chin a little higher with it, “but you are.”

The sound he made was not fit for church, the mercantile, or any respectable porch in the territory. Low, strained, and dragged out of him before he could hide it.

Then his mouth was on yours. He kissed like he'd been waiting to break all afternoon. His tongue pushed past your lips, hot and impatient, and you opened for him with a sound that made him grind down against you.

The revolver wavered in your hand. He took it carefully, still kissing you, and set it in the dirt somewhere above your shoulder like the safety of it mattered even when nothing else did. Then both his hands were on your skirts, and Lord, the man had no finesse once he decided to be indecent.

He shoved your skirts up in rough handfuls, dragged your petticoats with them, and pushed your thighs apart with his knee.

You were already damp. Stupidly damp. Embarrassingly damp, your cunt dripping and slick, considering no part of being thrown into dirt should have done that to you, and yet there you were: spread beneath him with your drawers wet and clinging.

Roy looked down between your bodies and went still.

“Oh, hush,” you snapped, before he could even speak.

His gaze lifted slowly, and the corner of his mouth barely moved. “I didn’t say nothin’.”

“You were about to,” you accused, shifting beneath him in a way that made your skirt rustle around his wrist.

“I was not. I had a thought,” Roy said, though his thumb had already brushed the damp fabric between your thighs.

“Well keep it holy,” you said, but the last word caught when his fingers stroked you through your drawers.

His fingers brushed the damp fabric again, and whatever sharp thing you had planned to say turned into a gasp. Roy watched your face as he rubbed you, slow and firm, his own mouth parting at how slick you were. His thumb found the swollen little ache of you through the wet cloth, and he pressed just hard enough to make your hips lift.

“Not much holy about this,” he murmured.

“Roy,” you warned, though you were spreading your thighs wider instead of trying to close them.

“I could smell you,” he breathed. “Every time you got mad. Every time I put you under me. Sweet and hot, right through all this dust.”

Your cheeks burned. Unfortunately, so did everything else. “That is a wicked thing to say to a lady.”

Roy’s fingers slipped beneath the edge of your drawers and found bare skin, drawing a weak, traitorous sound out of you. “You want me to stop?”

“You stop and I’ll put your own gun to use,” you said, though your hips had already chased his hand.

A laugh broke out of him, rough and surprised, then died when his fingers slid through your wetness. “Christ.”

Roy leaned down and kissed you while his fingers rubbed slick circles over your clit until your thighs trembled around his hips.

You grabbed at his shirt, at his shoulders, at anything that might keep you from making noise loud enough to float over the ridge and give some ranch hand the story of his life.

He was good with his hands. The man could shoot a bird off a fence post, mend tack, tie knots, and apparently rub your pussy like he had been put on earth for no other reason. You were irritated by this, and you were also panting into his mouth and getting wetter by the heartbeat, your juices coating his thick fingers.

“Roy,” you breathed, dragging your nails over the back of his neck.

He pulled away just enough to look at you, his lips swollen from kissing, his face dusty, his eyes fixed on yours in that intense way that made you feel like a pinned butterfly. Then he shifted down your body, and you lifted your head, suddenly suspicious. “What're you doin’?”

“Finishin’ the lesson,” Roy said, hooking his hands behind your knees and pushing your legs wider.

“That is not the lesson,” you said, though your voice had already thinned out.

“It is now,” he replied.

Before you could recover from that, Roy settled between your thighs and put his mouth on you.

Oh.

Oh, he had been hiding that mouth under all that quiet.

There was nothing gentle or careful about it once he started. He pulled your drawers aside, dragged his tongue through your soaked folds—from your dripping hole to your aching clit—and groaned like he had found water after crossing desert for a week.

Your head dropped back into the dirt, hands flying into his hair.

Roy’s grip tightened on your thigh, holding you open while he licked you broad and slow, then messy and deep, his tongue pushing inside you like he wanted to taste how wet the fighting had made you.

The sound was wet and sloppy and hungry. His mouth worked you like he had no intention of letting you leave with any dignity left at all. His nose brushed your clit when he licked into you, and when your hips jerked, he did it again on purpose, because naturally, the man learned wicked things fast.

“Fuck,” you gasped, slapping your own hand over your mouth before the sound could carry too far.

Roy looked up from between your legs with your slick on his lips and chin, and if anyone had told you a few months ago that the quiet outlaw with the sad eyes would one day be kneeling in the dirt, staring at you like that with his mouth wet from your pussy, you would have called them touched in the head. Then again, a few months ago, you had still believed you were too sensible to let a dangerous man climb through your window.

Life came at a girl fast.

Roy turned his head and kissed the inside of your thigh, leaving it wet. “Taste so damn good.”

His tongue flattened over your clit, and your legs nearly snapped shut around his head. He kept them open, of course. Roy Goode had the nerve to be patient now, when you were writhing in the dirt and trying not to cry out. He sucked your throbbing clit gently at first, then harder when your hips bucked, and the pull of it went straight through your belly. His fingers dug into the soft backs of your thigh.

“Roy,” you whined, tugging at his hair, and when he groaned against your cunt, the vibration did something unholy to you.

