And through all of this our eyes stayed bonded.
He started moving and I rounded his hips with my legs, using my calves and heels to dig in, giving me leverage, undulating into his strokes. My hands moved, one clasping hard at the back of his neck, one clenching tight into the thick waves of his hair.
He rounded my bottom with an arm, and his other hand bunched my hair tight against the back of my neck.
His labored breaths clashed with my wisping ones as he stared into my eyes and rode me.
There was nothing while he did.
Nothing for me in the whole world but his eyes and his cock and his hold tight on me and all the amazing, beautiful, wondrous things he was making me feel.
My wispy breaths came faster, whimpers eking through and his grunts started to sound as his thrusts grew in strength and velocity.
My hand at the back of his neck slid around and I caught him rough at its side when all I was feeling, all he was giving me made me start moaning.
“You there?” he grunted.
My arms shot around him, circling his head, yanking it to me, stuffing his face in my neck, and I cried out loudly and bucked in his arms when a climax, exquisite in its purity and intensity and the magnificence of its beauty, tore through me.
“You’re there,” I vaguely heard him whisper before he beat into me faster and rougher, and seconds later I heard and felt the rumble of his long, deep groan against my neck.
He slid in and stayed in, tremors shuddering through his long body, and through them he held me pinned to the wall, impaled on his cock.
I held his head in my arms, face shoved in my neck, my legs tight around his hips.
In Johnny Gamble’s arms. Connected to him. The only place I felt safe. The only place I felt right. The only place I felt free to be whatever me I wanted to be.
And then the world came crashing in.
I’d just fucked another woman’s man.
I was so mortified and utterly horrified that I’d done this, it didn’t even occur to me he’d fucked another woman being some woman’s man.
It was just me.
Me doing the wrong thing. Me hurting a sister. Not even thinking of the consequences. Me taking what wasn’t mine.
I unlocked my arms from around his head and put them to his shoulders.
“Let me go.”
“Izzy,” he whispered against my neck.
I turned my head to the side, away from him, not able to deal with this, not even able to be in my own skin.
It was dirty. Wrong. Revolting.
“That wasn’t right.”
“Baby—”
“Let me go.”
His lips found my ear. “Sp?tzchen, you need to listen to me.”
“That wasn’t right. You’re not mine. You’re hers.”
His body grew solid all around me. “What?”
“You ran after her.”
“I ran after my dog.”
I blinked at the dirt-floored corridor between the stalls.
He touched his lips to my earlobe and then kept them there, saying gently, “I knew you’d think that but I couldn’t correct you when you wouldn’t answer the fucking phone.”
Slowly, I turned my head his way, and slowly he lifted his to look into my eyes.
“You . . . ran after . . . your dog?”
“Ranger’s home,” he stated.
I blinked up at him.
He gently slid me off his cock and I took the hint, unhooking my legs from his hips. He set me to my feet but held me close, still pinned to the wall until he knew I was steady on them.
He moved away only enough to hitch up his jeans and then he bent and grabbed my panties.
I automatically lifted a hand to take them but he didn’t offer them to me.
He shoved them in his jeans pocket.
My lips parted.
He bent back and grabbed my pajama bottoms. He shook them to get the dirt off, his brows drew together as he gave them a look, then he handed them to me.
Brushing Johnny repeatedly because he stayed in my space, I put them on.
I was tying the drawstring when he said, “Trash.”
It was a statement that formed a question.
“Tack room.”
That was my answer.
He took my hand and shifted us to the tack room, opening the door. He walked with his jeans undone, dragging me with him.
He then treated me to the intimacy of him disposing of a spent condom in my trash.
There was something about this, something huge, something powerful. A shift in our relationship where the veil was pulled down and it was no longer about guarding important secrets until you knew they were safe to share or just getting to know each other a little better.
It was about fitting into each other’s lives.
He righted his jeans and belt then looked into the room.
“Jesus,” he murmured.
I looked into the room.
The tack was mounted on two opposite walls in a fashion that wasn’t only organized and orderly, but attractive. The narrow floor space between had a clean, oval, braided rug on it. In the two back corners, at angles to each other, were two armchairs. A faded chintz one I got in a yard sale for two dollars. And a fabulous, mahogany leather club chair I bought at an estate auction for twenty-five. The light fixture was tin, antique, beat up and fabulous and cost me a buck fifty at an antique store, and a margarita night plus my guacamole for a girlfriend who was an electrician to rewire it.
On the back wall there were four precisely placed pictures, two on either side of a big window, and I’d paid a small fortune to have each one of them professionally framed in the exact same frame.
All of them with huge mats surrounding cheap, drugstore produced snapshot pictures of the day Mom took Addie and me to a state park and we rode horses on a trail. One picture of Mom and Addie. One of Mom and me. And two of all three of us together, standing in front of a horse, smiling, goofing and looking happy.
“Trust you to have a tack room that’s nicer than most folks’ living room,” Johnny muttered.
I looked from the room to him.
“Johnny.”
He looked to me, said firmly, “Right,” then grabbed my hand and dragged me to the leather club chair.
He sat in it.
Then he sat me in it, that being me in his lap.
“Caught up with her and my dog,” he began without preamble.
I sat in his lap, and unsure I wanted to, unsure of anything, I listened.
“Since I wanted my dog back, told her we needed to find a private place to talk. She wanted the mill. I agreed to the mill because that way I could just let Ranger in his new home when we were done and I didn’t want to drag shit out by discussing where we were going to discuss shit. She followed me there in her car. I called you on the way there.” His expression turned annoyed. “You didn’t answer.”
“Um . . .” I muttered.
“Needless to say, when I got there and told her I wanted my dog back, this did not go over well. I’d told her we weren’t going back, what’s done is done, but apparently that didn’t get through. Me saying I wanted her to return Ranger made it get through. She was upset and I couldn’t just tell her to get gone but leave my dog. I did find times to call and text you during her being upset. But again, you didn’t answer.”