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The front window of your shop shattering, an explosion of glass and splinters like an unexpected blizzard, nearly gave you a heart attack. The scream that ripped from the depths of your throat was enough to wake up the entire block better than the stray roosters that hid in the corners of the town. The impact was so great that it even shook nearby books on the shelves, as if the earth itself had rattled. You recoiled immediately, throwing your arms up to protect your face and collapsing down behind the front desk you had just been checking sales records on.
In the split seconds it took for you to realize what the fuck just happened, there was a tussle on the floor. The squeak of stumbling boots, heavy breathing in a power struggle, the solid thud of a punch, muttered curses, the crunch of broken glass. You peeked out of your hiding place behind your desk, slowly peering over the cash register, and you caught a glimpse of a strong body pinning down a struggling one.
"I gotcha' now, ya slippery bastard!"
The man on top was a mess of long, white and black hair, and his voice dripped like sweet honey after the assault to the ears that was the breaking of glass. He was all dirty slacks and a black button-up, sleeves pushed up on exposed, scarred forearms. From your desk you could only see the back of him, so his face was a mystery to you. But his demeanour was clear from his body language, and it was powerful. And just a touch wild.
He pulled a lasso rope off his hip and began hogtying his victim. You watched him manhandle the roughed-up man, strong yet skilled hands binding wrists and ankles together. There was little violence in his work with the rope, but he was steadfast in every movement. You saw his biceps and back muscles flex underneath the fabric of his shirt as he tied a final extra knot.
The dishevelled man being tied protested with a spew of colourful profanities that could only belong to an outlaw, before a swift nudge of a knee connected to his side and knocked the courage out of his lungs.
"Oh, shut your trap!" The voice of the mystery man was nonchalant and unbothered, and if you had not been terrified for your life, you might have laughed. "Be thankful I'm takin' ya in alive. One more word from ya and I'll be turnin' in a body."
That silenced the victim, and a strip of cloth was wrapped around and tied over his mouth for good measure.
The winner of the brawl straightened his back and rolled his shoulders, like he was stretching out sore muscles. And he took a deep sigh of relief that seemed like it released a lot of tension itself. It was only then when he took a look at his surroundings and laid eyes upon the glass-littered floor and the false entrance he had created. The large front window was mostly gone, but still raining shards as the remaining glass crumbled away from the frame. One fell from the apex, clattering to the ground and echoing in the hollow silence.
"Well, shit..."
His broad shoulders slumped before he drew another breath.
"Anyone there?"
You curled up into yourself and sank to the floor, retreating into your hiding spot.
"I heard ya scream. I swear I ain't gonna hurt ya'."
You held your breath. You had no idea why, but you did. Maybe it was an inkling inside of you that told you that this man might be dangerous. And maybe it was something else, something you could not quite place right now.
"I'm a bounty hunter. This here’s a bad man. I'm takin’ him to the sheriff's office."
You still did not dare to respond, paralyzed with that emotion you could not articulate.
You heard heavy boots on the floorboards, and they were approaching your desk with the click of spurs and the slight jingle of metal — the unmistakable jingle of a revolver in a holster. You were frozen in your position on the floor, hugging your knees and a hand covering your mouth to muffle your quickening breathing. Every steady beat seemed to rumble through the floor, before they came to a stop right at the edge of your desk, rounding the confines of your peripheral vision.
And you slowly looked up at a tall figure, eyes drawing up long legs and a cocked hip, relaxed arms and a sturdy chest. And it all led up to a gorgeous face. The look on that face was of shock, but it softened slowly as you locked eyes with the man who was just thrown into your quiet morning. And those eyes were sharp, and it was a stare that made you feel both small, yet weirdly safe.
"It's alright, I said I wasn’t gonna hurt ya’." The drawl of his voice dropped to a soft, low tone — it reminded you of the hushed dusk on a cool spring evening. He carefully kneeled down to align with your sight, one arm resting on his bent knee. He moved as if a sudden movement of his would scare you, like you were a trembling prey animal being cornered. "Sorry about your window."
He had a sheepish smile, yet he looked like a battered angel, and you found yourself lost in those dark eyes that were scarred but gentle.
