DON’T STOP

Taking her innocence 5

Lila

The truck ambled along the rutted track, slower than before, like Ryder was drawing out every second on purpose. The gate was behind us now, the world beyond it fading into endless stretches of golden fields and distant fences. No one was around. Just us, the low hum of the engine, and the weight of his words pressing down on me.

What he said came back into my memory. Explore? Really? Help him? Delaney’s husband, my step-uncle, is not sexually active, or what?

My stomach twisted, a mix of nerves and something hotter, more insistent. I shifted in my seat again, the cottage skirt brushing against my thighs like a reminder of how this all started—his command, my reluctant obedience. Why had I listened? Why was I still here, letting this conversation hang instead of demanding he turn around?

He glanced over, his hand drifting from the wheel to rest on the bench seat between us. Close enough that I could feel the heat from his skin. He leaned in just a fraction, enough to make the cab feel even smaller, more intimate.

“So, what do you say, Lila?” His voice was low, rough around the edges, like he’d been holding it back.

I bit my lip, hard enough to sting. Concern flooded me, sharp and unrelenting. This was wrong in all ways. He was my stepuncle! I was technically his little niece now, or something like it, and crossing this line could ruin everything. What if it blows up? What if Delaney found out, or something? What if I regretted it more than I already did touching him last night?

But God, the way he looked at me… It stirred something deep, something I’d never felt before. Curiosity. Need. Shame burned in my cheeks.

“You don’t want this?” he asked quietly, eyes searching mine. “Or do you want to think about it?”

I swallowed, my throat tight and dry. My fingers fidgeted with the hem of the skirt, tugging it softly as if that could ground me. “Firstly… show me what you wanted to do to me. Why you wanted me to wear this skirt.”

The words tumbled out, shaky and bold all at once. I couldn’t believe I’d said them. Part of me wanted to take them back, slam the door on this whole mess. But another part—the reckless, aching part—needed to know. I needed to feel whatever this was before I could decide to run from it.

Ryder’s breath hitched. His grip tightened on the wheel for a second, veins standing out on his forearm. Then, without a word, he eased the truck off the main track, pulling into a shaded pull-off beneath a cluster of ancient oaks. The engine rumbled to a stop, ticking softly as it cooled. Silence rushed in—thick, expectant. No more movement. No escape route humming under our feet.

He turned fully toward me, gray eyes dark and intense under the brim of his cowboy hat. His gaze raked over me slowly, deliberately, from my wide eyes and flushed face, down the pink-striped T-shirt that suddenly felt too tight across my chest, to the flowy brown skirt pooling over my knees. He lingered there, on the fabric, on my legs, like he was imagining what lay beneath.

My heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it. I pressed my thighs together, but that only made the heat between them worse.

He reached out, his hand finding my wrist—gentle at first, then firmer as he tugged me closer across the bench seat. Our knees bumped; his thigh pressed against mine, solid and warm through his jeans. I didn’t pull away. I mean, I couldn’t.

Up close, I could see the stubble shadowing his jaw and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His breath fanned across my cheek, carrying the faint scent of coffee and hay. He stared into my eyes for what felt like forever—searching, waiting, building the tension until it coiled tight in my chest.

“Lila…” he murmured, voice gravelly. His free hand moved to my knee, thumb tracing a slow, lazy circle over the bare skin just above the skirt’s hem.

I trembled. A soft gasp escaped me. Emotions crashed like waves—fear that this would change everything, guilt over how much I wanted it anyway, and excitement that made my skin tingle. Shy, I dropped my gaze to his chest, watching the rise and fall of his breaths under the gray T-shirt.

He swallowed again, audibly, his fingers inching higher. Under the skirt now, trailing lightly up my inner thigh. Goosebumps erupted in their wake. The touch was feather-soft, teasing, drawing out every second. My body arched toward him instinctively, betraying me.

When he reached the edge of my panties, he paused. Hooked a finger under the lace. Tugged it aside with agonizing slowness.

Cool air brushed me, then his touch—warm, calloused fingers circling my c**t gently at first, then with more purpose. Pleasure sparked through me like electricity, sharp and sweet.

I moaned lowly and muffledly, biting the inside of my cheek to stifle it. My hands flew to his shirt, fisting the fabric tight, knuckles white. I held on like he was the only anchor in this storm. My head fell forward, forehead resting against his shoulder as waves of sensation built. It was too much, too intense. Emotions swirled: vulnerability from being so exposed, thrill from the forbidden rush, and confusion over how badly I wanted more even as my mind whispered that I should stop this right now.

I realized that I couldn’t touch myself the way he did. How was he even making me feel this good, like it was a job he knew well?

Every slow circle sent fresh heat blooming low in my belly. My hips rocked forward without permission, chasing the pressure, the friction. I could feel how slick I’d become, how embarrassingly ready my body was despite the fear still clawing at the edges of my thoughts. His breathing had turned rougher beside my ear—short, uneven exhales that told me he was just as affected. The hard length of him pressed against my thigh through his jeans, a silent reminder of his earlier confession, of what he claimed I’d awakened in him after years of nothing.

My voice cracked before I could stop it.

The word hovered on the tip of my tongue, sharp, dirty, forbidden. I hadn’t said it out loud in years. My parents had drilled it into me early. Nice girls don’t talk like that, Lila. It’s vulgar. It’s beneath you. Even now, miles away from their house, the rule clung to me like damp clothes. I bit my bottom lip so hard I tasted copper, trying to trap the word before it escaped.

Ryder’s eyes never left my face. His fingers were still there, warm and steady, circling my c**t with that maddening patience that made my thighs shake. The pleasure kept building, relentless, even as shame burned in my chest.

“Say it,” he whispered, voice low and coaxing, like velvet dragged over gravel.

I swallowed shakily, throat tight. “What?”

“You wanted to say something.” His thumb brushed me again, slow and deliberate, and I jolted against his hand. “Say it.”

I shook my head, quick and stubborn. My cheeks flamed. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Not that word. Not with him watching me like this, like he could see straight through every layer of good-girl training I’d ever had.

His gaze darkened. Something shifted in his expression, patient but edged with hunger now. Without warning, he pressed one finger lower and slid it inside me.

Just one.

The stretch was sudden, burning, and overwhelming. My mouth fell open on a silent gasp. My eyes rolled back for a heartbeat as pain and pleasure collided in a white-hot rush. My inner walls clenched hard around him, too tight, too unprepared, and the word tore out of me before I could stop it.

“f**k,” I cried, the sound raw and broken.

He stilled for a second, finger buried deep, letting me feel every inch of the intrusion. Then a slow, wicked smile curved his lips, dark, satisfied, almost proud.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice rough with approval. “That’s my girl.”