Bullseye ⌖ 𖣠
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Roy Goode x Outlaw! Reader
⭑𓂃 WC: 5.6K words
⭑𓂃 Summary: You and Roy have been running from Frank for as long as you can remember. After seven years of dust, close calls, and suffocating silence on the high plains, survival simply isn't enough anymore. Tired of being the one who always needs saving, you beg Roy to teach you how to defend yourself. What starts as a grueling, sun-baked shooting lesson in the desert heat quickly spirals into a fierce game of cat-and-mouse. And when he catches you, the unsaid territory between you two finally burns to the ground in a weathered shack, transforming years of quiet devotion into a passionate, unstoppable encounter where you finally find your ground.
⭑𓂃 contents: Mutual devotion, Childhood friends to lovers, Aftercare/Cuddling, Pure fluff, gun violence, P in V, male yearning, service top/devoted dom, punishment, marking/bruising, mild language, and riding a cowboy to save a horse.
The tally of the years had been written in the soles of your boots and the permanent ache between your shoulder blades.
Seven winters. Seven summers of choking on the alkali dust of the territories, always looking over your shoulder, always waiting for the horizon to sprout horses and black hats.
You hadn’t chosen the trail; Frank Griffin had chosen it for you the moment his shadow fell across your childhood. To break away from the gang meant running from a man who viewed loyalty as a blood covenant and desertion as a sin punishable by fire. You had fled into the wasteland with nothing but the clothes on your back and a terror that threatened to swallow you whole.
But you hadn't been alone.
Roy had been there from the very first desperate mile. You had grown up together under Frank’s dark wing, two children trapped in a den of wolves, but the moment you broke free, Roy became your anchor.
For seven years, he had been your shadow, your protector, and the only soul alive who knew the exact shape of your nightmares. He was a man who hoarded his words like gold coin, but in the suffocating silence of the high plains, his steady, quiet presence was the only thing keeping the madness at bay.
You had survived the cold nights and the close calls because Roy knew how to bleed for you. But as you stared out into the vast, unforgiving emptiness, a cold realization settled deep in your chest. Survival wasn't enough anymore. You were tired of being the one who needed saving.
So you had begged him—not with tears, but with the raw, jagged edge of a voice tired of whispering in the dark.
He hadn't argued. Roy never argued. He had simply looked at you, his blue eyes holding a heavy, sorrowful understanding, and reached for his gun belt.
Now, the mercy of the morning coolness was long gone.
And the midday sun hung overhead like a polished brass plate, beating down on the high plains until the horizon waves and shimmers with heat. Dust stuck to the sweat on your neck, grimy and sharp. While across the dirt yard, sitting on a sun-bleached fence post, was a single green glass bottle. In the glare of the noon light, it caught the sun, glinting like a mocking, emerald eye.
You squinted against the blinding brightness, your vision swimming. The Colt in your hand felt entirely too heavy, a lump of cold iron that makes your wrist ache and your fingers slick with sweat. To you, that bottle looked miles away, an impossible target shifting in the heat haze. You don't understand how he did it—how he ever made the iron an extension of his own hand, how he moved with that effortless, lethal grace while you are left squinting, breathing hard, and feeling entirely out of your depth.
You lowered the barrel, the weight of the iron dragging your arm down toward the dirt. A frustrated, ragged breath escaped your lips, tasting of dust and defeat.
Then came the crunch of boots in the dry dirt.
Roy closed the distance between you without a sound. He didn't speak—he didn't need to—but the sudden shift in the air told you he was there, blocking out the harsh glare of the midday sun. He stepped up directly behind you, his chest brushing against your shoulder blades. The heat radiating from his body was different from the oppressive sun; it was a fierce, protective warmth that enveloped you completely, smelling of leather, horse sweat, and the sharp, clean scent of gun oil.
Your pulse gave a sudden, wild flutter against your ribs as his large, calloused hands slid down your arms. His skin was rough, a stark reminder of the hard life you both shared, but his touch was incredibly deliberate. Unyielding.
