The Cowboy

Part 1

I’d never been to a Texas dance hall before, but the boy with the Matthew McConaughey face had threaded his fingers into mine, pulling me through the old-school swinging doors and into the lively fray. The ceilings opened high as heavens as we stepped into the cavern of wood, smokey air, and low-watt lights. The crowd was thick with swinging bodies, and on the other side of the room, a large stage showcased men in pressed shirts and tall cowboy hats who crooned, plucking their guitars.

As though contact with music roused some instinct in the boy, he immediately twirled me around. I was caught off guard, but delightfully so, spinning quick and smooth. Though I’d just met him, I trusted him—something deep within my gut motioned that I could, so I did: I gave way to his momentum, my skirt spun up, and he smiled playfully, halting me dramatically. “Welcome to Texas, baby!” 

At that moment, everything slowed down in the hall's golden haze. His blue eyes enveloped me. Gravity rearranged itself, drawing me toward them. But then he tugged at my hand. “Let’s get you a drink,” he said. “I’ll show you the lay of the land.” He zig-zagged us to the side of the room. There was something about his calloused palm, his strong fingers, his firm grip that deepened my confidence. Where the night would go, I had no idea, but the conclusions I wanted were crystal clear in my body. But I had to find out if this boy felt the same.

~~~

When I’d first seen him, two hours earlier, he’d been standing against one of the walls at my sister’s university art department showroom. He was watching the crowd, dressed in stiff black jeans and a dark-green button-up, which he’d tucked into his waist, emphasizing the strong thighs and ass that packed the denim. That body could move, I’d thought. His golden, shoulder-length curls were held back by a creamy white cowboy hat, and as he reached up to adjust it, I felt an urge pulse through me—those curls, that jaw, I wanted to touch them. 

I grabbed my sister’s elbow. “Who is that?” I whispered, gesturing toward the chiseled hunk. 

“Oh,” she followed my gaze, “that’s Spencer.” 

She said his name like I should know it, but I didn’t. “What’s his story?” I asked.

“He’s Stella’s brother,” she said and sighed. “Every girl’s got dibs on him, but he never gives it up.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Some of us think he’s celibate.” 

“What, really?”

“Like I said, he never gives it up.” 

I considered him anew: Spencer. I turned his name around my mouth, sucking the sounds.

Leaning over to my sister, I asked, “What if he just has high standards?” 

She rolled her eyes and sipped her drink. “Whatever.” 

“Want to introduce me?” 

“No.” She laughed, bored with me—me who’d driven 10 hours from Colorado to be at this “art show.” She walked over to her friends, all of whom looked identical: blonde, skinny, with painted faces. They were cute, sure. But I’d already been out with them, and we’d done all the small talk one could do with people you have absolutely nothing in common with. My sister was happy with her life, that’s all that mattered. I think she appreciated my support, since no one else in the family could seem to make it.

And if Spencer was even remotely condescending about hook-ups, I reasoned it was best to keep a distance anyway; condescending was precisely one of the traits I was trying to avoid in men. I was only in Texas for one more night, then I had to drive myself back and be at work Monday morning in Denver. 

But I quickly got bored, too. The art my sister and her friends had theoretically spent years cultivating was spread intermittently along the walls. Congratulations Graduating Class: Artists of Tomorrow, a sign read. I couldn’t help but think: how elementary, how basic. I saw nothing original. Nothing to provoke feelings.

I went to the makeshift bar and asked for another drink, trying to distract myself, but my gaze kept falling on Spencer. Spencer. Like a magnet, my eyes zip, zip, zipping to him again and again; he stayed against the wall, indifferent to the crowd, poised effortlessly like he were a cowboy of marble, not flesh—perfectly chiseled as though he was the exhibit. Strong jaw, broad shoulders, healthy stance. I wanted to touch his porcelain skin, trace his high cheekbones, lick the ridgeline of his nose, bite the curve of those smirking lips. 

I bit down on the edge of my glass bottle instead and walked in the opposite direction of him, resolving to ignore this cowboy, telling myself I needed nothing to do with an arrogant reputation. I busied myself with the stupid art. A collage of grass cuttings. A black-and-white photo of a woman leaning against a broken train car. An arrangement of pastel flowers. A water-colored sunset. I would’ve yawned but I was no longer bored nor tired, I was fighting the gravitational pull of Spencer.  

