by Penny Reid
“We’re early for an overlook?” I made a face without thinking, scrunching my nose. “Does the view put on a show? Are these hills alive with the sound of music?” SHH! RAE! Stop talking. No more Sound of Music jokes.
I braced myself for his reaction to my goofiness, but his eyes seemed to smolder as his lips tugged. He took his time, gazing at me like it was one of his favorite pastimes, before answering, “Something like that,” in his deep, quiet southern drawl.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something else stupid, like, I do declare, Mr. Deputy. Your quiet, confident ways have me positively in raptures, even though the words weren’t far from the truth. My head felt dizzy, and I had to think he possessed some sort of sexy-voodoo magic. The recipe of him taken all together (that I’d seen so far) seemed unreal, too good to be true.
And yet everything about this guy felt entirely authentic.
He hadn’t even looked at his phone. Not once. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in someone’s company—especially not for this length of time—without them at least glancing at their phone, checking their messages or recent likes and comments on Instagram.
Attention flickering over me, he reached behind us and pulled out the cooler where our ice cream resided. It was more than just a cooler, as I’d learned after he scooped a mint chocolate chip for me and double chunk cherry for himself. It was an ice cream cone carrier cooler, complete with cone-shaped holders and a power cord that plugged into the cigarette lighter of older model cars. I’d never seen anything like it.
Straightening in the seat, I hooded my eyes and put on my best sexy lady voice. “So, breaking into ice cream shops downtown and an overlook? Where else are you taking me on my grand tour of Green Valley, deputy?”
“This is it.”
Really? “Really?”
“We’ve only got this evening, and most everyplace is closed due to folks being at the wedding, so I picked my favorite place that’s close by and accessible.” He checked his watch again and then twisted in his seat, obviously looking for something.
“I see.” I inspected the tree branches pressed against my window. “This is one of your favorite places?”
He laughed lightly, his hand moving to the driver’s side door latch. “I promise this won’t disappoint, but next time you come to town, I’ll take you all around. Hold on a sec.”
Bringing the ice cream cone cooler with him, the deputy shoved his door open and hopped out, leaving me alone in the cab. He pushed past the trees, and I watched his progress until the beam of sunlight behind me made it impossible.
Facing forward, I listened to a series of doors or compartments being opened and closed, felt the truck shift and jostle like he’d jumped into the truck bed, and I contemplated the fascinating subject that was Mr. Jackson James, sheriff’s deputy.
He didn’t seem at all nervous, nor had he been brash and bossy, and this was unusual in my experience. I’d assumed if things progressed tonight, he would either be another fumbler with shaky, sweaty hands or a cocky, dominant type. Fumblers with shaky, sweaty hands and cocky, dominant types were basically the same guy in the sack and seemed to be the only kind of guy interested in me.
They expected me to do everything—play a role, be a fantasy—and when I did anything at all, they came in sixty seconds. At first, I was okay with this since they seemed happy and they’d always go down on me after, which used to be one of my favorite things. Plus, you better believe I made them work for it.
But after so many encounters of the same flavor, I started missing real sex. Eye contact. Touching. Foreplay. Friction. Heat. A man who lasted longer than it took my manicure to dry.
But this guy . . .
Checking my makeup in the mirror, I examined the reflection staring back at me and wiped my hands on the short skirt of my dress, worrying that if things did progress between us, I might be the fumbler tonight.
A sound yanked me from my reflections, and I closed the mirror, turning in my seat just in time to see him draw even with my door. He’d put on a brown jacket, part of his deputy uniform from the looks of it, and pulled open my door, holding back the branches and underbrush.
“Hey. It’s time. Come with me.” Once again, he held out his hand and, once again, I hesitated a split second before accepting it. No longer surprised when a shock of heat ran up my arm at the contact, I unthinkingly returned his small, intoxicating smile and forgot for a moment where we were, and maybe who I was.