"You’re fighting it," he murmured, his low voice a gravelly rumble right beside your ear, sending a sharp shiver down your spine despite the sweltering heat.
His hands moved to your hips. The grip of his fingers were firm and heavy through the thin fabric of your clothes, physically shifting your weight, forcing your boots deeper into the sun-baked earth until your stance was grounded and unshakeable.
"If your feet aren't planted, the iron owns you," he whispered, his breath warm against your neck.
He slid his hands back up to your arms, his palms tracing the line of your muscles until his fingers wrapped directly over yours around the cold steel of the Colt's grip. His hands completely engulfed yours, massive and steady. With a gentle but unyielding pressure, he lifted your arm, forcing the heavy barrel back up toward the shimmering horizon. He adjusted your wrist, tilting it just a fraction of an inch until the front sight aligned perfectly with the glinting green bottle.
The intimacy of it was a sharp, aching pressure in your chest. He was holding you so close you could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your back, guiding you into a posture meant for killing, even as his touch offered the only true safety you had ever known.
"But you don't ever sit still," you sighed, your voice ragged against the wall of his chest. Your heart hammered against your ribs, trapped between his unyielding grip and the sheer frustration of the impossible task. "You can shoot off a god damned horse."
A low, vibrating rumble started deep in his chest—a sound that was almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it, only the grim reality of a man who had been baptized in gunpowder.
"The horse does the standing for me," Roy murmured, his grip tightening just enough to steady the tremble in your fingers. His thumb stroked the back of your hand, a heavy, calloused reassurance that felt like fire against your skin. "My boots don't move from the stirrups. The saddle is my dirt. You find your ground, wherever it is, and you lock yourself into it."
He pressed closer, his torso completely bracketing yours, forcing your shoulders to square against the blinding glare of the noon sun.
"Just breathe with it, okay?"
You tried not to roll your eyes, but the sheer force of keeping the gun steady took every ounce of your attention—even with his massive hands reinforcing your own. But you listened, begrudgingly.
You closed one eye, letting the rest of the shimmering desert blur into nothingness as you focused entirely on the glinting green glass at the tip of your front sight. You moved slowly, deliberately, letting him guide your movements with effortless ease until the muzzle and the target lined up perfectly in the heat haze.
The silence stretching between you, thick and heavy with the midday heat, until Roy’s voice broke it, low and steady against your ear.
"Breathe," he commanded softly. "Deep."
Before you could draw the air in, his left hand slid away from your arm and pressed flat against your lower abdomen. The warmth of his palm seared through your clothes, heavy and grounding, mapping the rise and fall of your stomach.
A sudden, fierce heat rushed to your face, deepening into a burning flush that had nothing to do with the New Mexico sun. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs, but you forced yourself to stay absolutely still, locked in the cradle of his frame while his other hand remained a solid bracket over yours, keeping the heavy iron aimed true.
"In," he murmured, his palm rising slightly with you.
You inhaled the scent of him, the dust, the leather, filling your lungs until they ached.
"Out."
You let the breath go, your shoulders dropping, your frame settling completely into his chest. In that microscopic space between the exhale and the next breath, the world went entirely still. The heat haze stopped shimmering. The wind died.
"Shoot," he whispered.
You squeezed.
The Colt roared, a deafening crack that shattered the midday silence and sent a violent tremor straight up your arm, absorbed instantly by the solid wall of Roy's body behind you.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The lead bullet tore through the shimmering heat, a lethal line cutting across the dirt yard until it found its mark. The green glass bottle didn’t just break; it exploded. A sudden, brilliant burst of emerald shards erupted into the air, catching the blinding glare of the sun like a handful of cheap diamonds before raining down into the dust.
The heavy tension holding you together snapped in an instant.
A wild, breathless squeal of pure excitement tore from your throat, and you completely forgot about the heavy iron, forgot about the phantom of Frank Griffin, forgot about the seven years of running.
