Roustabout

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  She underlined her words with a swift look. A sliver of jealousy speared through my gut. I didn’t like the idea of that at all.

  She raised her eyebrows. “But I’ve never been kissed the way you kissed me. And you know? I’ve been thinking what Kes would say if knew about this . . . thing . . . between us . . .”

  My stomach twisted.

  “ . . . he’d say life is too short. You really want to spend the rest of your life wondering ‘what if’? Because I don’t. Maybe I’m wrong. In fact, why don’t you tell me I’m wrong? Tell me that life is easy, and that second chances are a dime a dozen; that third chances are more common than pennies. Go on, Tucker—tell me what you think I should hear.”

  Her crystal blue eyes sparked with defiance and the words I should have said dried in my throat.

  She leaned forward, hooking her fingers into my belt loops and pulling me forward until her lips were on mine again.

  This kiss was soft, sensual, and the wanting and needing that I’d been pushing away all evening flooded open. I crushed her body against mine, almost lifting her out of the saddle.

  “Are you finally agreeing with me?” she gasped.

  Tera

  I opened my mouth in a gasp. Tucker didn’t need a further invitation. His tongue slid in and he was no longer gentle.

  One strong hand gripped my hip and the other was on the nape of my neck, controlling my body as his mouth angled over mine, his greater height and strength pulling me up from the seat of his bike.

  Then he tore his lips from mine, panting against my neck, his warm breath fanning my hair.

  “One night,” he grit out. “One night and then . . .”

  “Shh, don’t say it. You don’t need to. You’re on the road and I live in California. I get it.”

  “Kes will fucking kill me,” he groaned.

  “Kes will never know,” I whispered, stroking my hands over his butt and the back of his thighs.

  The moan that came out of his mouth was more animal than human, and God help me, I wanted to hear that sound again.

  “Let’s go to my room,” I said, my voice urgent.

  He shook his head softly. “We can’t be seen together. If word gets out that the Senator’s daughter . . .”

  “We’ll go in separately. Room 837,” I said. “I want you to tuck me in, Tucker. Now give me your bike keys.”

  “What?”

  “I said give me your bike keys—I’m not giving you the chance to wimp out on me again.”

  He choked on a laugh and shook his head. “You are something else.”

  “So you said,” I agreed, pushing my hand into his jeans pocket and pulling out his keys.

  His smile was heated and amused as I grinned at him over my shoulder.

  I was 27—not a teenage virgin on her first date. Although I had somewhat exaggerated my experience to Tucker: I’d had three serious boyfriends, all long-term. The sex had been nice, pretty good in one case, but nothing that had turned me on as much as kissing Tucker. Nothing that burned.

  I am in so much trouble.

  I reached my room in a couple of minutes. And then I had a metaphorical stumble. Should I wait by the door? Should I wait in the bed? No, I had to open the door to him. Should I leave the door ajar? Oooh, bad, bad idea. Should I . . . ?

  But then I heard a quiet knock outside—Tucker must have been less than 30 seconds behind me.

  I yanked open the door without checking the peephole—rookie mistake—but Tucker was leaning against the wall, looking more sinful than a triple chocolate cake with whipped cream and sprinkles. Waaay more.

  “Last chance to be a good girl,” he said, his voice low and resonant.

  I shook my head slowly. “We’re a long way past that, Mr. Roustabout.”

  “Good,” he said, pushing the door wide open and stalking into the room. “Because I want to see you being bad.”

  “Back at you,” I laughed, my voice more breathless than I’d have liked. “You’re going to come so hard . . .”

  He stepped closer, his body looming over me. Suddenly 5’7”—or 5’ 11” in my heels—felt petite.

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes,” I challenged. “That’s a fact.”

  There was a moment when promise and power and the weight of every mistake hung in the air. A moment when I could have, should have stopped it before it started.

  Then he kissed me—a kiss so intense, so deep, so demanding, that I forgot my name; forgot my lungs needed air; forgot that blood should wash through my brain.

  I felt his body shaking as the kiss intensified, and then with a low moan he pulled back, cupping himself over his jeans with one hand, his lips trembling against my neck.