He stood between me and the grabbing branches—ensuring they didn’t catch on my hair or my dress, or scratch my skin—until we abruptly cleared the trees and encountered a cliff, beyond which was a sky painted in the colors of sunset while gauzy mist cradled between emerald green mountains.
“Oh . . .” I breathed, my eyes looking everywhere, absorbing the insane levels of beauty. A gust of wintery wind blew my hair back from my face and I blinked against it, turning my head slightly.
“Let’s get up here,” he said, leading me to the open tailgate. Bracing his hands on my waist, he lifted me up onto a cushy blanket he’d laid out.
Splitting my attention between the breathtaking view and my breathtaking companion, I watched as he climbed up beside me, sitting so close our thighs pressed together, knee to hip. He pulled a soft and fuzzy blanket from somewhere behind us and draped it over our laps.
Then and only then did he unzip the cooler and offer me my ice cream. “Here you go, gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” I said on autopilot, admiring the diffused light provided by the sunset and how it teased over his lightly tanned skin, reflected in his rich brown eyes, and glinted off his golden hair.
Sitting so close, I marked details of him that hadn’t come into focus until now, and the sense that he was real and yet unreal at the same time crashed over me. Like a wave. Or being thrown off a cliff. He was really just too alarmingly pretty. And big. And strong. And dreamy. That’s it—that’s the word. He was dreamy.
He’s a fantasy.
I breathed a laugh at the thought, at the irony.
“What’s funny?” he asked, looking interested.
“Oh, I was just—uh—wondering . . .” I focused my eyes on my ice cream cone, but not my attention. My thoughts were chaotic, scattered. This was so weird. Everything about this was weird.
He bumped my arm lightly. “Ask me anything. But I warn you, there’s not much to tell.”
Ugh! And he’s humble too?
I didn’t know how to keep pretending with this guy. So I asked the first thing that came to mind, giving up all pretense of being aloof and mysterious for the moment. “Given this spectacular scenery, I understand why this is one of your favorite places. But where else, what else, is on your list? Where else would we go, if we had more time?”
“Well, first, I reckon I would ask what you like. Waterfalls? Prairies with wildflowers? Historical sights, hiking trails, picnics, views?”
He . . . he wanted to know what I thought? What I wanted?
I twisted my lips to hide the flutter of anxiety in my stomach, and I couldn’t decide if it was the pleasurable kind of anxiety, or the bad, alarming kind. It’s both, and that makes it worse.
The sudden impulse to sabotage this—whatever this was—by unleashing my true, weirdo self urged me to say, “I love to fish.”
“You do?”
“I love to sit in a small boat in the sun and drink beer all day while shooting the shit. I don’t even mind hooking the bait.” I peeked at him, gauging his reaction. He didn’t seem at all put off by this information. Maybe I’ve been in LA for too long? At a Hollywood party, admitting my love for fishing would have gotten me laughed at and labeled an “Elly May.”
I hadn’t understood the reference the first time it had been applied to me, so I’d looked it up. Elly May Clampett had been the earnest, uncouth daughter in the popular 1960s TV show The Beverly Hillbillies.
But the deputy seemed interested. Encouraged, I went on, “Fis
hing is probably one of my favorite things to do, right behind board game night, camping in a tent, and when my friends let me do up their face with whatever makeup I have on hand.”
He unleashed a wide, pleased grin, but he might as well have released a kraken. I was stunned. Stunned.
His smile. Holy Moses, his smile was unreal, but it wasn’t perfect. His teeth weren’t quite perfectly straight—they probably had been at some point, right after braces, but not anymore—his lips pulled higher on one side than the other, making his grin crooked, and his eyes were nearly lost behind his brow and high cheekbones. But all these imperfections just served to make it—and him—absolutely perfect.
He leaned back, giving me the sense he wanted to get a better look at my face. “That all sounds awesome. My sister used to practice her makeup skills on me, since it was just the two of us.”
I blinked at him, working to disguise my alarm. He’d reacted to my oversharing in the exact opposite way I’d expected, but I guess that made sense if I stopped to think about it. He was a small-town guy; he probably loved to go fishing.
