I wasn't looking for anything — seriously, I wasn't. Just a night out, some drinks, and a little freedom to forget the heartbreak that's been weighing on me. But then — those eyes. Green, sharp, and dangerous in all the ways I wasn't ready for…yet somehow, I couldn't look away.
✨️This is their short story: messy, raw, tender, and occasionally a little ridiculous — because, let's be honest, real life and love rarely come neat and tidy.
⚠️Warnings: Each part comes with its own set of content warnings, so please check the tags before diving in. We're talking all the feels, the heat, and everything in between.
So, are you ready to get tangled up with Jensen and our fem!reader? Dive in here:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Thank you for coming along for the ride — buckle up, because this one's a wild, beautiful mess. 😉 Stay tuned!💛
I wasn't supposed to end up here — not after that fight, not after the way his words kept echoing in my head. But somehow, I did.
His couch. His whiskey. His quiet voice cutting through the noise that wouldn’t stop spinning in my mind.
Tim Bradford wasn't the type to offer comfort — not the gentle kind, anyway. But when the world felt too heavy, he didn't look away. He stayed. He saw me. And maybe, that was exactly what I needed.
✨️Sometimes it begins in the quiet aftermath of heartbreak — in a living room filled with unspoken words, melted ice, and a pair of blue eyes that see too much.
⚠️Warnings: Emotional damage, comfort scenes, and a slow-burn intensity that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Oh, and yeah — part two turns up the heat, so maybe keep a glass of water nearby. Check the tags before you cry and blush, thanks.
So, are you ready to find out what happens when friendship stops being just friendship Read "That's what friends are for" here:
Hunters aren't known for celebrating. No traditions, no decorations, no quiet moments marked on a calendar — at least, that's the story they tell themselves.
This series explores the softer, quieter side of holidays in the bunker: the in-between moments, the anticipation, the almosts. One special occasion at a time. One shared moment that matters more than it should.
✨️Because even hunters can't outrun the calendar forever.
⚠️ Warnings: Each story comes with its own label — because not every holiday goes according to plan, and neither do hunters.
Curious about how hunters do holidays — or how they slowly learn to? This is where it starts:
Holiday wishes
Before the fireworks
When the sky explodes
Something that doesn't break
Cupid got it right!
Green with envy — coming up on St.Patrick's Day, march 17th
Blood on pastel colors — coming up on Easter
More holidays to come — one celebration at a time.💫
They hunted monsters. They ran from shadows. But the hardest battles were always the ones they couldn't see — the ones between them.
A confession in neon. Fault lines in their hearts. And the day their heartbeats finally collided.
This is the story of Dean and her. Of jealousy, fear, longing…and finally, the truth they couldn't keep quiet.
✨️Hearts don't wait, and hunters don't always play by the rules.
⚠️ Warnings: Each chapter comes with its own trigger — because feelings don't always follow the plan, and neither does Dean.
Think you can handle all the feelings, the tension, and the heart-stabbing moments? Dive in here:
After the witness interview, I wanted nothing more than to go home. As fast as possible. Into my warm bed. Out of this car. Away from him. But the weather clearly had other plans for how my evening was supposed to end. And Mark…well. Mark didn't seem to mind at all.
✨ Because even the worst heartbreak is no match for Mark Meachum's irresistible green eyes.
⚠️ Warnings: Both parts have their own individual warnings. But be prepared — you will probably feel every emotion known to mankind while reading.
What started as a curiosity turned into trust — and something deeper neither Dean nor she expected. A slow, intimitate journey through the layers of closeness, where hands were first, but hearts followed.
✨ A series of first, and learning that desire isn't rushed...it's taught.
⚠️ Warnings: Each chapter has its own set of warnings. Please read with care.
This series began as a request with "Sex, toys and rock'n'roll" (shout out to @beakaleak32 for the inspiration!), but it quickly grew into something that got under my skin. So here I am — exploring more firsts, more trust, and more ways desire can unfold between Dean and the virgin reader.
