by Nicole Snow
“Why? So I can go hop in Uncle Dean’s truck and catch the flight home to misery? No thanks.”
He shakes his head, giving me a look that’s equal parts sexy and pissed with his eyes blazing jade glass.
“Get the fuck down here,” he orders.
“Hmm, I don’t know. Need a good reason to shimmy down when I’ve worked so hard to get up here...and I’m not seeing it,” I say, my sarcasm echoing through the barn.
He makes a flustered sound, muttering a few rapid fire curses under his breath. “Can’t we just talk without me worrying you’re gonna break a leg?”
“I’m not going to fall.”
“I’ll be convinced when you’re standing on the floor next to me,” he snaps. “Now get down here.”
Just to prove I’m totally in control—and to show off, let’s be real—I do a cartwheel drop on my way down, whipping around the silk as the world spins.
“Shit, now you’re just trying to give me a heart attack.” He grasps my waist the instant I’m in reach. “This was a bad idea.”
“What?” I ask, panic in my voice.
He can’t mean us, right?
“These silk ropes,” he growls, shaking his head. “Seeing you flippin’ and twistin’ around without a net or even a mat...it scares the living shit out of me, Tory.”
For a second, I frown, actually feeling a little bad.
Then I remember I’m still mad at him for the asshat move that sent me into an early anger-workout.
Untwisting my leg from the silk, I let him lower me to the floor.
“I know what I’m doing, Quinn,” I say. “I wish you’d just trust me.”
He looks at me silently, grasping the fact that I’m not just talking about the stupid silks.
The look he gives scolds fiercer than a spanking, before he flattens me against him, covering my mouth with angry lips, delving deep with his tongue.
Holy hell.
I’m instantly caught up in the kiss that reminds me who’s in charge, sapping my will to fight with tongue, with teeth, with so much passion I can’t fight.
Is this what gets taught to secret agent men in the FBI?
How to make a woman delirious and fully captive with a kiss that’s too perfect for life?
Oh, wait, I can think of other things. Mainly where I want this kiss to lead.
His bed, mostly. Or mine. Or the couch. Or right here on the floor.
I’m not particular about where it happens, I just want it.
And later, after I’ve wrung every snarly drop of passion from his balls, after I can think again, I’ll get my answers from Quinn Faulkner.
Promise.
18
We Goat the Beat (Faulkner)
Whatever.
So maybe Peach knows what she’s doing on those silk ropes, and I’m the fool who’s trying to tell her otherwise.
Maybe I’m also the idiot with my head up my ass, missing a compass to point the way back to common sense.
Not when it comes to her.
I always knew once I’d kissed her, claimed her, dragged her to my bed that we’d be shattering the only world we knew—the friend zone.
And as soon as I laid it to waste, I’d want more, and that’s exactly what happened.
Having her again—morning, noon, and night—is the only coherent thought in my head.
And it’s the one craving I can’t have. Not like the way we’ve been going.
That rope around the goat is a grim reminder what’s at stake.
Someone was up to no good, no two ways about it.
Just like the camera taken out of commission at Granny’s place.
Although it’s pure torture, I rip my mouth off hers before it’s too late.
Before the need to haul her back to my cave for another round of the best goddamn sex of my life wins over any rational thinking.
You’ve seen that dumbass meme about two wolves inside a person?
That’s me right now. One wolf wants to go monk mode so I can focus on this Pickett shit and nothing else. The other just wants to spend all day seeing how many times I can fill Tory Three Names till she’s got triplets.
I release her with a reluctant growl and huff out a breath.
She eyes me coyly. “Do you really want me to go back to Chicago today?”
“No,” I huff out, taking a step away from her, needing space between us. “But you should go back. What I want ain’t relevant.”
She walks over, picks up a water bottle, and takes a long drink.
“I told you I will. Someday.” She faces me with her blue eyes lit. “I’m done being told what to do.”
I try not to glare, to avoid launching into a wild-eyed lecture about how awful, how dangerous the Pickett brothers were.
Bart and Jake both had rap sheets a mile long. Small-time petty drug dealing when they were young, car chases, armed robberies, and even if it was never in his official record, I know Jake Pickett was beating on his girl.
I know it too well.
Just like I know his dickless snake of a brother won’t hold back any atrocity on Tory if it means killing me.
They’re the devil’s twins. Two gargantuan freaks who live, breathe, and shit pure evil, inside and out.
Sure, I get her need to stand up for herself. Even Dean’s disgusted by how her ma orders her around like she never aged a day past sixteen.
Still, her family drama can’t hold a candle to winding up at the business end of Bat Pickett and his thirst for blood—figurative and literal.
Bastard hasn’t shown up yet, but he will. If he’s not already out of jail, he will be any week.
That’s why his goons are here, swarming an unsuspecting Dallas. So he knows exactly where I’m at, my schedule, my vulnerabilities.
Namely Tory.
Bat’s gonna use her to try to get to me. His own psycho brand of payback.
I can’t have that shit.
There’s a showdown so imminent I can feel it in the air.
While the girls were chatting this morning at the Larkin place, I pulled Drake aside and we talked.