  A pause. A breath.

  And then our bodies crashed together again.

  There was no slow seduction, no tender moment; this was possession—mine, his. It didn’t matter.

  Our teeth clashed, hot breaths panting into each other’s mouths. I grabbed his hair, my fingers slipping through the short locks, nails biting into his scalp. I angled his head, tugging his lips to my neck, where he licked and sucked so hard I knew that I’d have hickeys. He fisted my hair and pulled my head sharply, his mouth urgent and demanding.

  While his hands were occupied, my roaming fingers skated over his torso, once, twice and for a third time, greedily tracing the ridges and dips of his muscles. I watched, fascinated, as he sucked in a sudden breath.

  Then he yanked his shirt over his head and my eager hands were thirsty, stroking and sliding over his satiny skin, pulling roughly at the smattering of soft hairs on his chest.

  When his hands tugged on the hem of my t-shirt, I took the hint, yanking it up and tossing it over my shoulder. Immediately, his head dipped to my chest and I felt his warm, wet mouth fastening over the lace of my bra, his tongue working under the material, his teeth pulling the cups down.

  As he licked and sucked and bit my nipples, I arched into him, pressing his face into my boiling flesh, suffocating him against my breasts, watching him gasp and drown.

  Then he was on his knees, kissing and sucking my belly, working his hands into the waistband of my jeans. The tight fabric bit into my flesh as he forced his hands inside, lower, lower and lower again, until his fingers were brushing against my clit.

  I scrabbled frantically trying to find the button to open my jeans, fighting those possessive, knowing fingers as they fucked me where I stood.

  An orgasm flamed through me, taking me out at the knees and we stumbled backward toward the bed. When I fell, Tucker’s hard, heavy body crushed me into the mattress. I gasped and shoved at his shoulder and he rolled suddenly, pulling me on top of him so I was splayed across his broad chest, the hairs tickling my exposed skin, as I gasped and wheezed and tried to fill my lungs.

  He snapped open the clasp on my bra with one hand and pulled it from my body with brutal strength.

  But he didn’t let up. He grabbed and pushed and forced the denim from my legs as I lay on top of him. I broke a nail as I struggled to pull the zipper down and he growled as the broken edge scored a red line across his stomach.

  I was naked and lying on top of a man made of muscle. He was satin-hard, iron-soft, polished stone and silky skin.

  He rolled again and this time I was underneath him and I thought he’d fuck me through his jeans, the rough material abrading the smooth skin of my thighs.

  “Off!” I gasped. “Take them off!”

  I scrambled with shaking hands to undo the button and zipper of his jeans, and he let his cock spring free from his briefs, the blunt head poised at my entrance. I shoved him hard and he swore, lifting his body to push the denim away so his jeans fell into a pile at the bottom of the bed, his black briefs still tangled on one foot. He kicked again, and his clothes disappeared onto the floor.

  I thought this was it. I thought this was the moment when Tucker McCoy would fuck me for the first and last time, but I was wrong.

  His body slid l
ower and lower down the bed, the scruff of his cheeks and chin harsh on my sensitive flesh.

  I whimpered as his head pushed between my thighs. Unapologetically making room for himself, he hooked my legs over his shoulders and opened me wide.

  Heat that was part embarrassment, part arousal, flooded through me. When his tongue touched me, stroking me, probing me, I cried out, grabbing his hair and forcing his face deeper.

  His fingers tightened against my thighs hard enough to leave bruises as he spread me open again, the pressure of his talented tongue undoing every molecule of restraint, every fiber that made me who I was.

  He needed to stop. It was too much. Too much! God, I didn’t want him to stop. A thousand lights sparked behind my eyes and fireworks exploded through my body.

  I think I must have screamed, because his hand clamped down on my mouth. I didn’t mean to bite him, but he cried out and I tasted his blood.

  “Goddamn it, TC,” he ground out.

  I tried to apologize, but my body was limp and boneless, liquid from tip to toe.