Inbox open like Dean's flannel – gimme those prompts!
If you've got fic ideas or prompts floating around – especially involving Jensen Ackles or any of his glorious characters (you know the vibe 😉) – my inbox is open!
Whether it's some classic Dean-and-his-baby fluff, gritty Soldier Boy angst, or small-town charm with Beau and his sheriff hat – I'm all in. I adore diving into Jensen's characters (pun semi-intended 😏) and bringing your thoughts to life.
So feel free to drop prompts, headcanons, or wild AU dreams – I don't bite...unless we're talking about pie 🍰
The fics listed below were written for readers’ requests♥️
Real prompts. Real feelings. Real dedication. Your idea could be next.
Summary: A confession. A deal. A promise. And something that goes far beyond horseback riding — especially when Beau Arlen is the one showing you how to really ride.
Warnings: age gap, smut, explicit sexual content(18+), semi public sex (stable/car sex), praise kink, dirty talk, strong language
This fic contains the use of pet names (e.g., baby, sweetheart)
The scent of cheap coffee and dusty paperwork hung heavy in the air as I sank onto one of the squeaky plastic chairs in the tiny break room of the Sheriff's Department. My colleague Mel sat across from me, a steaming Tupperware container in her hand, filled — like always — with something chicken-based.
"You should've seen Lilly!" she gushed, her fork paused mid-air. "She's only four, and she rides that Quarter Horse like it's part of her. The ranch owner said she's got a natural seat."
I smiled and took a sip from my paper cup. "That sounds adorable. I love horses...but, to be honest, I've never learned to ride."
Mel’s eyes widened. "Seriously? You? Living in Montana and you can't ride?"
"Nope." I shrugged, letting my smile turn a little bolder. "But I'm open to tutoring."
Right then, the door creaked open — old hinges groaning their familiar warning before I even saw him.
Beau Arlen.
Sheriff.
Walking wet dream in perfectly worn jeans.
He stepped in — tall, sun-kissed, the wind having tousled his hay-colored hair. His eyes caught mine, and for a second, they glinted.
"Did I hear that right?" His voice was rough, like whiskey poured over too much ice. "You don't know how to ride?"
I turned to him, leaned back a little, and let my fingers play idly with the rim of my cup. My gaze lingered on his hips — just long enough — before I met his eyes again.
"Looks like I'm one of the few around here who hasn't…tried it yet."
That amused smirk played across his lips — the signature Arlen half-smile that made you feel both safe and just the right kind of threatened.
"Well," he said slowly, pouring himself a glass of water, "that's hard to believe. I would've thought you’re the kind of girl who knows how to keep her seat in the saddle."
I ran my tongue lightly over my bottom lip and held his gaze. "Depends on who's leading."
A charged silence followed — air, space, bodies — everything tightened. Mel cleared her throat, but Beau's eyes stayed on me.
"I've got an old buddy with a ranch," he said. "Gentle horses...plenty of space for you to practice."
He stepped closer, his gaze drifting down my body slowly — casual, unbothered, like nothing about it could be called inappropriate. "I'll take you up there. This weekend’s good. Deal?"
I raised a brow. "Only if you're the one showing me how to sit properly."
For a beat, his eyes darkened, warmed. There was a promise in them he didn't need to say out loud.
"Get ready for some intensive riding lessons, darlin'. I'm a strict teacher."
...
Saturday began with a soft morning light that slid over Helena like warm honey. The town lay quiet, still half-asleep — only my heart was racing, galloping, as I stood in the parking lot and saw Beau’s truck rolling toward me. Black, rugged, dust-covered — like it had driven straight out of a western.
He stepped out, left the door open, and leaned casually against it. Jeans, as always, but today with a white T-shirt stretched tight across those broad shoulders.
And then that look — calm, knowing, with a glint of something that lit a fuse deep in my stomach.
His eyes traveled over me, slow and deliberate, taking their time — from my boots, up my thighs, hips, waist, all the way to my neckline.
