by Maisey Yates
“That sounds exhausting,” she said.
“I like it,” he said. “Get a chance to see a lot of new places. Meet a lot of new people.”
“I suppose,” she returned. “But you must get lonely.”
A slow smile curved his lips upward, the kind of smile that Cooper Mason had certainly never directed her way before. “I’m never lonely.”
“Oh,” she said, the breath pushing out of her lungs, her stomach tightening.
Of course he wasn’t lonely. She imagined all he had to do was direct that smile to any woman he encountered in any bar in any town, and she would turn her panties right over to him.
Suddenly, her mouth felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
All she needed was to get a drink in her and do something dumb. She was on edge enough as it was, and while she knew that most people liked to use alcohol as a social lubricant, she felt like she needed to keep herself from getting too socially lubricated. She wanted to keep herself from being an idiot as well as a long shot.
“Are you waiting for someone else?”
“I was waiting for you,” she said, the words far too honest, far too sharp, scraping her throat dry on the way out.
His smile widened. “I think I might have been waiting for you, too.”
Oh. My.
He was waiting. For her. For her. Annabelle, who he’d always seen as a kid. But not now.
He did see her as a woman now. And he wanted her. And oh, holy night, she wanted him, too.
She knew it then. She knew it in her soul. That her Christmas present to herself—Cooper Mason—was about to get given to her.
It was working. It was happening.
Screw you, Parker.
“Sounds like we were waiting for each other then,” she said, cringing internally, because she was really bad at this flirtatious back-and-forth.
“You want to get out of here?”
Well, that was quick. Granted, they weren’t strangers. She knew Cooper, had known him for her entire life, even though she hadn’t talked to him in eight years. She knew that he was a good guy. Knew that he wouldn’t hurt her or anything like that. She trusted him.
Still, it was moving a little too smoothly. She hadn’t anticipated him being right into it right away.
“We haven’t even kissed yet,” she pointed out.
Her heart was thundering so hard she could hardly hear his response, because her brain was simply echoing with the rhythmic sound of her pulse.
“I can fix that,” he responded.
He braced one hand on the top of the jukebox, and curved his arm around her waist.
A man hadn’t touched her in over a year, not since her breakup. And she had only ever kissed two men in her entire life. So, having Cooper stand so close to her, his large hand resting on her waist... It was a lot to process. A lot to take in.
And then, before she could think any deeper, Cooper brought his lips down on hers.
His whiskers were rough, his mouth firm, and the whole thing a sensual assault that left her scarcely able to breathe.
This was it. This was what she wanted. This was need that went beyond settling. This wasn’t just a kiss because she wanted a guy’s kiss. This was a kiss because she wanted to kiss this particular man. In this particular moment.
She wasn’t with him because she was afraid of being by herself. Because she was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to do better. This had nothing to do with a relationship, with hoping for marriage one day.
No.
This was about desire. Real, deep desire. About a lifelong fantasy, not just vague general needs for sex or closeness.
And that fantasy was finally about to be fulfilled.
CHAPTER TWO
HIS JUKEBOX GIRL didn’t say anything when he hurried her out of the bar after their kiss. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, her lips swollen. She was obviously as into the connection between them as he was.
He didn’t usually do totally anonymous hookups. But it was Christmas, and he hated Christmas in Gold Valley, which made it difficult to breathe.
The moment her lips had touched his he had felt like he had drawn his first full breath of air since walking into town more than a week ago.
So he was going with it. She hadn’t asked his name, and he wasn’t going to ask hers. Names didn’t matter. She needed something from him, and he sure as hell needed something from her.
That was going to have to be enough.
“You got a place?” he asked when they were both in his pickup truck.
“Yes,” she said, chewing her bottom lip. “You’re staying with your parents, aren’t you?”
He had mentioned that he was in town visiting his parents. “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of awkward to bring home a date.”
She laughed, a vaguely nervous sound. “I suppose so.”
“Just give me directions.”
It turned out she lived within walking distance, in a little house in one of the historic neighborhoods just a few blocks away. It was a small, simple structure with a pristine porch decorated with hanging flower baskets, empty in the cold, but charming nonetheless.
Hanging flower baskets were not the kind of thing he associated with women trolling bars for one-night stands, but then maybe he didn’t really know anything.
Typically, if he met a woman when he was on the road they would go back to his motel room. So, for all he knew all the women he slept with had hanging baskets on their porches.
He’d never asked.
That made it kind of strange, though. A bit more personal than he was accustomed to.
She had white lights strung in swags across the roofline in addition to the baskets, and a little evergreen wreath hanging on the door. More Christmas. But for all he cared she could have a poinsettia on her bed, and as long as he got to have an orgasm.
Wordlessly, she got out of the truck and didn’t wait for him as she crossed the driveway and went up to the front door. He killed the engine and followed her inside.
The house was as neat and charming as its outward appearance gave the impression it might be. A tidy Christmas tree with gold ornaments and bows was in the corner, little touches of cheer here and there. But luckily there were no poinsettias.
She moved to the center of the living room, standing next to a coffee table stacked high with books he had a feeling she actually read. She clasped her hands in front of her and looked around, her expression growing increasingly worried.
“I got a new bed after my boyfriend moved out,” she said, shooting the words into the silence.
He lifted a brow, things suddenly becoming clearer. “Did you?”
