Page 9 of Marked by my Protector (Inked and Possessive. Rugged Mountain Ink #3)

Tank

Sloane’s perched up on the mare like she was born to ride, even though I know damn well she wasn’t.

Her posture’s a little stiff, knees angled too wide, and she’s gripping the reins like they might bite, but there’s something in the way she holds herself that makes her look like she belongs there.

I think it’s the lifted chin, her eyes scanning the horizon, or the way the wind blows her hair back slightly.

The mare, Junebug, is a steady old girl. She’s white as snow with a streak of gray down her flank, and she’s got the kind of temperament that forgives a rider who’s still learning. I watch her ears flick back toward Sloane, listening, adjusting.

Sloane’s wearing that burnt orange sweater Delilah picked out, and it catches the morning light like flames.

Her hair’s pulled back, but a few strands have slipped loose and they dance around her face in the breeze.

I should stop noticing how good she looks.

It only gets me into trouble, but I don’t know how to turn it off.

I don’t date. I don’t do long talks or slow dances or whatever the hell people think romance is, but I do know horses, and I know what it means when one lets you close without flinching.

“You good?” I ask.

She nods, a little breathless as a breeze passes through. “I think so. This is a weird feeling. I’ve never been near an animal this big before. How do they know what to do?”

“A whole lot of training and a whole lot of trust. You tense up, they feel it. You breathe easy, they do too.”

She runs a hand down Junebug’s neck, tentative but steady. The mare doesn’t flinch, just blinks slow, like she’s already decided Sloane’s okay.

“That’s kind of beautiful,” she says, her voice low. “It’s like they’re tuned into something deeper.”

I nod, watching the way her fingers move gently and unsure. “They don’t care who you pretend to be. They just want to know who you are.”

She looks up at me, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

There’s raw curiosity in her gaze. The kind of vulnerability people don’t show unless they think you won’t use it against them, and I know now is the time to tell her about my past. I can’t let another day go by without telling her. She needs to know who she’s with.

“Oh my God!” She lifts up on the saddle, her full breasts bouncing as she points through the pines toward the little festival that’s set up in the field.

“Is that Fall-Fest? It’s so cute!” Her eyes light.

“I can smell it from here. Sugar, cinnamon, and apples.” She glances at me then back toward the scene unfolding ahead of us.

“Is that a corn maze? Can we do the corn maze?”

“Of course we can.” Her excitement is contagious, and I let the news of how awful I am slide into the back of my throat again. She’s so fucking innocent. Innocent and sweet. How the hell am I going to tell her the terrible things I’ve done?

Junebug picks up speed as though she’s feeding off Sloane’s excitement. I follow suit, keeping close behind. Wind blows through her hair as the soft clop of the horses meet the rowdy sounds of the bluegrass band playing the stage at the festival.

I’ve been out here most every year I’ve been alive, but this is a memory I won’t forget.

We tie the horses near the split-rail fence where the scent of hay mingles with kettle corn and cider. Sloane’s already halfway to the booths before I’ve even dismounted, her boots crunching through the leaves like she’s chasing something she’s never had before.

“Come on!” she calls over her shoulder, waving me toward the maze of tents and laughter. “We have to try everything.”

I follow, slower, more deliberately as the music swells. Banjo, fiddle, a voice that’s been soaked in whiskey and cigarettes. Kids dart between hay bales, faces painted like pumpkins. The air is thick with autumn. Cinnamon, wood smoke, and the sweet bite of apples.

Sloane grabs two cups of cider from a vendor and hands me one without asking. “This is insane,” she says, eyes wide. “I didn’t know places like this actually existed outside of movies.”

I smile, lingering on her sweet face as it lights with more joy than I’ve ever seen from anyone ever. It’s intoxicating, and though I’ve been here at least forty times, it’s like I’m seeing it again for the first.

We wander past the pie contest, the scarecrow judging, and the old man carving pumpkins. Every turn brings a new smile and a new level of guilt to my chest.

How do I not fall in love with this? Who wouldn’t? Who wouldn’t want to look at that sweet smile for eternity? Who wouldn’t want to show this girl the world?

I need to get a fucking grip!

I shake my head and stare down at a few strands of hay tangled up in the grass. I know better than to get attached to things that don’t stay. I know better than to let an autumn breeze cloud the fact that winter’s on its way.