I hadn’t gone all out — that would’ve been too obvious. But I knew exactly what I was doing when I pulled those tight, worn denim shorts from my closet. The ones that clung like a second skin and hugged my curves in all the right ways. I’d paired them with a soft gray top, loose at the shoulders, knotted casually at the waist.
Our eyes met, and his mouth curved into a half-smile.
"Ready for your first ride?" he asked, his lips twitching like he knew exactly how that sounded.
"Depends on how rough the landing’s gonna be," I shot back, climbing in before he could say more.
...
The drive to the ranch took about an hour and a half. We left Helena behind, cruised down endless highways past yellow fields, rusted fences, and distant herds of cattle. The radio played low country music, and between us hummed that thick, sweet tension that colored every word we spoke.
"The ranch belongs to Clay Barrett," Beau said, eyes on the road. "Old-timer. Good man. Not a soul around to interrupt. Just you, me, a few horses. And plenty of space to practice."
I bit my lower lip — a habit when I was nervous, or excited. "Sounds like the perfect setting for some…hands-on lessons."
He laughed, deep and low in his chest. "You’re gonna feel muscles you didn’t know you had."
When we finally left the highway and turned onto a long gravel road leading up to the ranch, dust trailed behind us.
The ranch sat nestled in a valley, surrounded by green pastures, a winding stream, and wide open land shimmering in the sun. A few horses stood lazily in the shade of a lean-to.
The big log cabin — classic Montana style, with a wide porch — looked like it held stories. And today, it was about to get a new one.
Beau killed the engine and got out first.
I stayed seated for a moment, watching as he circled the truck — then reached in and pulled a cowboy hat from the backseat. Wide-brimmed, dark, with a curve to the sides.
He set it on his head, tilted it back slightly, then held out a hand to help me down.
"Welcome to the real West," he said, eyes scanning the ranch with quiet fondness. "You wanna see the stables first? Or go straight to the ride?"
I stepped closer, tugged lightly on the brim of his hat so he had to lean in. "Show me the stables. And then…show me how to mount properly."
His gaze burned. For a moment, the world went still. No wind, no birds, nothing. Just the two of us, in the heart of Montana.
...
We crossed the yard, until a tall man with silver at his temples and a weathered face approached. Clay Barrett. The ranch’s owner. Jeans, cowboy boots, and a creased grin.
He pulled Beau into a solid hug, clapping him on the back like an older brother.
"Hell, Arlen, you only show up when you need something."
"I brought you something better than a favor today," Beau said dryly, glancing at me.
Clay’s gaze shifted to me — and lingered. Not rude, but definitely with that familiar sparkle you see in the eyes of older cowboys, the kind who aren’t afraid to wink at a beautiful woman.
"Well, Beau…" he said, raising one brow, "…if I’d known you were bringing company like this, I’d’ve saddled the horses sooner."
I laughed softly, shook his hand. He held it just a beat longer than necessary. "Nice first impression," I murmured, as Clay turned to lead us to the stables.
"Wait till you get my lesson," Beau whispered, close to my ear. "That’s the second one."
And damn, I was ready.
...
The stable was cool, filled with the scent of leather, fresh hay, and the warm, earthy musk of horses. Sunlight poured through the open side windows in golden slants, dust dancing like slow sparks in the beams. The air was still, broken only by the occasional snort of a gelding and the soft creak of old wood beams.
Clay walked us through the central aisle, stopping in front of a strong black gelding, already saddled and calm in his stall.
"This here’s Whiskey. Gentle, reliable, real gentleman." He gave me a wink.
I smiled. "Sounds like a good match for me."
Beau glanced at me from the side, his mouth twitching — but he said nothing. Yet.
"I’ll leave you two. Gotta run into town — new chain for the pasture gate. And maybe a little break from all this damn whinnying." Clay tipped his dusty hat down and clapped Beau on the shoulder. "Take good care of her. And of Whiskey."
