Never Felt Right

***Monroe Dirt Ranch, Sebida***

Abby did not want her secret fantasy to end. Since she was twelve and found her grandmother’s stash of romance novels, she had been dreaming of it. Pirates. Vikings. Aliens. Medieval knights. Victorian scamps. But her favorite had always been the long, dark-haired Native Americans, Indians as they were called back then.

But that was because of him. Jack. Can six-year-olds fall in love? She didn’t care what anyone thought. She had been in love with Andrew Jackson Greywolf since he gave her that first smile and nodded his head to her pleas to push her in the old swing. He had filled her dreams every single night since. Moving from handholding to gentle kisses and white wedding gowns to the kinky shit. But the hero was always the same. Jack.

And this dream was so much more vivid. More real. As she pleaded with her hero. Her lips found his once more. He tasted as wild as the night. He smelled not of some expensive cologne but man. Fresh, crisp, and clean…nothing else. His skin felt smooth against her cheeks, no five o’clock shadow to abrade her skin. His shoulders were broad, wide enough, and strong enough to carry the weight of the world as Atlas had in legends.

She pulled at him even harder as she arched her chest up. Her breasts brushed against the solid wall of his chest, and her nipples pebbled, just like the heroines in all those books. They had never done that before. For the first time in her whole life, her body was alive, on fire for a man.

Frigid. She giggled at the thought. Her mirth swallowed by his mouth on hers. What would John William Cummins think if he saw her now? Maybe the problem wasn’t her? Perhaps the problem was that he was just never man enough? Not like the heroes in her stories. Not like this dream lover. Not Jack!

Her fantasy tried to pull away, but she held tighter. She was not ready for it to end. She might never be prepared for this one to end. Her sudden movement caught him off balance, and he toppled onto the bed on top of her. He covered her then. His whole body aligned with hers. Her breathe caught in her chest at the feel of his erection against her.

It was not the first time that she had felt one, of course. She was twenty-seven, after all. Had been in a relationship with John for five long years, engaged for two. They had done things. It was just that those things had never seemed as exciting, as magical, and as right as this fantasy.

She had never felt like this. Never felt alive. Never felt like a woman should. Like they did in her books. Not with John. Never with him. But with this man, this dark fantasy, this dream lover, her Jack, it was all too real, and she wanted to hold onto it for as long as she could. Wanted to hold onto him. Needed to taste it all.

He said something against her lips. He stilled in her arms. It sounded like the mournful cry of a wounded animal. Like a curse from the pits of hell. Tears came to her eyes. She froze, waiting for those words: cold, fridged. But they did not come.

Instead, with a heavy sigh, he pressed her deeper into the mattress. His mouth took hers with a passion that she had only read about in books. His tongue wrapped about hers and plunged deep into her mouth.

One hand was on her throat, not squeezing exactly. More like branding, holding her perfectly still. The other hand found her breast. It squeezed and kneaded. It lifted and weighed. Again she felt the insecurities eating at her womanhood. Her breasts were too big, unfashionably so. Would he find her lacking as John had?

Then his thumb brushed against her hard nipple, and she moaned into his mouth. Her body pressed even tighter against his as if she sought to meld them together, to become one. It was as silly as the words of those novels. But in her drunken dream, it all seemed impossibly natural. Her secret fantasies come to life. Her body came to life. Her legs fell open, just dropped open. Everything seemed so surreal, as if in slow motion, as if she floated above the bed, looking down as another erotic story unfolded before her eyes.

The hand on her breast moved lower. It caressed her inner thigh, covered in the soft silkiness of her stocking. It brushed over bare flesh. Fingers that were not her own found the warm wetness of her body. She arched up as they danced across the most sensitive bundle of nerve endings there. Her hips undulated against the firm pressure as if seeking to control the intimate dance.

Then they slipped lower. Inside of her. And she winced. Pain sliced through her dream as the probing fingers moved deeper. She shoved at those same broad shoulders as she tried to turn her head away. Tried to escape a fantasy that was turning rapidly into a nightmarish reality. She fought to make sense of it all.

It all came crashing back then. The showdown with John. Throwing the ring at him. His hurtful words. The shame. Crying for hours until no more tears would come. Mercy’s bachelorette party. Her brash decision to drown her sorrow in alcohol. Those shots. Him. Oh god, him. This was no dream. She had invited a man, a real live man, into her bed. Andrew Jackson Greywolf. Jack was in her bed?

This was her fantasy. Her dream come true. With the one man she had wanted there for as long as she had known what, besides sleep, happened in beds. And it had felt so incredibly perfect. Until…

She felt his weight shift. His tongue in her mouth caressed against hers. She was torn. It felt so damned good – his kiss. More heady than the booze. His kisses did things to her that she had only ever read about. Some dark part of her wanted to see if the rest of those books might be true too. If there was more to this sex thing than just going along, doing your duty for someone else’s pleasure. If there might actually be mutual pleasure?

Her momentary indecision was all it took. Jack decided for both of them. His body lunged forward. She screamed into his mouth as the pain lanced through her. She had thought that was just shit romantic garbage like all the rest. But at that moment, the pain was very real. Her nails sunk deep into the muscles of his shoulders but not in pleasure as the heroine did in all her books, but trying to find something solid as her world spun out of control. Even more, than it had these past few months.

“What the fuck?” Jack cursed as he pulled back as if scalded by hot water or acid. He held perfectly still above her. His face was hidden in the shadow. She could only guess his thoughts as she turned her head away towards the wall and fought back the tears. Maybe John was right? Perhaps she was unnatural? Less than a woman. Frigid.