My eyes passed wave after wave over him, stealing glances, absorbing textures, surreptitious but constant—I couldn’t control it, I realized—he was the moon and I was the tide. I kept returning, fuller and fuller each time. That is, until he looked up. His eyes, right below the brim of his hat, met mine, caught me, locked together, and I realized right then and there: I was in no regular flood lapping at the shore, this was a hurricane. 

My heart stopped, the room collapsed in on itself, neither of us breaking gaze, everything narrowing, fading until all that existed was a channel between the two of us. He held my stare like a dare, unperturbed by the chatter pressing in, challenging me, it seemed, or inviting my ability to hang on, to stay, to withstand the storm. 

I didn’t blink. I pulled some strength from somewhere deep inside me, refusing to break with him. I held on, and just as the tunnel of energy between us seemed to reach a vibration strong enough to shatter from its own intensity, the corners of his lips cracked upward. His eyes softened. He smiled, sweet and soft for a second, then a mischievous grin spread to the rest of his cheeks like a washcloth drawing up water. 

I shivered in my tracks, cold and hot flashed through me. I stole my eyes back to the ground and walked onward. Smoothing my blouse, I ran my hands over my hips and belly, attempting to quell the fire that’d burst between my legs. But it was no use. I set down my beer and wove toward the bathroom. Inside a stall, I pulled up my skirt, confirming a sticky wetness had charged all over my inner thighs. Spencer, that look, it had sent something right through me. I could still see those eyes, blue diamonds in a sea of black, star-guides for lost travelers, beacons for a girl like me. 

At the sink, I checked myself over in the mirror. Had that been real? My galloping heartbeat told me yes. The milky pleasure weighing down my panties confirmed it, too. I blinked the stars out from my eyes. I could hear my sister’s voice ringing through my head: There you go, again, thinking you’re better than the rest of us. Which wasn’t true, at least not completely. But I couldn’t help but wonder if I could get him to “give it up” to me. I still didn’t know exactly what  that meant, but I did know that I would rather go out for a night with Spencer than spend another with my sister and her boring friends. I let my fantasies run wild as I stared at my mirror-self: Spencer, peeling off his shirt to reveal a pearly taut chest, his eyes scanning my body as he approached, his hands shucking my shirt, his arms around me, laying me down. The possibilities of his touch, how his curls might gingerly drape around my face, creating a curtain around us, our little world—

Someone barged in, bursting my dream-bubble. 

“Anyone in the stall?” she asked brusquely.

“It’s all yours,” I said, sliding past her to return to the real world. 

And there he was. 

He leaned with a shoulder against the wall outside the bathroom, one foot crossed over the other, fiddling with the label on one of two beer bottles he was holding. His boots were a well-worn honeyed leather and matched the belt threaded through his black Wranglers, where a silver buckle sat on its throne. 

He looked up at me. “Hey there,” he said quickly, “you left your bottle out, and I didn’t want anyone to try anything special with it.” He offered the half-empty for me to take. 

“Thanks,” I said, turning on a bit of sarcasm to mask any star-struckness in my voice. “You’re too kind.”

I started to turn away when he interrupted—“But hey, I’m Spencer,” he said, smiling. “You from the program or just here celebrating?”

“Just here celebrating.” I gestured over to the middle of the blondes. “My sister’s graduating.” 

“Same here,” Spencer said, lifting his drink in a fake cheer. “What a night to celebrate.” 

“Yes, what an honor to be here.” I was glad he was leaning into my sarcasm; he was inviting, easygoing. His body stayed casual, leaning against the wall, but I was burning up, again, inside. I forced every cell in my body to stay cool. “Look at us—among Texas’ finest creatives—who would’ve thought?”

He snorted playfully. “Finest creatives?”

“Yes, have you seen the grass clippings masterpiece? I heard it's going for $5 million.” 

“Of course I’ve heard! That would be me with the offer on it.”

“Oh, a high roller over here, I see.”

“Yes, yes, but just in art. I’m a collector.”

“A collector? And what art do you prefer to dabble in, dear sir?”

“Sir? Can’t you see I’m a cowboy?” He pretended to scorn me. “The rich-college-girl aesthetic, obviously.” 

“Ah, yes, the taste of the times.” 

He laughed. “You’re not from around here are you?”

“What? You don’t think I could belong in Texas?”

He shook his head and smiled. “No ma’am.” 