As Clay’s footsteps faded across the gravel, a deeper kind of silence settled over the stable. No sound but a distant birdcall, the rhythmic chewing of a horse — and my own heartbeat, thumping somewhere between nerves and anticipation.
Beau stepped behind me, his gaze like a touch on my back. "All right, cowgirl. Time for your lesson."
I half-turned to him. "And how do we begin?"
He moved closer — close enough that I felt his breath on the nape of my neck. One hand brushed my hip, guiding me toward the horse.
"First, you mount from the left side. Swing your leg over the saddle. Distribute your weight evenly."
"You mean… I should bend over?" I teased, laying a hand on the saddle horn.
"Not bend. Swing." His voice was barely a whisper at my ear. "But slow. I want to see how you move."
I raised my leg over the saddle — deliberately slow, almost teasing — and settled lightly into the seat.
Beau stepped in. His hands brushed my calf, like adjusting the stirrups. But his fingers lingered just a moment too long.
"You’re sitting too loose," he murmured.
"Maybe you just need a firmer grip, Sheriff."
There it was again — that crackle in the air, like something was about to spark. His hands slid up my thighs, higher, wordlessly correcting my posture.
"Straight back. Shoulders back," he said, standing in front of me, eyes locked on mine. "And eyes forward. Always know where you’re headed."
"What if I’m already looking exactly where I want to go?" I asked, not breaking eye contact.
"Then you should know…" he said, casually reaching for the reins that lay just over my thigh, "...some roads can get real bumpy."
I laughed softly, breath catching in my throat.
His hands now rested at my waist, holding — or was he guiding? There was more in his touch than any riding lesson had a right to hold. His fingers spoke a different language. One not taught in stables.
"Legs tighter," he whispered, voice rough, husky. "Feel the rhythm. Let the movement guide you."
"You want me to start riding?" I asked, barely audible. "Or are you just waiting for me to slip so you can catch me?"
He leaned in — only a breath between us.
"I’m waiting…" he said, hand flat on my thigh now, "…for you to ask me to show you how it’s really done."
A moment. Heavy. Sultry. The world held its breath.
I leaned forward, just enough for my neckline to drop, on purpose.
"Show me."
His grip tightened on my legs, and something in his gaze shifted — darker, deeper.
Beau Arlen, the composed Sheriff, stood there like a man who knew that control was something you could take — and something you could give. And I was ready for both.
...
Beau held the reins in his hand as he walked beside Whiskey, while I sat up in the saddle — high, alert, and burning beneath my jeans.
The stable lay behind us, the sun climbing higher over the hills. The wind played with my hair, and I felt like I was in one of those western movies — only my sheriff didn’t just carry a colt on his belt, but a gaze that cut straight through flesh and bone.
"How does it feel?" he asked casually as he walked alongside with a half-smile.
I grinned crookedly. "Higher than I thought. And somehow...intimate."
His eyes slid to my thigh, which hugged the saddle closely. "Riding is always intimate. You give up control — and take it, if you do it right."
The round pen came into view — a fenced-in circle, about twenty meters wide, with a soft sand floor. Whiskey snorted quietly, as if he'd done it a hundred times before.
I, on the other hand, struggled to stay calm. Not because of the horse. But because of Beau, who pulled his cowboy hat lower, gave me a look that said everything — without a single word.
He opened the gate, led Whiskey inside, and closed it behind us. Then he stood still. The sun cast sharp lines across his cheekbones, his shadow falling directly over my legs. "Good. Now I want to see how you move."
I raised a brow. "And what if I don’t know how to start?"
He stepped closer, placed a hand on my calf. His fingers slid higher, brushing lightly over my thigh, just below the hem of my top. It was only a correction. Supposedly. "I’ll guide you. You just need to feel."
His other hand rested on my thigh — firm, warm, steady.
I inhaled, feeling my entire body tense. But not out of fear. Out of hunger.
"Heels down. Legs close to the sides. Feel the animal beneath you."
