Page 13 of Animal Tamer
“Right there—fuck, right there?—”
Bedsprings. Logan's low murmur, the thud of a knee against a wall, then her again, climbing toward her climax.
“Logan—oh god—Logan?—”
I close my eyes. Open them.
The Idaho stain hasn't moved.
Any other night, this would be working for me. The sounds of someone else's pleasure usually get me going.
Tonight, nothing.
She moans through the wall again, and my dick stays soft against my thigh, and I can't even pretend to be irritated about it.
Because all I see when I shut my eyes is Wren.
Her crouching next to me on the floor of the tent. Her ponytail slipping over her shoulder when she leaned over Peanut, the cherry scent of her shampoo hitting me hard. The little furrow between her brows when she listened to his chest. The blush across her nose when she stepped back from me. The carrot in her palm. Domino's muzzle against her wrist. Her laugh, small and surprised, like she doesn't do it often.
Her body.
Christ. Her body.
I roll my head against the pillow. The trailer is dim, just the slatted light from the carnival glow seeping through the blinds, throwing yellow bars across my chest.
Curves she couldn't try to hide if she wanted to. Her jeans molded to her hips. The way her stethoscope rested against her chest. The line of her waist under that field jacket. The roundness of her, the softness, the shape of a woman made to be worshipped like some ancient pagan goddess.
My cock twitches.
I should ignore it.
I should roll over and go to sleep and let this pass, because nothing about this is smart.
Logan groans through the wall. The woman keens. The trailer next door rocks on its blocks, and I lie here with my hand fisted in the sheet and my breath getting shallow and the heat starting to build in my stomach.
For her.
Forher.
My hand drifts before I decide. Down my stomach, over the cut of my hip, the elastic of my boxers. I wait for a moment, anticipating the guilt I usually associate with pleasure. When it doesn't come, I push the waistband down and free my cock, already half-hard, thickening fast against my palm. The gothic ink up the shaft is barely visible in the slatted light as I wrap my hand around the base and squeeze, a breath shuddering out of me.
I close my eyes.
She's there.
She's standing at the foot of my bed in the dark. Wearing the same clothes from earlier, her ponytail loose now, dark hair spilling around her face. Brown eyes on me. Her hand on the strap of that field kit, then sliding off, letting it drop.
I stroke up slowly, thumb the slick precum already gathering at the tip, spread it down the shaft.
Don't move,she says in my head, in that quiet register she used on Peanut.Just let me look.
She steps closer. Not close enough to touch. She knows. She just stands there at the foot of the bed and watches me, her eyes tracking my hand, her lip caught between her teeth.
Show me,she says.
I tighten my fist. Stroke down. The drag is roughand I make it rougher, the way I like, the way I never let anyone else do for me because no one else is going to.
In my head, she lifts her hand to the top button of her shirt. Unbuttons it. Then the next one. Her skin appears in inches, pale and soft, and freckled across the chest in a way I'd kiss if I could ever bring my mouth to anyone's skin. Then there's the lace of a plain bra. And the roundness of her tits pushing against it as she breathes.