The stranger reached out his gloved hand, and you took it with a little hesitation. He took your hand in his, the warmth from his fingertips a comfort unlike any other. He helped you stand, eyes raking up and down your body in search of any injuries. But his gaze felt red hot, and you were hyper aware of all of it. How they checked your arms and your face, and then found their way back to your own blown pupils.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” He was still hushed, now blinking like a stunned deer.
You nodded, at a loss for words. The shock from the front window being smashed mixed with that strange feeling that was now biting at the pit of your stomach. But soon it began to swell and migrate to your chest, finding a home in your frantically beating heart.
It was only then that you noticed the cut on his cheek, small but dripping blood down towards his sharp jawline. Must have been from the impact, a stray shard slicing at his smooth skin. You quickly reached into the pocket of your dress to pull out your handkerchief. Without thinking, you reached up and blotted at the cut. You swiped at the dribbling stream, and noticed the sweat on his brow. You caught yourself admiring his skin, pale yet the dusting of an undertone that reminded you of honey.
You then met that gaze again, blaring as ever.
“Are you okay, sir?” You managed to cheep out words, so quiet that he could have missed them.
“Yeah, I’m alright…” He stared right back, the crack of a confident smile tugging at his lips. “You can call me Boothill.”
An interesting name, you thought. But from the entire look of him, and the fact that this was such a strange meeting, you felt that it fit him. That wildness you detected in him after watching him make knots in that rope, the scars on you caught glimpses of on his forearms, it all made sense. Gunslinger bounty hunter with a fiery spirit. Hints of him told you this definitely might be a dangerous man.
But that smile, the touch of kindness in his eyes, the gentlemanly way he held your hand. He was alluring, like a siren with boots and a gun on his hip.
“And who might you be?”
You almost missed his question. You told him your name, and you watched him play with the syllables on his lips, on his tongue. The two of you continued to stare, and you had not noticed that your hand was still up to his cheek with your handkerchief. Your hand almost cradled his face, and you could have sworn that he leaned into your touch in the tiniest blink and you’ll miss it movement of his head. And you also did not notice how your hands were still connected from him helping you up, feeling natural with your hand being held gently in his own.
The two of you were interrupted by the sound of the hogtied man struggling on the floor, thumping on the wood like he was attempting to hop away. The snap in tension was abrupt, like a gunshot ringing down an alleyway. You pulled your hands away from him, maybe a little too fast. You took a tiny step back, feeling a little silly, and you noticed he did the same.
And you finally turned around, now the weight of the state of your shop finally sinking into you upon seeing it all laid out — the damage now looking like the aftermath of a tornado.
“God dammit…” You huffed, knowing yet another thing was added to your to-do list. You mentally pencilled in ‘window replacement’ for your bookstore owner duties.
“Hey, don’t ya worry,” Boothill’s voice perked up, his hushed tone gone in exchange for one of casual chatter laced with bashfulness, “you can have half this bastard’s bounty to help fix all this.”
You rounded your desk and walked up to the man on the floor, the cowboy falling into step right beside you with clicking heels. The outlaw was roughed up — a black eye, cuts from the impact, and clothes smeared with mud in some places. There was glass everywhere underneath him. Droplets of blood speckled the fallen snow here and there. The shards spread nearly to every corner of the floor, and you knew you had plenty of sweeping to do.
“Been chasin’ him for days,” the look of pride on the cowboy’s face was undeniable, “wanted for plenty o’ shit. Theft, murder, kidnapping. The usual.”
“The usual… right.” Your bewilderment was still littered in your voice.
Boothill laughed, and it was a break in the tension like a rainbow in a thunderstorm. “Working in a bookshop a quiet life for you then?”
“Owning one certainly is, don’t get too many of your type coming through.” A playful tone found its way to you somehow.
“Owner? Well, shoot! I reckon I’m also the first to make such an entrance.” The way he spoke, each word drawn out all cool, husky and smooth around a sharp tongue, it was too charming. And making small talk in the middle of the aftermath. He had some audacity for sure, but you could not be mad at him at all.
