She heard a tap on the window, and looked up to see Zeke’s outline. She lowered it.

“Hey, it’s you,” he said softly. “You okay, honey?”

She wiped her face, thankful for the darkness. He held a flashlight, but he didn’t shine it on her. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it. Come on, out with you. Come inside.”

She stepped out. “I don’t want to go in, it’s late.”

“No, come in the barn. I’ve got a pot on.”

She followed him. Even in the darkness she could see the graceful, thick outline of his body. It passed through her mind that for the majority of her life, there was always someone assuming she was doing something she shouldn’t be doing, fucking someone she shouldn’t be fucking. And it occurred to her, as she breathed the scents of saddle soap and hay and sweat that wafted off his body, that perhaps it was as good as done.

The tigress stood, crouched, yawned and watched.

~Stella (a working title)

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