"I did it!" you gasped, the words tumbling out in a breathless, radiant laugh. "Roy, I actually hit it!"
A slow, genuine smile broke across his face—a rare, beautiful thing that transformed his rugged features, clearing away the shadows that usually hung over him. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, bright with a sudden, fierce pride.
"You sure did," he murmured, his voice lower than usual, carrying a thick, gravelly warmth that vibrated straight through your chest.
But as the echo of the gunshot faded into the vast emptiness of the plains, the excitement in the air began to shift, thickening into something heavy and consuming.
You were still trapped within the bracket of his arms. You hadn't moved, and neither had he. His left hand was still resting against your lower abdomen, the heat of his palm seared into your skin, while his right hand gently took the weight of the Colt from your fingers, lowering it to his side without ever breaking eye contact.
Standing this close, you could see the fine gold flecks in his eyes, the dust coating his eyelashes, and the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his chest. He was looking down at you not just as a protector, and not just as the boy you grew up with in the dark. There was a raw, aching hunger in his gaze—a fierce, possessive reverence that he had spent seven years trying to hide behind his silence.
His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against your waist, a tiny movement that made your breath catch in your throat. For seven years, you had bled for each other and run from monsters, but in the quiet space between your heartbeats, the greatest danger in the territory was the sheer, terrifying depth of what lay unsaid between you.
"Uh-uh, Roy," you murmured, a soft, breathless laugh bubbling up from your chest. You leaned back just an inch, your eyes dancing as you looked up at him through the heat. "I know that look."
The corners of his mouth twitched, the rare smile lingering on his lips as his gaze tracked the movement of your mouth. He didn't pull away. If anything, his grip on your waist tightened, anchoring you against him so completely that the rest of the world just fell away.
"Do ya?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that felt like a physical vibration against your ribs.
"I do," you whispered.
The playful tease faded as quickly as it had come, swallowed by the heavy, sudden memory of a time before the trail grew so blood-soaked and bitter. You had known that look since you were teenagers, wrapped in stolen blankets in the dead of winter while Frank’s camp slept.
He had been your first—the first boy to hold you gently in a world full of monsters. You hadn’t been his only one back then, in the wild chaos of the gang, but it had never mattered. Not really. Because through all the dust, the shootouts, and the women who came and went, Roy had always come back to you. Always.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right hand—the one that had just guided yours to kill—and brushed the back of his knuckles against your heated cheek. His skin was rough, calloused from reins and iron, but his touch was so incredibly gentle it made your throat ache.
"Seven years," he murmured, the words scraped raw from the back of his throat. It was more than he usually spoke in an entire day, each syllable heavy with the weight of every mile you had traveled in the dark. "Seven years of watching over you. Running with you."
His hand slid down, his thumb hooking beneath your chin, tilting your face up just a fraction more. The scent of leather and parched earth enveloped you, thick and intoxicating.
"You think you know the look," Roy whispered, his blue eyes darkening with an ancient, familiar hunger. He leaned in, his forehead brushing against yours, his breath a warm, ragged caress. "But you don't know the half of it. No matter where the trail takes us... I’m always gonna find my way back to you."
The promise was an unyielding devotion delivered with the gritty, unvarnished honesty of a man who knew just how easily the world could bleed. Your breath hitched, your hands instinctively coming up to bunch into the rough fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because the seven years of waiting were suddenly entirely too much to bear.
"Then stay right here, Roy," you breathed against his lips.
He didn't need to be told twice. Roy closed the remaining distance, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was fierce, protective, and desperately hungry. It tasted of salt, dust, and a profound, aching relief—the familiar, beautiful ghost of your youth, finally reclaimed in the desert sun.
The kiss went deep, hard and heavy, a desperate reclamation of everything the years had tried to steal from you both. His mouth was unsparing, tasting of the noon heat and the sharp, metallic tang of gunpowder, but beneath the grit was a fierce, protective reverence that made your knees go weak.
