Ride Along
Elijah “Smoke” Moore X Reader
Req @themindfulwriter16
Warnings smut as usual
Smoke ain’t had no damn business up on a beast like that.
That horse was wild-blooded, eyes white like it seen ghosts, breath cuttin through the air like a blade. And Smoke? All city-swagger and bad knees from the war, holdin the reins like they was a mic cord. No, he ain’t belong out here—out where the dirt talk back and the sky stretch so wide it make a man feel small.
But Stack and Sammie, they had dreams bigger than bruised knuckles and blood money. Said they was done breakin they backs for men who ain’t never learned to say thank you. Said the land could be theirs, if they just held on tight enough.
So when they got discharged, they took what lil they had and cracked open a juke down by the bayou. Not nothin big—just tin roof, creakin floorboards, and neon that hummed like it was prayin. Sold whiskey out the back, let the music bleed into the soil. Every dollar made went into the farm. Horses. Cows. Some loud-ass goats and them damn sheep Stack kept losin in the woods.
Smoke ain’t never wanted none of it. Said he preferred concrete and the sound of a train track hummin. But blood was blood. And when Stack pressed that deed in his hand, eyes all soft behind the storm, Smoke just nodded.
Ain’t like he had anywhere else to be.
He ain’t know how the hell they learned to ride. Or when
Hell, he’d grew up in the same house, drank the same well water, slept on the same porch when the lights got cut. But now they sittin pretty on them horses like they was born in saddles, like they ain’t used to the same hard floors and broken streetlights.
Smoke squinted up at Stack, perched easy like a damn cowboy, reins loose in his fingers. Sammie was beside him, leanin forward just enough to pet his horse’s neck, grinnin like he already knew Smoke was ‘bout to make a fool of hisself.
Smoke wiped sweat off his brow and muttered, “Y’all just picked this up one day? “Watching farmhands or somethin?”
Stack chuckled, low and syrupy. “Ain’t no rocket science, Smoke. You just gotta grab the saddle horn, plant your foot in the stirrup, and swing on up. Like this—watch.”
He demonstrated slow, smooth, swingin up and settlin back like the saddle missed him.
Sammie added, “Don’t lean too far forward or you’ll spook him. Keep your weight even, keep calm. Horses feel that fear, Smoke.”
“Fear?” Smoke snorted. “Boy, I been in Baghdad. A damn horse don’t scare me.”
“Alright then,” Stack said, gesturing. “Show us.”
Smoke grabbed hold of the saddle, grumbled under his breath, and stuck his boot in the stirrup. Tried to swing his leg over just like Stack showed him—but soon as he did, that horse flinched like it felt his city soul. Reared just a lil, enough to twist Smoke sideways, off balance.
“Shit—”
Next thing, he on the dirt. Flat on his back, hat rolled off, elbow scraped.
“God damn it!”
Sammie damn near fell off his own horse laughin, mouth wide, hands slappin the saddle. “You alright, unk?” he wheezed through the laughter. “You looked like a cat tryna jump a fence and forgot how legs work.”
Stack tried to hold it in, but a deep chuckle broke out his chest. “You went up like a prayer and came down like a curse.”
Smoke rolled over, dust in his mouth, eyes squintin mean. “Y’all think this funny, huh?”
“Little bit,” Sammie said, still grinnin, horse side-steppin like it was in on the joke too. “Want me to walk you through it slower? Like… kindergarten slow?”
“Walk yo ass on into traffic,” Smoke spat, getting up, dustin off. “Ain’t no damn horse gon punk me.”
He was gone learn how to ride that damn horse.
Come nightfall, the house was still.
Crickets sang steady outside the screen door, and the moon hung low and heavy like it was watchin. Dinner long done, Sammie knocked out on the couch with his mouth open, some old gospel record hissin low in the corner. Stack was in the back room snorin just enough to shake the walls.
But Smoke couldn’t rest.
He rolled onto his side, then his back, then onto his stomach. Cussed under his breath. That damn horse kept runnin laps in his head, eyes wild, breathin like a demon. He threw the sheet off his chest and sat up on the edge of the bed, bones crackin. Ran a hand down his face and sighed long.
Then he stood.
Took his time dressin quiet in the dark. Slid on his old jeans, faded at the knees. Tucked in a soft white tee, pulled on his boots slow, like if he moved too fast the doubt might catch up to him. Snatched his flannel off the back of the chair, buttoned it halfway, and stepped out into the night like it owed him answers.
The horse was still in the pen, black and gleamin under the moonlight, breath mistin in the cool air. Smoke climbed the fence and landed soft. He walked up, calm like Stack said, talkin low.
“Ain’t no demon,” he muttered. “Just muscle and bone. Same as me.”
He tried once—got halfway up before the horse kicked back.
Tried again—this time the saddle twisted and dumped him straight onto his ass.
He groaned, rolled, dusted off, cursed loud.
Then tried again.
Each time, the horse bucked, shifted, pushed him back. But he kept gettin up. Boots heavy in the dirt. Mouth runnin curses in every direction. The loud brays and hoof claps started echoing off the trees.
Inside, Stack groaned.
Rolled over, pulled a pillow over his head like it could shut out the world. Just like he used to do when the ringing in his ears got too sharp after a roadside bomb in Mosul. But the noise kept on.
Another curse. Another neigh. A thud.
Bang.
The screen door slammed loud as Stack stormed out. No words needed.
Sammie shot upright on the couch, chest tight. He didn’t ask no questions—just grabbed his slides and followed, half-asleep but already knowin. That bang was enough. Family didn’t need to speak when something was goin down.