Your back arched, your heel dug into his shoulder, and he answered by pushing his tongue inside you again, fucking you with it while his nose rubbed your clit. The pleasure built too fast, too hot, turning your whole body stupid beneath the open sky. You could feel the dust sticking to your sweaty skin, the cool beginning of dusk on your bare thighs, the slick mess spreading under his mouth.

He ate like he wanted proof of you on his face.

You clamped one hand over your mouth and bucked against his tongue, thighs shaking, heels digging into his back while Roy held you open and groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel in his own bones. He kept licking until you were squirming away from him, too sensitive, fingers yanking at his hair as you half-laughed, half-sobbed his name.

Only then did he crawl back over you.

His mouth was shiny. His chin too. There was dust on his cheek and your slick on his lips, and he looked about two sins away from needing a preacher.

You grabbed his face and kissed him before he could say anything repentant, and the taste of yourself on his tongue should have embarrassed you more. Though, It did not. It made you moan into his mouth, made you lick at him shamelessly, made Roy’s hips grind down between your legs like he had forgotten he was still trapped in his trousers and furious about it.

Before he freed himself, his hands went back beneath your skirts. He caught the waistband of your drawers and dragged them down your hips with no grace at all, working them over your thighs while you lifted for him, both of you breathing too hard and moving too fast to make it decent.

The damp fabric stuck briefly at your knees before he tugged it lower, past one stocking, past the bend of your leg, until it hung crooked from one ankle, useless and obscene in the dust.

Roy stared at the sight, and his fingers flexed once against your thigh.

“You shy now?” you asked, breathless and flushed, though you were the one lying there with your drawers dangling off one ankle.

“No,” he said, but his ears had gone pink beneath the dust.

“You look shy,” you teased, lifting one knee and letting the ruined garment swing slightly from your ankle.

“I’m tryin’ not to finish like a boy from the sight of you spread out in the dirt,” Roy admitted, his voice rough enough to shut you up rather nicely.

His fingers fumbled with his suspenders and trousers, twice, and you would have teased him if you were not busy staring at the hard shape he pulled free. He was thick. Pretty, too, which felt unfair. Heavy in his hand, flushed at the head, already leaking precum like he had been aching for this longer than he cared to admit.

He pushed your thigh wider, lined himself up, and slid the head of his cock through the mess his mouth had made of you.

The drag of him over your clit had your stomach jumping. He did it again because he was apparently not above being cruel when properly encouraged.

“Roy,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his shirt.

“I know,” he rasped, then pushed into you.

The first stretch took the air clean out of your lungs. He sank in deep, one hard, steady thrust, cock splitting your cunt open until you were stuffed full. Roy froze over you, his forehead dropping near yours, his breath hot against your cheek. He was so deep it was almost rude. Big enough that you had to take a second to remember how breathing worked.

He noticed, and his hand came up to your jaw while his eyes searched yours. “You with me?”

You dug your nails into his shoulders, dragged in a breath, and lifted your hips beneath him. “Goddammit, Roy. Move.”

He did—not slow or sweet or the careful bed-worship he had given you on nights when he had time to be ashamed afterward. It was rushed and dirty, his cock dragging out and driving back in while your back scraped the ground and your skirts bunched around your waist.

Your drawers stayed caught around one ankle, tugging faintly each time your legs shifted, making the whole thing feel even more indecent. His trousers rubbed rough against your thighs. His shirt stuck to your palms. Sweat fell from his jaw and landed on your throat.

He kissed you through it, breathing hard into you, swallowing the little broken sounds you could not stop making. Your legs wrapped around him, and he hitched one thigh higher with his hand, changing the angle until the next thrust made your eyes roll.

“There,” he breathed, watching your face while his hips drove deep. “That it?”

You nodded because words had briefly abandoned you.

Roy’s mouth curved, smug in a way he had no right to be. “Thought so.”

“Insufferable,” you managed, though your hands were clawing at him like you wanted him closer.

“You’re squeezin’ me awful hard for a woman insultin’ me,” he said, and his hand slid between your bodies before you could answer.

His fingers found your clit again, slick from his mouth and your own need, and the pressure made you jolt beneath him. “Oh, shit.”

“That ain’t ladylike,” Roy said, rubbing you in tight circles while he fucked into you.

He drove deeper, rougher, his hips snapping into yours with a wet sound that made your face burn. The whole wash seemed full of it. Skin, breath, dirt, the filthy slick slap of his cock fucking into your dripping pussy. You could smell him all over you now, not just sweat and leather but raw sex, hot and musky, rubbed into your skin with every thrust.

You turned your face into his neck and breathed him in, and Roy felt it immediately.

“You like that?” he rasped, voice rough near your ear.

You opened your mouth against his throat and licked the sweat from his skin.

His whole body jerked. “Lord.”

You did it again, slower, dragging your tongue up the side of his neck.

Roy groaned and buried his face against your shoulder, his hips driving harder as if your mouth on him had cut the last rope holding him back. “You like me on you,” he said, voice rough and half-buried against your skin.

“Yes,” you gasped, because there was no point lying with him buried to the hilt.