I pretended to be offended.

“You want to see some real Texas art? Some real Texas creatives?” he asked. I raised my eyebrows. He added: “We’ll see how you vibe there, then we’ll know if you’re really Texas or not.” 

Next thing I knew I was sitting shot-gun in Spencer’s rusty truck with no seat belt, bouncing down the two-lane highway. At the university parking lot, he’d opened the door for me to climb in. “Here you are,” he’d said as I hoisted myself up. Maybe he wasn’t arrogant but just good old-fashioned chivalrous? I considered this with the pavement roaring beneath us. A soft rock radio came on, and as we moved onto the highway, he started handling the gear shift in a way that doused hot fuel on the flames that licked higher and higher inside my limbs.

I tried to keep my eyes on the road and steady my breathing. “So, are you going to tell me where exactly we’re going? Who are these Texan creatives?” 

“Not a chance, sweetheart, not a chance.” He glanced my way with a wide smile. His left hand was draped on the steering wheel, his right on the gear knob. “You’ll like it more if you’re surprised.” 

I let him play this mystery game; I’d texted my sister about my situation and—with his relaxed shoulders, genuine eyes, steady demeanor—I reckoned with satisfaction that I’d come to Texas and found my very own cowboy. And not just any cowboy, but one that other girls hadn’t been able to wrangle. I leaned my head back against the seat. “Fine, Mr. Cowboy-Art-Collector,” I said, letting my skull roll along the headrest so I could look at him. He was handsome and hot; I swallowed a deep breath, watching him watch the road. “So, how long have you lived in this fine town?” I asked.

“Since the day I was born,” he said matter of factly.

“A guy that never left!” I mocked him; the teasing felt good.

He shrugged. “Someone had to take care of my mother.” 

“Oh,” I slowed. “Like, she’s sick?”

“Something like that,” he said. “Anyway, this really is a great town—but only if you know what to do and where to do it.”

“Ok, Mr. Cowboy,” I teased again. “I believe you.” The warmth building inside the truck, inside myself, was palpable. A contrast to the dry, shadowed landscape that rolled by with its moonlit skinny trees and sandstone hues. 

“And where are you from, miss?”

“Well, I’m from California, but I live in Denver. I’ve been there almost five years now.”

“Ok, there’s some Western in you after all,” he said, his blue eyes even brighter than before. “And so, do you feel more California or more Colorado?”

That was a good question that stumped me momentarily. “I suppose I feel more California at heart,” I said, thinking of the mixture of ocean and mountains, cities and countryside. “But I do love Colorado.” 

“Coloradoooo,” he repeated as he turned off the highway. “Californiaaaaaaa.” 

The next turn was a left, into a giant dirt parking lot, spotlit with giant fluorescent bulbs leading toward a giant wooden structure. 

“You’re taking me to a barn?”

“This, sweetheart, is a Texas dance hall.”

My heart ramped up its beating. “Well, I’m glad I brought my dancing shoes,” I said dryly, trying to play it cool. I’d never been country dancing—I didn’t know what in hell I was in for. No type of formalized dancing had ever been a part of my life. I liked to hit clubs and could dance like any California-bred girl with good music taste—but square dancing? Line dancing? Do-si-do? She didn’t even know what to call the kind of dancing you do inside a barn.

I wanted to be cool and go along with it, but maybe, I figured, I could talk him out of it and I could avoid any possible embarrassment. “The thing is, though, Spencer, I have no idea how to dance… like they dance in Texas. Maybe we could go—”

He didn’t let me finish and threw open his door and jumped out, moving around the front of the vehicle to me and opening my door with genuine care. “Well of course you don’t,” he said, beaming his bright-white teeth. He took my hand and lowered me down to the ground. We were facing each other now, chest to chest, heart to heart, my hand lingering in his—the new touchpoint conduit, a sudden birthplace of lightning that sent shivers, channeling through the rough grooves of his palm into mine. 

I looked up, daring to meet his eyes again, and found him already there, unwavering, his gaze in line with mine. Everything narrowed in again, the tunneling sensation rushing back. “And that’s why you’ve got me,” he said, his voice now a couple notes softer than before, “to teach you.”

His eyes were clear as water. I wanted to dissolve into them, to lose myself, to let go completely and have him hold me steady, fully, unabashedly. 