Outside, Smoke was breathin hard, sittin in the dirt again. Stack was already on him.
“The fuck you doin out here in the ass crack of the night?” he barked.
Smoke groaned, voice tight. “I can’t get it, Stack. I can’t—” He hit the dirt with his fist. “Son of a bitch got it out for me.”
Stack stood quiet a second, lookin at his big brother sittin there breathin heavy like a dog left in the street. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t throw it back in his face.
Just walked forward. Reached out a hand.
“C’mere.”
Smoke hesitated, then slapped his palm into Stack’s, let him haul him up off the ground like they was kids again.
Stack dusted him off once, then gave him a look hard enough to cut through sweat and shame. “You ain’t gon learn like that, Smoke. Gon fuck around and break somethin.”
Smoke waved him off. “I’m fine.”
“You ain’t. Not like that. Tryna ride like you fight. Grit ain’t all it take. Need rhythm. Patience.” Stack stepped close, voice low now. “We’ll ride out tomorrow.”
He paused.
“I got somebody gon teach you. Better than me.”
Smoke blinked. “Who?”
“You’ll see. But for now? C’mon inside. Get some rest.”
Sammie stood quiet just a few feet back, arms crossed, watchin. He didn’t say nothin either.
And together, they walked back toward the porch, the moon stretchin shadows behind them, the horse watchin quiet as a sentinel.
They didn’t know you like that. Not back then.
Not really.
Smoke and Stack knew your daddy more than they knew you. Old man kept ’em busy when they first came home—fresh out the service, still wearin stiffness in their shoulders, still sleepin with one eye open. He let ’em do some work around the land—fixin fence posts, mendin the barn roof, tillin up red dirt.
That was before they had a farm of their own. Before the juke. Before the years folded over.
You was always there, movin quiet in the background. Tending your flowers with them soft, steady hands. Barely said a word. Never smiled long enough for it to stick. Just nodded polite when they passed. The kind of girl the breeze seemed to bend around, not through.
But every so often, you’d show up with a tray of lemonade—beads of sweat on the glass, your eyes low under the brim of that worn straw hat.
“Lemonade,” you’d say, soft as cotton.
And that’d be it.
Smoke would go still, like he forgot how to breathe. Big, battle-worn man and all, and couldn’t even make his mouth work right.
Stack used to clown him hard for it.
“Look at you,” he’d grin, tossin a wrench from hand to hand. “Big ol’ strong man actin like a boy in the pews starin at the preacher’s daughter.”
“Shut up,” Smoke’d grumble.
“Nah, I mean it,” Stack laughed. “You always been like that. Seen you square up with folks twice your size, walk through hell in boots two sizes too tight—but a woman look your way and you forget your name.”
“Shut up, Stack.”
But he wasn’t wrong.
Smoke didn’t know how to talk to you. Couldn’t make the words sit right in his throat.
So you did it for him.
Late afternoon sun melting across the fields. The scent of honeysuckle thick in the air. Stack’s down at the truck bed sortin tools. Smoke’s shirt clings to his back as he leans on the fence. You walk up slow, same quiet you always carry, lemonade tray in your hands.
“You always watch folk this hard?” you ask, not lookin at him.
Smoke straightens up like you caught him stealin.
“Nah,” he says, throat dry. “Just thinkin.”
“You think loud.”
You pass him a glass. Your fingers brush, and he almost drops it.
“Thank you,” he says low.
You nod, but don’t leave. Don’t say much either. Just sip your own drink and lean on the fence beside him, your shoulder close enough to feel the heat.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” he asks.
“I talk. Just not to folks that ain’t worth talkin to.”
He looks at you then—really looks.
And for the first time, you look back. Steady. Like you see him. Like you always had.
He didn’t know it yet. But Stack had plans.
And you? You was waitin. Flowers still bloomin. Lemonade still cold. But your hands weren’t soft no more. Not after the years.
And the woman you became… was not the girl he remembered.
Sun wasn’t even broke through the trees yet when Stack came stompin through the house like a man on a mission.
“Get up.”
He kicked at the foot of the couch first. Sammie grunted, rollin over, one eye open and annoyed. Stack didn’t slow. He moved on to the back room.
“Smoke.”
Smoke groaned from under the blanket, voice rough with sleep and soreness. “Hell you want?”
“You shoulda gone to sleep ’stead of fuckin with that horse all night. Now get your ass up.”
He ripped the cover clean off him. Smoke cursed, squintin against the light from the hallway.
“I’m up, dammit. I’m up.”
Stack was already walkin out.
By the time they made it outside, the air still held that blue-gray chill, dew stickin to boots. Stack was already behind the wheel of the old pickup, engine coughin like it had a pack-a-day habit. Sammie slid in the backseat, hoodie pulled up, still half-asleep. Smoke climbed in passenger side, arms crossed tight over his chest.
They rode in silence for a good minute, tires crunchin over gravel, the radio hummin nothin but static. Then Smoke shifted.
“Where we goin?”
Stack didn’t even glance his way. “Somewhere familiar.”
Smoke squinted, lookin out at the road stretchin ahead. “The hell does that mean?”
Stack kept his hand on the wheel, steady. “You’ll see.”
Sammie popped his head up from the back. “Damn, you actin like we headed to a funeral.”
“Might be his pride’s,” Stack muttered.
Sammie laughed.
Smoke didn’t. “Why you talkin in riddles? I thought you was gon teach me.”
“I was,” Stack said, takin a slow turn off the main road. “Then I remembered I ain’t got the patience to deal with your stubborn ass.”
“So where we goin then?”
“Like I said. Somewhere familiar.”
Sammie leaned forward, lookin past his cousin to the road.
