BULL (The Buck Boys Heroes Book 1)

by Deborah Bladon

  I’m not, but I’m keeping that to myself in the same way I’ve kept my past to myself.

  “At least consider telling her,” he says as he adjusts the collar of the pajama top he’s wearing.

  I waited in a chair in the corner of the guestroom while he was in the bathroom getting ready for bed. I couldn’t leave things unsaid because what if this night is his last?

  I’ve asked repeatedly if he’d like to see a heart specialist now that he’s back in New York. That’s been strictly selfish on my part because I don’t want the old man to leave me.

  He insists that he doesn’t need a second, third or fourth opinion. He knows his fate.

  I move to face him. “Lloyd, I appreciate that you believe in transparency in marriage, but this is different.”

  “It’s not.” He places a shaking hand on my shoulder. “You’re assuming that Trina doesn’t have the capacity to understand who you once were. If a woman truly loves a man, she’ll see past his weaknesses to his growth and maturity. You’re not the same bull-headed kid I met years ago.”

  I fight off a smile. “I sure as hell hope not.”

  “Don’t get me wrong.” He brushes his hand over the front of my shirt. “You’re still just as stubborn now, but you only dig in your heels when you believe strongly in something.”

  I see a path that will lead me out of this conversation, so I jump on it. “You’re talking about Kay?”

  He huffs out a stuttered laugh. “I’m not, but I made the right decision about her design. It’s what the market wants right now, Bull.”

  “You know how I feel about that.” I chuckle. “My opinion hasn’t changed, Lloyd. Her timepiece is dated. We’d do better with one of the designs I recommend.”

  “I still have the final say,” he reminds me. “We are going with Kay’s design. You have the job of telling her that.”

  “Trina’s going to handle it.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Her face lit up like the Eiffel Tower when I told her she could break the good news to Kay.”

  He studies me as a slow smile creeps over his lips. “You’re already learning the pleasure of sacrificing for your wife.”

  “Kay’s a friend to Trina,” I say to try and sidestep what he views as a romantic gesture. “It seems fitting that she should handle that discussion.”

  “Sure.” He smirks. “Keep telling yourself that. You’re a good husband, Graham, whether you want to admit it or not.”

  I’m a shitty husband.

  I’ll admit that.

  I’m paying my wife to be here. If that’s not as fucked up as a marriage can get, I sure as hell don’t know what is.

  I close the doors to the guestroom softly before turning to make my way toward the small bedroom I’m currently staying in.

  I don’t make it a few feet before I notice light filtering from a doorway on my left.

  I quicken my steps. Old habits die hard, and I’ve never shaken the one that sends me to the light switch when leaving a room. In this case, I’m picking up Lloyd’s slack since it seems that he forgot to turn off the lights in the library.

  Just as I step inside the doorway to reach for the switch, I notice movement on the other side of the room.

  It’s my wife with her back to me.

  She’s on her tiptoes with that black dress she’s been wearing all night swinging on her hips.

  I could watch this for hours.

  I should walk over and offer to help her retrieve the book she’s reaching for, but I don’t.

  I stare.

  Suddenly, and without any fucking warning, she spins around to face me.

  Jesus. My cock can’t take much more of this.

  Her glorious tits are straining against the fabric of the dress since it shifted, likely from her trying to grab a book that’s well out of her reach.

  “Graham.” My name comes out of her wrapped in an almost moan.

  It’s probably a goddamn groan of exasperation, but in my mind, it’s being filed away for eternity as a fucking moan.

  “Trina,” I shoot her name at her with a smile. “What are you doing?”

  It’s rhetorical and meant to keep her standing there looking like the dream she is.

  It works.

  She heaves a heavy sigh. “I wanted a book, but I’m not tall enough to reach it.”

  I’ve never swooped in to be the hero for any woman, but then again, I’ve never been married before.

  I take wide steps until I’m right in front of her.

  That sends her back a touch on her bare feet. “It’s that novel up there.”

  There are thousands of books lining the wooden shelves in this room. The former owner had a thing for books and no will to speak of, so I inherited them when I bought the apartment.

  One day I’ll get around to donating them all to a worthy cause. That can’t happen until Lloyd is gone. He loves this library.

  I inch closer to her. “Which novel?”

  “That one,” she says without movement.

  “I can’t read… minds, Trina.”

  The slight hesitation between my words sends a small grin to her lips. “I’ll say you can’t.”

  She tries to turn to face the bookshelf, but I stop her by grabbing hold of her forearm. “What does that mean?”

  I feel a shiver race through her, but it’s warm, way too fucking warm in here for her body to react that way. It’s because of my touch. It has to be.

  “You know what it means,” she whispers.

  I don’t bother whispering back because Lloyd had so much wine that he’s likely passed out by now. Besides, the guestroom is too far from here for voices to carry. “I don’t. Tell me.”

  She shifts on her feet, tugging against my touch, but there’s no fight in her. She’s not putting any effort into trying to break free of my grasp. “You’re not the most perceptive man in the world.”

