His hands were everywhere—rough, possessive, like he was trying to memorize me through touch alone. The hay scratched against my back but I didn't care. Couldn't care when Jake Sullivan was finally, finally not running away.
"You have no idea what you do to me." His voice was wrecked. Barely recognizable. "No fucking idea."
"Then show me." Challenged him even though my pulse was trying to escape through my throat. "Stop telling me and show me."
That did it. Whatever thread of restraint he'd been clinging to—gone.
His hands found my tank top. One sharp pull and fabric ripped. Buttons scattered across hay like tiny casualties of war. The sound echoed in the barn—destruction and want and something irreversible happening between us.
Cool air hit my skin. Then his mouth replaced it—hot, demanding, everywhere at once.
He kissed down my throat. Teeth scraping. Tongue soothing. Building a map of marks that would tell everyone exactly what happened here.
Who I belonged to. What we'd finally stopped denying.
"Jake—" Barely got his name out before his mouth found my collarbone.
Bit down hard enough to make me gasp. Hard enough to leave evidence.
His hands moved to my bra. Fumbled with the clasp—whiskey making his coordination shit but determination winning out. Then that was gone too and I was bare to him in ways I'd never been bare to anyone.
For half a second I felt exposed. Vulnerable. Then I saw his face and vulnerability transformed into power.
He looked at me like I was something precious and devastating in equal measure. Like he'd been starving and I was the first meal he'd seen in months.
Like every fantasy he'd denied was suddenly, impossibly real.
"Fuck, you're beautiful." His hands covered my breasts—rough palms against sensitive skin. "Perfect. So fucking perfect."
Then his mouth followed. Hot and wet and absolutely wrecking any coherent thought I had left.
He sucked my nipple into his mouth—hard, demanding, making me arch off the hay with a sound I didn't recognize as mine. His tongue swirled. Teeth grazed. One hand squeezed while his mouth worked the other and I was going to combust.
Actually spontaneously combust in a barn in rural Texas.
"God—" Couldn't form full sentences. "Jake, I—"
He switched breasts. Same treatment. Same devastating attention.
Building something inside me that felt volcanic. Unstoppable. Completely new.
My hands found his hair. Gripped hard. Holding him there even though he showed zero signs of stopping. His stubble scraped against sensitive skin.
The contrast between rough and gentle was destroying me in the best possible way.
He kissed down my stomach. Tongue tracing patterns that made my muscles contract. Made me squirm against hay and his hands and the promise of what came next.
He looked up. Eyes dark. Hungry. "Best thing I've ever tasted."
Then he was working on my jeans. Button. Zipper. Yanking them down my legs with zero patience. My underwear followed—some practical cotton situation that definitely wasn't sexy but he looked at it like Victoria's Secret.
"Jesus Christ." His hand slid between my thighs. Exploring. Testing. Finding exactly how much I wanted this. "How long have you been this wet for me?"
"Since the bedroom." Honest even through the haze. "Since… Fuck, Jake—"
His fingers found where I was aching. Circled. Pressed. Building pressure that was too much and not enough simultaneously.
"That's it, baby." His voice was pure gravel. "Let me hear you."
He slid one finger inside and my entire body arched. New sensation. Fullness. Pressure in places I'd only touched myself.
His finger moved—in, out, building a rhythm that made thinking impossible.
"So tight." He added another finger. Stretching. Preparing. "Gonna feel so good around my cock."
The crude promise made my core clench around his fingers. Made me want things I'd been too scared to want for years. Too controlled to let myself imagine.
He positioned himself over me. One hand braced near my head. The other working his belt. Jeans. The barrier between us disappears with each second.
Then he was there. Hard against my thigh. Pressure and heat and the reality of what was about to happen slamming into me like cold water.
This was it. The moment. Everything changing.
Jake held my gaze. Searching for something. When didn’t find any refusal, started to slide the cock’s head between my slick folds.
Slow and careful despite the whiskey and anger and desperation. Giving me time to adjust. To accept. To—
"Be gentle." The words tumbled out desperate. Scared. Real. "I've never… I know I said I wanted this but I've never actually—"
Understanding hit his face like a freight train.
"Virgin." He said it like a curse. Like a prayer. Like something that changed absolutely everything. "Right. Fuck… You're a virgin."
Reality crashed back. Alcohol. Barn. Richard's daughter beneath him about to give him something she'd never given anyone.
The weight of that trust. That responsibility. That line he was about to cross.
Jake pulled back. Physically. Emotionally. Taking with him all the heat and want and promise of what almost happened.
"No." Pushing from the wall toward him. "Jake, don't—"
"I can't." He was already putting distance between us. Hands shaking as he fastened his jeans. "I can't take your virginity like this. Drunk. Angry. In a fucking barn like—"
"Like what?" Fury mixed with hurt mixed with need that was still pulsing between my legs. "Don't decide what I can handle."
"You're drunk." He wouldn't look at me. Couldn't. "We're both drunk. And your first time… Fuck, Adison… Your first time shouldn't be because I'm jealous and possessive and completely out of control."
"What if that's exactly what I want?"
"It's not." Final. Decided. "Trust me. This isn't… We can't."
He headed for the exit, staggering slightly. Whether from whiskey or adrenaline or the weight of what almost happened—couldn't tell.
"Let's go home," he said without turning around. "We'll talk tomorrow. When we're sober. When I can think straight and not fuck this up worse than I already have."
Then he was gone. Out the door. Into the cold night.
Leaving me alone.
I lay back in the hay. Body aching. Core throbbing. Nipples tight from cold and his mouth. Evidence of what we'd done—what we'd almost done—written all over my skin.
Confusion hit hardest. He'd finally stopped running, finally admitted he wanted me. Finally touched me like I wasn't made of glass and poor judgment.
Then he'd run anyway. At the last possible second.
When it mattered most.
My hands shook as I tried to put my bra back on. Tank top was destroyed—buttons scattered, fabric torn. Had to clutch it closed while searching for my jeans in the dim moonlight.
The marks on my breasts throbbed. His teeth marks on my collarbone. Fingerprint bruises already forming on my hips. Physical proof that Jake Sullivan had finally lost control.
Until he'd found it again at the worst possible moment.
I didn't know whether to cry or scream or laugh at the absolute absurdity. Weeks of sexual tension. Tonight's disaster. The bar. The barn. Getting so close to finally having him.
Then nothing. Just cold air and scattered clothes and the echo of "we'll talk tomorrow" like talking would fix this.
Found my jeans finally. Struggled into them, every movement reminded me of where his hands had been. Where his mouth had gone. What he'd started and refused to finish.
The walk to his truck felt longer than it should. He was already inside. Engine running. Staring straight ahead at nothing.
I climbed in without speaking. What was there to say? Thanks for the foreplay but not the follow-through? Great job making me want you then walking away?
The drive home was silent. His jaw working. My body still aching. The space between us felt like miles instead of inches.