“Ain’t this near…?”
Stack just smirked.
Smoke turned slow, brows furrowed, heart beatin a little harder now.
“Nah,” he said. “Ain’t no way.”
But the driveway told the truth. The old wooden post, the field stretchin wide and open, flowers dottin the side like they always had. House sittin proud at the top of the hill. Porch swing swayin in the breeze.
Smoke swallowed hard.
“You ain’t…”
“Oh, I did,” Stack said, killin the engine. “You ain’t the only one remember her.”
Sammie grinned, leanin back. “Man, this gon be good.”
And from the porch, a figure stepped out slow. Mornin light hittin her face just enough.
Smoke sat real still. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to.
You was already lookin dead at him.
Stack leaned back against the wheel, elbow hangin out. Sammie sat up taller in the back, both of them lookin toward the porch like they was sittin front row at the picture show.
You stepped out quiet, like the house opened its mouth and let you spill from it. Sun lit you up gold—hair back in a scarf, jeans worn soft, tank top tight at the waist. Ain’t no makeup on your face, and you didn’t need a drop.
Stack let out a low whistle. “Lord have mercy…”
Sammie grinned wide. “That woman somethin serious.”
“She always been. Just ain’t never looked at you.”
Sammie laughed, slapped the seat. “Damn.”
But Smoke ain’t said a thing. Couldn’t. His whole body’d gone still like somebody hit pause. Eyes trailin up your frame like he was scared to blink and miss a piece. His throat worked hard. You met his gaze then—slow, deliberate—and he felt his heart knock against his ribs like it was tryin to get loose.
He reached up, fingers stiff, loosening the tie that Stack made him wear—said it might help his chances. Then he pulled off his hat, held it low, and tipped it toward you.
You didn’t smile.
Not yet.
You just started walkin down the porch steps, easy, like you had all the time in the world.
“Boy,” Sammie whispered, “she comin to you. You gon sit there lookin dumb?”
Stack chuckled, low and mean. “Ain’t no helpin that. He stuck.”
“You better say somethin,” Sammie hissed. “She right there—”
But you was already standin by the passenger side, lookin at him like he was still that quiet boy leanin on a fence with lemonade sweatin in his hand.
“You still don’t talk much,” you said, voice like warm rain.
Smoke blinked.
“Hey,” he managed. “Hey, you.”
You grinned, soft and sly. “That all I get after all this time? Just hey you?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “I—uh—”
You leaned closer, elbow restin on the door frame. “Don’t hurt yourself now.”
Sammie nearly folded laughin in the backseat.
Stack slapped the dashboard. “Damn, she eatin you up.”
You turned your head just a bit, voice sharper now—but playful. “Y’all gon sit there or come see these horses?”
“Yes ma’am , Boss Lady,” Sammie said, already pushin the door open.
“Right behind you,” Stack added with a grin, slappin Smoke’s arm hard. “Come on, Romeo.”
Smoke climbed out slow, hands wiped nervous on his jeans, still starin like he couldn’t quite believe you was real and standin this close.
You walked ahead, hips swayin, not even lookin back. And for the first time in a long, long while Smoke followed. Barn smelled like sweat and hay and sweet feed. Sun leaked in through the cracks high up, cuttin gold lines across the floorboards.
You walked ahead of them, steps sure, every movement steady like you knew every creak and knot in that old wood. The boys followed like schoolchildren. Stack whistled low when he caught sight of the mare you led out—a tall, dark roan with fire in her eyes.
“She’s a beaut,” he muttered.
You didn’t respond—just reached up, stroked the horse’s neck gentle. “This one’s name’s Mercy.”
Smoke swallowed hard.
Figures.
You turned, hand on your hip. “Who ridin?”
Stack and Sammie both turned their heads in unison.
Smoke damn near blushed.
“C’mon, cowboy,” you said, that smile tugging at your lips, teasing just behind your tone. “You ain’t scared, is you?”
Smoke stepped forward, quiet, hat still in hand. “Just cautious.”
“Good,” you said. “Horse can feel that. You come at her nervous, she’ll throw you without a second thought.”
You patted the saddle once, then crooked your finger.
“Come here.”
He did.
Close enough to smell the sun on your skin and the lilac oil in your scarf. You moved behind him without another word. Laid your hands right on his hips.
“First, don’t try and muscle your way up. Use rhythm, not fight. Like dancin.”
“Dancin?” he asked, stiff as a plank.
You leaned up, whispered near his ear, “You heard what I said.”
Stack from the other end of the barn: “Ooooo, she said dance, Smoke!”
Sammie hollered. “She gon have him two-steppin right into them stirrups.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop. Hands glided down the backs of his thighs, tappin where to bend. You grabbed his hand and placed it on the saddle horn.
“Now. One foot here, grab up here, swing light.”
Smoke tried.
Failed.
Hard.
Boot caught, leg flailed, and he slid back down with a grunt.
Stack leaned on the barn post, laughin so hard he had to wipe tears.
“Boy, that horse just looked at you like really?”
Smoke got up, dustin himself off, cheeks red.
You held out your hand again, steady. “Again.”
He took it.
Failed again.
This time his knee near buckled and he cursed loud, stomping away from the horse in frustration.
You clicked your tongue. “You done already?”
“No,” he gritted.
“Then come on.”
He tried again.
And again.
And again.
Sweat beading at his neck, shirt clingin to his back. You never left his side. Every time he got close, your hand was there—on his shoulder, his hip, the small of his back—guiding, correcting, steadyin.
Finally—finally—he swung up, legs awkward but holdin. Horse shifted beneath him, but he stayed on.