It’s just, damn, the way she looks at everything like its brand new. Like the world hasn’t bruised her yet. Like she still believes in all this shit. It’s fucking magic.

I watch her lean over a booth, laughing with the vendor as she samples a caramel apple. Her eyes catch mine and she waves me over, like I’m part of this, like I belong in her joy.

Fuck, I want to believe it. I want to live it. I want to pick her up, carry her out of here, and mark her sweet little ass so everyone knows she’s mine.

“Come on,” she hollers, holding out a slice of apple for me to try.

Her smile is wide as she tips up onto her toes, landing the fruit against my tongue, her fingertips grazing my lip.

I take a bite fast, my cock thumping against my zipper as I pull her in tight, swallowing the bite before tugging her into the cornfield to land my lips on hers.

It’s wrong and I haven’t earned it, but my body doesn’t get the memo. In fact, my body doesn’t give two fucks about anything other than touching her, holding her, kissing her, making her mine.

The corn rustles around us, tall stalks swaying like silent witnesses. Her breath catches, and for a moment, the world narrows to the heat between us as her fingers curl into my jacket like she wants to hold on to this moment as much as I do.

It’s reckless. It’s impulsive. It’s everything I swore I wouldn’t let happen. But as her mouth moves against mine like she’s been waiting for this, like she’s not running from anything anymore, I forget every warning I gave myself. I forget every reason I should keep my distance.

“I want to do wrong things,” I groan, my hand around her throat.

She smirks and tips up onto her toes. “I’ve been thinking about doing the wrong thing since last night.”

My cock likes that.

“But I need to talk to you. I…”

She smiles softly and tips up onto her toes, her breath angled for my ear as she says, “I don’t want to talk, Tank. I want you to give me something I’ll never forget.”

Oh fuck!

My jaw tightens, every nerve lit like a fuse as my body battles my mind.

I shouldn’t do this. I need to tell her who I am.

I know without a shadow of a fucking doubt that all that supersedes the blood rushing into my cock.

I know she’s too young. I know this is a terrible, thoughtless, awful idea, but I lean into her kiss anyway, tangling my fingers in her hair, lifting off her sweater, suckling each nipple with pressure.

She sighs and leans back, allowing me more room as her fingers graze my jaw. Every nerve in my body snaps to attention. I tug off my shirt and grip her waist, pulling her closer until her bare breasts are pressed against my chest.

Fuck, I don’t deserve this.

Dry husks brush against our backs as we move. They sound like whispers in the dark. Her lips find mine again, slow and deliberate, and I lose track of everything but the way the cider tastes on her tongue.

My hand slides up her back, feeling the curve of her spine, the heat of her skin against my own. She stares toward me, wide-eyed and innocent, her breath catching as she waits.

Fucking hell, this is wrong. I should take her back to the house, or maybe not do this at all, but I can’t stop myself from reaching for more.

I stomp down a few stalks of corn and flatten a bed, landing my flannel over the edges to soften where we land.

A slow smile stretches onto her face. “This is wild! There are people right there, like thirty feet away.”

“Do you want to stop?” I ask, though I don’t know if I could. “I really should talk to you about something.”

“No! We can talk later. Let’s be wild and impulsive!” Her words are breathy and uncontrollable, like she’s as hungry as I am.

A gust of wind carries laughter from the festival, the clink of mason jars, and the low hum of a country ballad drifting from the barn speakers. But here, in this hidden hollow of golden stalks and reckless hearts, it’s sacred.

I trace the line of her jaw then the curve of her collarbone, memorizing her like a map I never want to lose. Her breath hitches when I kiss her again, this time slower. “I don’t know what’s happening here. It’s like you’ve brought me back to life.”

A crooked smile widens her gaze as she bends to her knees, playful abandon in her tone as she says, “I’m going to taste you.”

Fuck!

She unclasps my belt and tugs the fabric to the ground, my cock springing to attention as her soft hand strokes my length and her hot mouth takes me in with a sigh.

“Fuck, little girl,” I groan, gripping the back of her head as a breeze sends through another hit of caramel.

Her touch is novice, too tight at the head, too loose at the base, and her tongue twists in a sloppy, haphazardly mess, but looking down at her, watching her tits slap against my legs, feeling her soft hair against my thighs, listening to her moan as she sucks her first dick, it swells every bit of possession in my body.

This isn’t an option anymore. I need her! I need to make her mine!