Page 5 of Claiming Bennett (Montgomery Dreams #3)

BENNETT

I like life on the Montgomery ranch more than I expect to.

David is a hardass, but he’s good at what he does, and he’s not unnecessarily harsh.

I can see a cloud of irritation in his eyes, but he doesn’t take it out on anyone.

He stops hovering over me on my second day, apparently satisfied that I’m not going to get myself knocked out while wrestling the heifers into pens for their annual vaccinations.

Bo hangs around me a lot, but it seems more like he thinks I’m helpful and less like he’s monitoring the new guy for his dad.

It makes me feel proud of myself, more than I thought I would. I know I’m good at what I do, after all. I’ve been doing this my whole life.

Having someone other than my family recognize my value is something I didn’t realize would hit so hard. The easy camaraderie between the ranch hands is nice to slip into, and I’m kind of growing fond of being called Ben.

Maybe I’m growing fond of being Ben here.

I miss home, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing that can compare to Ma’s cooking and jumping between Pa’s businesses to lend a hand wherever he needs me. It keeps me busy, keeps me from thinking too much about the past. I stay busy, and I stay present.

It’s similar here—the ranch is plenty busy, especially in preparation for the upcoming cattle drive.

There are pens to clear and fences to fortify, paperwork to be done and medications to be ordered.

I’ve never seen so many feed deliveries in one week, but David seems to have a firm grip on things.

The ranch is a well-oiled machine, and it’s comforting to feel like I’m a part of that.

The one thing I’m truly excited to be done with is the little trailer I’m staying in.

There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just fucking small.

The roof is low enough that I have to stoop to fit myself in, too tall to stand straight even at the highest point.

The little kitchen is enough to cook the most basic of meals, and the fridge only holds enough groceries for a few days at a time.

At least I’ve got access to free eggs from the hen house, and the spot I settled the trailer in is pretty quiet.

I’m nestled between a few larger pieces of equipment, an old tractor that probably hasn’t run in decades and an excavator that Bo said they only use when they’re setting up new buildings.

The view, though. That’s something I could handle looking at every day for the rest of my life.

I have a little folding lawn chair set up outside under the fold out awning so I can sit and have my coffee in the mornings.

The sun makes its way over the tops of the trees and lights up the pastures in a way that takes my breath away every time.

I’ve only been here for a few days so far, but that’s become my favorite part of the day.

It reminds me a little of home, of sitting on the back porch with Pa while the sun comes up.

It’s colder here, and way less muggy, but watching my breath cloud in the early morning air has its own sort of charm.

At least, it’s my favorite thing to watch that I should be watching.

There’s one other thing that keeps catching my attention, pulling my focus no matter how hard I try to keep my eyes on my work.

David’s daughter.

I don’t see her often, usually only in the mornings for a few seconds as she hops into her car and speeds off down the driveway. Sometimes, if I’m out front when she gets back, I see her get out of the car too, always popping gum and chatting away on her phone.

Her mouth looks too fucking good when she licks the remnants of sticky gum off her lips.

I know I shouldn’t let myself look, that I’m only torturing myself, but I’m only a man. The girl is all long, toned legs and itty bitty waist, and every time I see her bouncy curls, I just want to wrap my hand in them and yank until she gasps.

She wears tank tops and skin tight jeans to work or school or wherever she goes most days, occasionally baring her flat stomach in a crop top.

Fantasies of covering all that pretty tan skin in hickies and bite marks flash behind my eyes as I plop down on the edge of my bed.

It was a long day today, and I should really slump down and pass out, but she’s been on my mind all day.

My cock twitches in my sweatpants when I remember the first glimpse I caught of her, hair still rumpled from sleep and skimpy little satin pajamas clinging to every curve of her body.

I don’t usually go for cute . I like the women I fuck to be wild and sharp-tongued, and I like them to look it too.

But her? She looks like something straight out of my filthiest dreams of corrupting innocence, and I can’t help but wonder just how much cuter she’d look on her knees for me.

“Goddamnit,” I whisper under my breath, shaking my head at myself even as I let the fantasy take hold.

It’s just a fantasy, and thoughts don’t hurt anyone. It would be a horrible idea to ever act on them, but the thought of bending David’s sweet little daughter over the edge of my bed and making her cry has my cock twitching.

I groan at the first touch of my hand at the head of my cock and kick my sweats down and off.

The cool air of the trailer is blissful after a day out under the sun, and I let myself sink into the darkness of the night, a perfect cover for my lascivious thoughts.

The scratch of my calluses against my cock is almost too much, reminding me of just how long it’s been since I got laid.

I wonder how her hands would feel wrapping around me, how soft and warm they’d be.

Everything about her is dainty, and a little part of me hopes that she wouldn’t be able to close one hand all the way around my cock, that she’d need two to stroke me properly.

The thought of soft hands with neatly painted nails turns quickly to thoughts of an even softer tongue, glossy lips stretched around my cock.

I huff out a moan before spitting into my hand, messy and wet, just enough to ease the glide of my hand over my hard length.

It’s nowhere near as good as her mouth would be, but the sensation still makes me toss my head back and bite my lip in pleasure. I rub the pad of my thumb over the head, collecting precum and smearing it down my cock.

“Fuck,” I groan, bucking up into my hand as I imagine her between my thighs. “Just like that, sweet thing.”

Her name is a mystery, and it feels like a tragedy to not be able to moan it into my pillow as I work myself up, slow and steady.

I don’t know the color of her eyes either, so they stay closed in my fantasy, long blonde lashes fluttering against cheeks flushed in pleasure.

I fist a hand in my own short cropped hair just for the added sensation, wishing desperately that I was wrapping her pretty curls between my fingers.

What does she sound like when she’s choking on cock? I’ll never get to hear her gagging on me, so my imagination runs wild, taking everything I want in my mind.

“Deeper,” I murmur, fisting my hand down closer to the base of my cock as I imagine forcing my way past her gag reflex to bury myself in her throat.

Fuck , it’s been so long since I even bothered to really work myself over, and she’s such a perfect little canvas to project all my desires onto.

If I could, I’d have her on her knees for hours, watch tears well in her eyes and drip down her cheeks as she struggles to take me.

I’d spread her open on my lap and watch her ride me until her thighs shake from exhaustion, and then I’d flip her over and bury myself into her so deeply that I’d carve out a space only my cock would ever touch.

I toss my head back in pleasure as my fantasies take form, my hand pumping furiously as heat gathers in earnest in my gut. All I want is the silky soft heat of her pussy, to feel her stretch wide around me and shake as I draw orgasm after orgasm out of her.

“Fuck, fuck , that’s it, right there, sweet thing,” I groan, senseless babble falling from my lips as I fuck up into my own fist.

It’s the thought of her begging me to fill her up that sends me crashing over the edge, my imagination conjuring images of my cum dripping down her thighs.

I let out a wordless shout as I cum, every muscle in my body going tight as pleasure slams into me. I want her in a way that’s purely primal, and I sink my teeth into my pillow to sate the urge to sink them into her throat.

It’s a poor substitute for warm flesh and breathy whimpers in my ear, but even as my head still swims with pleasure, I know better than to think any of this can be anything but a fantasy.

I’m here to do a job and then go home, and David’s daughter can’t be more of a distraction to me than she already is.

I can conjure as many filthy thoughts as I want to, as long as they stay in the safety of the dark, behind the locked door of my trailer.

All I can do is sink into my mattress and catch my breath for now.

I’ll go back to work tomorrow, and I’ll act like nothing happened, and I’ll keep my eyes—and my hands—to myself.