Roy swore, a low, wrecked thing, and thrust into you harder.

That was when you started losing sense for real. His fingers worked your clit in tight, slick circles while his cock hit deep enough to make your thighs tremble. Your body had already been ruined by his mouth, and now he was using that against you, watching every twitch, every gasp, every ugly little sound that slipped out no matter how hard you tried to swallow it.

“C'mon,” Roy panted, the words broken against your mouth.

You clenched around him so hard his eyes shut, and the next thrust came rough enough to shove you up the dirt. His hand left your clit long enough to grab your thigh, keeping you open for him, and then his fingers were back, relentless and slick.

The second orgasm hit meaner than the first.

You came with your teeth in his shoulder, biting down through his shirt to keep from crying out. Your cunt clamped around his cock, pulsing hard, dragging a broken groan out of him as he kept fucking you through it. Roy’s pace turned uneven. His breathing got rougher, almost frantic, and you could feel how close he was in the way his grip tightened and his hips started chasing deeper, filthier strokes.

“Sweetheart,” he groaned, strained and warning, his forehead pressed hard to your shoulder.

You wrapped both legs around his waist and pulled him in, locking your ankles around him.

His head dropped, and he broke with a sound that went straight through you.

He shoved deep, cock twitching as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his body trembling over yours while the sky went dark around the edges. His hand gripped the dirt beside your head like the ground was the only thing keeping him upright. He kept pulsing inside you, hips jerking through the last of it, his mouth pressed to your neck as he tried to breathe.

You lay there under him, sweaty and dusty and thoroughly ruined, staring up at the first stars with Roy still buried inside you, your drawers hanging off one ankle, and his cum already starting to leak around him.

Honestly, there were worse ways to fail a lesson.

He stayed still for a little too long, and you knew exactly what was coming before he even lifted his head. Roy had a talent for guilt—it sat on him like a second coat.

“You hurt?” he asked, his voice low and rough against your skin.

“No,” you answered, brushing damp hair back from his temple.

His brows pulled together as he lifted enough to look at you. “Tell me true.”

“I am telling you true,” you said, keeping your hand against his cheek.

You touched the dust on his cheek, smearing it with your thumb. “I liked it.” You softened your grip on his face and kissed him before he could think himself into a hole.

When he finally eased out of you, you both hissed. Roy looked down before he could stop himself, and his whole expression went slack for half a breath, because messy did not begin to cover it. His thick cum leaked out of your well-fucked cunt in a slow, obscene spill, mixing with the slick his mouth had left all over your thighs and folds. Your skirt was ruined with dust. The inside of one thigh glistened in the blue dusk.

“You’re lookin’ again,” you said, trying not to smile.

“I know,” he admitted, still staring a breath longer than he should have.

“You plan on prayin’ over it?” you asked, lifting your knee slightly.

He dragged his eyes back to your face, flushed clear to his ears. “Might need to.”

You laughed, and the sound seemed to do him good. He smiled then, small but real, before kissing you once more with less desperation and the same taste of you still on his tongue.

Afterward, he cleaned you up as well as a man could with no water and too much guilt, tugging your drawers carefully back up your legs before fixing them into place with fingers that had turned gentle enough to make your chest ache. He smoothed your skirts down like that would hide anything. It would not. Your hair was a mess, your back was coated in dirt, your mouth was swollen, and you had the loose-limbed look of a woman who had been thoroughly taken apart behind an old shed.

If any of the town women saw you, they would have a field day. If any of the town men saw Roy touching you this tenderly, there would be worse than gossip.

He found the revolver in the dirt near your shoulder and dusted it off.

Before he could slide it back into his holster, you reached for it, and Roy paused while you took it from him, checked it clumsily but correctly, then offered it back grip-first. His eyes moved from the gun to your face, and there it was again, that pride that had started all this trouble.

“You did better,” he said, taking the revolver from you.

“I had you pinned,” you replied, watching him slide it back into his holster.

His mouth twitched. “You had me distracted.”

“You got hard from it,” you said, because you were apparently determined to see how much heat you could drag into his face.

“Ma’am,” Roy warned, though the warning had almost no teeth left.

“Do not ‘ma’am’ me after takin' me in the dirt.”

Roy shut his eyes briefly, like he was asking heaven for strength. “You got a wicked tongue.”

“You seemed to enjoy it,” you said, stepping close enough that his holster brushed your skirt.

His hand came to the back of your neck, thumb pressing into sweat-damp skin.

“We keep quiet,” he said.

The words were plain, but you heard everything under them: the gang, the town, the men who would use you if they knew Roy wanted you. The danger of being a woman, and the worse danger of being his.

You nodded, then touched the holster at his hip, right above the gun you had stolen from him.

“Then teach me better,” you said.

Roy looked down at your hand, then at your mouth, and the hunger in his face warmed all over again. “I’ll teach you,” he said, voice low and rough. “But if you keep takin’ my gun like that…”

You smiled, leaning closer. “What?”

His thumb moved once against your neck. “We’re liable to get very little trainin’ done.”

“Well,” you said, lifting your mouth to brush his, “I’ve always been fond of a reward system.”

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.