Roy’s hand left your chin, his fingers tangling into your hair, tilting your head back to possess you completely. He groaned into your mouth, a low, starved sound that rattled against your teeth. His other arm wrapped like a steel band around your waist, hoisting you up until your toes barely brushed the dirt, burying your front into the solid wall of his chest.
For seven years you had been ghosts on the wind, running from a man who wanted you dead, but right here, locked in Roy's arms, you were entirely, fiercely alive.
When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He rested his cheek against yours, his chest heaving as he drew the hot desert air into his lungs. His fingers stayed tightly knotted in your hair, his grip possessive, unyielding—the grip of a man who had finally found his ground and refused to let go.
"You don't need to learn to shoot," he rasped against your ear, his voice thicker, rougher than before. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck, sending a delicious shiver straight down your spine. "Not while I'm breathing. I'll take every god damned bullet Frank sends our way before I let one touch you."
You leaned into him, letting your forehead drop against the hollow of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of horse sweat, sun-warmed leather, and him.
"I know you would," you whispered, your hands smoothing over the tense, knotted muscles of his shoulders. "But I'm still gonna hit that next bottle, Roy."
A low, genuine chuckle vibrated against your chest. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, those striking blue eyes softer now, crinkling at the corners with a quiet, enduring devotion.
"Alright," he murmured, his thumb tracing the swollen contour of your lower lip, a lingering promise of what was waiting for you when the sun went down. He stepped back just an inch, his hand sliding down to engulf yours once more, lifting the heavy Colt between you. "Let's see it then. Line it up."
You took a deep breath, swallowing the dust and the lingering taste of him, and faced the horizon. Across the dirt yard, another green bottle sat waiting, a fresh emerald eye mocking you from the fence post. Your hands were trembling, the adrenaline of the kiss and the heavy weight of the Colt making your wrist ache, but you forced your boots down into the parched earth, just like he’d shown you.
Find your ground.
You lifted the iron. You closed one eye, squinting against the blinding glare of the sun until the shimmering desert blurred into nothingness, leaving only that glinting green target at the tip of your front sight. You didn't look at the wind. You didn't think about Frank Griffin. You just breathed. In. Out.
In the quiet space between heartbeats, you squeezed the trigger.
The gun roared, kicking violently against your palm. For a terrifying second, you thought you'd missed—and then, the sharp, beautiful crack of breaking glass echoed across the plane. The bottle shattered into a dozen glittering pieces, raining down into the dirt.
A breathless, wild scream of pure, unadulterated triumph tore from your throat. You didn't care about being a hardened survivor; you spun around, jumping slightly, your face split by a grin so wide it made your cheeks ache. "I did it! Roy, I did it all by myself!"
Roy just stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, but the look on his face was worth more than all the gold in the territory. That rare, devastating smile soft on his lips, his blue eyes burning with a fierce, quiet pride that made your heart roll over.
"Told you," he whispered. "You just had to find your ground."
And so you had. So you kept on with it until the time the sun began its slow bleed into the western horizon, staining the sky in bruised shades of amethyst and gold, your knuckles were raw and your wrist throbbed with a dull, heavy ache. You had lined up twenty more bottles. You had shattered twelve, the glittering green shards forming a mini graveyard in the dirt, but the eight misses still rankled, tasting like dust in your mouth.
You raised the Colt again, your forearm trembling with pure exhaustion, squinting through the creeping twilight at the next target.
"That's enough," Roy’s voice cut through the quiet, a low, unyielding rumble from just behind your shoulder.
"Just one more," you muttered, refusing to lower the iron. "I almost have the lead on the wind. Just let me—"
Before you could finish, a large, calloused hand clamped gently but firmly over the top of the barrel, forcing the gun down. Roy stepped into your space, his massive frame blocking out the fading light, and with a swift, effortless motion of his fingers, he slipped the Colt cleanly out of your slick palm.