You had not noticed the hat that you nearly stepped on until now. It was black with a white underbrim, two feathers tucked next to each other into the red hatband. It matched the man standing beside you perfectly. You bent down to pick it up and shook it lightly to rid it of stray shards. Holding it in your hands, you thought it was just as pretty as he was.
"I'm assuming this is yours." You handed him the hat.
He put it on his head, and tipped it to you with a smile. "Thank ya, darlin'."
You had no idea where these butterflies in your stomach came from, but they were aggressively assaulting your insides.
He looked complete with it on, and dare you say it made him look a little taller, too.
The man on the floor continued to struggle, and the cowboy put a boot on his back to still him. The outlaw looked like he had finally given up, not being able to slither out of the ropes and roll away from his captor. Exhaustion overtook his features. If Boothill was as well, he did not show any signs of it.
“Welp,” he broke the moment of silence, “lemme take care of this for ya’.”
You watched him pick up the tied outlaw and swing him over his shoulder like it was nothing. Boothill then turned to you.
“Miss, I really am sorry about your window. I’ll be right back with your cut as soon as this man is locked up, ya hear?”
You simply nodded, amazed at his strength. And he turned on his heel and made his way to your front door. He opened it, the bell at the top announcing his leave, before he briefly glanced in your direction with a cheeky smile. And just like that, the door shut behind him, and he was strolling down the street in the direction of the sheriff’s office.
You were dumbfounded, the absurdity of it all never leaving your frazzled brain. The most handsome man you have ever laid your eyes on tumbled right through your shop and caused such a stir in your routine. This was the most entertaining morning you had had in a while; every day had slowly become the same, counting books and making sales. And this upbeat gunslinger, blazing spirit of a bounty hunting cowboy came crashing through your front window brawling with an outlaw, and you were not even mad in the slightest. Your fucking front window was gone, and you were more focused on the thought of whether you would actually see that cowboy again or he would ride away on his horse into the distance. Not for the sake of paying for the damage, but just to see him look at you with those intriguing eyes.
You tried to ground yourself in fetching the broom from the storage closet and sweeping the snow of shards on your bookshop floor. You gathered them into a spare metal bucket with the dustpan, careful not to cut yourself. The sound of shards sliding against each other was not enough to drown out the sound of the cowboy’s voice echoing in your mind.
Not even ten minutes later, that cowboy returned and slapped a stack of bills into your hand.
“Now I’m sure it ain’t enough, but I swear I’ll help pay for the damage I’ve caused.”
You counted them with wide eyes; that really was a bad man he had roughed up. Was it enough for the maintenance? No, but it was a good chunk for it.
And you watched him pull a folded-up wanted poster out of his pocket. “Picked up another from your sheriff, you’ll get a cut of this too.”
Suddenly, you felt some guilt. You knew you would not be able to pay for a replacement right now. You made enough selling books and stationery and the like to get by. You were fed and clothed and warm, happy to be able to talk literature and poetry with your interesting customers every day. But a new window was going to be a bit more financially stressful. But you still felt strange holding the money in your hands, the money of the man you just met.
It was like Boothill could see the wandering thoughts on your face.
“Don’t worry, I’m the one who broke it,” his voice dropped low again, like the moment he had encouraged you to stand from your hiding not too long ago, “and I wanna fix it.”
You opened your mouth, about to respond in protest, but he placed a single finger over your lips to silence you. The feeling of the leather of his glove against your skin was captivating. You could feel the heat that started to swell on your cheeks.
“No buts, I promise you I’ll cover it all.”
You nodded, cracking a smile under his finger.
“Now, allow me.” He took the broom from your hands and began to sweep at the remaining glass shards on the floor. It was a funny sight, but he looked happy to be doing it. So you let him, and he kept himself busy as you went back behind your desk to try and remember what you had been doing.
“Ya get a lotta folk coming through here?”
You were surprised at his small talk, “Do you mean my shop or the window?”
He looked amused by your answer, “I meant your shop.”
“I do! Not the most popular store in town, but enough to keep me afloat.”
“How did ya come to be the owner?”
“I inherited it. It belonged to my parents.” You paused. “They ain’t around anymore.”
“Sorry to hear.” He grew a little awkward, like he feared he asked too many questions. But you did not mind.
