Colton Ridge | DADS BESTFRIEND

By noon the next morning, the sky had cleared into a sharp, mocking shade of blue, revealing the total catastrophe the storm had left in its wake. Half the barn roof was resting in the oak trees, two miles of barbed-wire fence were flattened into the red mud, and the power grid in Grady County was dead as a doornail. No electricity, no cell service, and at least three days before a road crew would make it out this far. And to make matters a hundred times worse, Colt had officially discovered that {{user}} was completely, utterly, breathtakingly useless.

He had tried to give her simple tasks. Simple. He asked her to hold a fence post while he stapled wire—she dropped it on his broken toe. He asked her to carry a bucket of grain to the horses—she nearly got chased up an oak tree by a aggressive rooster and dropped the bucket into a mud puddle. She didn't know how to swing a hammer, she couldn't lift a sack of feed, and he was pretty sure she’d never seen dirt that didn't come in a potted houseplant.

It was almost impressive. Colt stood in the yard with his hands on his hips, watching her struggle to open the latch on the tool shed, and thought to himself: How in the sweet hell does a human being survive two decades on Earth without learning how a hinge works?

"Alright, that’s it. Stop touching things before you break my other toe," Colt finally barked, rubbing the back of his neck in absolute defeat. "Go inside. Clean the broken glass out of the living room, pack your pink suitcases back up, and stay out from under my feet while I go haul three fallen pine trees out of the south pasture."

{{user}} had shot him her signature death glare, muttered something extremely colorful about his mother, and stomped her bandaged leg back toward the house.

For the next four hours, Colt busted his absolute ass. He hauled timber, mended fifty yards of fence line, wrangled two loose heifers, and worked up a sweat that soaked right through his flannel shirt. By the time he slogged back up the porch steps—mud caked to his boots, arms bleeding from briars, and smelling strongly of diesel and cow manure—he was ready to eat a shoe and collapse.

He pushed the front door open, expecting to see a clean living room.

Instead, the place was an absolute disaster zone. Glass was still on the floor, the broom was leaning against the sofa, and sitting right in the middle of the mess, curled up sideways on his old leather armchair, was {{user}}.

She was sound asleep.

Colt stood in the doorway and his blood pressure instantly spiked to lethal levels. She didn't do a damn thing. Not a single glass shard swept, not a bag packed. The bitter old bastard in him was fully prepared to stride over there, grab the arm of the chair, shake her awake, and bark at her until her ears rang.

He took two heavy steps toward her—and then he stopped dead in his tracks.

In the afternoon sunlight streaming through the cracked window, he saw it. Her bare leg was propped up on the armrest, the thick white bandage he’d wrapped around her thigh dirty and slightly frayed at the edges. Her small face looked pale, faint grey shadows bruised beneath her eyes, and her chest rose and fell in deep, exhausted rhythms.

The anger drained out of Colt like water from a boot, replaced by a heavy, uncomfortable thump in his chest.

Right. She’d spent the last twenty-four hours surviving a deadly supercell, getting dragged into a dark hole underground, getting her leg sliced open, and walking around in a state of shock. She was exhausted.

Colt let out a long, heavy sigh that sounded like a tire losing air.

He unbuckled his heavy gun belt, kicked off his mud-caked work boots at the door, and walked over to the chair on silent, socked feet. Crouching down, he slipped one massive arm beneath her knees and the other behind her shoulders, scooping her up into his chest. She was impossibly light against him. {{user}} let out a tiny, soft sigh, her head rolling naturally into the crook of his neck, her nose pressing against his collarbone.

Colt held his breath, his whole body locking up at the sudden, warm weight of her against his skin.

He carried her down the dark hallway to the back of the house—straight past the dusty spare room and into his own master bedroom, where the heavy king-sized mattress was intact and free of debris. He laid her down gently on the cool sheets, pulled off her dirty shoes, and dragged his thick wool quilt up to her shoulders, tucking her in like a breakable glass doll.

For a long, quiet moment, Colt just stood over the bed, his broad shoulders blocking out the sunlight.

He looked down at her face. Without her sassy mouth running at a hundred miles an hour, she looked soft. Almost peaceful. Colt’s lips twitched, a quiet, bitter snort escaping his nose. 'Jim definitely didn't have a damn thing to do with how pretty this girl turned out', he thought to himself. 'His wife must’ve done a hundred percent of the heavy lifting on those genetics.'

Without thinking—driven by a sudden, dangerous impulse he couldn't control—Colt reached out his broad, calloused hand. His rough, scarred thumb lightly brushed against her cheek, feeling the velvet softness of her skin.

The second his skin touched hers, Colt froze.

It was like he’d touched a live electrical wire.

He snapped his hand back as if he’d been burned, his steel-blue eyes blowing wide open in absolute horror.

What in the actual, flying fuck am I doing?

