Saving Kylie: A Small Town Second Chance Romance

by Taryn Quinn

  Before she could finish, he moved backward and rolled the broad head of his cock over her slit, the only warning he gave her. Then he thrust deep, spearing into her so hard and fast that her teasing litany ended in a half cry.

  He held his thumb on her clit, flicking it on every inward drive. Even with as small as the plug was, it made her tighter, and her satiny grip tore groan after groan from his mouth.

  “So. Fucking. Good.” He punctuated the words with brutal strokes that she arched into eagerly. “Do you feel how deep I am?” He flexed his hips, and she whimpered, rolling her head back and forth. “You’re throbbing around me, and it’s making my balls ache. I want to come in you.”

  He wasn’t wearing a condom, and right then he didn’t care. It was a break from his gentlemanly protocol, but his need to brand this woman robbed him of all good sense. If she said the word, he’d pull out and spend his climax in his fist.

  If she didn’t, he’d lose himself in her and forget the rest of the world existed.

  “It’s okay. We’re covered.” She reached down to lay her cool palm on the rippling muscles of his stomach. “Fill me with you,” she whispered.

  His throat tightened, and he grabbed her hand, bringing it up to his chest. He held it against his thundering heart while he picked up the pace, lengthening his strokes, swiveling into her again and again in a way that he knew would bring her to the peak quickest.

  Her body bowed up, yielding entirely to his as he pounded into her. No matter how hard he fucked her, he never let go of his grasp on her hand—and she never relinquished her invisible hold on his heart.

  As much as he tried to stave it off, the orgasm built from the depths of him, streaking along his spine. He braced, poised to leap with her.

  She had to be there with him.

  And then she hurtled over first, jerking up to fuse her mouth to his so that he tasted her cries of completion while her release drenched his cock.

  Fighting the inevitable seemed useless, so he gave himself over to it, to her, pulsing into her again and again until their joint arousal squeezed out around his length and soaked into the comforter beneath her. It was dirty and erotic, and damn, he almost came again just seeing it when he pulled out of her quivering pussy.

  He trailed his finger down her cleft, groaning softly at the moisture that drizzled over his skin. The plug in her ass was saturated, and she gasped at the feeling of him turning it like a dial, setting off aftershocks that sent more rivulets of their pleasure from her body.

  “I have something important to tell you. Brace yourself.”

  Her swallow was audible. “Okay.”

  “Timberfake’s not from Back Door Boys. He’s from N’sanity. You mixed up your vintage boy bands,” he murmured, placing a chaste kiss on her swollen nipple.

  Giggling, she ran her fingers through his hair. He could practically taste her relief. “I prefer you anyway, so it’s all good.”

  He had to laugh as he drew back and cupped her face. “Let’s go for that ride.”

  Despite her complaints, he insisted she remove the plug before they went outside. He just didn’t want to take any chances with her. It turned out to be a moot point because the moment they stepped out into the winter wonderland, she slipped on a patch of ice outside the door and back inside they came.

  The rest of the night was spent on the couch in front of the fire with a bowl of popcorn and the remote. And if he couldn’t stop himself from twirling her hair or touching her shoulder just to remind himself that he wasn’t alone—and better yet, that Kylie was with him—who could blame him?

  He smiled and shifted Kylie onto her side, draping her fall of curls down his thigh. Not all fantasies that came true occurred in bed, he mused.

  Some occurred in front of a roaring fire with reruns on TV and a snoozing blond stretched across his lap.

  Six

  Groaning, Kylie rolled over in bed and pressed her face in the center of her pillow, the scent of soap and man making her smile. She didn’t open her eyes, just drifted on the contentment that wrapped around her as warmly as the sheets and comforter.

  Home.

  Her body ached a little, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. Because she was finally safe and happy and…

  Delusional.

  The sounds of a guitar filtered into her consciousness, and she reached out for the man who should’ve been at her side.