He looked down at you like he ain’t know if he’d passed a test or fallen into a dream.
You reached up and touched his ankle, eyes trailing up.
“See?” you said, voice low. “Told you. Just rhythm.”
Sammie damn near clapped.
Stack whistled. “I’ll be damned. Man stayed on.”
Smoke let out a shaky breath. “Ain’t easy.”
You smiled.
“Nothin worth it ever is.”
You stepped back, eyes on the roan. “Think you can ride alone?”
Smoke looked down from the saddle, squinting. His eyes slid to Stack, who was already leaning over with his hand on his knee, laughing like it was the funniest thing he seen all year.
“Boy lookin at you like you got the answers,” Stack wheezed. “Hell, he barely know how to hold the reins.”
You rolled your eyes, looked toward Sammie instead. “You ridin or just talkin?”
Sammie stood taller, smile lazy. “I’m ridin, Miss Lady. You just say the word.”
You pointed with your chin. “Take Rose. She know your rhythm already.”
He tipped his head, easy. “Yes ma’am.”
Then you glanced toward Stack. “And you? Get on Grace. She’ll buck if you pull too hard.”
“I don’t pull,” he muttered, already headed for the stall. “I guide.”
That made you smile, just a little.
When you turned back, Smoke was still perched awkward on the saddle, holdin onto the horn like it might save his life. His hat shadowed his eyes, but his gaze hadn’t left you.
You stepped closer, just enough for your voice to carry quiet. “Mind if I join you, Elijah?”
And Lord.
He ain’t know what did it.
The sound of his name in your mouth, soft and sure. The golden slant of morning behind you makin your skin shine like honey. Or the fact that his body hadn’t slept since last night and everything felt like a dream. But he couldn’t speak.
He just nodded.
You climbed up easy, one leg swung over, settling behind him like you belonged there. Your arms wrapped around his waist, tight for a second, then relaxed.
From the fence, Stack elbowed Sammie. “Look at ‘em.”
Sammie whistled low. “That boy done got himself a backseat angel.”
You ignored them. Leaned in, lips near Smoke’s ear. “Ain’t about control. You still gotta lead—but with a looser hand. Tighten up when the time’s right.”
He nodded. Your breath warm on his neck, hands restin light on his belly, made it hard to focus.
You helped him nudge the mare forward. She stepped slow, steady out the barn, hooves thunking soft against dirt.
Stack hollered, “Where was all this help when I was learnin?”
Smoke glanced over his shoulder, squintin. “She liked me better.”
Sammie cracked up. “Tender as a chicken.”
Smoke just waved ‘em off, grinnin. “Okay, okay—”
You rolled your eyes but let the smile tug at the corner of your mouth.
The four of y’all rode slow around the ranch—just wide enough to taste the wind and smell the dew still clingin to the grass. Eventually, you slid off, letting Smoke steer solo.
You hung back with Sammie, talkin low.
“He tryin,” Sammie said, laughing. “Gotta give him that.”
“He doin better than y’all did,” you said. “Didn’t have to drag him by the belt like I did Stack.”
Sammie raised a brow. “You always this sharp?”
“Only when men talk slick.”
That got a laugh outta him. But it cut off fast when Smoke leaned too sharp into the turn, lost his balance—and the mare kicked back, throwin him straight into the dirt.
You didn’t even breathe. Just rushed forward, boots kickin up dust.
He groaned, sittin up slow. “I’m alright.”
You crouched beside him, eyes sharp. “You sure?”
He nodded, breath ragged. But you saw it. That frustration boilin under the surface.
Stack and Sammie was already laughin loud from the porch.
“Man hit the ground like a sack of feed,” Stack wheezed.
“He roll like a barrel,” Sammie said. “You alright, cuz?”
You shot them a look. “Alright, that’s enough. Go on. Head back. Y’all jokes ain’t helpin him none.”
Stack raised his hands, grinning. “Yes ma’am.”
He slapped the back of Sammie’s arm, already turnin toward the house. “Come on, court jester.”
Sammie lingered just a moment longer. Gave Smoke one of those looks—the kind that said boy, you better not let her slip—before turning to you. He tipped his hat.
“Y’all have a nice evening now.”
Then he winked, slow, and disappeared up the porch steps behind Stack.
And there you stayed.
Kneelin in the dirt beside a man still breathin hard, still achin, and still tryin. Sun crawlin higher in the sky. Your hand restin gentle on his knee.
“You ready to try again?” you asked.
Smoke looked up at you.
And for the first time, he didn’t flinch.
Smoke tried.
Lord knows he tried.
But it didn’t matter how many times he gripped the reins, squared his shoulders, breathed deep like you told him—he couldn’t feel the horse. Not really. Couldn’t let go enough to ride with her instead of against her.
The mare’s ears pinned back every time. She shifted restless beneath him, hooves stompin the earth like she had somethin to prove. He tried to guide her forward again, but his hands were too stiff, too sharp.
The mare snorted, side-stepped, and nearly bucked again.
“Damn it—!” he growled, pulling her up short, boots digging into the dirt as he hopped off, barely landing on both feet.
You were standin a little ways back, arms folded across your chest. Watching. Quiet.
He turned to you, chest heaving, jaw tight. “I don’t get it,” he spat. “I’m doin everything right.”
You stepped forward, voice low but clear.
“She feelin your frustration, Elijah. That’s what’s throwin her off.”
He looked at you, jaw clenched.
You walked over, hand reachin to soothe the mare’s neck. “It ain’t just about what your body doin. She feelin your energy. You stiff. Tight. Like you waitin to fight her. That ain’t ridin, baby—that’s just bracin.”