He’s planning to fly North Earhart Oil’s helicopter over the lake to see if there’s any activity at the old Nelson place. He also said he’d check out the cameras at Granny’s.
Things I should be doing myself but can’t because I need to keep my eyes glued to Tory.
“I’m not trying to tell you what to do, darlin’.” I heave out a frustrated breath.
Hands on her hips, she stares at me, assessing whether or not she wants to believe me.
“Why did you say I should go home then? That’s a pretty big power move, Mr. Bossypants.”
I avert my gaze, racking my brain for excuses.
“What aren’t you telling me, Quinn?” she asks softly.
I shake my head.
“Fine. You don’t want me here, I’ll take the hint.” She turns and starts walking, leaving me burned again by my tongue-tied bullshit.
“Wait.” I catch up in a few quick strides and grasp her arm. “I want you here, Tory. It’s just not safe.”
“What? That goon from Oklahoma again with the emo kid tattoos? Pssht.” She shakes her head. “Nice try, mister.”
“It’s the damn truth. That goon is connected to the asshole in prison, who’ll be walking free anytime, if he ain’t already. And he’ll beeline it here with a score to settle.”
Frowning, as if she doesn’t believe it’s all that serious, she shrugs.
“So tell the sheriff. He’d probably enjoy some real excitement in a little town like this.”
“Wallace knows, believe me, but it goes a lot deeper than you think.”
She pulls her arm out of my hold and heads for the door, a sadness in her blue eyes. “You don’t have to make things up to get rid of me, Quinn. I’ll go.”
She can’t be serious.
I start to say I’m not trying to get rid of her, but stop, because technically...isn’t that exactly what I’m trying to do?
<
br /> Send her sweet butt off to safety, where she won’t be another pawn for Bat to check me permanently.
Annoyed, I follow her to the house, trying like hell to keep my anger under wraps.
“Listen, I’m not just spinning stories. I meant what I said. I want you here. I want you to stay, but it’s not safe with a mad dog who could show up on our doorstep any time. Don’t you get it?” I bite off.
She stops in the kitchen once we’re through the door and slowly turns to face me.
“I might, if you’d tell me the truth,” she says, crossing her arms.
“I’ve been telling you nothing but,” I say.
Hurt crosses her face as she shakes her head.
“Not enough to make me believe that’s the whole reason you want me to leave. What are you holding back?”
A frigging boulder, I think to myself. A mountain of grief and regret, all wrapped up in the biggest clusterfuck of my life.
The worst part is, she’s right.
I haven’t told her enough to make her believe anything. Not about the Pickett case and not about what happened.
“You really want to know?” I growl, raking a hand through my hair.
“Try me,” she says, never peeling those endless blue eyes off me.
Fine.
Fuck it.
The fact that I’ll try, for her sake, tells me I must be in love—one more scary, unexpected, all-too-complicated thing to deal with. But first, story time.
“The Pickett case was a shitshow from the very start,” I begin, slowly pacing the kitchen. “Jake Pickett was a lowlife, a low-grade meth dealer who worked his way up and managed to get a pretty slick operation going with distribution based around local laundromats. That’s what put him on the DEA radar. Petty drug dealing doesn’t usually fall under FBI jurisdiction, but when it also involves a lot of illegal weapons moving around to keep his crews secure, blackmailing local businesses, and a heap of money laundering? Yeah, then it’s Go Go Gadget Feds.”
I know I’m running my mouth like a fool because she smiles at the Inspector Gadget reference.
If only any of this shit were worth a laugh.
“Eventually, the DEA busted a larger drug cartel based in Texas, working its way up through Oklahoma. One of their guys who flipped gave us solid leads on the laundromats, and a repair business Jake Pickett was definitely involved in. I was assigned to follow up on the lead with my partner, Justin Franklin. It was like a spiderweb, no clean line straight to Pickett, yet he was weaved in here and there.”
I felt like something was always missing, right from the beginning, but had to follow orders.
“But you found the connection and arrested him, right?” she asks.
“Yes and no.” My gut churns at how it all went down. “We got enough on Pickett to lure him in for questioning. His lawyer covered his ass, so we didn’t get a smoking gun, but his girlfriend felt the walls closing in. She started talking behind his back, insisted there was someone else at the head of the dragon. Not Jake or his little brother. Someone far more powerful than him, and she agreed to tell us all, if we’d get her and her kid into protection.”
I sigh, turning my back, fully aware her eyes are boring right through me.
“Of course we agreed,” I continue. “Justin was transferring her to a safe house while I was still at the scene of a meth lab bust. They were ambushed.”
I clamp my jaw tight, recalling the scene, the gore, the twisted metal.
“Quinn?” she whispers softly, laying a hand on my shoulder.
“It looked like a scene out of Bonnie and fucking Clyde, the way that car got shot up. There wasn’t a foot or two of metal missing bullet holes.” I walk across the room, trying to get the image out of my head. “Justin wasn’t even supposed to be there. He was scheduled to fly out the night before. Go home. His wife was having their second son. He stayed because of me. Because we’d worked together for so long, we could read each other’s minds. He insisted I needed backup.”