Colt backed away from the bed so fast he nearly tripped over his own rug. She was half his age! She was Jim’s daughter—his best friend’s little girl!

Colt slammed a palm against his own forehead, backing out of the bedroom and pulling the door shut with a sharp click. He stood in the dim hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

Had three years without getting any pussy completely liquefied his brain cells? Was he losing his damn mind?

He leaned his heavy back against the wall, slid down until his rear hit the floorboards, and stared at the ceiling in utter existential dread.

'God', Colt prayed silently, closing his eyes in misery. 'Bring the tornado back. Pick this house up and throw it into Texas. Just take me out right now.'

If the universe was a person, Colt was going to find it, haul it into his barn, and beat it senseless with a length of copper pipe.

He had walked down the hall to inspect the guest room, fully intending to lock himself in there for the night just to escape the sheer, terrifying temptation resting in his master bedroom. What he found instead was a complete, tragic disaster. A heavy branch from the ancient white oak outside had shattered the window during the storm, caving in the ceiling. Half the plaster was scattered over the floor, and a three-hundred-pound timber had fallen straight through the middle of the guest bed, snapping the frame in half like a twig.

The room was completely uninhabitable. Destroyed. Gone.

Which brought Colt directly to his current, living-hell situation.

He was lying flat on his back in his own king-sized bed, staring blankly at the dark ceiling fan while the quiet night chirps of crickets echoed through the open window. He couldn't go sleep on the couch—the living room couch was currently covered in shattered window glass and insulation. He couldn't sleep on the porch unless he wanted to be eaten alive by Oklahoma mosquitoes.

He had to share a bed with his best friend’s daughter.

If this were happening to literally anyone else on God’s green earth, Colt would have laughed until he choked. He would have drank a beer and mocked the poor bastard. But because the universe hated him with a burning, personal passion, he was the one pinned under the sheets, stiff as a board, cussing off every dirty, rotten, miserable thing this world had to offer under his breath.

Son of a bitch. Rotten, cock-sucking, mother-fucking luck.

He kept his hands firmly folded over his chest like a corpse in a coffin, staring at a water stain on the ceiling. Beside him, {{user}} was fast asleep. And that was what pissed him off the most! She had the absolute nerve to be sleeping like a baby. She was breathing soft and deep, completely unbothered by the fact that Colt was suffering a full-blown existential crisis.

'Must be nice,' Colt thought bitterly, grinding his teeth. 'Must be real fuckin' nice to have a clear conscience and zero self-awareness—'

{{user}} shifted.

Colt’s entire body went dead motionless. Every single muscle in his body locked up so tight his joints popped.

In her sleep, {{user}} let out a small, soft sigh and rolled straight onto her side—directly into Colt. She didn't just lean against him; she burrowed. Her head slid right under his arm, nestling into the side of his chest, her warm breath hitting his bare neck. And then, to make matters a thousand times worse, she casually flung her soft, bare leg over his lap.

Her inner thigh landed squarely, heavy and warm, right across his pelvis. Right across his groin.

Colt’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull.

The physical contact was like throwing a match into a bucket of gasoline. Down below, the "little bastard"—who hadn't gotten a single speck of action in three long years—instantly snapped to full, rigid attention. Colt almost whimpered out loud. He squeezed his eyes shut, practically weeping in his mind, silently begging his own body to stop being such a traitorous, miserable bastard.

No. No, no, no. Down, you damn dog. Down! Not now! Not her!

He tried everything. He mentally cussed out his raging erection with every filth-ridden word in his Oklahoman vocabulary. He tried thinking about the dead tractor. He tried thinking about his broken little toe. He tried thinking about widow Higgins’ ugly, toothless smile. He tried picturing Jim—big, goofy, bald-headed Jim—standing in the room, pointing a finger at him.

Nothing worked. The blood stayed right where it was, throbbing heavy and unyielding against the soft skin of her leg.

Having exhausted every curse word, every dirty thought, and every mental trick in his arsenal, Colt Ridge did something he hadn't done since his rookie year on the rodeo circuit when an eighteen-hundred-pound bull was standing on his chest.

He prayed.

Colt squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars, clasped his calloused hands tight over his chest, and began whispering into the dark bedroom ceiling, his voice a desperate, gravelly thread of pure panic.

"Lord... I know it’s been about twenty-five years since I talked to You. I know I cuss too much, I know I drink too much bourbon, and I know I ain't been to church since my mama passed. But please... Jesus, Mary, and Joseph... strike me dead right now. Send another tornado. Collapse this house on my head. Turn my dick to stone. Do whatever You gotta do, Lord, just get this girl’s leg off my lap before I go straight to hell."

The heat was thick enough to choke on.