Soon, the floor was as clean as it could be. You reminded yourself to never walk through here without shoes. The draft from the open hole in the wall was bringing the morning chill in, but you could not do much about that right now. You’d board it up with some wood until you could order a new glass panel.
“I should uh,” Boothill started, “start chasing down this next bounty. The sheriff said he was spotted a few towns over. Should catch up while I still have the chance.”
You felt your heart deflate a little, knowing he was leaving. But the determination in his eyes was like a flaming inferno. So you felt like stopping him would be the wrong thing to do.
He tipped his hat to you again, bidding you farewell with your name on his lips. And just as fast as he arrived in your life, he was whisked away by the wind. And you prayed that he would keep his promise. And he sure did.
Over the next few weeks, the cowboy kept coming back to your bookshop. Your font window got replaced pretty quickly, and he was right there the day after it was freshly installed. He insisted on you reciving a bit more money from his hunts, all with a charming smile and a warm look in his eyes. And every day you saw him, he would take a moment to chat with you — ask you about your business, ask about your town, ask you about you. Sometimes he was gone longer than others, coming right back with a bit more money for you for tougher bounties. It was getting to a point where you got excited by the sound of horse hooves getting close enough to the outside of your shop, anticipating when his tall figure would enter through the front door next.
Then he started to bring you things in addition to his bounty cuts. The first time, it was a fresh loaf of bread and a basket of berries from the general store down the street. It was little treats like that, baked goods and fresh food for you, maybe a few pieces of candy. He was almost like a cat in the way they bring home their catches and leave them on the back porch.
He still felt like a mystery despite the number of interactions you’ve had with him. You knew little personal details about him, other than that he’s a wandering bounty hunter. But you knew a lot about that sweet yet fiery personality. He was a joker, throwing the confident one-liner around to lighten the mood. He was optimistic, always telling you about his next bounty and how he was going to help bring a little justice to their wrongdoings. He was flamboyant and kind and cool as hell all wrapped up into one reverberating package of a man.
And you were always looking forward to his visits, even though they were often brief.
This particular day, you looked up at the sound of the bell on the door dinging and saw Boothill with a different type of gift. The sun was beginning to set, and you were just about ready to close up for the day. The length of your day just kept on dragging, the approaching summer making it feel like closing time would never come. But your mysterious cowboy made the gruelling day of socializing with customers, tracking sales, and occupying your mind worth the slog.
He outstretched a bouquet of wildflowers to you as a greeting.
“Reckon you’d, uh,” he cleared his throat, “you’d like these.”
It was a small bunch, but flecked with colours of white and pink and yellow, different petals among a medley of natural beauty. For a second you saw the image of him, this tall and dark man, picking those flowers in a bright field. And that is probably how he looked. But the fact that he thought of you when he saw those flowers swelled in your heart.
“These are beautiful! Thank you…” You were stunned, feeling like a schoolgirl.
“You’re very welcome, darlin’.”
Every time he called you that, it had the same effect on you. It made your heart skip a beat and your knees want to buckle from underneath you. Like you could pass away right then and there, and you would be satisfied with life.
The cowboy reached into his back pocket and pulled out some bills.
“You’ve given me plenty enough for the window, Boothill. And then some. I don’t need that.”
He kept flicking them between his fingers, counting them without acknowledging your protest. He grabbed your hand that was not holding the flowers and placed the small stack into your palm, closing your fingers around the money.
“Too bad, least I could do for your troubles.”
“You haven’t caused me any troubles.”
“We ain’t countin’ crashin’ through your store like a tornado?” The amused smile on his face was too charming for you to handle, all shiny white teeth and laced with a laugh.
You smiled back at him, “Who’d you rough up for this?”
“Some sorry soul wanted for a string of thefts. Just about cried for his mama when I cornered him in a back alley.”
“You take em’ alive?”
He smirked, like he was entertained by your question, “Yes, ma’am.”
You could not handle that cute face. And you felt a little sad, knowing he might just up and leave after a little more conversation. So you took a little risk, not fearing too much, for the flowers were a beacon of hope.