I quietly sucked in a breath to steady my heart as it climbed to my throat.
Maybe . . . maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe the Hollywood fumblers and dominant types were where I should be focusing my energy. But I’d never fully enjoyed myself with those guys, just like I’d never enjoyed visiting the zoo. A tiger behind a thick sheet of glass and regulated to an artificial environment lacked something essential. But there was a reason why people didn’t go visit wild animals in their natural habitats. Wild animals are real; they are dangerous; there are consequences.
Somehow, I needed to get things back on track, or I needed to escape this wild, real creature in his natural habitat.
“So, fishing. Got it,” he said, as though adding fishing to this fictional agenda. “We have Bandit Lake for that. But in the evening, we’ll go to the Front Porch for dinner, and after that, the jam session.”
“Jam session?” I eyed my ice cream cone and then brought it to my mouth for a quick lick, needing something to do so I could get my brain house in order. “You get together and make preserves?”
He laughed, another big smile, and my heart reminded me again that his smile was wonderful. “Music. A bunch of local musicians get together and improvise.”
“Do you play any instruments?” I licked a drip of mint chocolate chip from the back of my hand, not really tasting it. Focus, Rae.
“I used to. But I was never very good. Not like the folks who play at the jam sessions. They’re the real deal.”
More humility. My heart pinged, my neck hot.
“Professionals?” I asked, sighing my despair. Why is humility so attractive?
“I wouldn’t say that exactly. But they all have natural talent and are quite good.”
“But you’re not good?”
“Not at that, no.”
“Hmm.” I licked my lips of residual ice cream, peering at him from the corner of my eye.
“What?”
“It’s just strange, admitting you’re not good at something.” I bit into the scoop of ice cream.
He seemed to think my words were amusing. “Folks where you come from are good at everything?”
“No. But in Hollywood, everyone thinks they’re the best at everything. And even if they don’t think they’re the best, they pretend they are. It’s all a big game.” A game I was usually quite skilled at playing, unlike this game.
“You like the game?” he asked, his tone distracted, and this brought my attention back to his face. I found his eyes hazy, affixed to my lips.
That’s right! The ice cream cone.
Bringing the scoop to my mouth, I gave the side and top a swirling lick, watching his expression the whole time. “I do, actually,” I said sexily (sexily being one of the funniest and most awkward words in the English language, but you get my point), and then licked my lips, slow and careful.
His eyes flared but remained on my mouth. “What are you doing?”
“Is it working?” I bit my lip, trying to appear coy and tempting.
The deputy’s mouth curved, his eyelids drooping. “Depends. What are you doing?”
“Trying to make you hot by licking my ice cream cone.”
He still studied my lips. “Mmm,” was all he said, a low rumble from his chest.
I couldn’t read him, so I asked, “It’s not working?”
“Oh, no. It’s working.” He gave me a quick flash of teeth, his voice pleasingly gruff. “Let’s see if this does something for you.”
And then—and please, if you are easily shocked, brace yourself—the man let loose his tongue, licking his own two scoops in a startling display of control, skill, and WITH THE LONGEST TONGUE I’VE EVER SEEN!
Ever.
Ever in my whole life.
I grabbed his arm, turning completely toward him. “Oh my God!” I’d been mistaken. His smile wasn’t a kraken; his tongue was the kraken.
He chuckled, looking—if you can believe it—a little shy.
Unthinkingly, I grabbed his face. “Show it to me again,” I demanded.
He laughed harder but complied, his tongue slipping past his teeth all the way out to curl upward. His long tongue. His very, very long tongue. And it was not at all weird or freakish or unattractive because it was in perfect proportion and looked totally normal, just really, really long.
My breath shuddered out of me and then hitched. “You have a—a very—”
“Long tongue,” he said, grinning. Maybe he found my reaction to this news funny? I didn’t miss the faint hint of pink on his cheeks.
Oh no. He’s adorable. Sexy, humble, adorable, calm, steady, bedroom eyes, kraken tongue. This was the worst.