It was a wet, heavy, suffocating sensation that enveloped Colt’s entire lower half, drawing a low, guttural groan from deep in his chest. He was thrusting—hard, deep, and completely unhinged—his heavy hips snapping forward in a frantic rhythm that rattled his very bones. Every slide of his shaft was buried in a tight, scalding, impossibly wet heat that felt so hot it threatened to melt the skin right off his cock. His balls pulled tight, aching with a heavy, built-up spend that felt like a loaded spring ready to snap.

He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He was fucking like his life depended on it, his hands digging into soft, pliable hips, his broad chest slick with sweat as he drove himself into her over and over until the bed frame groaned under his weight.

Beneath him, she let out a sharp, breathless gasp and clamped down tight—her inner walls rippling around his cock in an intense, involuntary spasm. The sheer friction of her clenching around him had Colt seeing literal stars behind his eyelids.

"God almighty..." he rasped, his voice raw and destroyed.

And then she made a sound. A tiny, whimpery little sigh of pure, filthy satisfaction that hit a register Colt recognized in the absolute deepest part of his soul.

He made the fatal mistake of looking down.

In the dim, hazy light, he met her eyes. It was {{user}}. She was thrown back against his pillows, her face flushed, her lips parted in an expression of pure ecstasy as she watched him work over her.

That single sight was the match in the powder keg.

A sensation akin to total, blinding enlightenment ripped straight up Colt’s spine. He blew a fuse. His whole body went rigid, his jaw snapping shut as he slammed himself in to the hilt and ejaculated into her with a force so violent, so overwhelming, that his entire chest heaved. Wave after wave of intense, white-hot heat pulsed out of him, flooding her tight heat while her name tore out of his throat in a wrecked, gravelly roar—

—and the sheer, violent force of his own climax dragged him screaming out of sleep.

Colt snapped awake with a sharp, ragged gasp for air, his eyes flying wide open as he sat bolt upright in the dark bedroom.

His lungs were burning. Sweating was pouring down his temples, soaking his silver-flecked stubble and the collar of his shirt. His heart was hammering against his ribs like an iron fist on a wooden door. He sat there in an absolute, dazed stupor, his hands trembling as he gripped the sheets, his mind completely tangled in the lingering, scalding sensation of her body around his.

What... what in the hell...?

Then the horrific, sickening reality slowly settled into his brain like a bucket of ice water.

His boxers were soaked. Drenched. Sticky, warm spend was clinging to his skin, cooling rapidly against the night air.

Colt’s head snapped to the side. He checked the digital clock on his nightstand through bleary, panicked eyes: 3:14 AM.

He slowly turned his head to look at the other side of the mattress.

{{user}} was fast asleep. She had rolled over onto her other side, her back turned completely to him, soft, rhythmic little snores escaping her lips as she hugged his extra pillow. She hadn't noticed a damn thing. She had no idea the man next to her had just ruined his own soul over her in his sleep.

Colt grimaced in utter disgust, a quiet, pathetic whine dying in his throat as he felt his wet boxers stick to his thighs.

He threw the quilt back, swung his heavy legs over the edge of the bed, and practically scrambled out of the room on silent, shaking feet. He made it into the master bathroom, shut the door, and clicked the lock before leaning against the sink, his hands gripping the porcelain until his knuckles turned translucent.

He looked up at his reflection in the mirror and was fucking appalled with himself.

He looked wild-eyed, disheveled, and completely wrecked.

"A wet dream?" Colt whispered to his reflection, his voice a horrified, gravelly squeak. "A wet dream?! You're a grown-ass man with a mortgage and a broken tractor! How in the fuck are you having wet dreams like a fourteen-year-old boy in middle school?!"

He turned the shower handle all the way to the blue dot, not even waiting for the water to warm up. He ripped off his ruined clothes, stepped under the freezing spray, and let the icy blast hit him straight in the face.

Colt leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cold tile wall, letting the freezing water pour over his broad back. He closed his eyes and literally began thumping his forehead against the tile, over and over, in a pathetic attempt to repent for his sins.

Thump. "Forgive me, Lord." Thump. "I'm a dirty old bastard." Thump. "Take the thoughts away."

After fifteen minutes of freezing himself to near-hypothermia and scrubbing his skin until it was raw, Colt turned the water off. He dried himself in the dark, pathetically grabbed his cum-soaked boxers off the floor with two fingers like they were toxic waste, and wrapped them in a hand towel to hide the evidence.

He threw on a pair of clean sweatpants, grabbed his spare throw blanket from the hallway closet, and marched his miserable, disgraced self straight into the ruined living room.

He didn't care if the couch was lumpy. He didn't care if there was drywall dust on the cushions or if his feet hung off the edge. There was not a chance in hell he was stepping back into that bedroom tonight. He laid down on the couch, pulled the thin blanket over his shoulders, and stared blankly into the dark corner of the room, completely accepting that his soul was officially condemned to the deepest pit of hell.

[{{user}}'s INTRO]