“Oh my God—how? Don’t you guys get more men for this sort of situation?”
“Local police escort never showed up in time. It was Jake himself who sprung the trap, right in broad daylight in the city. He hadn’t cared one bit that it was his girlfriend. He mowed them down.”
“Jesus, I can’t imagine...” She’s all soft voice and comfort now, folding her arms around my waist tightly.
“Yeah. I arrested him a little while later after a shootout. The fuck knew he was cornered in an old grain mill, surrounded, and didn’t have the balls to off himself. We got him. The case was closed. A few months later, he was drowned in prison. Not too long later, Bat took over his brother’s machine and started making moves for revenge. Didn’t think much about it till I heard he’d taken over Jake’s operation and ended up getting himself arrested over a hit he organized against the men in prison who took out his brother.”
I end it there, just as her hands skim up my chest.
I’m sure there’s more behind it, infuriating details we haven’t hashed out, but I’m no longer on the official case.
By choice. I have to keep telling myself that.
I resigned after what happened to Justin, but looking at Tory, knowing she’s involved?
It makes me wish I hadn’t.
Then I might have that last key I’m missing. Information I desperately need.
“I’m sorry about your friend, your partner dying,” she whispers in my ear.
Fuck, I want to pull her close, but refrain.
“You believe me now? That’s why I suggested you return to Chicago, so you aren’t around when Bat comes knocking. When he comes to put me under.”
“You can’t let that happen!” She loops her arms around my neck, stepping in front of me, her eyes shimmering with fear. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Like hell.
And the fact that she won’t be scares me pale.
I’ve never cared about anyone the way I do her, and when her lips touch mine, I can’t help devouring them.
It’s almost an instinct, like breathing, delving my tongue into her mouth, teasing her lips with languid thrusts bordering on hypnotic.
I can’t stop myself from throwing her over my shoulder a minute later, carrying her upstairs.
Looks like the inner wolf that wants to fuck wins this round.
Once she’s down on the bed, I lay beside her and stare.
Don’t know why.
To give myself one last chance to come to my senses?
Good fucking luck.
With the way she’s grinning up at me, brushing her legs against my waist, my cock is about to rip through my jeans.
If I’m not cursed the instant her tongue grazes mine, I am when she bites her lip, gazing up with so much longing I’d be a monster to deny her.
My dick screams to be freed, to sink deep inside her, to rut hard and empty this tension that’s making me fucking shake.
Without skipping a beat, she pulls her tank top over her head and throws it aside.
The sports bra goes next, nearly ripping off in my hand, exposing the tits she insists are too small.
Bullshit.
I’ve never seen, stroked, and sucked a more perfect pair in the known universe.
I place my hand behind her neck, fisting her cinnamon-red hair with its faded pink highlights.
The better to hold her head in place as my lips ravage hers, cupping one breast, teasing her pert nipple with my fingers.
Tory’s hands are under my shirt in a hot second, shoving it up till I have no choice but to end the kiss and shed my clothes.
The jeans go too while she shimmies out of her shorts.
Like the little minx she is, I get a sly, red-faced smile and a second’s hesitation before she hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and brings them down last.
Fuck, she’s soaked for me, glistening in the evening light seeping through the blinds.
Once we’re fully n
aked, there’s no stopping us.
Everything she does, everything about her, flicks a switch deep in my head that says own her.
Tory’s just as ravenous. Nothing left to the imagination in how hot and wet her pussy is, how she bites at my neck when I sink down into her, and how she fucking guts me when her legs twist high over her head and she tucks her feet behind her ears.
Apparently, years of dancing pay ridiculous dividends in the bedroom.
The fact that I can fuck her while she’s bent like some kind of peach pretzel snaps the very last thread of my sanity.
I’m on her like a hammer, driving deeper than ever, my swollen cockhead stopping just short of her womb.
If I could still form words, and not these animalistic pleasure growls, I’d let her know every last bit of what she does to me.
Being with her brings me highs I’ve never fathomed. Beyond just sex.
It ain’t just fucking that has my heart fit to bang right through my ribs.
And it’s not wanting to unscramble the Pickett shit from my head that’s got my mouth on hers so tight, my hips coming down, taking her from one shrill release into the next like a human fucking freight train.
This is why they call it making love.
Something I never understood before Tory.
Something I’ll never have again if I’m fool enough to let her go.
When the sex happens with your whole soul, a dude knows.
And every last bit of her is just as honest and obsessed when she’s finished coming for me once, digging her little nails into my back muscles for dear life.
I give her a breather, anchored deep inside her, bringing her back to me with swift caresses of my tongue. The look she beams is blue-eyed angel crack.
A vision of the woman I was always meant to fuck, to love, to make my wife and the mother of my kids.
Her legs hook around me tighter as she arches up, taking me even deeper, ready for me to turn myself inside out when I come so deep inside her.
Shit.
“God, I love having you inside me,” she whimpers, her eyes still glazed over with lust and something calmer. “I love you, Quinn.”
Fucking aye.
What a time to say it...but I can’t think of a better time to deliver one more shot to the heart.