He loosened the reins a little, gave Whiskey a soft command. The horse began to move — a gentle step, then another.
I swayed slightly, trying to find my balance.
Beau placed both hands on my waist to stabilize me. The grip was firm. Guiding. Demanding.
"Good seat," he murmured, his fingers on my hips. "But you’re tensing up."
"Maybe it’s the instructor."
He laughed quietly, dirty. "If I were really teaching...you wouldn’t still be sitting that calmly up there."
I bit my lip, let my hips sway slightly, gave in to the movement. The rhythm was steady, hypnotic. And with every round I felt more secure — and at the same time, hotter. Not from the weather. From him.
Beau stepped closer to Whiskey again, placed his hand on my leg, fingers trailing slowly, almost tenderly upward. Only to the hem of my jean shorts. And yet, it jolted through me like electricity.
"You’re a quick learner," he said hoarsely. "But I see where you still need help."
He grabbed the stirrup, held it with one hand — the other moved to my back, between my shoulder blades. He gently leaned my upper body forward, forcing me to shift my weight.
My gaze dropped, my lips parted slightly.
"Let yourself go. Move with the rhythm."
And as I moved, I felt him even closer. His hips against my leg. His voice at my ear. His hand at my waist. "You’re riding...but you’re still holding back."
I turned slightly toward him, looked over my shoulder. "Maybe because I’m waiting for the moment you take over."
He gave a crooked smile. Pulled the reins. The horse stopped.
Beau stood close to me, his hands on my thighs, the riding motion still lingering in my hips even though Whiskey was already standing still. His gaze was heavy on my face, then lower — traveling down my neck, to my slightly parted lips, to my tense chest rising and falling with each breath.
His thumb slid over the inside of my leg, just above the knee. A circle. Then another. And higher.
My breath caught. Not from shame. But because my entire body felt electrified — every nerve on edge for what was about to happen. Or could happen.
"When you sit on a horse like that..." he said quietly, rough, his gaze flicking between my eyes and my mouth, "...it’s damn hard to stay professional."
I leaned forward slightly, deliberately brushing my hair over one shoulder. "Then don’t be professional."
His hand slid higher — under the hem of my jean shorts. Just one finger, very slowly, over the sensitive inside of my thigh.
My body responded on command: a slight movement against his grip, a soft, barely audible inhale, a tremble.
He let his finger linger — hot, firm, controlling. Just a hint of what was possible.
"Darlin’...I swear, one more inch and I..." He stopped. Cursed under his breath. Then abruptly pulled away from me, stepped back, ran a hand through his hair.
"We're heading back," he said, his voice deep and shaky.
I couldn’t help but smile — half triumphant, half dazed. My body buzzed. Every step of the horse back to the stable was an aftershock. Of what almost happened.
…
When we reached the stable, Beau led Whiskey into an empty box. He tied the horse up, his movements calm and deliberate — as always.
Still, I could see how his shoulders tensed under the white shirt, the veins on his forearms standing out a little more.
Then he stepped next to the horse and reached his hand out to me. "Come down," he said softly, his eyes burning.
I swung my right leg over the horse's back until I was sitting sideways — both legs loose on the same side — placed my hands on his shoulders, and let myself slide down slowly — my body against his, my breath at his neck.
That’s how I stood there: the jean shorts now slightly askew, my shirt damp on the back from riding and the heat. The knot at my belly barely holding. My heart still racing – from the ride, from him, from this damn tension that had been smoldering between us for weeks like a fire neither of us wanted to put out.
Beau cursed again, low and throaty.
The scent of leather, horse, sun, and that unique smell that only he had filled the air. Something like wood and masculinity.
He lifted his hand, slowly stroked my cheek, his thumb along my lower lip.
"I’ve been watching you all day," he murmured. "The way you sat up there on that horse, in those damn shorts and that twisted little top..."
His hand slid lower, traced along my side, over my hip, then around — and suddenly he pulled me tighter against him with a firm grip.