“I’m just about to close up the shop, um,” you almost stopped yourself from saying your next words, but they forced themselves out of your mouth, “would you like to join me for dinner?”
His face lit up.
“I ain’t got much, but I got a stew simmering in the back.”
He simply replied, doing a bad job at hiding the smile that tugged at his lips, “I’d love to.”
You went about your closing duties all while Boothill stood by, leaning on your desk and making small talk. And having his eyes follow you the whole time, it made a heat creep up your neck. You were suddenly aware of every movement you made, and you only had a few seconds to breathe when he went to retrieve his saddle bags from his horse outside. And he held your flowers for you when he came back as you closed your register, drew back the window curtains, and securely locked the front door.
When everything was ready for the night, you led him to the back door, which opened into your small living space. It wasn’t much: a wood-burning stove to keep you warm around the small kitchen, your double bed shoved in a corner, some shelves and your dresser, little inherited items scattered about, a simple dining table. Your little home behind your shop, and it had a visitor.
Boothill let out a low whistle, “Cozy in here, I like it.”
“Thank you,” you smiled, “feel free to make yourself at home.”
You placed the flowers he gave you on the dining table in a little vase, and they looked at home there. And you opened a window to let some light and fresh air in before tending to the stove.
The cowboy put his saddle bags down next to your dresser, and unholstered his gun to place on top of it. He then shrugged off his jacket before gracefully sitting down in one of your dining chairs. And he took off his hat, politely setting it down next to his spot on the table.
After a quick stir of your pot, you turned to him, “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Ya got whiskey?”
“You betcha.”
You reached for two clean shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey from your pantry cabinets. You poured him one and left the bottle on the table. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as you returned to the stove, where he downed the shot. He reached for the bottle and filled the opposite glass, leaving his empty.
Seeing him at your table was nice. You never really invited anyone into your home. You’ve had a few visitors over the years, mainly the wife of the baker from down the street, who often insisted she give you leftovers. It remained mostly empty of company since you became the owner of the shop. But having a man in here, especially the one you found yourself daydreaming about often, was another feeling.
The stew was ready, so you fished out a portion for him. You brought him his bowl and set it in front of him, and you also brought over a small basket of biscuits you had made the other day.
“Thank ya very much, sweetheart.”
“Glad to get a chance to take care of you in return.”
You had not seen his reaction to that, as you turned back around to get a bowl for yourself. And he waited for you to even sit down before he started eating. His manners often pleased you. But seeing him take a healthy spoonful of your stew and put it in his mouth after blowing on it to cool, beginning to chew with a soft hum, that was a whole other level of satisfaction.
“It’s not my best, but I do with what I can.”
“Well, I say it’s damn delicious.”
You giggled, “Thank you.”
He took another bite, and you noticed his eyes wandered around your small place.
“It really is just you, huh?”
You nodded, poking around at your stew, “Yep, after mama and papa died, it’s just been me.”
“No other family?”
You shook your head, “No.”
He gave you a sad look, mouth full, but paying attention to you.
You continued, “But chatting with customers is nice. I get a lot of interesting folk coming through.”
He raised a playful eyebrow, “How many other bounty hunters come crashin’ into your life?”
“You would be the first.”
He laughed and kept on eating. The two of you fell into a comfortable silence as you ate dinner together. You had your one shot of whiskey, and you both shared the biscuits.
“I know what loneliness feels like.”
You perked up at his sudden words, and you saw a glint of melancholy flash in his eyes.
He continued, “This is real nice, thank you for the warm meal.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
Boothill cleaned his bowl of every bit of stew, and you felt pride swell within you. No one else really ate your cooking. But suddenly you could not imagine anyone else other than him at your dining table.
And you had finished too, so you took the dishes and went back over to your little kitchen to place them in a wash basin on your counter. You lightly rinsed them so the remains of stew would not stick, but you would do them later. Then you briefly tended the stove fire to keep the place warm. Boothill lit the oil lantern on the dining table, as the sun’s receding light was dipping below the horizon, and closed the window to keep out the incoming chill.
And when he sat back down at the table, you looked over your shoulder at him. You saw he was raking his hands through his long hair, which was a little messy falling down his back. The warm lamplight shone on the strands. He looked so soft in the dim light, like a blazing sunset.