  I toss my head back and let out a deep laugh. “What the fuck?”

  She digs in. I feel it in the way her arm flexes. “You aren’t good at reading between the lines. You miss signals all the time.”

  “What signals?” I bite the words out because my cock, once again, is waging war with me.

  I want this woman more than I’ve wanted anyone in my life.

  “I can’t list them all,” she says with a hint of fake exasperation edging her tone.

  “List one,” I demand with a smirk.

  She laughs that off with a nervous uneven giggle.

  I glance down to catch sight of the top of her full breasts. I drag my gaze back up just in time to see the tremor of my wife’s bottom lip as she slicks her tongue over it.

  “You want me to kiss you, Trina.”

  Her chin rises slightly. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I’m perceptive,” I say, keeping my eyes trained on her face. “Don’t deny it, Mrs. Locke. You want to kiss me just as badly as I want to kiss you.”

  “You want to kiss…”

  I swallow her last word when I press my lips to my wife’s for a kiss that I know will leave me a different man. I hope it leaves my wife with an aching need for more.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Trina

  I give in to my body’s need and tangle my hands in my husband’s hair.

  That lures a soft groan from him as he deepens the kiss.

  I fight to keep in a moan, but I’m lost to it as soon as I feel his hand on my back.

  It trails down until it’s on the top of my ass.

  His lips leave mine just long enough for him to bite my name out in a strangled whisper. “Trina.”

  I don’t need him to say anything else. I feel it. I sense what he wants because it’s what I’m craving too.

  I want him to touch me.

  “Graham, please.” It’s a plea that I can’t contain.

  I have never wanted a man more than I want him.

  My breath hitches when his hand slides under the skirt of my dress.

  “Lac
e,” he grits out as soon as his fingertips find my panties. “What color?”

  “Red.” I somehow manage to get the word out before his lips are on mine again.

  Our tongues dance against each other. The exploration is much more tentative than his hand. I can feel it gliding across my ass. Two fingers dip under the thin strip of lace covering my hip.

  “I’m going to ruin these,” he warns before he rips the panties apart with a yank of his hand.

  I hold in another moan and instead let two words out. “Not here.”

  “Here,” he insists just as his fingers burn a hot path over my skin.

  I kiss him deeper, wanting to taste him. He’s a heady mix of the wine we had at dinner and something minty. It’s intoxicating. My mind clouds with images of him fucking me here on the floor like two people too desperate to have the will to walk down a hallway and hide their desire behind a door.

  As his fingertips trace a path over my pussy, a scream charges through me.

  He catches it with a kiss so decadent that I drop one of my hands to the front of his pants.

  I curve a palm around his erection. He’s thick and so hard that I want to drop to my knees and circle my lips around his shaft.

  “Want to fuck you,” he grits out with my bottom lip between his teeth.

  I fumble with one hand to undo his belt.

  Common sense doesn’t have a part in this. Pure need is driving every motion of my body and every sound falling from me.

  I tense when his finger finds my clit.

  The hum that falls from his lips onto mine is enough to send my hips forward.

  I ache for his touch and the promise of the pleasure, even though I fear the aftermath.

  If he fucks me it changes everything.

  I chase that thought away as I push closer, tempting him to take more. I want more. I want both of his hands on me. I want that mouth on my pussy, and I need that cock that’s still pressing against my palm.

  A sharp noise stops us both.

  Our lips part in slow motion, with an ache settling over mine almost immediately.

  I lock eyes with my husband.

  He doesn’t break our gaze even when the sound fills the silence again.

  It’s a chime. A lure that is meant to take his attention away from me, but he ignores it.

  I almost fall back into assistant mode and remind him to check his phone, but I want to be more important than whoever is trying to reach him.

  He glances at my mouth, and I know what he’s thinking before the words leave his lips because they are primed on mine.

  “I want my cock in your pretty little mouth.”

  The words are so bold and uninhibited that I can feel desire pooling between my legs. He must feel it too, because he groans his approval as his fingers slide through my wetness.

  “You’re so ready for me,” he says hoarsely. “You want my cock.”

  I squeeze it through the rough fabric of his pants. “Only as badly as you want me.”

  His eyes flare open. They’re wide with the same yearning I feel inside. “I’m going to fuck you here. Now, Trina.”

  I hear it as a promise and not a threat.

  I’m in such desperate need for his touch that I’d let him parade me naked down Broadway if I knew his cock was my reward.

  His phone sounds once again, interrupting our need-fest with another chime.

  “Goddammit,” he mutters under his breath with his lips pressed against mine.

  I feel him slipping from greedy husband to devoted CEO, so I part my feet. It’s just enough to serve as a silent invitation to take more from me.

  “Jesus,” he whispers when two of his fingers slide into my channel. “You’re tight. You’re so fucking tight.”

  I close my eyes, not wanting him to see how badly I need him.

  He heaves out a guttural groan just as his phone rings.

  The sound cuts through the moment like a jagged knife.

  He fingers me in a slow pace as his thumb hones in on my clit.

