Chapter 9: Morning Worship
The pounding was a jackhammer to the fragile peace. Matt was on his feet before Dasha’s eyes fully opened, his body tensed like a spring. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the floor, yanking them on.
“Stay here,” he said, his voice low and rough with sleep.
But she was already sitting up, the sheet clutched to her chest, her heart racing. The frantic urgency of the knocks spoke of disaster. She heard the door open, a muffled female voice, high-pitched and tearful, then Matt’s sharper, “What? When?”
Dasha found her robe and wrapped it around herself, tying the belt with shaky fingers. She padded to the bedroom doorway. In the main room, backlit by the cold dawn, stood Megan. Matt’s younger sister was a mess—her blonde hair wild, her face puffy and streaked with tears, wearing what looked like pajama bottoms and one of Matt’s old sweatshirts.
“They took him in for questioning,” Megan sobbed, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “They called me. He didn’t call you? Of course he didn’t. He’s such an idiot.”
“Slow down, Meg. Who? Took who?” Matt asked, guiding her to the sofa.
“Kyle.” Megan’s voice broke. “There was a fight at the Silver Spur last night. Some guy from Billings said something about me, and Kyle broke a bottle over his head. The guy’s in the hospital. They’re talking about aggravated assault.”
A heavy silence settled. Dasha knew Kyle, Megan’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. A decent ranch hand with a temper that flared like a match in dry grass. She also knew Matt’s complicated protectiveness over his sister, a responsibility that had shaped him since their parents died.
Matt ran a hand through his curls, his shoulders slumping. “Jesus Christ.” He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes pronounced. The man who had been whispering filth into her skin hours ago was gone, replaced by the weary patriarch. “Okay. We’ll get a lawyer. I’ll call Ben Jacobs. He’s in Helena, but he’ll know what to do.”
Megan nodded, fresh tears spilling over. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to barge in here, I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”
Matt pulled her into a hug. “You always come here. You know that.” Over Megan’s head, his eyes met Dasha’s. They held a profound apology, a grief for the private world that had just been shattered by the harsh, ordinary light of day.
For the next two hours, the cabin was a war room. Matt made calls, his voice shifting into a calm, authoritative tone Dasha had only heard him use in serious film roles. Megan drank tea and stared into the fire Dasha stoked. Dasha moved quietly, making more coffee, scrambling eggs no one ate, folding the discarded quilt from the night before. Her body still hummed with the memory of his possession—the soreness between her legs, the deeper, more intimate ache—a stark contrast to the tense, procedural energy now filling the space.
Finally, Matt hung up the phone. “Ben’s on it. He’s driving out. He says sit tight, don’t let Kyle talk to anyone until he gets there. It’s going to be a long day.”
Megan let out a shuddering breath. “Okay. Okay.”
“You should go back to the main house,” Matt said gently. “Get some real clothes on. Try to sleep. I’ll come up when I know more.”
After Megan left, the silence she left behind was different. It was loaded with everything unsaid. The fire crackled. Matt stood at the window, watching the grey light strengthen over the pines.
Dasha came to stand beside him, not touching. “You okay?”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “This is my life. The fucking circus of it. One minute it’s… it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.” He glanced at her, his eyes soft. “And the next, it’s bail and lawyers and damage control. It’s not fair to you.”
“You think I care about fair?” she said, leaning her shoulder against his arm. “I care about you. And Megan. Let me be here for it.”
He turned and pulled her into a hard, silent embrace, his face buried in her hair. They stood like that for a long time, the weight of his worry a tangible thing between them. Eventually, he kissed her temple. “I need to shower. I need to think.”
“Go,” she whispered.
He went into the bathroom, and she heard the shower start. She cleaned up the kitchen, the mundane acts a balm. When the water shut off, she brought him a clean towel, hanging it on the hook outside the door. “It’s here,” she called.
She went back to the bedroom, stripping the sheets, needing to do something with her hands. The evidence of their night was everywhere—the crumpled lubricant bottle, the indentation in the pillow where he’d pinned her wrists. She bundled everything into a heap, a small, private smile touching her lips despite the morning’s chaos. This was real. The messy, the glorious, the difficult. All of it.
She was pulling on a fresh fitted sheet when he came in, a towel slung low around his hips, water beading on his skin. He watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable.
“I can do that,” he said.
“I’ve got it.”
He didn’t move. The distance between them crackled, charged with the unresolved shift from lovers back to problem-solvers. He needed an anchor. She could see it. And she needed to be that for him, in the only way left to them in that moment.
She finished with the sheet and sat on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside her. He sat, the mattress dipping under his weight. She reached out and touched a droplet of water tracking down the valley of his chest. He caught her hand, brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles.
“I’m sorry about before,” he murmured. “The door. Ruining…”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” she said firmly. She shifted, turning to kneel on the bed facing him. She took his face in her hands. “Look at me. This is us now. The good mornings and the bad ones. All of it.”
His eyes searched hers, and she saw the fear there—the old fear of ruining things, amplified. She leaned in and kissed him, a slow, deep kiss meant to seep into his bones and remind him. His response was hungry, almost desperate, his hands coming up to grip her hips through her thin sleep shorts.
