Giselle left the stable, the residue of her private tryst, still lingeting on her mind, her body still humming, her thighs still warm. She smoothed her hair, adjusted her shirt’s buttons, and stepped into the golden haze of late afternoon, just as the familiar creak of wagon wheels announced her father’s return.
The wagon groaned under its load, the wooden spokes protesting faintly with each turn of the wheels. Bundles of rough-spun sacks bulged with flour and dried beans, their tops tied off with twine that had seen better days. A crate of nails sat wedged between two burlap-wrapped hams, the metal heads glinting dully in the fading light. Fiint, Giselle’s brother, perched on the edge of the wagon bed, one leg swinging lazily as he held the reins loose in his calloused hands. His shirt was streaked with dust from the long ride home.
Giselle watched as the two stable hands, Harry with his perpetually tanned sun-soaked skin and Liam with muscular arms that always seemed to stretch his sleeves, materialized from the barn shadows like eager shadows themselves. They moved with the practiced ease of men who’d unloaded a thousand wagons, their boots kicking up little puffs of dust as they circled the cart. Harry whistled low through his teeth at the sight of the hams. “Ain’t seen meat like that since the harvest festival,” he muttered, hefting one onto his shoulder with a grunt. Liam, quieter, just nodded and grabbed the crate of nails, the metal clunking dully as he adjusted his grip.
Giselle watched Harry and Liam with a flicker of amusement. They had arrived last spring like stray dogs, all elbows and hunger, barely knowing one end of a shovel from the other. Now they moved like they’d been born to it, muscles earned from labor, hands rough as the bark on the oak out by the creek. They were still strangers in some ways, though. Harry’s mysterious past was intriguing, and Liam’s boisterous and friendly attitude was enjoyable. But they’d earned their keep, even if her father still called them “the new boys” like they might up and vanish with the next dust storm.
Giselle bit back a smile as Harry’s gaze flickered over her, lingering just a second too long on the undone button at her collar. She knew what he saw, the flush still high on her cheeks, the way her hair clung in damp tendrils to her neck. Liam was sly but no less obvious, kept stealing glances while pretending to adjust his grip on the crate. Each time their eyes met, heat coiled low in her belly, a secret thrill pulsing under her skin.
The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread curled through the open kitchen window, thick enough to taste. Giselle’s mother stood at the hearth, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her face flushed from the heat as she turned a spit laden with one of the newly delivered hams. The fat hissed and popped, sending up little flares of flame that made the shadows dance along the walls. Outside, the long trestle table groaned under platters of buttered potatoes, steaming cornbread, and a pitcher of cider so cold it beaded against the clay.
Giselle’s brothers were already clustered around it, their laughter carrying across the yard. Beau, her eldest, broad-shouldered, with a voice like gravel, was elbow-deep in the cider pitcher, refilling Jake’s cup while Flint pretended to scold him. “Save some for the rest of us, you hog,” Flint teased, though his grin ruined the effect. Jai, quieter than the others, leaned against the table’s edge, whittling a piece of kindling into nothing as he listened. Their father sat at the head, his chair creaking as he leaned back, surveying his sons with a satisfaction that softened the lines around his eyes.
The cider pitcher made its third round, its sides slick with condensation, as the stories began to unfurl like well-worn tapestries. Beau, his voice already thick with drink, launched into a tale about a cougar that had stalked him last winter—”big as a draft horse, I swear, with claws like butcher knives!” only for Jai to snort and toss a crust of bread at him. “That cougar gets bigger every year,” Jai drawled. “Next, you’ll claim it was as big as a bear.” Giselle hid her laugh behind her cup, watching as Jake rolled his eyes and flicked a wood shaving at Beau’s forehead.
The fire crackled low, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted like living things across the packed dirt of the yard. Beau’s voice rose above the others, sharp with insistence, his hands chopping the air as if he could carve his point into existence. “I’m telling you, it was the north ridge, same as last time!” Flint scoffed, tossing a chicken bone into the embers where it hissed like a displeased cat. “Bullshit. It is South you ass.” Jai, ever the mediator, rolled his eyes and leaned back on his elbows, his whittling knife glinting as he pointed it between them. “You’re both wrong. It’s East by the old Miller place, and you know it.”
Harry and Liam were talking to each other in hushed tones near the wagon, their backs turned to the house as they pretended to adjust the remaining sacks. Harry’s fingers lingered on the twine knot of a flour bag, his voice barely above a whisper. “You see her collar?” he murmured, flicking a glance toward Giselle, who was helping her mother carry a steaming pot to the table. Liam exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between amusement and frustration. “Like I could miss it,” he muttered, hefting a sack onto his shoulder with more force than necessary. “That button’s been teasing me since she stepped out of the stable.”
Giselle’s gaze flickered between Harry and Liam, the weight of their hushed conversation pressing against her skin like the summer heat. She could feel the unspoken tension coiled between them—thick as the twine around those flour sacks, taut as the reins in Fiint’s hands. A slow smile curled at the corner of her mouth as she adjusted the pot in her grip, letting her fingers brush the undone button at her collar just once, deliberately. Let them look. Let them wonder.
The slight tingle between her thighs started to grow more insistent, a slow, creeping warmth that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Giselle shifted her weight slightly as she carried the pot to the table, the movement subtle enough that no one would notice, except maybe Harry, whose sharp eyes tracked her like a hawk circling prey. She could almost feel the ghost of her earlier touches still lingering on her skin, phantom fingers tracing paths only she knew. The memory of rough straw against her back, the way the stable’s shadows had swallowed her muffled sounds of pleasure, it all coiled tighter in her belly with every step.
The tingle didn’t dissipate; it just kept growing. She could feel herself growing slick, the fabric clinging in ways that would’ve made her blush if anyone noticed. But no one did. Her mother hummed as she stirred the pot, her brothers bickered over cider, and Liam’s unmistakable gaze burned a hole through her like he could see right through to the heat beneath.
Giselle ducked her head as she slipped past the kitchen doorway, her bare feet whispering against the worn floorboards. The weight of their stares prickled between her shoulder blades like sunburn, but it was Liam’s low chuckle, barely audible over the clatter of dishes, that sent a fresh wave of heat up her neck. She took the stairs two at a time, the old wood groaning under her hurried steps, and didn’t breathe until her bedroom door clicked shut behind her.
Giselle released a deep sigh, letting her forehead thump against the cool wood of her bedroom door. The hinges creaked softly in protest, as if scolding her for slamming it shut like some skittish colt. Outside, muffled voices and laughter still drifted up from the yard, Beau’s booming tall tales, Jake’s dry retorts, the rhythmic clink of cider cups meeting the table again and again. But here, in the dim stillness of her room, all she could hear was the ragged rush of her own breathing and the insistent pulse between her thighs.
Giselle peeled off her clothes with the efficiency of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. Her leather jacket, worn soft at the elbows from years of wear, was tossed toward the coat rack in the corner, landing with a satisfying thwack against the wooden peg where it always hung. Her hat followed, hitting the same bedpost it had struck day after day, the brim knocking against the carved oak with a familiar clunk. The routine of it was comforting, like the way her father always tapped his boots twice on the porch steps before coming inside. Some things never changed.
The cool evening air prickled against her bare skin as she stepped out of her trousers, the fabric pooling around her ankles like a loyal dog settling at her feet. She kicked them aside absently, her mind already elsewhere, specifically, on the heat still coiled low in her belly, insistent as a stray cat begging for scraps. The stable hadn’t been enough. It never was. Not when the memory of rough hands and hungry mouths still lingered under her skin like a fever.
The damp fabric clung to her fingers for a second before releasing with a wet snap as Giselle tossed her panties into the wicker hamper. They landed with a quiet plop atop yesterday’s discarded blouse, the lace edges curling slightly like the petals of a wilted flower. She stared at them for a moment—dark with moisture, the scent of her own arousal still clinging faintly—before turning away with a shiver that had nothing to do with the evening chill seeping through the window.
The evening air prickled against Giselle’s naked skin as she crossed the room, each step sending a fresh wave of goosebumps rippling across her thighs. The wooden floorboards groaned faintly underfoot, the sound muffled by the thick wool rug her mother had woven last winter, its deep reds and golds now muted in the fading light. She let her fingertips drag along the quilt draped over the footboard, the fabric rough and familiar, as images of Liam and Harry flickered behind her eyelids like candle flames caught in a draft.
First, Liam and his broad hands, always so careful with the horses but never with her, callouses scraping deliciously against her softest places. Then Harry, all sharp angles and knowing smirks, his sun-browned fingers tangled in her hair as he whispered filth against her neck. The memories twisted together, morphing into something hotter, more urgent: Liam’s mouth on her collarbone, Harry’s teeth nipped at her inner thigh, their weight pressing her into the mattress until she couldn’t tell whose touch burned where. She exhaled sharply, the sound too loud in the quiet room, and collapsed with enough force to make the bedframe squeak.
Giselle’s fingers moved with practiced urgency, curling deep inside herself with a rhythm that matched the ragged hitch of her breath. The heel of her palm pressed firm against her clit, circling in tight, desperate little strokes while her fingers crooked just so, mimicking the angle she’d learned drove her wild. The bed beneath her creaked softly, the sound nearly drowned out by the wet, filthy noise of her own fingers working herself open. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, stifling the moan that threatened to spill out as she imagined Harry’s rough hands replacing hers, his calloused thumbs spreading her wider while his tongue.
She ran her fingers across her firm breasts, teasing her nipples into stiff peaks, pinching them, making her breathing stifle. She kept pushing on her sensitive “spot” within her, getting her closer and closer to an unmistakably powerful climax.
Giselle’s legs snapped together, her back arching off the mattress, her mouth opening in a silent O for a moment before a soft moan slipped out. The sound was barely louder than the rustle of sheets beneath her, but it felt deafening in the quiet of her room. She froze, fingers still buried inside herself, listening for any sign that someone downstairs had heard, the chatter and clatter of dinner continued uninterrupted. Only then did she let her hips roll again, chasing the tension coiling tighter and tighter in her belly.
Giselle felt like she was on fire, not the slow smoldering kind, but the wildfire kind, the lick-and-consume kind that raced through dry brush faster than a spooked mustang. Every inch of her skin burned, every nerve ending alive with the kind of electric buzz that made her toes curl into the quilt beneath her. The heat pooled low in her belly, pulsing in time with the frantic flutter of her fingers, the slick slide of her own touch only stoking the flames higher.
The thought coiled in her chest like a snake warming itself on a rock. Harry with his knowing smirks and rough hands, or Liam with his quiet intensity and unexpected hunger. Giselle twisted her fingers deeper, biting back a whimper as her hips stuttered against her own touch. It was impossible. Like choosing between fire and lightning, both would burn her in the best way.
Downstairs, Harry’s laughter rang out, sharp and bright as a struck coin, followed by Liam’s deeper chuckle, a sound that always made her stomach clench. She could picture them now: Harry leaning against the porch rail, his shirt sleeves rolled to show forearms corded with muscle from hauling hay bales, while Liam sat on the steps, his broad shoulders blocking the lantern light as he whittled another trinket. Both watching the kitchen door. Both waiting for her.
The dreams came thick and fast, wrapping around Giselle’s exhausted mind like warm honey. She barely remembered pulling the quilt over her bare legs before sleep dragged her under, but she remembered the heat of Liam’s hands, rough from reins and rope, skimming up her thighs in the hayloft while Harry’s mouth trailed fire down her neck. In the dream, she couldn’t tell whose fingers were tangled in her hair, whose teeth grazed her collarbone, only that the stable walls blurred around her and the scent of leather and sweat clung to her skin.
Giselle awoke with a start, her body jerking upright as sunlight streamed through the thin linen curtains. The quilt pooled around her waist, sticky against her bare skin. She blinked, disoriented, before glancing down, the sheet beneath her was damp, a dark patch spreading like spilled ink across the cream-coloured fabric. Heat flooded her cheeks as last night’s dream rushed back in fragments: Liam’s calloused palms sliding up her ribs, Harry’s teeth grazing the soft skin of her inner thigh, the way the hay had prickled against her back.
A sharp rap at the door shattered the memory. “Giselle?” Her mother’s voice, muffled through the wood. “You’ve slept past dawn. The boys are already mucking the stalls.”
Giselle swallowed, her throat dry as dust. “I’m up,” she croaked, wincing at the rasp in her voice. She yanked the quilt over the evidence, though the musky and sweet scent lingered in the air. The door latch rattled, and she nearly leaped from the bed, her heart hammering. “I’m dressing!”
Today would be different. Giselle pressed her palms flat against the bedroom door, inhaling sharply through her nose as if she could will the flush from her skin. The morning light painted stripes across her bare thighs, highlighting the faint tremor in her muscles. She couldn’t afford to be clumsy today, not with the way Liam’s eyes lingered on her when she passed him tools, or how Harry’s knuckles brushed her waist every time he reached for something behind her. Her desire for them was a live wire under her ribs, and today, of all days, she needed to smother it.
The latch clicked shut as Giselle’s mother retreated downstairs, her footsteps fading into the general clamor of the morning. Giselle exhaled, fingers trembling as she snatched her discarded clothes from the floor. The scent of hay and sweat still clung to her shirt from yesterday’s adventures hadn’t quite washed out. She dressed hurriedly, the fabric sticking to her damp skin in a way that made her grit her teeth.
The floorboard near the window creaked under Giselle’s weight as she tugged on her boots, the sound drowned out by the distant clatter of breakfast dishes downstairs. She paused, listening, her father’s deep baritone rumbled something about fence repairs, punctuated by Beau’s exaggerated groan. Normal morning sounds. Safe sounds. She exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders back like she could physically shake off last night’s dreams.
The kitchen smelled of scorched bacon and fresh coffee when Giselle finally descended, her boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. Her mother stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to her elbows, flipping cornbread in a cast-iron skillet with practiced ease. “Sleep well?” she asked without turning, her tone light but edged with something knowing. Giselle’s fingers tightened around the mug she’d grabbed, the heat seeping into her palms. “Fine,” she lied, watching the steam curl upward like smoke signals.
She knew once she was out of the safety of her home, the game would begin in earnest. The porch steps groaned under her boots like an old man complaining about the weather, and the morning air hit her face clean, sharp, carrying the distant tang of turned earth from the south field. Giselle paused, one hand on the railing, and inhaled until her lungs burned.
Giselle’s boots crunched on the gravel path, each step deliberate as she angled her body toward the stable without letting her gaze wander toward the corral where she knew they’d be working. The morning sun cast long shadows ahead of her, stretching like fingers trying to catch her before she could slip inside unnoticed. She focused on the stable door’s rusted hinge, just how it always squeaked at exactly the same pitch, memorising its sound could drown out the low murmur of male voices coming from the tack room.
Then a voice behind her froze her mid-step. It was low, rough as gravel dragged over wood. “Sleep well?” Liam’s breath stirred the loose hairs at her nape, his presence so close she could smell the hay and sweat clinging to his shirt. Giselle didn’t turn, but her fingers spasmed around the stable door’s latch, the metal biting into her palm. She could feel him grinning against her shoulder without seeing it, the curve of his mouth telegraphing through the heat radiating off his body.
“Fine.” The word clipped out sharper than she meant, her grip tightening on the latch until the metal teeth bit crescents into her palm. Liam’s chuckle vibrated against her back, warm, knowing, his breath stirring the flyaway hairs at her nape. She could smell last night’s woodsmoke clinging to his shirt, mingling with the leather-and-lanolin scent of the harness oil he’d been rubbing into tack. Too close. Always too close these days.
Liam’s fingers brushed the small of her back. It was light as a moth’s wing but twice as damning, but before he stepped away, leaving Giselle’s skin tingling where he’d touched. “We can talk later then,” he murmured, the words curling like smoke around her. She didn’t turn to watch him walk toward the corral, didn’t need to; she could feel the weight of his gaze lingering between her shoulder blades like a branding iron.
Giselle exhaled through her nose, the stable’s familiar scent of hay and leather doing nothing to steady the sudden tremor in her hands. Today was going to be more difficult than she thought. The realization settled over her like a too-tight cinch strap as she caught sight of Harry leaning against the fence rail, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms streaked with dirt. He was watching her, no, studying her with that infuriating half-smile that always made her throat go dry.