You walked back over and gently reached for him. You prayed he did not notice the warmth that began to dust your cheeks.
“May I?”
He simply nodded, adjusting himself so he sat perpendicular to the back of the dining chair.
So you stood behind him and took his beautiful hair into your hands. Your fingers gently raked through the strands, and you were enamoured by just how it reminded you of silk. The black and white was mesmerizing between your fingers. There were a few tangles here and there, from what you assumed were caused by the tossle of his day chasing bad guys.
You briefly left him to grab the comb you kept on your nightstand, and returned to brush out the knots gently. You grazed the skin on his neck when you gathered the bulk of it in your hands, and you swear he shuddered under your touch. You wondered how he kept it this soft and silky.
You broke the silence, “You know plenty about me, and my shop, but what about you?”
He perked up at your question, listening intently.
“The mysterious stranger that came crashing through my window,” you chuckled.
He chuckled, too. You watched his shoulders relax even more, and he drew in a sharp breath — almost a hesitation.
“I…used to be an outlaw,” he did not hesitate, “that life ain’t pretty.”
You listened, and you began to part his hair into three, starting to braid its length.
“I did a lot of things I regret…and lost an awful lot too…”
The sharp pang in your heart made you want to wrap your arms around him. But you held that urge back and continued to braid his hair down his back. Being this close to him, you could reach out and run your fingers over his skin. It reminded you of the first time you had met, and you were dabbing at the cut on his cheek.
“I left that behind, turned to bounty huntin’ and started wanderin’.”
You fluffed each section as you went, now reaching the end and securing the braid with a ribbon from your dress pocket.
“Haven’t had a place to come back to in a long time…”
The intimacy of you playing with his hair while he told you about himself, these inklings of what you were sure were dark secrets he had rarely told a soul. It made you dizzy in a way. And his last words, ‘a place to come back to’, he meant your bookshop. He meant to you, you were sure of it.
“I’m sorry, I uh-” he sighed.
“No, no,” you were gentle with your words, “It’s alright.”
You took the finished braid and put it over one of his shoulders, savouring the softness in your fingers before letting go. And you then looked at his face, not noticing he had his eyes on yours now.
He grabbed his hat off the table, and instead of putting it on his own head, he slowly reached up and placed it on yours. It was a little too big for you, so he adjusted it so the brim did not hide your eyes, hide your blush. That smirk you knew of his appeared on his face, all the while his eyes were warm like a homey hearth.
And he stood up from the chair, now towering over you with his height. He never broke eye contact. He reached for you, cupping your cheek while his other hand reached for your waist. He was slow, like he was allowing you the opportunity to jump back. But when you stayed right there, leaning your face into his hand, his smile grew.
His eyes darted to your lips.
And when you did not retreat, instead wrapping your arms around his neck, he leaned down and kissed you. He tasted of your meal and whiskey, and a hint of something sweet. His lips were so tender against yours, moving slowly and letting you match his movements. If he had not told you he used to be an outlaw, you would have no idea that he had been. This was a gentleman in every sense of the word.
So the words he mumbled against you nearly made you laugh.
“Ya sure ya want a man like me?”
“A sweet and caring one?” You whispered back. “Absolutely.”
You felt the smirk against your lips as he deepened the kiss. That fire you had inside, the one he placed there the moment he came into your life, burned bright within your quickening heartbeat. You were swooning in his arms. He clung to you with strong hands, the one from your cheek now cradling the back of your head through his hat. He grew passionate, almost moaning into your mouth, and it stirred that fire from your heart to travel down lower.
You felt yourself being backed up across the room, and soon the back of your knees hit your bed. And you were being lowered to lie down, Boothill's hands supporting your back until it hit the mattress, all the while his lips never left yours. His hat fell off your head, landing on your blankets and being abandoned for now.
He hovered over you, his mouth moving to your jaw to pepper kisses there. And he moved down to your neck, his teeth and tongue grazing your skin. You struggled for breath, almost not believing this was even happening.
“I’ve been real sweet for you since the day I laid eyes on you.” His voice was growing more husky, more than it usually was.