"I said that's enough," he murmured, a trace of amusement dancing in his blue eyes as he holstered the weapon. "Your wrist is shaking like a leaf. You keep going, the iron’s gonna win."
"God dammit, Roy," you breathed, a sharp, ragged curse slipping past your lips as you stepped into his space, the heat of your frustration rolling off you in the cooling twilight. "I was right there. Why you gotta go and ruin the only good thing I’ve felt all day?"
He just stood there, completely unbothered by the bite in your voice, though his blue eyes darkened as they tracked the fierce, stubborn rise and fall of your chest. With that slow, agonizingly calm grace that always made your blood run hot, he cleared the cylinder of the Colt and holstered it.
"Your arm is dead, and you're shooting angry," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration in the quiet yard. "Tomorrow."
A wicked, defiant spark flared in your chest—a sudden need to break that unshakeable composure of his. Before he could anticipate the movement, you lunged forward, your fingers brushing the rough skin of his forehead as you snatched the heavy, battered Stetson clean off his head.
"Hey—" Roy growled, a low, predatory sound snapping from his throat as his brows came together in genuine surprise.
But you were already moving. You jammed the oversized hat onto your own head, the scent of him—sweat, tobacco, and old leather—instantly enveloping your senses as you took off across the dirt yard, a breathless, wicked laugh trailing behind you into the gathering shadows of the high plains.
The silence of the plains swallowed his response, but the sharp, sudden twitch of his jaw told you everything you needed to know. Roy didn't chase you on foot. He didn't waste his breath calling after you.
Instead, he turned with a fluid, lethal grace and swung his long leg over the saddle of his bay horse.
The thud of hooves against the sun-baked earth sounded behind you, a heavy, rhythmic thunder that made the adrenaline spike raw and sweet in your veins. You didn't even make it to the edge of the brush before the horse’s shadow engulfed yours, blocking out the last violet rays of twilight. Roy leaned down from the saddle, a massive, unyielding silhouette, and wrapped a single, iron-hard arm around your waist.
He hoisted you off your feet with effortless, terrifying strength, plucking you right out of the dirt. A breathless gasp tore from your throat as he hauled you up against his thigh, his grip possessive and entirely unyielding as he turned the horse back toward the small, weather-worn shack you were hiding out in. He didn't look down at you, his features set in stone, but the heavy thud of his heart against your shoulder told you the quiet frontier man was done waiting.
He dismounted in one smooth motion, dragging you down with him, and practically carried you over the threshold. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the howling wind of the high plains and plunging the room into the deep, shadows of the candlelit cabin.
"You think you're fast enough to run from me?" Roy rasped, his voice a low, dark growl that vibrated straight through your bones.
He reached up, plucking his battered Stetson off your head and tossing it onto the table, before his large hands came down to grip your hips, pinning you firmly against the rough wood of the door. The heat radiating off him was thick, suffocating, and entirely consuming—the exact promise that had been lingering on his lips out in the dirt yard.
"And you think you can take my things without paying the toll?" His blue eyes burned with a fierce, predatory light, stripping away the quiet protector to reveal the lethal man underneath. His thumb pressed firmly into the dip of your waist, a heavy, deliberate reminder of who owned your gaze. "I told you out there, the iron wins if you fight it. And you've been fighting me all day."
He leaned in close, his breath a hot, ragged caress against your neck that sent a delicious, terrifying shiver straight down your spine. "You want to play the outlaw, sweetheart? Fine. But you're gonna learn what happens to thieves in this territory."
"You ain't no saint, Roy Goode," you breathed, a defiant, wicked smile curving your lips even as your heart battered itself ragged against your ribs. You leaned up, your front flushing flat against the hard wall of his chest. "An outlaw got no right accusing a thief."
A low, dangerous growl started deep in his throat, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath a scorching contrast to the chill seeping into the cabin.
"Watch me," he rasped.
The last shred of his unshakeable frontier patience snapped. Roy gathered you up in his arms, his grip iron-hard and possessive, and hauled you back against the mattress. The heavy canvas and straw hissed beneath your weight as he came down over you, a massive, suffocating shadow that blocked out everything but the heat radiating off his skin.
There was no more running. No more ghosts from Frank Griffin's camp, no more miles of bitter alkali dust between you. There was only the raw, consuming friction of the last seven years finally burning to the ground.
His mouth found yours with a fierce, punishing hunger that stole the breath right out of your lungs. It was an unsparing, desperate kiss, tasting of salt, heat, and the heavy reverence of a man who had died a thousand deaths watching over you in the dark. Your fingers bunched frantically into the rough fabric of his shirt, tearing at the buttons, needing the heat of his bare skin against your palms.
Roy groaned into your mouth, a dark, starved sound as his heavy hands pinned your wrists to the mattress, locking you down, a silent reminder of the punishment he’d promised. But when his fingers slid down to tangle in yours, squeezing tight, it was the same steady anchor that had held your hand steady on the iron.
He stripped away the thin fabric of your clothes with an agonizing, deliberate slow grace, his calloused palms mapping every inch of your skin until you were shivering, your skin flushing a deep, burning pink in the dim candlelight.
Roy moved over you with the same slow, unyielding gravity he used to cross the high plains. He didn't rush; a man who had survived seven years on the run knew the value of patience, knew that the greatest rewards were the ones fought for in the dark.
He parted your thighs with a heavy knee, settling his weight fully between them. The sheer, massive bulk of him was a suffocating, beautiful pressure, pinning you to the straw mattress until you couldn't have run even if the devil himself was at the door. He leaned down, bracing his forearms on either side of your head, his blue eyes black in the dim candlelight as they searched your face.
"Look at me," he commanded. It wasn't a growl this time, but a low, raw plea, his voice thicker and rougher than you had ever heard it.
You met his gaze, your breath catching as he pushed inside you. He went slow—agonizingly, unbearably slow—stretching you open, filling the empty, aching spaces that had belonged to him since you were kids. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, your fingers clawing into the tense muscles of his back as your body adjusted to the thick, unyielding intrusion of him.
Roy paused, burying himself to the hilt, his chest heaving against your breasts as he let you take the full weight of him. He didn't move for a long, heavy beat, just gripped your hips with fingers that left bruises, anchoring you both to the bed.
"You're mine," he rasped against your lips, his hot breath mingling with yours. "You hear me? From the day we left that camp. Every mile. Every bullet. It’s always been you."
He began to move, a deep, bruising rhythm that was entirely unsparing. Roy wasn't a man for sweet words or soft poetry, but every heavy thrust against your hips was a confession, spoken in the ancient language of sweat and skin. He knew exactly how to break you. His calloused hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding the slick, swollen heat of you, pressing and rubbing with a practiced, deliberate friction that sent a violent jolt of lightning straight to your core.
Your head flung back against the mattress, an undone, shameless cry tearing from your throat. The pleasure was too sharp, too intense, mounting like a prairie fire fueled by the wind. You arched into him, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, demanding the absolute wreckage of his restraint.
The frantic, breathless rhythm of the mattress suddenly stalled as Roy caught his breath, his chest heaving against yours. The heat rolling off his skin was thick and suffocating, but before the fire could even begin to cool, a wicked, defiant thought sparked in your mind.
You didn't want him to take the lead anymore. Not after seven years of being the one who was shielded, the one who was followed.
With a sudden, burst of adrenaline, you planted your palms against his massive shoulders and pushed. Roy let out a low, surprised grunt, but he didn't fight you; he let his weight shift, rolling onto his back beneath you with a heavy, fluid grace.
In one swift, breathless motion, you straddled his hips, sitting up straight in the dim candlelight. Your gaze dropped to the wooden table beside the bed where his battered Stetson lay. You reached over, snatching the heavy leather hat, and jammed it right back onto your head, letting the wide brim cast a dark shadow over your eyes.