  From beneath hooded eyelids, I watch him. His gaze is set to my face as his fingers go deeper. Each thrust into me is sure and skilled.

  I close in on my orgasm with sharp, short jerks of my hips as he leisurely uses his fingers to take me there.

  The phone quiets, but within the time it takes to catch my next breath, it starts ringing again.

  With his eyes pinned to mine, his finger finds that spot inside of me that sends me into an immediate, intense climax.

  I reach down to grab his hand. I ride it through the crest, and as I hold in a moan that could wake the dead, he takes my mouth in a deep, lush kiss.

  As soon as our lips part, he dips his other hand into his pocket to retrieve his phone. He answers the call. “Locke.”

  Trying to find my bearings, I stumble back a step.

  Graham bends down, scoops up my torn panties from the floor, and leaves me a panting mess as he heads out of the room, telling someone else that he’ll see them right away.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Graham

  I’m a bastard.

  I see no reason to sugarcoat the truth. I never have.

  With my fingers still inside of my wife, I answered my phone.

  In the hours since it happened, I’ve managed to half-convince myself it was for self-preservation. I was feeling something when I watched her orgasm.

  It wasn’t the same empty satisfaction I always feel when I’m with a woman.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been told that the sex was great or someone wants more, it’s always the same hollow void that is never filled by a lover’s words of appreciation.

  Tonight was different.

  I watched Trina’s face as she gave in to her body’s raw need. I felt her pussy clench around my fingers as I lured her closer to an orgasm.

  I could tell it wouldn’t take long even though I wanted, in some abstract selfish, and fucked up way, for it to take forever.

  I wanted to freeze time with Trina on the precipice of her climax so I could cement the memory of the way she looked in my mind for eternity.

  When the phone rang for a second time, I saw it as a coward’s escape from the emotions that had fought their way to the surface inside of me.

  I felt connected to my wife as we shared that moment.

  I wanted to drop to my knees, press my mouth to her pussy, and taste every drop of her need.

  But I didn’t.

  I answered the goddamn phone.

  I listened as a friend invited me for a drink while I watched in wonder as the most beautiful woman who has ever drawn a breath came down from the high of an orgasm.

  I felt it.

  I almost lost it as her pussy gripped my fingers like a velvety soft vice.

  Then I took her ripped panties and raced out of my penthouse so I could get a lungful of air that didn’t taste or feel like her.

  I haven’t managed to find that yet.

  She’s all around me even as I sit in this almost vacant bar and listen to a man I’ve known for more than a decade comment on a story that is considered breaking news in the world of finance. I consider it a waste of my time because what’s bad news today is yesterday’s news by the time I wake up tomorrow.

  “Graham.” He snaps his fingers near my ear. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Bane,” I say his name in a pissy tone. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”

  His blue-eyed gaze drops to my left hand and the silver band that circles my finger. “You’re thinking about your wife.”

  The accusation is so marred in suppressed sarcasm that I huff out a laugh. “What if I am?”

  He studies me, likely trying to determine if I’m serious or not.

  He finally abandons that thought with a shake of his head. That’s followed by a shove of his hand through his black hair.

  It’s not a gesture of frustration as it is when I do it. Kavan Bane never shows annoyance or weakness. He’s a po
werhouse. A man who has been dragged through life’s gutter and managed to crawl out without giving a shit about anyone or anything.

  Yet, I consider him a friend and a close one at that.

  “Is it still a fake marriage?”

  Kavan was part of the toast to my wife on our wedding night. I met him, Harrison Keene, and Sean Wells in the private dining room of a French restaurant on Tenth Avenue.

  It was one of our monthly dinners.

  Those started shortly after we graduated from the boarding school we all attended. College sent us in different directions, but we made a point of getting together whenever we could.

  Since then, all of our lives have changed in remarkable and torturous ways.

  We toasted to my sham of a marriage after I exchanged vows with Trina at the courthouse.

  My three friends didn’t voice their approval or any disappointment. They understand the reason I put a ring on my assistant’s finger.

  After the toast, I thought the subject was a moot point.

  “Screw you,” I toss out the phrase that has served me well since I was a fifteen-year-old kid with long bangs.

  “Mature,” Kavan counters the same way he always has.

  I take a mouthful of the drink in my hand, mentally searching for a way to shift the discussion to anything but my wife.

  “I appreciate this,” he goes on, “I’m not talking about the drink.”

  I paid the tab as I often do when we sit side-by-side in this place. I still don’t know how it always turns out that way. Kavan is worth a hell of a lot more than I am.

  “I know,” I say quietly. “I know.”

  I know that sometimes he needs to sit and talk about nothing with someone who has witnessed everything he’s been through.

  He taps the top of the bar with his fist. “I’m going home. Where are you headed?”

  On another night, it might be to the club a few blocks over to find a woman willing to take me to her place for a fuck, but not tonight.

  “Home too,” I answer before I finish what’s left in my glass. “I have a full day tomorrow.”

  That’s a lie, but Kavan won’t know. I’m notorious for going into the office on Sundays. I’ve always spent more time there than anywhere.