by Penny Reid
I liked Boone.
Genevieve, my momma’s lawyer, had arrived within the hour and argued with anyone she could find, objecting to my arrest, objecting to my treatment—even though I told her I’d been treated well—objecting to the lack of an arraignment date, objecting to the fact that I’d been sitting in one of the questioning rooms but hadn’t been questioned.
When they asked if she wanted me to be questioned, she rose hell. I liked her. She was good at arguing.
I felt desperate for contact with Cletus. This was the longest we’d gone without each other’s company in over a year. Everyone was being so nice, but I ached for him. I longed to know he was safe. It might’ve been a strange thought, but with Elena out there, I felt safer in here.
Maybe I should’ve been afraid, locked up in a prison cell—or a holding cell, I guess—but I wasn’t. I got the sense everyone was waiting. The deputies, the sheriff, the men and women in suits who would inspect me as they walked by seemed to be biding time. I didn’t recognize the suit-clad folks, but they seemed to know me. Yes, they were all waiting for something to happen, and I felt certain it didn’t really have anything to do with me.
And then there’s Miller.
I wished Cletus and I had been given a moment to discuss Farmer Miller and Elena, and what conclusions Cletus had drawn after Mr. Leeward’s offhanded statement. I could guess, but I wanted to hear his theories, discuss possibilities, listen to him talk, watch him think, kiss his face, touch his body, have him touch my—
Okay, sex fiend. Settle. Think about football, or wounds, or paint drying, or something else unsexy. Here I sat trapped, incarcerated for my father’s murder, and I’d spent most of the time daydreaming about being alone and naked with Cletus and what I wanted him to do to me when we saw each other next. It’s true. I needed to accept it. I was a sex fiend. Oh well. Being a sex fiend for Cletus was better than being a murderer.
On Wednesday, I’d talked Evans into passing Cletus a note. Evans promised me he would. Therefore, I was especially anxious Thursday morning, for Evans to start his shift, hoping Cletus would respond, but also since my time in holding was drawing to an end, one way or the other. My lawyer—and the pack of legal experts Sienna had sent—informed me I couldn’t be held for longer than seventy-two hours without charges being filed. With time winding down, they either needed to move forward with arraignment or let me go.
Speaking of Sienna’s legal experts, as far as I knew they were still in town and had vowed to remain, putting pressure on the sheriff’s office. I don’t think they frightened the sheriff any, but Evans had said they’d terrified the heck out of Florence McClure. She’d had to go home early on both Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons with a headache.
Thursday morning, Evans slipped a response from Cletus inside a to-go container from Daisy’s.
“Daisy says hi and hang in there,” the deputy had said with a wink, giving me a thumbs-up before leaving me to my breakfast and correspondence.
I chuckled at his encouragement. Really, these guys were too cute sometimes.
As soon as he left, I opened the box. Despite the mouthwatering aroma of sausage and biscuits with preserves and a big old Boston cream doughnut, I picked out the folded piece of paper first, setting the food to the side and hungrily opening Cletus’s note.
I was not disappointed.
Dear Jenn,
I’m lost without you. But don’t fret. Beau rented an RV and I’ve been in the parking lot all day and every night. We’ve been close this whole time, just a few feet apart. Could you feel me? I confess, I could not feel you and my whole being mourned the loss. My bones feel brittle, like they can’t hold my weight. And I’m so tired.
I’ll rest and there you are, smiling, the brilliance of your soul shining through your exquisite eyes, your soft skin beneath my hands, your sweet taste—
I had to lower the letter for a moment to catch my breath. Goodness. How easily he could twist me up with just words. Vaguely, I wondered if the RV had a bed.
Y’all don’t need a bed.
I fanned myself with the letter, wondering if—when this was all over—we might be able to rent an RV and travel a little. Continuous close quarters with Cletus sounded lovely right about now.
Before I could finish reading, the sound of approaching footsteps had me folding the letter quickly and stuffing it in my bra. Hurriedly, I reached for my breakfast, shoving half a biscuit into my mouth just as Genevieve rounded the corner, dressed in a black business suit and wearing a perturbed expression.