I felt him. Hard in his jeans, pressing against my lower belly.
"You have no idea what you’re doing to me, sweetheart."
Then he kissed me. Hard. Raw. As if it had been overdue for far too long.
His hands grabbed my face, then my hair, then lower — found my waist, pulled me into him until there was no room left for restraint.
My body melted into his, my lips parted under his pressure.
His tongue found mine — demanding, steering.
I gasped into his mouth, my hands on his T-shirt, tugged it halfway out of his jeans, felt the skin underneath — warm, firm, alive.
"Fuck riding lessons," I murmured against his lips, while his hands slipped under my top, found my breasts — firm, demanding, as if he already knew how I’d react.
And I did. My back arched into him, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
"When Clay gets back…" I panted.
"Then he should know exactly what he’s missing," Beau growled, pressing me back against the wooden slats of the stall — the horse behind him.
His knee slid between my thighs, his gaze burning, his hand back on my thigh, this time more determined. No more teasing. Pure want.
His mouth traveled down my neck, teeth grazing my skin, then lower — a trail of heat, hunger, and intent. Like he’d saved every glance, every bit of tension for this exact moment.
"Tell me what you want," he whispered, fingers toying with the button on my shorts.
"You," I whispered, barely audible. "Now."
He kissed me again — deeper, hungrier. And this time, he dropped all restraint.
I felt the rough wood of the stall behind me, the scent of horse still thick in my nose — but none of it was real. Not while Beau was looking at me like that.
His hands undid my shorts, tugged the waistband down — just enough for his fingertips to touch skin I’d longed for him to touch.
His forehead rested against mine as he gave me a fleeting, almost too tender kiss.
His fingers slid the shorts lower — slow, deliberate, like he wanted to memorize every inch — until they pooled around my ankles.
He knelt in front of me. The sheriff. On his knees. Between my thighs.
His gaze lifted to mine. And in his eyes was no doubt, no hurry. Just that dangerous, controlled fire.
"Spread a little for me, sweetheart."
My fingers dug into the rough wood behind me, my body obeyed almost automatically. I opened my legs a little wider, and his hands settled at my inner thighs — warm, insistent, sure.
"God, those boots….those fucking legs…"
Then he looked at my damp underwear. His thumb slid over it — just once, and I sucked in a sharp breath.
"Already wet, huh?" He grinned, pushing the fabric aside, slowly. "I’m gonna lick you until you scream my name, baby. And then I’m gonna fuck you so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow."
With one smooth motion, he took off his cowboy hat and set it beside me on a hay bale.
Then his lips found me. The first kiss on my inner thigh hit like a jolt — soft, wet, hot. His tongue traced a path, his hands held me in place like I might slip away.
"So fucking sweet," he murmured into my skin. And then he stopped holding back.
I closed my eyes, let my head fall back against the wood. The world disappeared. There was only his tongue — warm, wet, relentless.
He knew exactly what he was doing. No rush, no hesitation. Circles, pressure, then soft, flickering strokes that drove me right to the edge.
I was wide open for him — his hands on my hips, his fingers spreading my lips so he could get even deeper, even closer, even more direct.
"Fuck, Beau…" I whispered, half pleading, half warning.
His answer was a deeper, slower suck on my clit, followed by a steady, focused pressure with his tongue — again and again, right where it unraveled me.
"Beau…oh my god…" I whimpered. It was too much. Too good. I didn’t want him to stop, but I was seconds away from falling apart in his hands.
His finger found my entrance, pushed in slowly while his tongue kept going — rhythmic, perfectly timed.
"Yeah, baby… that’s it… let go for me…"
I moaned softly, bit my lip — but it was no use. My body arched into him, my core opened on its own.
My head hit the wood behind me, my hips started moving against his mouth, guided by nothing but raw instinct. I felt my legs tighten, my voice broke in a half-suppressed cry as he added a second finger, his tongue moving faster — precise, experienced, relentless.