Down beneath you, Roy’s jaw went completely slack. A dangerous, incredibly dark look flashed across his striking blue eyes as he stared up at you, his large hands coming up to grip your thighs with a bruising, possessive intensity.
"You're a menace," he rasped, his voice a gravelly rumble that sent a thrill straight down your spine.
"I told you, Roy," you whispered, a slow, triumphant smile curving your lips as you tilted the brim of the hat up just enough to lock eyes with him. "An outlaw can't accuse a thief."
You lifted your hips and came down hard, impaling yourself back on the thick, unyielding length of him. Roy let out a strangled, predatory groan that shook his entire frame, his fingers digging so deep into your thighs that you knew they’d leave marks by morning.
You began to ride him, your movements slow and deliberate at first, setting a heavy, agonizing pace that made his eyes roll back. The oversized Stetson wobbled on your head with every roll of your hips, a visual taunt in the flickering shadows of the cabin. Roy’s hands slid up from your thighs to your waist, his thumbs pressing hard into your hips, trying to control the rhythm, but you held your ground, keeping him pinned beneath the absolute wreckage of your control.
"Look at you," he choked out, his chest heaving, his face flushing a deep, dark red as he looked up at the wild, breathtaking sight of you wearing his crown while taking everything he had to give. "God dammit... look at you."
The praise was the ultimate fuel. You picked up the pace, the heat between your bodies turning into a blistering, friction-heavy storm. You arched your back, the leather hat finally tumbling off your head and discarding into the sheets as you threw your head back, riding him fiercely into the dark until the prairie fire consumed you both entirely.
You rode him fiercely, each heavy down-drop of your hips driving him closer to the absolute edge of his restraint. Roy’s hands were no longer just holding your waist; his fingers were clawing into your skin, his knuckles white as he fought to keep from throwing you off and taking the lead back. His eyes were wide and dark, completely fixed on you, tracking the wild tangle of your hair and the slick sheen of sweat on your collarbones.
The friction between you was blistering, a chaotic, unsparing rhythm that echoed through the quiet cabin. The cliff was looming, sharp and sudden for both of you. You could feel the tight, electric coils of your own release winding up deep behind your navel, matching the frantic, shallow pace of his breathing.
"Roy," you gasped, your voice a fractured, undone thing in the dark. "Roy, I'm—"
"I know," he choked out, his jaw locked, the cords in his neck standing out like iron cables.
He didn't let you finish. With a sudden, explosive burst of his hidden strength, Roy's hands gripped your hips and hoisted you slightly, shifting your weight just enough so he could drive upward with a brutal, unyielding force. He hit the deepest, most sensitive spot inside you, and the world simply shattered.
inside. At the exact same fraction of a second, the heavy coil inside Roy snapped completely. He let out a raw, deafening growl—a sound that belonged more to a wild predator than a man—and surged up into you one last time, emptying himself entirely, spilling his thick, burning warmth deep inside you.
The sheer force of it left you both breathless, collapsing forward until your chest hit his. You buried your face in the hollow of his neck, your heart hammering a frantic, chaotic rhythm against his skin while he wrapped his massive arms around you, locking you down against him as his body shuddered through the last remaining waves of his release.
For a long time, the only sound in the shack was the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, slowly evening out against the cold mountain air outside.
Slowly, Roy’s hand came up, his rough fingers gently stroking the damp hair away from your forehead. He pulled back just an inch, enough to look down at you in the fading candlelight. The dangerous, dark look was gone, replaced by that rare, devastating smile that crinkled the corners of his striking blue eyes.
He glanced over at the mattress where his battered Stetson had fallen, then looked back up at your flushed, triumphant face.
"Well," Roy murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated straight through your chest as his thumb traced your lower lip. "Safe to say you hit the bullseye tonight, sweetheart."