  Justin. Only Justin.

  As soon as she looked at the navy walls and the hunter-green bedspread, she knew she wasn’t home. She didn’t have a home anymore. But she had the soft strum of strings from behind her, the music a caress over her heated skin. She didn’t recognize the song, but she knew the low, lilting voice singing about a little fishing boat that was taking on too much water to make it to shore.

  She rolled over and stared at Justin, whose attention rested solely on the battered guitar he stroked as patiently as a lover. His fingers moved with precision, the song sweet and haunting and all the more memorable for its simplicity. His gritty, sandpapery morning voice told the story of the sinking ship with a sort of sad finality that made her throat swell.

  By the time he finished, she was dashing away tears.

  He glanced up and smiled, but the expression faded at the sight of her face. “Hey, what’s the matter?” He set aside the guitar and rose fluidly, then crossed the room to her in a few strides. “Bad dream?”

  “No.” Feeling foolish, she snatched a tissue from the box on the nightstand and tossed him a weak smile. All at once, her body had started to ache again, probably in a race to keep up with her heart. “It’s a beautiful song.”

  Cocking his head, Justin sat beside her, bringing her gaze to his bare abdomen. He wore a pair of flannel pants and no socks, and somehow even the sight of his long toes made her own curl. “You liked it?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never heard it before.”

  “That’s because I wrote it.” He scratched the back of his neck and stared out the window, bathed in the milky pink light of morning. “I’ve written a few of them. This is the only one I’d sing for you.”

  “You were singing it for me?”

  His sheepish smile endeared her more than words ever could have. “Well, yeah. But you slept through most of the concert.”

  She laughed and reached over to ruffle his messy hair. He gripped her forearm and ran his lips down the inside of her wrist. “Sorry,” she said, already breathless. He had that effect on her. “I’m kind of on a night owl’s schedule.”

  “All those late nights at the bar.”

  His lips were still moving, making teasing sweeps down her arm. Suddenly stringing together words had gotten a lot harder. “Nights that you often stay with me.”

  “I don’t stay until closing.”

  “Close enough sometimes. And I know you have school early in the morning. Besides, it’s not your job.” She didn’t know why she tacked the flippant remark on to the end, because she liked that he stayed late with her so often. His presence during her shift always made the night go by faster, and the idea of him not being there to tease her or shout out game plays with her was beyond depressing.

  “Enjoying myself with you isn’t my job?” He lifted an eyebrow, his lips still warming her skin. “Thanks for letting me know, Fish.”

  She grinned at the rare use of the nickname he’d branded her with in college. “You haven’t used that in—” She broke off, remembering his song. “The man bailing out water from the boat, even knowing it wasn’t going to make it, that he was wasting his time.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was a fishing boat.”

  “Full of the catch of the day, but he wouldn’t get to eat it that night. Or any other.” His smile was bittersweet. “Gotta love my cheery creations.”

  Much as she hated to pull her arm away, his mouth was too distracting. “That song isn’t about me, is it? The fish thing, the leaky boat…” She shook her head and clamped her lips together. “Never mind.”<
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  He looked at her for a long moment and laced his fingers in his lap. “Sometimes a fish is just a fish.”

  “Yeah.” She blew out a breath. “Sorry. Mind’s working overtime, and I haven’t even woken up fully yet. I didn’t know you played guitar,” she added, rushing ahead to fill the silence. He was watching her too closely, and she felt exposed under his stare.

  For all she knew, he was thinking about her broken sex life again and maybe even wondering if she was broken too. Sometimes she wasn’t sure that was a wrong assessment.

  “Or wrote songs,” she added.

  “It’s just a hobby. For fun. You know, to unwind.”

  “You write songs about drowning fishermen to unwind?”

  He laughed. “How do you know he drowned? Just because the ship didn’t make it to shore doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

  “Huh.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Did he live?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t write that far.”

  “What? How can you just leave it like that? Don’t you have to know what happens?”