"So good… Come for me, baby girl."
And I did.
The orgasm hit like a wave crashing down. I arched, clutched at his hair, my thighs clamping down around his head as I came — loud, too loud probably, fully exposed in this stall, but I didn’t give a damn.
He didn’t let up until I collapsed against the wall, shaking.
Beau slowly rose, wiped his thumb over his mouth, looking at me like a fucking lion who just devoured his prey.
"That was just the beginning, cowgirl."
My legs felt like jelly, my heart pounded against my ribs, and my skin still tingled with goosebumps — not from the cold, but from him. From his tongue. From that damn voice.
He stepped closer, one hand at my waist, steadying me without breaking eye contact for a second.
"Don’t go," I murmured, voice barely more than a breath.
He gave me a crooked smile. "Wasn’t planning on it."
With both hands, he reached for my shorts, still around my ankles. He knelt in front of me again, pulled them up slowly, his fingers grazing my bare skin — not by accident. Very much on purpose.
Beau slid the denim back into place, so slow it made me dizzy.
His fingers dipped beneath the waistband, as if checking the fit — or simply because he could.
"Seeing you standing here like this…coming in the barn… just from my fingers…"
He stood up again, hands now at my waist. I felt his thumb press into the skin at my hip.
He stepped in close, his body against mine — hot, hard, coiled tight. I felt his erection press into my hip — no mistaking it.
"emme tell you something, cowgirl…"
His voice dropped lower. Closer. His hand moved to my cheek, then into my hair, holding me firm — but gentle.
"What I really want…"
He leaned toward me, his lips almost at my ear, hot breath on my skin.
"I want to see you ride."
I sucked in a sharp breath. My stomach clenched. Heat shot between my legs — again.
"On me." His hand slid to the back of my neck. "The hat on your head, my hands on your hips. I want to see how you move, baby. How you show me you were born for this."
"Born to ride...," I whispered hoarsely.
His grin was sinful. "Damn right."
He lifted his cowboy hat back on, placing it on his head like nothing had happened — as if he hadn’t just been kneeling between my legs, licking me apart like his favorite dessert.
Then he held out his hand.
His gaze swept over my face, my swollen lips, my tousled hair.
"But not here," he murmured, low, almost dangerous. "You really deserve a proper bed! But a damn comfortable backseat will have to do for now."
I swallowed. "Your truck?"
He nodded slowly, stepped back. "Come with me. I’ll show you how they love in Montana."
My heart raced. My body screamed for more. And I knew: whatever was about to happen — it was no longer just a flirt. It was a damn storm.
I took his hand.
The Montana sky glowed in warm orange hues as we stepped out of the barn. The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the dry earth. Dust rose beneath our boots.
Beau walked beside me, and although my heart pounded and everything still tingled between my legs from his tongue, he held my hand so naturally, as if it belonged there all along.
No rushed pulling, no words too many. Just his thumb stroking the back of my hand, soothing. Tender. And the way he kept looking over at me — like he had to make sure I was still there.
His truck stood a little off under a tree. Dark, dusty, with rolled-down windows and a bed definitely too hard for what he had in mind.
"Here," he murmured, opened the passenger door, stepped aside. His hand rested on my lower back, light but commanding.
I climbed in, the denim straining over my thighs, my shirt still knotted over my stomach.
As I sank into the seat, Beau circled the truck and opened the driver’s door. But instead of getting in, he reached for the backseat latch and folded the seat forward.
"Back here," he said quietly. His voice was hoarse.
He gave me space, and I knew what he meant. My heart beat faster, but my legs moved on their own. I slowly climbed back, feeling his eyes on my back, on my ass.
The backseat was tight, the cushion warm from the sun, and I felt my breath quicken.
Beau climbed in after me, closed the door behind him with a dull click. Suddenly it was quiet. Just our breathing. The crickets outside. The sky turning purple behind the windows.
"Sit on me," he said calmly.