  And that’s when his long, hard cock entered me. Against any reason, my exhausted body reacted, my back arching to meet him as he surged against me again and again, his thrusts deep, even, controlled.

  He pulled out halfway, then pushed back in over sensitive nerve-endings. My mouth dropped open as I watched him, intense, controlled.

  He was an incredible lover—I’d expected nothing less. But he was holding back.

  “Don’t do that,” I gasped against his shoulder as he moved inside me. “Don’t hold back.”

  His eyes seemed black with lust and his jaw clenched. And then he let go.

  My faint whisper broke him. He thrust into me so hard, so unexpectedly that a hoarse scream left my throat, but he didn’t stop and I didn’t want him to. I angled my hips upwards, encouraging him to go faster, harder, deeper.

  The real Tucker fucked like a force of nature—fierce, unstoppable, powerful.

  “You like that? You like it when I fuck you hard?”

  He gave me everything he had. And I was beyond speaking.

  A thousand explosions, a megaton, a nuclear reaction blew my body apart. I’d never climaxed so hard or for so long. His hips slammed against me, sweat slicking us together, until his own body shuddered and stilled. His orgasm was silent, the only sound his harsh breaths as he slowly collapsed against my chest, his face softening as his cock throbbed inside me, his expression dazed.

  I winced as he pulled out, immediately bringing my legs together and rolling onto my side, my thighs sore, bruises sure to show on my skin from the punishment of his hipbones against me.

  I curled into a tight ball, but Tucker’s insistent hands pulled at my shoulder, until I relaxed and rolled onto my back.

  My eyes slid open to find him staring down at me, his expression a mixture of concern and fear.

  “Did . . . have I hurt you?” he grit out. “Was I . . . ?”

  My smile was weak but real. “So good,” I whispered. “So good.”

  I was 27 and Tucker had just set the benchmark for pleasure for the rest of my life—it was a depressing thought.

  And then I passed out.

  Tucker

  It was a mistake. The whole fucking night had been a mistake.

  I shouldn’t have had dinner with her, shouldn’t have kissed her. I definitely shouldn’t have fucked her. And I shouldn’t be here now.

  Being with Tera, kissing her deep, being inside her sweet, sweet pussy, it made me forget all the shit, happy amnesia.

  I should go. I knew I should go.

  But I couldn’t make myself leave either.

  She fell asleep the second I pulled out, her eyes closed, her sweat-damp hair tangled across her cheek. I reached out to brush it away from her face and was shocked to see my hand was shaking. I’d hit it hard, that was for sure. I thought for a moment I might have gone too far, but she said it was good and she’d smiled.

  It had felt amazing to me. Sex was sex—whether I did it with one girl or two, drunk or sober, high or straight, from behind, on top, underneath. In a bed, on the floor, with the sky blind above—it was all the same. Different woman, different scent, different taste, but all the same—just sex.

  And now my hands were shaking and I wasn’t dumb enough to think it was just the last drops of adrenaline leaching out of me. I wasn’t sure what it was—probably because I knew it was wrong.

  Fuck, Kes was going to kill me. Jeez, right now I would have helped him. His sister, for crissake!

  Everything Tera said about life being short and all that shit made sense at the time, but now . . . now I knew I’d fucked up. I didn’t think I could look at Aimee every day and lie to her face. And Kes . . . he was family, my brother—the only family I’d ever had that mattered. I’d fucked this up and now he’d beat the shit out of me, plain and simple. What’s more, I’d let him. Hell, I’d kick my own ass if I could reach.

  I rubbed the palms of my hands over my eyes.

  Fuck, I was probably out of a job the second Kes found out. I was going to lose everything. Again.

  Dumb shit!

  But looking down at Tera, her breathing deep and contented, I couldn’t regret it either. It was the best sex of my life, and there had been a lot of women. For the first time, I was ashamed that I’d lost count. It had seemed pointless to keep adding to the notches after I’d gone past . . . well, I stopped bothering with numbers sometime in my late teens.

  It still surprised me how many nice girls from good homes got their rocks off by screwing a grease-monkey carnie. The rougher and dirtier you were, the more they liked it. I remember one girl sniffing my leathers after a show and saying, “God, I love the way you sweat!”