“I can say the same-” You sucked in a breath when he lightly bit down on your pulse.
“Damn, then why didn’t ya say anythin’?” He mumbled against your skin, his tongue darting out to soothe the ache from his teeth.
“You kept running away…”
“I won’t be runnin’ away for so long no more.”
You felt his hands wander down to play with the fabric of your skirt. And he kept lovingly attacking your neck. It was all lips, teeth, and tongue, and you were in heaven. He was not harsh in the slightest, but you were sure there were the beginnings of love bites. And just feeling his smirk against the column of your neck, it was almost unreal.
“I wanna keep takin’ care of ya, darlin’.”
When he was done with your neck, he got up and reached for your ankles to yank you down closer to the edge of the bed. Then he got on his knees, which sent all kinds of shocks and shivers through your body. You propped yourself on your elbows so you could watch him. He carefully took off your boots before locking eyes with you, and slowly dragged his hands up your calves under your dress.
His gaze was blaring as his hands went higher, calloused fingertips running up your thighs. And you saw that slight hesitation again, him giving you the chance to back out. To tell him to stop. To jump up and slap him and yell at him to get off you. And that moment never came, you did not dare to. You wanted this as much as he did, and you hoped the look in your eyes was enough to soothe his anxieties.
And he lifted your skirt, and you watched his pupils dilate when he looked down between your legs. You could already feel the arousal down there, ever since he started to bring you to your bed. And your need for him was as obvious as ever.
Boothill was at a perfect height, not needing to strain himself as he settled under your dress. He spread your thighs with firm hands, and he leaned forward for a taste of you. You threw your head back when he licked at your dripping pussy. The hum of satisfaction that rattled in his throat added to the sensation. The tip of his tongue breached your opening, gently poking around as he savoured your flavour.
“Just as sweet as you are, sugar.” He was practically purring now, and it was enough in itself to make you reel against him.
And he latched onto you with an eagerness that sent your mind spinning. He licked up your slit and between your folds, finding his way up to your clit where he pleasured with small circles. You mewled at the feeling of his tongue, now knowing what else it was good for other than sly remarks and cracking jokes.
And he ate the second meal you presented him with that evening, and he licked and lapped and sucked at your pussy like he was starving. You moaned for him, whispering his name in between shuddering breaths. And you felt one of his hands snake from your thigh, and he inserted one finger into your opening. It curled against you as he continued to love your clit with that impressive tongue. You cried out when he inserted another, working the sensitive spot inside you in tune with the faltering movements of your hips.
You had not been with many men, but he was easily the best. And it made you drunk like you had more than one shot of that whisky. And it was evident in the buildup of an orgasm within your core. And he just kept going, reacting to every little sound you made and each jerk of your hips. He learned what you liked fast, his attentive eye a newfound trait for you to admire.
“I can tell you’re close,” He breathed against your swollen clit, “I want you to come on my tongue and fingers, darlin’.”
And he kept a steady pace until you did, unravelling underneath his ethereal touch. You cried out for him, sure the neighbouring shops had heard the sound that ripped from your throat. And he helped you ride it out, not letting up right away but slowly easing you down from your high.
He slid his fingers out of you, leaving you feeling empty and spasming around nothing. But you watched him lick them clean, moaning at the mere sight. Everything he did turned your brain and legs to jelly. Even the way he wiped his dripping chin on your inner thighs.
He stood up and kicked off his cowboy boots, “Take that dress off for me.” An order, not a request.
You obeyed, beginning to strip for him. And he did the same, unhooking the suspenders from his shoulders and unbuttoning his shirt. You watched each other like hawks, eyes seething with desire. His bare chest was an incredible sight, revealing scars and marks you had never seen before. You wanted to run your hands over the valleys of his toned abs and sturdy chest. You removed the layers of your dress, becoming fully bare for him just as he dropped his pants.
You stared down at his hard cock, an impressive size and already leaking precum for you.
The bed dipped down as he began to climb on top of you, him palming at his hardness, and you backed up to your pillows. He met you with another kiss, now hot and needy. His tongue lapped at your bottom lip and shoved its way inside your mouth when you let him in. You could taste yourself on him. And you felt his hands run across your hips, your ribcage.