He didn’t blink. “It’ll only work if you trust me,” he said in that quiet, low voice. I burned even deeper inside. “I’ll lead us, all you have to do is follow. Does that sound ok?”

I nodded—it was all I could muster in this consuming state. I didn’t break his gaze this time either. I let the fire mount in him, too, as I could feel something swelling behind the steadiness in his face: His jaw trembled slightly, his eyes flickered in their tracks. He pulled gently on my hand, drawing me closer. “May I?” he whispered as his lips neared mine. 

“Please,” I breathed out. 

Our lips met, soft and full and hungry. A cascade of pleasure unleashed down my throat, poured into my spine, collected in my hips, pooled in my belly center. I hummed from the inside out. I shivered with greed. I wanted him. But where would this night go? Was he really celibate? He pulled back gently, never letting go of my hand. “Let’s get you on that floor.” 

Part 2

The band and crowd pulsed together. I liked the emotive force of country songs, always getting people in their feelings, no matter who they were, the stories were universal.

“I’ve never been anywhere like this before,” I said with my back against the bar, scanning and taking in the whole room. 

He gestured grandly, “This is a presentation of the finest creativity in Texas,” he said. “Welcome to the museum of sweat and dreams.” 

I sipped on my beer, letting all the sounds soak in: not just music, but heavy breathing and laughing and conversations between lovers and friends. On the dance floor, couples swooshed and ravaged each other’s wakes in a way I’d never seen before. Shadows stayed in sync with their substance. Sharp as tacks but impossibly, simultaneously loosey goosey. It produced an ethereal effect. Strong but flexible. Exact yet elastic. Hypnotizing. 

Spencer broke me out of my daze: “You ready?” he asked. 

I set down my bottle, accepting I had absolutely nothing to lose. One night. I might as well go all in. “Ok, cowboy. Show me how it’s done.” 

He pulled me onto the floor. Keeping one hand tight in his grip, he placed my other hand around his neck. He slipped his arm around my waist, pressed his palm into the small of my back. “Alright,” he whispered into my ear, “just feel into me, move like I’m moving.” 

I was grateful the alcohol smoothed some of my nerves. Our proximity was now intoxicating—the echo of his mouth on mine. I felt every ridge of his hand on my back, his hips pushing into mine, his ribs nudging my ribs, his heartbeat bumping into mine. 

“You got it, just breathe,” he said, like he, too, was experiencing the opening of us, absorbing the specifics of me, the angles of my waist, the rhythm of my chest. He inhaled deeply.

I took a deep breath like he told me, and drew in his musk. Around us, the room pulsed; he started to move us, pushing and pulling side to side. I followed wherever he motioned, reading his body, his mind, easily, as he transmitted his desires through little flicks and small tugs. I softened into him, became a flower floating on a river, along for the ride. I felt like he was moving me to the edge of a water slide, a place where I could peer down and let go without seeing the final outcome. If he told me to jump, I’d jump. 

He pushed and pulled faster and faster. I spun and swiveled with him, side to side, up and down. We were collapsing into each other again and again in new ways. Each time more fully. He treated me so precisely, so lovingly, I didn’t doubt a single one of his moves. Spinning, spinning, spinning as our borders disintegrated—demanding gravity change, and change again. 

Where he stopped and I began, neither of us no longer knew. Despite the roaring crowd and the other couples swarming the floor, we created pockets of just each other, where everything quieted.

A song ended. With flair, Spencer dipped me toward the floor. His chest was heaving, his curls wild beneath his hat, his eyes locked again with mine. I looked back at him, the full weight of my being, my body, in his hands, my lungs just as breathless as his. I reached for his face and kissed him until he flung me upright. “Want to get some fresh air?” I nodded, grateful. 

“Follow me,” he said, pulling me behind him with a new seductive ferocity.

He beelined across the room, toward a door marked as an emergency exit. Slipping into what appeared to be a staircase, he darted up the steps, two at a time, never letting go of my hand. I loved the demand to keep up. He was taking us to the roof. Up there was a small balcony, from which we could see the parking lot in one direction, and a star-filled sky rolling out uninterrupted over grassy fields in the other direction. It was flat as a pancake out there, land and sky tangling themselves in the horizon. 

He spun me into him. “I don’t know what it is about you, girl,” he started, his face close to mine again. The warmth from his breath turned me on more as he continued, “But from that first moment I set my eyes on you at that fucking graduation shindig, I knew something was… different.” 

My chest flooded with relief—he felt it too. “Cowboy,” I said, “you’ve absolutely swept me off my feet.” 

I leaned forward to kiss him, greedily this time, hungry for his lips, his tongue, his skin, the sweat everywhere else on his body. 

He kissed me back, slipping his tongue into my mouth, wrapping both his hands around my rib cage, sliding his palms around my back, down to my hips, pulling all of me in closer to him. I reached for his neck, his curls, his jaw. I wanted everything. All of him all at once. 

He whispered between kisses. “You’re incredibly fun to be around, Ms. California.” 

“You think so?” I breathed back.

The grooves of our bodies were already familiar, pushing and pulling now in new ways as we devoured each other’s faces, necks, ears. I ran my fingers up and down his chest, the firmness of it all sent fireworks down my legs. The urge to lick every fiber of his being surged from my belly up my throat. 

“I wanted to touch you from the first moment I saw you,” I told him.

“Girl,” he drawled. “The moment I first saw you, I nearly collapsed to the floor. I had to hold onto some shitty statue to keep myself upright.” 

He kissed me deeply, and then he pulled his tongue out of my mouth, driving it down my chin, down my neck, down to my collarbone, then back into my neck, where he bit down gently, playfully. Breathless, he said, “I want you so badly.” 

He couldn’t be celibate, I knew it. I felt it. “Have me, please,” I implored. “I’m all yours.” 

His fingers slipped into the top edge of my skirt. He traced a slow ring around my middle. The contact with my bare skin sent more shivers. “Go farther,” I begged. 

He took his fingers out from the waistband of my skirt and moved them over my ass, reaching for the bottom hem. Once at its edge, his fingers grazed the backs of my thighs and he worked up to my bare cheeks, cupping my ass in his palms, driving his mouth with renewed lust into mine. I responded, my mouth on his, encouraging him. My pussy pulsed, I could feel her wetness mounting, so ready for him.

I pulled my chest back to gulp in fresh air but kept my hips pressed into his. I unbuttoned his shirt, revealing sharp collar bones first, then pecs, which I uncovered to find a sea of tattoos leading to his abs, everything aiming down down down to his belt buckle, his hip bones, the happy trail drawing me in. I pressed my lips to the ink sprawled across his chest, a collage of figures and words and symbols, a beautiful contrast to his milky skin. Then I unbuckled his pants. His breathing quickened as I let the belt ends drop to either side and unzipped the black Wranglers, exposing the fabric of his boxers. His belly tightened—I loved watching his body respond to me. I left a slow train of kisses down the ladder of his abs, down the slopes of his hips, funneling me straight between his thighs.

The closer I got, the quicker he breathed—and just as I reached the edge of his boxers, he took my chin in his hand and stood me up, kissed me on the mouth. “You think I’m gonna give it up that easy?” he winked. With that, Spencer grabbed my hips and spun me around, so my ass now pressed into his hips. I gazed into the starry nothingness and lost myself in pure sensation: his belt buckle met my ass, then he moved it aside, and something else hard pressed into me—his sex, perfectly erect.

I reached for the railing of the balcony, there were no humans out in this direction behind the barn, thankfully. No one could see us, with our shadowed backs to the parking lot, high up here on the light-less roof. He slid his hands under my shirt as I grinded my hips into his. He felt my stomach, my rib cage, finding my breasts and working his way under my bra to grasp each one in his hands, squeezing, weighing, groaning now. 

The summer air had thinned the deeper we got into the night, but Spencer’s bare chest warmed my shoulder blades. I slipped off my heavy thong and let it fall to the ground. “I’m so wet,” I whispered. He moved with an assurance in response, confident, breathless. I let his fingers roam between my legs, reveling in the new pleasure creeping up my thighs. Stars were overhead and each one felt aligned. I knew I could, so I let go. 

His fingers slipped inside of me and he sighed as he felt my wetness for himself. There was no way to contain my attraction. I burned, pushing my ass deeper into his hips, and he pulled me closer in response, feeling around the warmth of my sex for my clit, the bulging queen, aching to sit on his throne. 

He found her, alighting me with his touch, setting off reds and golds and silvers behind my eyes. I was a firefly caught in his embrace, a sky dancer writhing in pleasure. His own moans, low and guttural in my ear, heightened each color, sound, smell, and taste.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered in my ear, and I responded with a groan, it was all I was capable of. My chin tipped up, my breasts reached for the sky, my heart was being pulled out from beneath my ribs, exposed.

“I want all of you,” I finally let out. “Fill me with everything you have.” 

He moved a hand to himself, pulling down the rest of his boxers. “Will you do the honors?” he asked, pulling his wallet with a condom from his back pocket. 

I used the opportunity to face him again, drinking in all of him once more with my eyes, then slowly I dropped down to my knees, accepting the condom and taking his cock in my hand for the first time. It leapt up at me, blood pulsing red-hot as I kissed its tip and slid on the condom, stroking gently, intentionally, before taking him into my mouth, full and hard and ravenous. I pulled him in, pushed him out, pulled him in again, listening as his breathing changed. He reached for my hair, adding gentle tension to my skull, signaling how badly he wanted me, how ready he was to burst. 

Slowly, I stood back up. The ferocity of his gaze incensed me. He lifted me up, placing my ass on the railing. It was precarious, like sitting on a counter but with the ground two-stories below; if I fell backwards, nothing would catch me, but with what lay before me—I reveled in the danger. Spencer held onto me, tight and confident. No matter how much I bucked or caved, he wouldn’t let go. 

He moved my skirt above my hips. Around his waist, I wrapped my legs, my arms pulling on his neck, my fingers in his hair. Both his hands grabbed my ass, and then he plunged inside me. We dove together into pleasure, both moaning as he entered, deep and full and paralyzing with perfection. 

He thrust up into me, his cock more alive than anything I’d ever felt, and I pushed down onto him, feeling my clit against his pelvis, my breasts against his chest. His strength excited every ounce of my being. He moved faster, I moved faster, our bodies back in a dance, breathing, sweating together in sync. I could feel myself rising, internally ascending toward the stars, the pleasure mounting, growing, ballooning like he was filling me with hot, hot, hot air, each second adding more and more, new spaces warming, rising, warming, as his hands dug deeper into my ass, his hips thrust harder, his breath took on an edge.

I was approaching the divine, I was desperate to be there, with him, and I wanted him to know. With an urgency, I growled into his ear, “You’re going to make me cum.” And he didn’t let up, he didn’t leave anything to chance. He plunged harder, deeper, faster, and I felt the edge approaching. I wanted to scream—I was a kettle about to explode, a balloon about to burst. “I’m cumming,” I let out alongside every other sound coursing through my body, grateful for the music masking me from below. 

Spencer roiled in my pleasure; he knew how good I was feeling, how good he was making me feel, and the synergy sent me over. I rose and spilled into a purple galaxy of stars, silver fireworks set off in every direction. I was fully consumed, collapsing into myself, pouring over Spencer, trailing glitter in my wake as I fell through him. 

He was everywhere and everything, as big and overwhelming as the desert sky. His sex was inky velvet, an avalanche of pleasure, and in an eclipse of awe, he came, too, and we rocked together even as we slowed, heaving, panting once more. Two bodies, for a moment on a roof, as one. 

I buried my face into his neck. He wrapped his arms around my back. A silence settled between us like dust after a storm. I cleared the happy-tears from my eyes and gingerly pulled back, looking at him anew. “Wow,” I offered humbly. 

He smiled, gently pushing a strand of loose hair out from my eyes. “Wow, indeed,” he said. “I’m so glad you came along.”

“You’re the best creative tour guide I’ve ever known,” I said. 

“We did a fine job, making up our own dance, didn’t we?” 

“We did.” I couldn’t help but laugh. 

“See, Texans can be creative and original,” he said.

“Oh, I believe it now,” I said. 

We dressed ourselves, and I had the sudden urge to fling my underwear off the roof. “Do it,” he said, so I did. Who knows where it landed, somewhere in the dusty dirt, where it’ll probably lay forever. Spencer took my hand and squeezed it hard. “Thanks,” I said, though I wasn’t quite sure what I was thanking him for. 

“Of course,” he responded, somehow still on the same page as me. 

I wrapped my fingers around his as he led us down the stairs, back to the dirt path toward the truck. “You know, the girls told me you were celibate,” I teased him.  

“Oh did they now?” He laughed playfully, pulling me in for another kiss. I looked up at him, his face framed by curls and the broad-brimmed hat. His crystal-blue eyes rivaled the stars, the urge to dive into them, I knew then, would stay with me forever; I’d been branded, him forever etched in my heart.