“Yes. Yes, you do.” I released his face and swallowed a rush of saliva, suddenly wanting to suck on his long tongue. “How is—how is that possible?” I didn’t care that my words were breathless and I was making a complete fool of myself.
He shrugged. “Don’t know. I was born with it.” He licked his lips, just a quick flick.
Meanwhile, my eyes dropped to his mouth as I waited for another sighting. “I think you won this game.”
“Were we playing a game?” He sounded both confused and pleased.
Thoughts burst forth unchecked. “Yes. I always play games, and I rarely lose. I have to hand it to you, deputy. You won that round fair and square.” My face was flushed. Actually, everywhere was flushed, but not from embarrassment. I was flushed with anticipation. With want. With lust.
“Oh yeah?” He tilted his head to the side, watching me and whispering, “What did I win?”
“Whatever you want,” I said, my stare back on his mouth.
I thought I could seduce him and keep things tidy, I thought I could be his fantasy, I thought I’d been in control. I was not in control. Whatever this was—this pull, this heat and energy—I’d never felt anything like it. Not with anyone. He won. I surrendered.
“Whatever I—whatever I want?” His words were halting, like they’d tripped over that glorious, huge tongue of his.
“Yes!” I nodded emphatically. I wanted him. Badly. So I think I can be forgiven for blurting, “But preferably something involving your tongue.”
Lifting my eyes so he would see I was serious, our gazes clashed, a jarring bolt of something hot and electric racing down my spine, twisting low in my stomach. He didn’t look amused, and he didn’t wear a smile. His eyes weren’t dancing. They were intent, focused, and so very, very hot.
Part III
"It’s tougher to be vulnerable than to actually be tough."
Rihanna
“I think . . .” he started, then stopped, his eyebrows pulling together. The deputy licked his bottom lip and drew it into his mouth to nibble on it. The movement seemed reflexive and thoughtful, artless. Which was probably why it got me so hot.
Abruptly, he blinked several times in quick succession and stood, tossing his ice cream cone away
and giving me his back. His shoulders seemed to rise and fall on an expansive breath before he turned around, his secretive smile in place, his eyes not quite meeting mine. I began to suspect this smile I’d labeled as secretive might’ve actually been shy.
Before I could give this suspicion too much thought, he stepped closer and invaded my space, his stare fastened to my lips. “As I said—” he leaned forward, nuzzling my nose gently with his “—I aim to please.”
I lifted my chin, expecting—no, aching for—a kiss. I felt his hand close around my wrist and slide to my fingers, prying them open and encouraging me to release my ice cream cone. He tossed it away, and I didn’t even care. Sacrificing mint chocolate chip on the altar of sexy promise, the potential of his long tongue held me transfixed.
The fuzzy blanket slid from my lap, baring my legs to the cold air, and he shook it out and laid it behind me, bracketing my body with his arms as he did so, keeping inches between our lips. Finished with the blanket, he placed a palm on each of my knees and gently pushed them apart. He didn’t step between them, but instead slid the backs of his fingers along my inner thighs to the scrap of lace between my legs, lifting my little skirt.
I swallowed reflexively, chasing my breath. He looked so certain, like he was following a script, like he knew exactly what to do. And here I was, just sitting there like a lump, doing absolutely nothing except watching this fantasy come to life.
“Are you cold?” he asked, his thumb circling me through the lace of my panties, making me shiver and pant.
“No. No.” I shook my head, my words shaky. “Not at all.”
His attention shifted to the suit jacket still covering my shoulders. On a wild whim, afraid he’d stop if he thought I was the least bit cold, I pushed off the jacket. And then, because I really didn’t want him to stop, I leaned forward enough to untuck my dress from where I’d been sitting on the hem and whipped the stretchy black fabric over my head.
His lashes flickered, perhaps having trouble believing his eyes, and a breathy curse slipped past his lips. I’d surprised him, but his thumb never ceased its gentle torment at my center. I widened my legs.