  I glanced down, the filled rubber still hanging from my dick, my clothes scattered across the floor. I’d done what she wanted. We’d gotten whatever it was out of our systems. I was free to go.

  I watched her fingers twitch softly next to her open mouth and the urge to leave, to stay, to leave was confusing. I was tired and it had been a long few days. With Tera’s body wrapped around me, her sweet lips on mine, I’d felt something like . . . peace.

  Yeah, that’s what it was—comfort.

  I pulled off the condom and tied a knot in the end, then dropped it onto the floor. I’d find a trashcan later.

  I lay back and I could smell her perfume on the pillow, on the sheets—hell, it was all over me, as well. Subtle, probably expensive.

  I couldn’t give her that: designer clothes, big houses and expensive cars. I couldn’t give her anything except this: mind-blowing sex.

  There must be a dozen guys in suits her dad had lined up. What the hell is she doing with me?

  A cold thought twisted my gut—maybe I was just a giant fuck you to her old man. I didn’t like that idea at all, but it fed on my doubts until it made me want to vomit.

  Not that it mattered. It was a one-time thing. We both knew that.

  Sighing, I closed my eyes. Just five minutes.

  Tera

  I woke up sweating, too hot and confined by the sheet tangled around me. I kicked with my legs, but the sound of a soft grunt next to me brought me wide awake.

  The flood of memories rushed back as I stifled a groan. Holy shit, I was sore—damn near everywhere.

  Tucker blinked up at me, and I felt exposed in more ways than one as his eyes widened in shock. But then he smiled—that killer smile that made his eyes sparkle with devilment.

  It was a smile that said he was thinking of doing something shocking; his laugh meant he’d already done it.

  I missed him and he hadn’t even left yet. I forced myself to ignore the wild hammering inside me. This is what hooking up felt like. It was stupid to be emotional: stupid and dangerous.

  I pushed it all away until it was safely hidden. I was too transparent, and Tucker was an enigma.

  “Ugh, I’m all sweaty this morning,” I complained, pretending to scowl at Tucker. “It’s like sle
eping next to a radiator.”

  He laughed softly. “You didn’t complain about getting all sweaty last night.”

  “Hence me mentioning ‘morning’. That’s what happens when the big yellow disc rises in the sky.”

  He narrowed his eyes, then reached down and threw the quilt over my head, sealing me into the damp sweaty sheets.

  “Now you’re a Tera burrito.”

  “Dork!” I laughed, struggling free.

  I blew my hair out of my face. There were so many things I wanted to say, starting with: Why did you stay last night?

  From the look on his face, I could tell he was expecting questions—but I really didn’t want to hear the unpleasant truth of honest answers.

  “Time to get up and face the day,” I said instead, swatting his shoulder.

  He pretended to flinch.

  “I’m kind of comfy here. Sure you don’t want to go for round two?”

  His smile could have made an angel sin.

  “Well, I . . .”

  “I’d take it slow this time, sugar,” he said, his eyes roving over my body, slow and lazy. “I could spend hours on those beautiful breasts, take my own sweet time touching and tasting you.”

  He patted the mattress next to him, the invitation in his smile as much as his gesture.

  “They should call you ‘layabout’ not ‘roustabout’,” I moaned. “I’m going for a shower—and if you were the least bit environmentally-minded, you’d share it with me to conserve water.”

  I staggered out of bed, hoping the sight of my round white butt in daylight didn’t scare him too much. I turned on the shower then peed quickly, the running water drowning out the noise of, well, the running water.

  I flushed, and hoped the shower water wouldn’t go cold while I quickly brushed my teeth.

  I hopped inside just as I heard the bathroom door open and Tucker took his turn to pee.

  “You know that’s kind of gross,” I called out, “peeing in front of someone else.”

  “I figured you’d object if I pissed out the window,” he said reasonably.

  “Ugh, whatever.”

  He opened the shower door and stepped up behind me, pressing his hard body against my back as his arms wrapped around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder.