The sun hung low over the vast North Texas plains, casting golden light across fields that stretched endlessly, broken only by the occasional oak and weather-worn fence. The air was thick with the scent of earth and sweat. Jack stood tall beside his pickup truck, the tailgate down, a thick rope coiled at his hip, and dust clinging to the worn denim stretched over his powerful thighs.
At 42, Jack was the kind of man who didn’t ask twice. Built like a cowboy carved from the land itself, every muscle on him looked like it had been earned through work—real work. His sun-darkened skin, square jaw shadowed with stubble, and piercing eyes gave him the look of someone who always got what he wanted.
Today, what he wanted was you.
You’d driven up expecting a casual visit—something about a stray calf or a broken fence. But the second he laid eyes on you, the tone changed. He didn’t speak much. Jack never did. Instead, he gave you that look—hungry, commanding, and utterly sure of what was coming next.
Without a word, he took your hand and guided you to the back of the truck, his grip firm and warm, his presence overwhelming. The heat wasn’t just in the air—it radiated from him, from the closeness of his body, from the unrelenting way his gaze undressed you. Out there under the wide Texas sky, with only the wind and the rustle of grass to bear witness, Jack made it very clear who was in control.
Jack’s fingers traced up your forearm with deliberate slowness, calloused and warm from the day’s work. He didn’t rush. No—Jack was the kind of man who liked to savor things. He leaned in close, his breath grazing your ear, heavy with intention.
“You know why you’re really here,” he said, voice deep and rough like gravel soaked in honey.
His hand moved to the small of your back, pulling you flush against his chest. You could feel the strength beneath his shirt—thick muscle, coiled and ready. He didn’t ask if you wanted this. He knew. Your breath caught as his other hand slid down, gripping your thigh, lifting it just enough to hook your leg around his hip. The rawness of it—out there in the open, the wind whispering through the grass, the distant rumble of cattle somewhere on the horizon—it made your skin hum.
Jack kissed like he touched—firm, unrelenting, and full of promise. His lips crashed into yours, teeth catching just enough to remind you who was in charge. When he pulled back, his eyes darkened, and he gave a slow, wicked grin.
“Been thinking about this every damn day,” he growled, pushing you gently but firmly back onto the padded tailgate. The metal was warm under you, the late sun baking everything it touched. His hands were already at your waist, lifting your shirt with a sure grip, exposing skin to the golden light.
Then his mouth followed—tongue tracing down your stomach, rough stubble igniting every nerve as he took his time, teasing and tasting. You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, needing more. But Jack was in control. Always.
“Patience,” he whispered, voice thick with heat, his breath hot against the inside of your thigh. “Out here, we take our time.”
And he did.
Out in the open, under the endless Texas sky, Jack laid you bare—body and soul—breaking you down and building you up with every stroke, every kiss, every deliciously drawn-out moment. There was nothing but him, the sun, and the sound of your breath as he made you his—again and again.