“They’re releasing you,” she announced, her eyes sliding to the side, to somewhere I couldn’t see. “The cute deputy is handling the paperwork. Ms. Diaz can send her pack of lawyers back to New York and Los Angeles.”
I stood, bringing my breakfast with me and talking around the biscuit, “Which cute deputy?”
Genevieve sorta smirked. “The one who looks like a young Derek Luke.”
“Oh.” I nodded, finally able to swallow. “Boone.”
“How are you holding up?” She looked between me and the impressive breakfast. “Any complaints?”
“Other than wishing I were out of here, living my life? Uh, no. Not a single one.”
“Yes.” Her intelligent gaze swept over me. “I can see why. Your own cell, separate from everyone else in lockup. A real mattress”—she lifted her chin to the bed behind me—“with sheets, blankets, and pillows.”
“I think this is the cell the deputies usually use for naps,” I explained. “That’s what Evans said.”
Genevieve’s perturbed expression returned, like she resented my treatment had given her nothing to argue about. “I’m glad they’re being kind, you shouldn’t have been arrested in the first place. I’ll be filing a complaint against the arresting officer.”
“Don’t do that. It’s almost over, and Boone was only following orders. And, like you said, he’s cute.”
“Him being cute doesn’t excuse a superfluous arrest.” She seemed to grow an inch taller, a swirling and crackling of scheming and strategy behind her eyes. “I’ll make him sorry.”
“What if he said sorry instead and took you out to dinner?” I picked up one of the breakfast sausages and took a nibble.
Genevieve’s razor-sharp gaze cut to my face and she inspected me, saying, “I don’t date law enforcement. Conflict of interest.”
“That’s too bad. Boone is not just cute, he’s a great investigator, super smart, and a solid human. Maybe you should make an exception.”
As I spoke, her eyebrows slowly pulled together, like the phrase making an exception was not in her vocabulary. “I do not subscribe to bending rules, Ms. Sylvester,” she said finally. And yet she sounded just a wee bit uncertain, like my suggestion had tempted and confused her.
I shrugged, trying my best not to smile at her consternation. “Well now, that really is too bad. I wouldn’t have this nice meal here if someone hadn’t seen fit to bend a few rules. Sometimes, when it doesn’t hurt anyone, a little rule bending can be fun. By the way”—I lifted the breakfast box to her—“do you want a doughnut?”
To my surprise, Jethro was the one to pick me up from the station and drive me back to the homestead.
“Cletus would be here if he could,” the oldest Winston brother assured me. But I wasn’t assured until, once we were out of the station, he added quietly, “It’s something to help your momma, time-sensitive, and real important. Kind of a now or never sorta thing.”
Feeling a little better, but still anxious, I almost missed the big RV sitting in the lot, parked closest to the wing of the building where the main lockup was housed. I grinned, my heart flooding with warmth. Cletus hadn’t been facetious in his letter; he really had stayed in an RV the whole time.
I can’t wait to see him!
We made it to the homestead three years later. No, it didn’t take three years, but it sure did feel like it. During the drive I decided, after setting eyes on Cletus and kissing his face off, I
would need to go see my momma. She was probably worried sick. Truth be told, I’d been surprised she didn’t come to the station. I thought for sure my being arrested would’ve snapped her out of her daze.
“Oh, look. He’s already here. He made record time.” Jethro pointed to Cletus’s Geo as he cleared the trees of the Winston’s winding driveway. “I expect him to be in the carriage house. Billy is at—”
“Thanks, Jethro!” I had the door open before he’d come to a full stop and darted from the car, taking off at top speed and doing the mental calculations in my head.
It was now just past 1:00 PM on a Thursday. If Roscoe were coming home for the weekend, he’d be here past 9:00 or 10:00 PM. Billy didn’t come home from the office until 7:00 PM at the earliest, unless the family gathered for a special occasion. Does me being released from jail count as a special occasion?