I knelt between his spread legs. He sat wide, hands on his thighs, looking at me like I was everything he’d ever wanted.
I slowly pushed my top up, untied the knot. The fabric fell from my shoulders, freeing my breasts, bare, lightly sweaty from the day, nipples hard with anticipation.
"Damn…" Beau briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there was only heat. Hunger.
I climbed onto his lap, knees on either side of his hips, straddling him, feeling how hard he was beneath me — his jeans almost painfully tight.
His hands settled on my hips.
Beau took his cowboy hat off. I thought he’d toss it aside — but no. He placed it on my head.
"You earned it, cowgirl."
I laughed softly, hot, surprised — but when I saw his look, I nearly lost my breath. That sparkle. That raw desire.
"Take off your shorts," he said.
I held eye contact, slowly unbuttoned, let the zipper snap down. The denim shorts were slightly damp from my underwear. I slid them over my hips, pulling them down slowly.
Beau watched without blinking. His tongue briefly flicked over his bottom lip as I straightened up — now only in panties, boots, and his hat.
"Keep them on" he murmured, meaning the panties. "I just want to slide them aside. Feel how tight you are. And how much you want me."
He pulled me to him. His jeans were tight, his gaze darkening.
I leaned forward, kissed him — not shy, not gentle. Deep. With everything boiling inside me. My tongue slid over his, my teeth grazed his lower lip.
He grabbed me tighter, pulling my hips against him, pressing me against his erection. I moaned softly into his mouth.
"Open your jeans, Beau."
"Say please."
I licked my lips, braced myself with both hands on his neck. "Please. I want to feel you. Inside me."
He laughed softly, almost dangerously. Then with one hand, he pulled down the zipper.
I helped him, pushed the denim apart until I saw the elastic band of his boxers — and the bulge beneath. More than ready.
I leaned forward, pulled him out. His cock was hard, thick, swollen. My mouth went dry. I stroked him slowly while his hands landed on my ass.
"Wait," he said, reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out a small packet — a condom. "No matter how hot you make me..."
He tore it open with his teeth, pulled his jeans and then shorts down a bit. I watched him put it on — quick, practiced, with an ease that only made me hotter.
I reached between us, slid my panties aside just enough so he could see me.
"Want to see me ride you, sheriff?" I whispered.
He grabbed my hips. "Oh yeah. Show me. Show me you’re born to ride."
Slowly, I lowered myself. I held him tight, felt him press against my entrance. I sank deeper — slow, torturous.
"Fuuuck…" he growled, his fingers digging into my flesh.
I took him all in, felt him fill me, felt every damn inch between us ignite.
"Damn, baby. You’re so tight…" He rested his head against the seatback, biting his lip.
I began moving — first slow, circling, letting my hips roll. The tight backseat made every movement more intense. I placed my hands on his chest, felt his heart race.
"Want me like this, sheriff? Feels good being under me, huh?"
"You have no idea what you’re doing to me."
His hands guided me, but I took control. I rode him. Slow, then faster. Every movement made him sink deeper.
"Yes, just like that…" he murmured, voice hoarse, throaty. "Ride me, cowgirl. Show me you’ve got it."
I moved faster, rose on my knees, dropped again. The wet slapping of our bodies filled the tight cabin. My hair stuck to my back, my breath uncontrolled.
"Beau…"
"What do you need?"
"Touch me… please…"
His hand slid between my legs, found my clit. Rubbing me with firm, steady pressure as I kept riding.
"Come for me again, baby. Let me feel you squeeze me."
And I did. My body tensed, I threw my head back, screamed his name as the orgasm shook me.
Beau groaned, lifted his hips — and then he came too. Deep inside me, hands dug tight into my flesh.
It took a while before we could breathe again. I stayed on him, my upper body leaning against his chest. Outside, it was almost dark.
The cowboy hat slid crooked over my forehead. Beau laughed softly, straightened it for me.
"I think you really were born for this."
I grinned against his neck. "Maybe I still need a few riding lessons."