Smoke dropped his hat in the dirt, rubbing both hands down his face. “So what—you want me to just pretend I ain’t frustrated?”
“No,” you said, calm. “I want you to breathe. Let it pass through you, not sit in you.”
He kicked at the dirt, jaw flexin, tongue pressin to the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know how to do that.”
You tilted your head, then gave a little nod toward the house. “Come on.”
He looked up, brows tight.
You smiled, just a little. “You need some lemonade.”
He stared at you a beat. Then huffed out a breath, picked up his hat, and followed. The sun beat down like a lesson. And the mare watched him walk away like she knew he’d be back.
You held the screen door open, warm breeze curling ’round your ankles, one hand steady on the frame.
Smoke paused at the step, eyes dropping down to where your fingers curled around the wood, then up—slow. He looked down at you like the sun was hitting you different. And maybe it was. Or maybe it was just him, hot and frustrated and still wired from the ride, but standing there with your hair pulled back and the porch light catching on the sheen of your cheek, you looked—
Like a problem he wouldn’t mind breaking himself over.
He stepped through, but not before giving you one last glance. Deep. Like he was memorizing something.
You held your breath, just a little. Confidence wasn’t your issue—never had been. But Elijah?
Elijah was fine.
Fine like things that didn’t make no sense. Fine like heat that stuck to your bones. That build and them arms, sure—but it was the quiet in him that’d got you. That softness. That way he always looked like he had a hundred thoughts but never said none of ‘em first. The shyness you’d had to pull out of him bit by bit, like teasing the bloom outta a stubborn flower.
He dropped into the kitchen chair, exhaling through his nose, sweat still glistenin at his temple. His eyes followed you across the room, slow and steady, dragging over every movement.
You pulled two thick glasses from the cupboard, and he watched the flex of your fingers, the way your belt caught at your waist. Watched the small rise of your shoulder as you reached overhead. Every gesture, quiet and easy, had him locked in like a sermon.
You set the glasses down with a soft clink, turned, walked to the fridge.
He couldn’t stop staring. The curve of your spine, the sway of your hips. The small crease where your pants hugged the back of your thighs.
The fridge door opened with a hum and you pulled out the pitcher. Cold beads of condensation slid down your wrist. You brought it to the table and poured slow. He didn’t even blink.
“You ever think,” you said, breaking the silence, “that the mind gets loud when the body tryna talk?”
He looked up at that. Lips parted. “What?”
You smiled a little, passing him his glass.
“You asked how to clear your mind,” you said, easing down into the chair across from him. “Sometimes the only way I know how is to listen to the rest of me. Let my body speak. Don’t always have to be a war between the two.”
He took a long sip, eyes still on you. “And you figured that out on your own?”
“Took some time. Some fallin’ off my own horses,” you said, with a half-smile. “But yeah. In order to guide somethin’—a horse, a life—you gotta follow it too. Feel it out. Give it space to tell you what it need.”
He nodded slow, his jaw workin like he was holdin back another question.
You stood up.
Your voice came softer this time, almost playful. “Come on.”
He blinked. “Come on where?”
You didn’t turn right away. Just walked to the living room doorframe and paused, leaning against it, one hand braced above your head.
Then you looked back over your shoulder.
“You comin?”
He stood up slow, that big frame unfolding like he wasn’t sure what waited in the next room. His boots dragged a little as he crossed the floor, glass in hand, eyes never leaving you.
You didn’t say a word. Just stepped into the living room, let the screen door’s light fade behind you, and moved toward the old couch that faced out the wide window. The sun was anglin low now, paintin the walls gold.
He eased down beside you, a full cushion of space between—but his arm brushed yours when he reached to set his glass down on the table. You didn’t pull back.
“You always been this quiet?” you asked, voice soft like the way folks talk when they don’t wanna scare off a good thing.
Smoke looked at you out the corner of his eye. Then gave a small shrug. “Guess I ain’t ever had much to say.”
You looked back out the window, that same quiet ease in your chest startin to melt into something heavier. “No. You got things to say. Just don’t always know how to say ‘em.”
He didn’t answer that. But the silence between you turned warmer somehow, thicker.
You tapped your fingers along your knee, like you were wrestlin with a thought, then glanced at him again.
“You remember that summer day my daddy asked you to come help me with them damn sheep?”
That made him stiffen—just a flicker—but you saw it.
He looked over at you slow. “Yeah… I remember.”
You laughed, low. “They was all out past the fence, damn near in the woods. Took us a good hour just to corner ’em.”
He nodded, a breath leaving him like he was tryin not to smile. “One of ‘em kicked at me. Damn thing had spite in her heart.”
That made you laugh for real.
But then it quieted again. Like y’all both stepped over into something deeper without meaning to.
You didn’t look at him when you said it. Just let the words come.
“And when it was done… I told you to help me check on the water barrels. You remember that too?”
He did.
God, he did.
Behind the barn, sweat clingin to both of you, the sun hidin low and heavy behind the trees. You’d leaned up against the fence, dress hitched just high enough. Told him, plain as anything, “Ain’t no shame if I’m the one doin the milkin, Elijah.”
He’d gone still. Swallowed hard.
And then you’d sunk to your knees like you was prayin.
Only thing sacred was the sound he made when you took him in your mouth, soft like you was drinkin from a spring after walkin through fire. Your hands on his thighs, the way his big hands gripped the fence behind you, knuckles white, tryin not to cry out too loud.
He’d never been touched like that.
Never by someone who looked up at him with that much want.
When he’d finished—Lord, when he’d finished—you stood, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and kissed his cheek. Like it wasn’t a sin. Like it was just the weather.