Lord, I hoped not. I needed at least three hours alone with Cletus’s body. Yes! I said his body! We’ve already established my sex fiend status. Accept it.
Pushing through the front door to the carriage house, I stopped, scanned the family room and the small kitchen just beyond, working to catch my breath.
“Jenn?”
I spun around to face the door I’d just run through, finding Cletus jogging up the path. The heavy weight of anxiety and worry and all sorts of other unpleasant emotions completely evaporated, my chest expanding with air and relief. I felt like I could finally breathe.
And, my goodness, he was handsome. Just so damn handsome. His messy brown hair streaked haphazardly with stubborn blond and red highlights, his beard framing his gorgeous mouth and full lips, his bright, brilliant eyes that looked at me like I might be the most wonderful person, place, and thing in the entire universe.
My heart swelled, my eyes stinging, and I attacked him as soon as he crossed the threshold, jumping in his arms and likely suffocating him with kisses.
“I missed you. I missed you so much,” he said, kicking the door shut behind us and carrying me to the bedroom. He kicked that door shut too. His hands were everywhere, searching, grabbing, making me feel a little better about my own reaction and need.
“Take your belt off,” was all I could manage, tugging at the hem of his white long-sleeve T-shirt. Priorities people. I could handily remove all his clothes in less than a minute if he wasn’t wearing a belt.
Disobediently, he worked to divest me of my clothes instead, removing my skirt, panties, shirt, and bra. The letter—his letter—I’d tucked away between my breasts went flying, but I’d think about that later. His mouth felt frantic, he placed urgent kisses along every inch of my neck, shoulder, collar bone. I moaned, breathless at the wonderful, ticklish sensation of his beard, lips, and teeth, waking each nerve ending, goose bumps rising over the surface of my now bare skin.
“Take off this belt,” I demanded, gripping the leather roughly. “Or I swear I’ll destroy all your belts. I’ll burn them.”
A breathy chuckle rumbled from his chest, a deep, purely masculine, taunting sound. And he did not obey, instead toeing off his shoes and sliding his hand down the front of my body possessively, capturing my breast, weighting it, rubbing his thumb over the center. “I want to—”
I pushed him away, separating our bodies, undeterred by whatever plans he’d been scheming. Not this time. I wanted what I wanted and, for once, he was going to capitulate.
“Cletus,” my voice shook as I held myself away, capturing his eyes. “Take it off. Now.”
The look he gave me was a dark one, his left eyebrow lifted a scant millimeter above his right. “My sweet Jennifer, I missed you,” he said, reaching for me, not removing his belt.
Straightening my back, irrationally angry with this man I loved and lusted, I stepped away, lifting my own eyebrow and giving him my own dark look. He wanted to push? He wanted to play? Fine.
Game on.
Turning, I walked to the bed and climbed on top of it, positioning myself in front of the floor-length mirror leaning against the other wall. On my hands and knees, giving him a full view of my bottom and the apex of my spread thighs.
I saw his frown in the mirror. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I locked eyes with him and saw his dark look dissipate, replaced by wonder. He appeared stunned.
“Cletus!”
His hands moved to his belt, unfastening it lightning fast. “You want me to take you from—”
“Yes! Like before.” I arched my back, restless. “Do I need to draw a diagram?”
“That will not be necessary.” His gaze dropped to my spread legs, growing instantly hazy. Free of belt and pants in record time, he gripped his impressive length, and my mouth watered at the sight. I felt the mattress depress as he placed a knee between my legs, his other palm coming to my backside, sliding to my hip, and squeezing.
I tensed in anticipation, deepening the curve of my arched back. He cursed, and then he was inside me. A second later his eyes met mine in the mirror, and I lost my breath. Him. Behind me. Mounting me. Us. Naked. His lips. His chest. His arms. The ridges of his stomach flexing and contracting as he moved.
Like the one time before when he’d taken me this way, Cletus used quick, punishing thrusts, his thighs slap, slap, slapping mine. He was deep, so deep inside. His gaze murky, shamelessly watching wherever he liked. He looked almost callous, gritting his teeth, his jaw a severe line.