The kiss deepened, turning carnal. The towel around his hips loosened. His cock, half-hard, pressed against her thigh. The problems outside the cabin door didn’t vanish, but they receded, muted by a more immediate, physical need to reconnect, to affirm.
He pushed her back onto the fresh sheets, his mouth leaving hers to travel down her throat. He pulled her tank top up and over her head, disposing of her shorts and panties with a few efficient tugs. The morning air was cool on her skin, raising goosebumps. He kissed her breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth until she gasped, his hand sliding between her legs.
She was already wet. The stress, the emotion, it had all pooled there, a ready ache. He rubbed his palm over her clit, his touch knowing and rough.
“I need you,” he said, the words muffled against her skin. “I need to be inside you. Just for a minute. Just to know you’re still here.”
“I’m here,” she breathed, spreading her legs for him.
He positioned himself and pushed into her in one smooth, claiming stroke. The fullness was a relief, a homecoming. He didn’t move at first, just buried himself to the hilt, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes closed. They breathed together. Then he began to move, a slow, deep, grinding rhythm that was less about passion and more about communion. Each thrust was a reassurance, a vow.
It was over quickly, a quiet, intense climax that wrung a soft cry from her and a choked groan from him. He collapsed beside her, his arm thrown over his eyes. They lay in silence, listening to each other’s breathing even out.
After a while, he squeezed her hand and got up. “Ben will be here soon. I should get dressed.”
She nodded, curling onto her side, spent. She must have drifted off, because the next sensation was not the alarm of another crisis, but a slow, pervasive, delicious heat.
She was on her stomach. Something warm and wet was tracing the seam of her ass. A tongue. Broad, flat strokes that lapped from her perineum up to the base of her spine. Then it delved lower, spearing into her pussy from behind, fucking her with slow, languid thrusts. A finger joined the tongue, probing at her asshole, circling the tight ring of muscle.
She moaned, a sleepy, wanton sound, pressing back into the dual sensation. “Matt…”
“Mmm,” he hummed against her flesh, the vibration making her shiver. He added a second finger to her pussy, curling them, finding that spot that made her see stars. He scissored them inside her, stretching her, his mouth still busy on her ass, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin.
The pleasure was a thick, syrupy tide pulling her under. Her bladder, however, made a sharp, insistent protest.
“Wait,” she gasped, trying to twist away. “Stop, I really… I need to pee. Seriously.”
He released her, chuckling darkly. “Then go.”
She stumbled out of bed, her legs unsteady, and shuffled the few feet to the en-suite bathroom. She was barely seated on the toilet before he was there, filling the doorway, completely naked, his cock hard and jutting out. The intimacy of it, the sheer audacity, sent a fresh jolt of heat through her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her stream starting hesitantly.
“Watching,” he said, his voice low. He walked in and knelt before her, his hands on her knees, pushing them wider apart. The sound of her urinating filled the small tiled room. He didn’t seem to care. He leaned in and, as the stream tapered off, he put his mouth on her.
He licked her clean, his tongue swiping through her folds, collecting the last droplets. The act was so profoundly obscene, so shockingly tender, that she couldn’t breathe. He was worshipping her, every part of her, claiming even this most basic function. He lapped at her until she was gasping, until her hips were lifting off the seat seeking more.
“You taste perfect,” he growled, standing up. He turned her on the seat, so she was facing the tank, and pushed her forward until her hands were braced on it. “Now stay still.”
He pressed against her from behind, the head of his cock nudging her soaked entrance. He drove into her in one ruthless thrust, burying himself in her pussy as she was still perched on the toilet. The position was awkward, deeply vulnerable, and unbelievably erotic. He held her hips and fucked her with hard, shallow punches, his balls slapping against her ass with each movement.
“This cunt,” he grunted, pistoning into her. “Mine. Even when you’re pissing. It’s mine.”
She could only moan in agreement, the ceramic cold beneath her knees, his body burning hot against her back. He was marking her again, re-establishing their primal connection in the wake of the morning’s intrusion. His hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing furiously. The climax tore through her with violent suddenness, a sharp, screaming release that made her clench around him like a vice.
He followed seconds later, his hips stuttering, a hot flood filling her as he bit down gently on her shoulder to muffle his roar.
They stayed like that for a moment, joined, panting in the stark bathroom light. Finally, he softened and slipped out. He helped her up, her knees weak, and turned her to face him. He cupped her face, his thumbs wiping at the tears she hadn’t realized had leaked from the corners of her eyes.
“I love you,” he said, the words simple, clear, and undeniable. “The lawyer’s here. The shitstorm is waiting. But I love you.”
The world, with all its complications, came rushing back in. But it landed differently now. It landed on a foundation that had just been cemented in the most raw, unvarnished way possible.
“I love you, too,” she said. And for the first time, the old fear didn’t whisper of loss. It was just a fact, outweighed by the terrifying, exhilarating truth in front of her.
He kissed her once, softly. “Get dressed. Let’s go face the music.”
She nodded, and as he left the bathroom, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was wild, her lips swollen, her skin flushed. She looked thoroughly, completely, and irrevocably found.