Neither of you had spoken on it since.
Back in the living room now, you looked over at him finally. Real soft.
“You ain’t forgot.”
He shook his head once, slow.
You leaned back on the couch, a smirk just at the edge of your mouth.
“Didn’t think you had.”
He shifted in his seat like he was tryin to breathe right again. His fingers tapped his thigh. “You… you always been like that?”
You raised a brow. “Like what?”
He looked at you now. Really looked.
“Kind. Quiet. Dangerous.”
Your smile widened.
“Only when I want to be.”
You ain’t say nothing else at first. Just let your head rest against the couch, eyes half-lidded, the quiet in the room growing heavy as July heat. His glass was still full, condensation crawling down the sides. Your eyes dropped to his hand—those big, veined hands, twitchin against his thigh like they didn’t know where to go.
You leaned forward, slow. Picked up your glass, took a sip. Watched his eyes follow the way your throat moved.
“You gone keep sittin like you scared of me?” you asked, voice low and teasing. “Or you gone come when I call?”
His head turned slow, the look in his eyes gone somewhere between fear and reverence.
“Come here, Elijah.”
He moved like his body didn’t belong to him no more—legs stiff, breath shallow. Sat closer, but still left space between y’all. Like that would help.
You didn’t let it.
You turned toward him, bent one leg up on the couch, the other foot flat on the floor. His eyes dragged over your thigh, your sundress riding up just enough to tempt ruin.
Your voice dropped lower. “I know you remember how I sounded when I moaned your name behind that barn.”
His mouth parted, just a little. You saw him swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing like he was tryin to hold back a yes, ma’am.
You leaned in close, lips just by his ear. “Say it.”
He breathed in sharp. Then, quieter than a prayer:
“Please…”
You leaned back, fingers trailing along his collarbone, then down his chest—slow and deliberate.
“Mmhm. That’s what I thought. You listen real good.”
He nodded, breath hitching.
You climbed over him, straddled his lap without askin. That dress shifted up your thighs like it was born to rise for him. He didn’t dare touch—not yet.
“Keep your hands to yourself, baby,” you whispered, grippin his shoulders to hold him steady. “Unless I say.”
He nodded again.
You rocked your hips once, soft, just enough to make him bite his lip.
“You hard already?” you asked, lips curved. “You ain’t even tasted the real thing yet.”
He ain’t say nothin then just hissed through clenched teeth.
“Shh.”
You reached between your bodies, cupped him through those old work jeans. He groaned low, back pressin into the couch.
“Ain’t no shame in wantin,” you whispered, stroking him through the fabric. “But you don’t get to beg. You get to obey.”
He nodded so fast it made you smile.
You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth—light, lingering, cruel.
Then your lips moved to his ear again, warm breath makin him shiver.
“I’m gon ride you like I broke that damn horse. But first—” your fingers undid his belt with slow, perfect ease, “—you gon sit back and thank the Lord.”
He gasped as you freed him, thick and hot in your hand.
“Thank Him for sendin you a woman who knows what to do with a man like you.”
“Thank you l—”
Your mouth was already on him.
No more talkin.
Just him breathin heavy, hands fisted in the cushions, back archin while you worshipped every inch of him. You kept eye contact—slow, filthy, commanding. Took him deeper every time he whimpered. Pulled back with a pop just to hear him cry out again.
“Don’t move,” you said, voice low. “Don’t you dare move.”
He didn’t.
Even when his whole body was tremblin. Even when your name left his lips like it was the only scripture that ever mattered.
And when you finally rose, wiped your mouth, and sat back on his lap with that same slow drag of your dress ridin up—
He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
“Now,” you whispered, hand guiding him home, “this what obedience gets you.”
And he moaned like you’d saved his whole damn soul.
Didn’t even care how it sounded—high, wrecked, broken open. His back arched clean off the couch like he couldn’t believe how deep you took him. You sat on him slow, slick, ridin’ down inch by inch like you was dippin into somethin holy and heavy. And Lord, he felt it—felt you take him in like you wanted to ruin him, like you meant to.
“Fuck—” he hissed, head throwin’ back, throat straining.
But you just grinned, hips grindin’ slow as molasses. “Uh-uh. Keep your eyes on me, Elijah.”
And he tried. God, he tried.
His hands clutched at the couch like holdin’ on to the earth itself, body shakin’ from tryin’ not to buck. You leaned over him, one hand on his chest, pressin’ him back down when he twitched.
“I told you already,” you said, voice low and firm, drippin’ heat like summer sweat. “It ain’t about control.”
He was pantin’ now, lips wet, eyes locked on you like he was drownin’. “Th-then what is it?”
You slid your hips forward, slow and deep, and watched him break.
“It’s about trust,” you whispered.
He whined—whined, from the back of his throat, needy and sweet and helpless as all hell.
You cupped his jaw, thumb draggin’ lazy across his lower lip. “Let go, baby. Let me move you. Let the horse lead.”
And you rode him like that—steady, fluid, like the rhythm of a trot, like the earth was beneath your thighs and he was the reins in your hand. Your pussy grippin’ him every time you rolled forward, his breath catchin’ with each pass, every inch of him pulled deeper into your heat.
He moaned with every shift, loud, no shame left in his voice—just need. He’d never sounded like that before. Hell, he ain’t never felt like this before. Taken. Guided. Let down into somethin he ain’t know he wanted ’til you gave it to him.
“Please,” he whimpered, voice all breath and ruin.
You tilted your hips, grinded deeper, watchin his abs flutter and his thighs twitch. “Please what, baby?”