And I panted with need, unable to catch my breath. This was what I’d wanted, what I’d wished for over the last few weeks but had been reluctant to ask. I could cry with how great it felt, how great he felt inside me, the sting every time he entered, pushing me forward. The twisting and pooling in my belly as I instantly hovered on the precipice of climax, knowing I wouldn’t reach it until he deigned to stroke a skillful finger between my folds. The anticipation, the longing—God, the longing.
“Jenn. Look at me.”
Not realizing I’d closed my eyes, I opened them, and ours immediately caught in the mirror.
“Watch us . . ” he said, the command just above a whisper.
I moaned helplessly, my body clenching around him, because, once again, it was the word he hadn’t said.
Watch us fuck.
He held my gaze for just another second before his broke away to blaze over my body. I trembled, doing as he commanded, watching him look at me; watching him move his hands from my bottom to my hips, my sides, and pull me upward, exposing my front to the mirror. He didn’t enter me as deeply this way, but he held me entranced as he nuzzled my neck. One of his hands splayed over my stomach, the other fingering my breast with movements meant to tease rather than satisfy.
Everything about what he was doing at present felt like one giant tease. With me upright, he rolled his hips in a way that maintained the shallowest of penetration; my clitoris swollen, aching, and neglected; the barely there, taunting brush of his fingertips against my nipple; his mouth kissing my neck so sweetly it felt cruel, with the barest hint of suction.
I whimpered. “Please.” Restless. Tortured. Elated.
“How long have you been thinking about us like this?” Maybe to anyone else he would’ve sounded calm. But I, intimately familiar with this particular edge in his tone, recognized his control slipping away. I shivered.
I wanted to touch him—all of him—so badly. Inexplicably, I loved that I could only hold on to his muscled thighs, that I had no choice but to take whatever he gave me, rely on him for balance. And simply feel and watch.
Our eyes again locked. Held. The unveiled lust in his stare made me dizzy. What madness was this?
And why did I find the hunger, the possessiveness, and—yes—the callousness in his features so damn sexy? He looked at me like I was his plaything, an object, something to use for pleasure. He looked at me like he had plans for my body that I may or may not find objectionable, but that he didn’t care.
As I watched myself in the mirror, my knees spread wide open, my breasts jumping
each time he entered me—but never deeply enough—I realized I was looking at him the same way. I had plans for his body, and superficially, I didn’t care if he liked them or not. I wanted what I wanted. Namely, him, taking me from behind, torturing me, prolonging the anticipation, just as he was now.
He seemed to like my plans just fine. Which, in the midst of all my mindlessness, longing, bare skin, and trembling limbs made me wonder what would’ve happened if he’d said no. Would I have thrown a fit? Tried to force him?
The answer instantaneously resounded between my ears: No. I would never.
The fact that he clearly enjoyed the view and his level of control—or lack thereof—in this position only enhanced my gratification. The fact that he couldn’t seem to get enough of me, that his appetite for me matched my appetite for him, it all thrilled and excited me to no end.
I didn’t want him reluctant or yielding. I didn’t want to have to talk him into anything. I wanted him enthusiastic and, excuse my crassness, fucking my brains out.
I watched our reflection as his big hand lifted to my throat and tipped my chin back, turning my head to capture my lips in a kiss, his tongue a gentle slide, a cherishing exploration as he pumped into me with renewed vigor. The revering kiss so dichotomous to the ferocity of his greedy, forceful invasions at my center. He seduced me, coaxed and lulled with his tongue while conquering my body elsewhere, making my insides heat and hum.
Drunk on his kiss, I barely noticed as he captured one of my hands where I gripped his thigh and positioned it between my legs. Then I jolted, separating our mouths, whipping my head around to face his steady stare in the mirror. His gaze shadowy and intent, he guided our fingers—together—around my slippery apex and my breaths came fast and ragged, every nerve in my body attuned and focused on the inch ignored until now.
And in the next moment, my head flung back, and I cried out. I was possessed, transfixed by the unearthly rapture coursing through every vein, every cell, every atom.