“You’re so beautiful.” His whispers worked in tandem with his fingertips to send sparks across your skin.
You spread your legs for him once again when he got ready to push inside you. The hand that was not lining himself up reached for yours, and the two of you intertwined fingers as he slowly thrust his length in your wet entrance. Your breaths intermingled with soft moans. The stretch was delicious, and he sank into you inch by inch. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, purring in your ear.
“Fuckin’ hell, darlin’!” He panted. “Oh, ya feel so good…”
The nickname hit harder when he was buried to the hilt inside you.
Boothill waited for you to be ready, and as soon as you nodded, he began to thrust in and out at a steady pace. He was still gentle, but the eagerness he held was clearly slipping through. And you clung onto him, letting your legs wrap around his torso as he pleasured you.
“Oh, Boothill…ngh!”
Your bedframe creaked with his movements, but neither of you minded. You were under the spell of his hot skin and his kisses, and the way his cock grinded perfectly into you and brushed up against your sweet spot. You tightened yourself around him, and you heard his breath hitch in your ear.
“I’ve been dreamin’ about ya, dreamin’ about making love to ya just like this.” He kissed your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, your forehead. “But you feel more perfect than I ever could have imagined…”
And he let himself fuck you a little harder, and your pleased cries were enough to let him know that was alright. Your nails scraped down his muscular back. And you inhaled his scent — gunpowder mixed with his natural musk — and it was like a drug. You never thought you would actually have him like this, and seeing him with such fervour in your bed. It was the perfect way your long day could have ended.
He suddenly sat up back on his haunches, which allowed him to push your thighs up to fuck into you at a new angle, slightly leaning back over you. And it drove you crazy with every thrust. He watched your reaction of how you arched your back and writhed underneath him, and he was mesmerized. And you were still sensitive when he rubbed at your clit, but you wanted everything he was giving you.
“Yes! Yes, please don’t stop.” You mewled underneath him with shallow breaths.
You looked up at him through your eyelashes. Seeing that pretty face lost in pleasure, it was a memory you wanted to burn into your brain. And you prayed you would be able to see it like this more often. And you were sure you would be able to.
“I’m gettin’ close, darlin’.” He grunted, now rutting into you with more vigour.
“Me too-” you struggled for breath, panting like a dog in a desert, “fuck…”
And he paced himself enough to let you come first. Your pussy clamped down on him when the cord snapped, shivers and spikes of pleasure releasing from your core and spreading throughout your whole body. Your toes curled and your back arched as you relished in how he kept rocking into you. You saw stars and your ears started ringing as you took everything Boothill gave you.
He kept going, pounding into you until you were sure your neighbours knew his name. Groans and curses spilled from his mouth as he chased his release. That fiery and wild spirit you knew was in him came out, and you knew you wanted to taste him at full steam one day. He collapsed to fully cage over you again and fucked you into your mattress. Your vision went white as his rhythm increased, clinging to you like you would slip through his fingers and disappear.
And your cowboy pulled out, reaching his finish with his hand and releasing on your stomach. The sputtered breaths and borderline whimpers from him were pure bliss. You savoured the look of him like this, desperate in a pleasured frenzy. And soon his body visibly relaxed, coming down from the peak of his orgasm. The white stands of his come he left on you were hot, pure desire and marked you as his.
You watched him slump down next to you and take you in his arms. He tucked your head under his chin and held your trembling body against his, legs tangling together for as much skin contact as possible.
“That was-” you tried to find words again, “you are… amazing…”
“Wasn’t too much at the end there?” He sounded concerned between his huffing.
“No way, that was perfect…”
You felt him kiss the top of your head. He was so warm, and you felt so safe wrapped in his arms. You caught a glimpse of feeling like this every night, and that manifested when he whispered to you.
“I wanna stay with you…If you’ll let me.”
Looking up at him, there was hope in his eyes. Hope that you would let him into your life a little more, like he did not already occupy part of it. There was no wall to break down, no locked door. He already came in through the window.
“Of course.”
You kissed him again, and you clung to each other in the peaceful evening.