He shook his head, couldn’t even finish. Just stared at you like you was draggin heaven through his body.
“Say it,” you said, lettin your teeth graze his throat. “Say what you need.”
“I—” his voice cracked, hips buckin’ once before you locked him down again with a squeeze of your thighs. “I need you to—fuck, I need you to take it. Take me.”
And oh, did you.
You gripped his wrists again, pressed them above his head, ridin’ him slow and deep, makin’ him feel every wet, thick stroke like it was gospel. Your name spilled outta his mouth like a prayer—over and over, soft and desperate. “Yes—yes ma’am—please don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—”
His body was shakin’ now, tremblin’ under you, chest damp with sweat. He was red in the face, lips swollen, thighs quiverin’ beneath your grind. He was gone. And he loved it.
You leaned in again, kissin’ just beneath his ear as your hips kept rollin’, voice soft but sharp:
“See how much easier it get when you don’t fight it?”
He whimpered again, noddin’, eyes flutterin’ shut like the pleasure was too much.
“Good boy,” you breathed.
That made him whine. Real low. Real nasty.
You smiled, sittin back up and lettin him feel all of you—slick, tight, soaked through, ridin him deep and slow like you was wringin the sin outta him one roll at a time.
“You ain’t never gonna forget this ride,” you said. “And you ain’t never gonna fuckin’ try to lead again.”
“No ma’am,” he gasped, damn near cryin now, body pullin tight under you.
“Who’s in control, Elijah?”
“You are,” he whispered.
“Say it again.”
“You’re in control,” he moaned, voice wrecked, body twisted up beneath your hands, your hips, your heat. “*You—*you runnin’ me, baby, I’m yours.”
“Damn right,” you said, slammin down once, draggin a scream out his mouth.
And just like that, he came—loud and grateful, hands clenched, tears prickin’ his eyes, his whole body undone under you.
And you?
You kept ridin—slow and easy, chasin your own end now, sayin his name low and filthy, feelin the way he stayed inside you even as he trembled and begged, lettin you take what you needed like he was made for it.
Because he was.
He was yours to ride.
And he knew it now.
You barely had time to breathe before he shifted beneath you, hands strong now, braced on your hips like he was takin’ the reins for real this time. You went to ride him again—slow, sweet—but he held you there, still, hips pressin’ up so deep it made you whimper.
“Nuh uh,” he said low, voice cracked open, country-soft but solid. “You ridin’ me, but I’m leadin’ now.”
He rolled his hips, not fast—but deep, hittin’ that spot that made your breath catch in your throat. You blinked down at him, mouth already fallin’ open, tryin’ to find words that wouldn’t come.
“Oh nah,” he said, drawlin’ now, sweat glistenin’ on his chest as he dragged you down again. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”
He thrust again. You gasped.
“Say it.”
You shook your head, smilin’ like you had control still. But he dug his fingers into your thighs, not enough to hurt, just enough to warn.
“I said talk to me.”
Another thrust—this one faster, harder—like he was diggin’ his way inside your soul. You moaned loud this time, eyes rollin’ back, one hand on his chest for balance.
“Elijah—” you managed.
He grinned. “That’s it. Say my name. Again.”
“Elijah,” you groaned, and that only made him buck up harder.
“That feel good?” he murmured against your collarbone, hand slidin’ up to your back, keepin’ you pressed close while he drove up into you like he had a point to prove. “That how you like it, huh? Deep like this?”
You nodded, whined.
“Use your words,” he bit out. “You been teachin’ me how to ride—now you tell me how I’m doin’.”
You gasped when he hit just right again, body archin’, tryin’ to hold on. “You—you drivin’ me crazy, boy—”
“That right?” he chuckled, breath hot against your throat. “Say it again. Say you mine.”
And Lord, the way he was movin’ now—steady, rough, perfect—you couldn’t do nothin’ but say it.
“I’m yours,” you whispered.
He flipped you then—smooth and sudden—your back hittin’ the couch cushion, legs still wrapped around him like you couldn’t bear to let him go.
“I know,” he growled, settlin’ between your thighs, not lettin’ you catch your breath. “And now I’m gon’ finish what you started.”
He drilled into you now, slow but hard—real rhythm, real grit, takin’ everything you taught him and pourin’ it back into you tenfold.
You cried out, nails diggin’ into his arms.
“Yeah,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours, every thrust deeper than the last. “You feel that? You feel how good you take me?”
You nodded, barely able to hold yourself together.
He leaned down, lips at your ear, voice low and commandin’ now: “Then say it.”
“Feel so good,” you choked. “You—oh my God, Elijah—”
“That’s right,” he growled, hips hittin’ yours in perfect rhythm. “Say you close. Let me hear it.”
You were already tremblin’ beneath him, damn near cryin’ from the build-up. He watched your body writhe under his, all that control you once had now meltin’ into the couch as he pressed into you like salvation itself.
“Say it,” he repeated, and you finally broke
“I’m—‘Lijah—I’m comin’—I’m—”
And when it hit you, he stayed right there—grindin’ through every wave, kissin’ you like he ain’t never gon’ stop. You clenched around him, cryin’ out his name like a prayer, and he followed right after—hips stutterin’, a raw, deep moan spillin’ from his lips as he filled you up and collapsed against you, both of y’all gaspin’ like you’d just come up for air after drownin’.
You lay there, chest to chest, still connected. His arms wound tight around you, face buried in your neck.
You stroked his hair, soft and slow. “Look at you. Ridin’ like a real cowboy now.”
He smiled against your skin, voice hoarse and proud. “Only ‘cause I had the best damn teacher.”