  “No.” He smiled and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “Hungry?”

  She gaped at him. “How come you don’t have to know? Aren’t you curious?”

  “There are tons of roads surrounding Turnbull. Add in nearby Crescent Cove and Kensington Square and there are even more. Some I’ve never driven down. Some I’ve never even heard of. And I’m okay with that. I drive the ones I need to, and when I come to the end of one road, I turn onto the next.” He shrugged. “I took Pete through as much of his story as he wanted to tell me. The rest’s up to him.”

  “Wow. You’re so Zen.”

  Laughing, he tapped her nose. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Right on cue, her stomach growled. “I guess that’s a yes.”

  “Good. I was starting to wonder where that big appetite of yours had gone.” He laid his lips fully on hers before drawing back and getting to his feet. “Why don’t you take a shower, then come downstairs? I’ll throw something together.”

  She rolled her eyes as she scrambled off the bed, trying not to think about exactly how domestic the whole scene between them seemed. It also wasn’t as…urgent as the previous morning. Lust hummed, but it didn’t override quiet conversation and affection.

  And God, wasn’t that scary? She wanted his friendship, she definitely wanted to be his lover…but more seemed like a slide down into an icy pond she wasn’t sure would hold her weight.

  “Don’t think,” he said from the doorway, making her look up as guiltily as if he’d caught her pilfering his wallet. “Just relax and let whatever happens happen. Can you do that for me?”

  “I don’t have much choice.”

  “There’s always a choice. Right now I want to be yours. Like you’re mine.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant by that statement. That he had chosen her and wished she would choose him? Or that he wanted to be hers, as in her guy?

  He was right about one thing—she couldn’t think even if she wanted to when his intent blue gaze was riveted on hers.

  She swallowed hard. “Today’s a day to be grateful. And I’m very grateful you opened your house to me when I needed you.”

  He’d given her much more than just that. A cozy bed, friendship, blistering hot sex. Arms around her, holding her tight in the darkest part of night.

  A shadow crossed his features. After a moment he smiled as warmly as the rays of sun that were now creeping along the eastern horizon. “We need each other.”

  He continued out the door before she could question him further.

  What was she supposed to say to that? Her knee-jerk reaction was to agree, but her brain wasn’t nearly as committed. It urged her to slam on the brakes and take some time for herself. She’d been looking for a fling and a way to forget, not to start something new and potentially even more dangerous to her heart than the relationship she’d just left.

  She sighed and adjusted her ankle bandage. He was right. She needed to take each day as it came. To just not think.

  By the time she made it downstairs, more bread was baking—dark rye this time—and he’d whipped up some chocolate-chip-and-cherry pancakes. The smell of them nearly sent her to her knees as she crossed the threshold of the kitchen, but she made herself keep going toward where he stood at the stove, spatula in hand. He wore an apron over his bare chest, and he’d yet to put on socks or shoes. His jeans cleaved to his taut ass, and she wanted to lean over and bite each full cheek, just leave the imprint of her teeth right through the worn denim.

  Instead she linked her arms around his waist and nipped the side of his neck. “Happy Thanksgiving, Justin Crocker. Betty had nothing on you.”

  His chuckle made her grin. “Happy Thanksgiving, Fisher Twice.”

  “What’s the Twice for?”

  “Twice is how many times I’m going to make you come before breakfast.” He waggled his brows, and she laughed, evading his grasp.

  “Uh-uh. I need food before you plunder me again.”

  “The bread’s for later, by the way. Don’t want you overloading on carbs first thing.”

  “How about second thing?”

  Right on cue the bread maker dinged, and she went over to take it out of the machine. She noticed how long the timer had been set for, and her chest twanged at the thought of him slipping out of bed to start the bread before coming back upstairs to serenade her out of sleep.

