Chapter 2: Dawn's First Claim
The first thing he noticed was the weight, a familiar, welcome pressure settling on his hips. Then the heat, a damp warmth seeping through his boxers. Pete opened his eyes to the dusty, golden light of dawn filtering through the threadbare curtains. Stacy was already there, straddling him, her incredible DDDs swaying as she moved against him. Her strawberry-blonde hair was a tangled mess from the night, catching the early sun like a halo.
She leaned down, her mouth close to his ear. Her breath was warm. "I need you inside me."
No sweet good morning. Just that. A raw, quiet demand that went straight to his already hard cock.
His hands flew to her hips, his grip instinctively possessive, almost hard. The memory of last night—her on her knees, the look in her eyes—flashed through him, sharp and bright. That same complex mix of pride and something darker twisted in his gut. He owned this. He owned her.
But right then, she was owning him.
In one fluid motion, he rolled them over. The old bed frame groaned in protest. She let out a small, surprised gasp that turned into a sigh as he pressed her into the mattress. He loomed over her, his body caging hers. The scent of her, of them, of sex and desert air, filled his lungs.
He didn't kiss her mouth. He moved down, his hands sliding from her hips to the soft skin of her inner thighs, pushing them apart. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue finding her wet and ready. She cried out, her back arching off the bed, her fingers tangling in his hair just as his had been in hers hours before.
It was an answer. A claiming. A way to say without words that he knew her, every secret, hungry part of her.
When he finally rose up over her again, her blue eyes were wide and dazed, her sweet smile gone, replaced by parted lips and a desperate need. He guided himself into her, a slow, inexorable push that made her gasp his name. "Pete."
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a punctuation mark in a silent conversation. This is mine. You are mine. Her legs locked around his back, pulling him deeper, her nails digging into his shoulders. The faded cowboy on the poster watched them, indifferent.
"Look at me," he grunted.
Her eyes, hazy with pleasure, focused on his. He saw everything in them—the innocence that was a lie, the curiosity that thrilled him, the devotion that anchored him. He saw the reflection of his own complicated soul.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough, his thrusts deepening. His control was a thin veneer, cracking.
"I'm yours," she choked out, her body tightening around him. "Pete... I'm yours."
It was what he needed to hear. What he always needed to hear. His release ripped through him with a force that left him shuddering, collapsed on top of her, his face buried in the sweaty crook of her neck. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing mingling in the quiet room.
He rolled off, the cool air hitting his damp skin. They lay side by side, not touching, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The coyote was silent now.
Stacy turned her head on the pillow. Her smile was back, soft and a little knowing. "Okay?"
He reached out, his hand finding hers on the sheet between them. His calloused thumb stroked over her knuckles. It was the only apology, the only confession of love, he could manage.
"Yeah," he said, his voice low. "We're okay."