The heat still shimmered between y’all, even after. You laid tangled up in each other for a while—his heartbeat slowing against your back, his breath a soft rhythm at the nape of your neck. Neither of you spoke at first. Just the hush of your breath, your fingers running along his forearm, his lips at your shoulder.
When you finally moved, it was quiet and slow, like neither one of you really wanted to break the spell. But you turned your head, brushed your lips over his, and whispered, “Come on. Let’s clean up, cowboy.”
He followed you to the bathroom like you hung the moon. You ran the water warm and let the steam fill the small room, made it feel like another world. He stood there in the doorway for a second, just lookin’ at you again. Like he was memorizing the lines of your back, the sway of your hips, the way you wrung your hair out and stepped under the spray like it didn’t matter who watched.
“Don’t just stare,” you said over your shoulder. “Ain’t nothin’ you ain’t seen already.”
He chuckled low, then joined you.
The shower was quieter than before. Intimate, sure—but gentle. He washed your back with slow hands, thumb brushing a trail down your spine, forehead resting against yours when you turned to rinse. You took your time rinsin’ him too, letting your hands glide over the strong slope of his shoulders, that lean stomach still tight with heat.
When you were both clean and pruned, you toweled off and dressed—him in the same shirt you’d tugged off like it had offended you, now buttoned back on with quiet reverence. You threw your hoodie on and your boots, hair still damp, skin warm.
He followed you out to the truck. Didn’t ask where you were goin’. Just opened the passenger door and slid in beside you, his hand grazin’ your thigh like he wasn’t ready to let go of the moment.
You drove slow, headlights catchin’ on branches and dust, the dark curling in around the road like it was tryna protect what had passed between y’all. He sat turned toward you, hand relaxed on your knee, thumb movin’ slow in circles.
By the time you pulled up to the ranch, the porch light was off. House quiet, soft glow from the window tellin’ you Sammie and Stack were knocked out.
You cut the engine and looked over at him.
Elijah looked back like he wanted to say a thousand things. But you leaned in first, kissed him like you meant to brand it in his bones. His hands found your waist, but he ain’t try nothin’. Just held you close. Still.
When you pulled back, you smiled. “Don’t forget what I taught you.”
He looked at you like a man reborn. “I could never.”
You kissed him again, softer this time.
Then he slid out the truck, boots hittin’ the gravel, turnin’ back once more with a look you’d keep with you for a long while.
You watched him go up those steps, open that door real quiet, and disappear into the house.
But the warmth he left in your chest?
That stayed.
Sammie was still half-asleep when Stack threw the door open, light flooding the room.
“Wake up,” Stack barked, pulling a shirt on over his head. “Brotha’ out there like it’s a damn rodeo.”
Sammie sat up slow, hair a mess, voice groggy. “Ain’t no way.”
“I’m tellin’ you.” Stack was already steppin’ into his boots. “Get up. Come look.”
They stumbled out the front door together, the early Delta sun stretchin’ long shadows across the grass. Dew still clung to everything. But out there, just past the fence, Smoke sat tall on that stubborn bay horse like he’d been born in the saddle.
And he wasn’t just on the horse. He was movin’ with it, every motion clean and natural, like a river bendin’ ‘round what used to block it.
“Boy ain’t playin’,” Stack said, whistlin’. “That’s you ridin’ that thing like you ain’t never got thrown off once?”
Smoke glanced over, chest rising under the plain white tee stuck to him with sweat. He adjusted the reins and gave a shrug. “Maybe y’all just ain’t got the patience to teach.”
Sammie raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
“Must be. She showed me once.”
Stack walked down the steps, Sammie trailin’ behind. “Once?” he echoed, laughing. “Damn, so she whispered it in your ear and you just got it?”
Smoke grinned. “Somethin’ like that.”
“Boy, if you don’t—” Sammie shook his head. “What she do, baptize you in that saddle?”
“Felt like it,” Smoke muttered, barely hidin’ a smirk.
They leaned up against the fence now, watchin’ him trot the horse along the perimeter.
Sammie narrowed his eyes. “You been out here since sun-up?”
Smoke gave a nod. “Before that.”
“Jesus,” Stack muttered. “She must got some spell on you.”
Smoke finally slowed, turned the horse back their way, sittin’ proud in that saddle.
“She taught me how to listen,” he said. “Y’all was too busy tryin’ to control it.”
“Oh he deep now,” Sammie said, laughing, “talkin’ like a cowboy poet.”
Stack clapped once. “Next thing he gon’ write a country album. ‘She Tamed My Heart and My Horse.’”
Smoke rode up to the fence and leaned forward, eyes flashin’ but amused. “Y’all done?”
“Not even close,” Stack said, grin wide. “But I’ll say this…”
He nodded, real slow, like he was respectin’ it for real now.
“You look like you know what you doin’ out there.”
Smoke held his gaze, then gave a small smile. “That’s ‘cause I finally do.”Sammie looked at Stack, then back at Smoke. “So what now, Mr. Wrangler?”
Smoke tugged on the reins just a bit. “Now?”
He turned the horse in a clean circle, confidence in every motion.
“Now I ride.”
Stack crossed his arms. “And what she teach you after the ridin’?”
Smoke smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Sammie burst out laughin’. “Oh he smug now.”
“I’m sayin’,” Stack added. “Got the horse, got the glow…”
They backed off, still chuckling as Smoke rode toward the far field, the morning wide and golden around him. He didn’t say nothin’ else. He didn’t have to. He was ridin’ like he’d been taught by the Lord’s own whisper.
And he knew damn well who’d been the angel.
WHO next?😏
YESSSS NOW I CAN RE-READ IT!!!!!
