Trust Is the First Touch
1223 Words
Then he climbed out.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t have to.
Because Harley?
She was already moving.
The rodeo grounds were buzzing.
Lights flooding the arena. Announcer crackling over the speaker system. The scent of dust and diesel and deep-fried everything hanging in the air.
Harley pulled Whiskey Girl from the trailer, pretending like her heart wasn’t beating out of rhythm.
She could feel Beau nearby.
Not looking at her. Not saying anything.
But present.
Tethered to her like gravity.
They didn’t speak.
Not when she checked in.
Not when they passed in the warm-up pen.
Not even when Colton smirked at them and muttered, “Y’all look like you’re ready to throw down or fall into bed. Can’t tell which.”
They just worked.
Efficient. Seamless.
Like they’d been built to orbit each other and were both too proud to admit it.
Beau roped his steer clean, dirt flying behind his horse, muscles tight with held-back fire. He never missed a cue. Never missed a glance—especially not hers.
Harley ran second.
Fast.
Aggressive.
She missed her pocket by a hair and had to check Whiskey hard before the second barrel—but she made up for it in the straightaway, thundering past the timers like she meant to ride through the wall.
She didn’t look at the clock.
Didn’t need to.
Because when she slowed her mare and turned—
Beau was there.
At the gate.
Holding the rope looped around his glove, hat low, sweat on his jaw, watching her like he could feel every heartbeat in her body.
She met his eyes.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Just let the moment burn.
And then?
She rode past him like nothing had happened.
The trailer door clicked shut behind her with a soft thunk.
Harley turned—and froze.
Beau was already inside.
Not tense.
Not moving.
Just standing against the wall in the narrow living quarters, arms crossed, shirt clinging to him from the heat of the arena, hat gone, jaw tight.
His space was all dark wood, leather, and faint scents of saddle soap and dust. Clean. Controlled. His.
She was already breathing too hard.
“You’ve been living here?” she asked, voice low.
He nodded. “Since Montana. Colton offered the hookup out back.”
“Why didn’t you get a place?”
“Wasn’t planning on staying.”
She blinked.
“And now?”
His gaze dropped to her boots.
Then climbed.
Slow.
Measured.
Like he was already touching her.
“Now I’m not going anywhere until I finish this.”
Her breath caught.
Beau stepped forward.
Not fast.
Not hesitant.
Just inevitable.
He passed her slowly, fingers brushing her hip as he reached past to turn the lock on the trailer door.
Click.
Then he turned back.
Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin.
“You rode like you were chasing something tonight,” he said. “And every damn step told me it was me.”
“I didn’t—” she started, but he cut her off.
“I don’t want excuses.”
His fingers found the hem of her shirt, slipping under just enough to feel skin.
“I want surrender.”
She swallowed.
“I don’t know how.”
“Yes, you do,” he said. “You just never trusted someone to give it back.”
Her lips parted.
He didn’t kiss her.
Not yet.
Instead, he slid his hands up her sides, then back down to her hips, guiding her gently until she backed into the small built-in counter.
Trapped.
Burning.
And wanting it.
Beau leaned in—his mouth at her jaw, his breath hot and even.
“You ready to stop pretending?”
She nodded once.
That was all he needed.
His mouth met hers—firm, claiming, endless.
His hands roamed, slow and steady, undoing her jeans without breaking the kiss, tugging the fabric over her hips as he whispered, “Get on the bed.”
She obeyed.
Because in his space, Beau didn’t ask twice.
Harley moved back onto the built-in bed like she was sleepwalking—heart pounding, blood molten.
The soft creak of the trailer under her boots sounded like thunder in her ears.
Beau didn’t crowd her.
He didn’t rush.
He just watched.
His gaze heavy as she sat on the edge of his mattress, legs parted slightly, breath unsteady.
He stepped in.
Quiet.
Deliberate.
And knelt.
Knelt.
Between her knees, hands on her thighs.
His palms slid upward, slow, callused, thumbs brushing inside her legs until she shivered.
“You look like you don’t know what to do with yourself,” he murmured.
“I don’t,” she whispered.
He grinned—slow and dark.
“That’s the part I like best.”
He reached for her shirt, fingers curling under the hem.
“I’m going to undress you,” he said. “Slow. One piece at a time.”
She nodded.
He tugged the shirt up and over her head, eyes locked on hers even as the fabric slipped free.
He didn’t touch her bra.
Not yet.
Just let his hands run along her ribs, mapping out every inch.
“You’re going to lie back,” he said next. “Let me get you out of these jeans and see what you’ve been hiding from me all damn month.”
Harley obeyed—back against the sheets, legs hanging over the edge.
He unbuttoned her jeans with one hand, slid the zipper down slow with the other.
Then he paused.
Eyes on hers.
“Say it.”
She blinked. “Say what?”
“That you want this. That you want me.”
Her breath caught.
“I want you,” she said, voice shaking. “God—I want this.”
That was all he needed.
He peeled the jeans down her legs, dragging his hands over every inch of skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Then her underwear.
And still—he didn’t touch her.
Not where she wanted it.
Not yet.
He crawled up the bed, slow and lethal, bracing himself above her with one arm, the other trailing down her stomach.
“You’re gonna let me take my time,” he said against her throat. “Let me map every inch of you so you remember who’s got you like this.”
Harley arched.
“I’ll have you begging by the time I’m inside you.”
And when his mouth finally found her breast, his hand trailing between her thighs—
she already was.
Harley barely had time to catch her breath before Beau was on top of her again.
One hand slid beneath her shoulder blades, lifting her just enough for his other to capture both of her wrists and press them into the mattress above her head.
He braced there—strong, steady, unmoving—like the damn trailer could tip over and he still wouldn’t let go.
Her breath hitched.
“You’re going to stay right here,” he said, voice a rasp against her ear. “No squirming. No hiding. You want to run, you do it with your mouth—tell me to stop.”
She didn’t.
Couldn’t.
His free hand slid down her body—slow, possessive—spanning her ribs, her waist, her hips.
Then lower.
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