  It was so different than the life she’d shared with Rob. Not only had they not hugged much anymore, they’d rarely cuddled in bed or spent lazy mornings just puttering. The bed had become merely a place for sex. Mornings together meant joint isolation—her with the newspaper and last night’s sports scores, him with a run on the treadmill in front of the TV. Even when they were in the same room, they weren’t ever connected. Not like how she felt with Justin.

  “It’s just because it’s new,” she muttered.

  “Talking to yourself?” he asked as he plated a stack of pancakes and handed them to her, along with a jug of real New York maple syrup. “I’ll cut the bread for later. You eat.”

  “I want to help.”

  “You are helping.” He pulled out a chair at the table and lightly pushed her into it. “You’re brightening up the whole place just with your smile. Now sit.”

  She sat and sniffed as if she hadn’t nearly purred at the chunks of cherry smeared with chocolate in the golden batter. “You know, Julia Child was bossy too. Is that a necessary personality trait of good cooks?”

  “Good?” One brow winged up. “I’m excellent.”

  “You sure are.” A smile curved her mouth as she picked up her fork.

  “Now it’s up to Kylie Thrice, by the way.” He shifted back to the bread machine. “You’ll be coming thrice after breakfast, since you’re such a hungry thing.”

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  Breakfast lasted more than an hour. They fed each other just as they had the morning before. As much maple syrup ended up on their clothes as in their mouths, but even that was fun too.

  No one made her laugh like he did. No one listened to her ramble about her parents and her brother and the friends she’d drifted away from in recent months as they’d all gotten coupled up and her coupledom had grown to feel more like a straitjacket. And no one reached across the small table to stroke her hair out of her face with fingers so gentle they barely whispered across her skin.

  With a touch, a look, he caressed her inside and out.

  Together they cleaned up the kitchen while drinking cups of rich, strong coffee and exchanging kisses that ranged from teasing to intense. She’d never known there were so many varieties before, but that day he offered them to her. He taught her about light kisses that scarcely warmed her lips, about deep, soul-stirring ones that knotted her up inside and made her lift on her tiptoes to hold on to his mouth.

  She couldn’t get enough of him, and he knew it from the sparkling glint
in his eyes as he held her at arm’s length all afternoon. As affectionate as he was, he didn’t take things further than kisses and occasional touches as they sat on the couch and scrolled through his list of DVR’d games. Luckily one of them included Duke’s latest matchup, and since she wasn’t a fan, she expended a lot of her excess energy screaming at the TV.

  He just laughed at her, the lines of tension she’d seen fanning out from his eyes the day before seeming to disappear. His bruises were still there, but even they seemed better.

  Maybe she could be as good for him as he was for her.

  “So I’m curious,” he said once they’d turned off the TV and curled up on the sofa. “How’d you end up bartending? You went to school for journalism, didn’t you?”

  She sighed and fingered the thin gold chain under the collar of his sweatshirt. “Yeah, and I worked in the field for a while, covering city council meetings and the usual political scandals. I thought I wanted to work on the crime beat, but detailing all the horrible things people do to each other on a daily basis wasn’t for me. Guess I wasn’t cut out to be a hard-hitting journalist.” She shrugged. “So basically my degree gathers dust while I figure out new and inventive ways to get my customers drunk. It’s a good life.”

  He curled her hair around his finger. “You’re as much of a counselor to them as I am to my kids. You just counsel them about their love lives versus whether they should take AP English or Shakespeare 201.”

  “Maybe someday I’ll think about writing again. I do miss it sometimes. Some of the stories I covered on the crime beat…” She shuddered. “There’s gotta be a book in there, either fiction or nonfiction.”

  “You could write a book to help people. The bartending psychologist.”

  She laughed. “Right. I’m so in the place to counsel other people, considering my own life. I couldn’t even make a clean break from my ex until his behavior smacked me in the face.”

  “So you write down for others what you’re learning yourself.” He tugged lightly on her hair. “You’d be surprised how helping someone else can help you.”