“Just to make sure that we’re clear,” she said. “That it’s a new bed.”
“Honey,” he responded, “I’m used to sleeping in motels. Those are not new beds. People have fucked in them.”
Color flooded her cheeks. “I was just saying.”
It seemed to him that she was out for a little bit of revenge sex after a bad breakup. Worked for him. He could easily call his sex revenge sex. Revenge against the world. But the world was a bitch and she didn’t care.
“I don’t particularly care who slept here before me,” he said, advancing on her. Her pretty brown eyes widened, her lips dropping open. “I only care that I’m the only man you think about as long as I’m here. But I’m pretty sure that won’t be a problem.” She started to say something, but he pressed his thumb against the center of her lips, then curved his hand back, tracing the line of her jaw, sliding his fingers through her hair.
Then he kissed her. Deep and luxurious. The kind of long, sensual kiss that he hadn’t allowed himsel
f in the bar. Devouring. Raw and hungry, his tongue creating a slick friction against hers.
He didn’t normally enjoy kissing, because as far as he was concerned it was just the sad appetizer that came before your steak. But this kiss was the exception. It was wet and hot, as soft as the rest of her.
Kissing wasn’t his kind of thing, and come to that, this woman wasn’t usually his type. He often went for leggy, willowy types in miniskirts and backless tops.
He didn’t do challenging. He liked obvious. Bright, blonde and sleek, with glitter on top.
Jukebox Girl was different. Soft, curvy, a little bit more to hold on to. And he was damn glad to have his hands full of her.
She whimpered, arching against him, her full breasts pressing against his chest, as he slid his hand down to grab her ass.
Yeah, she was one sweet handful.
He kissed her all the way back toward a bedroom—maybe it was hers, maybe it wasn’t, he didn’t care—and then sat her down on the edge of the bed. He pulled back, jerking his T-shirt up over his head, more than ready to have her hands on his skin.
Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t you eat McDonald’s?”
“What?”
“You live on the road all the time—it seems like you would subsist on French fries and hamburgers.”
“I kind of do,” he responded. “Though I typically prefer bar food.”
She waved her arm up and down. “Then how is it you don’t have any fat on your entire body?”
He looks down at his flat stomach. “I work outside. It’s hard labor.”
Her face turned pink. “I’m wearing Spanx.”
He frowned, not sure what that had to do with anything. “Okay.”
“I’m not skinny.” She said it like she was announcing her status as a convicted killer.
He passed his hand over the front of his jeans, over the very obvious bulge there. “Do I look like I care?”
She looked down. “Some men care.”
Irritation spiked in him. She had mentioned an ex-boyfriend, and he had a feeling the ex was responsible for the horrible, crestfallen look on this beautiful woman’s face.
He leaned forward, flattening his palms on the mattress on either side of her. “You,” he said, “are hot as fuck. Spanx or no Spanx. Though, I have to tell you, I would prefer no Spanx right at the moment.”
She flushed, a pretty pink color, and he gripped the hem of her shirt, pulling it up over her head and revealing breasts that were as generous as he’d been hoping they might be, shoved up a bit higher like they were an offering to him thanks to the black contraption she had on underneath, a one-piece-looking jumpsuit with a deep neckline that scooped just beneath her bra.
He pulled one strap down from her shoulder, then pushed the other down, tugging it to the top of her skirt waistband. Then he flicked her bra strap down, then the other. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, all that soft, glorious cleavage.
She sighed, her head falling back, her self-consciousness clearly forgotten. It didn’t take much work to get her skirt, and the rest of that foundational garment, pulled off her beautiful body, leaving it mostly bare for his inspection. Generous breasts, a nipped-in waist, and rounded hips and thighs.
Everything looked great to him.
“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen a long time.”
Her blush extended from her cheeks on down. “That can’t be true. There are...the other women. The ones you’ve...also seen naked.”
He grinned at her. “Other women? Can’t remember them.”
“Well. The town is all decorated for Christmas. It’s awfully pretty.”
“Not as pretty as you. Trust me. Christmas trees and white lights, tinsel... Doesn’t interest me at all. You, on the other hand... I find you very interesting. Now, I want you to take that bra and those panties off.”
Her blush intensified, but she obliged him, reaching behind her to unhook her bra, casting it to the side before pushing the black lacy panties down her shapely thighs and kicking them to the foot of the bed. His stomach felt hollowed out, his arousal ramped up to such an intense degree that he was in physical pain.
“I don’t have abs,” she pointed out, shrinking back further onto the bed.
“You have everything that I need,” he said, leaning forward, planting his palm on the bedspread and kissing the top of one of her thighs. She shivered and then moved away from him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He huffed out a one-note laugh and then gripped her hips, holding her still. “If you have to ask, then you just answered one of my questions.”
“What?”
“Your ex is an asshole, I take it.” He leaned in then, parting her thighs and tasting her right at the apex, sliding his tongue through slick folds until she whimpered. Her pleasure, her flavor, was salvation. A respite from the dull pain that had crawled inside his chest and hammered out a large yawning space inside him over the past week. Hell, maybe over the past eight years.
That terrible grief that was always there, that had pushed its way up to the foreground recently and refused to go away.
It had no place here. No. This was all about them. The world, the town, the damned Christmas lights...they had all fallen away.
It was just him, her and this bed. Her body. His desire.
He continued to pleasure her, sliding two fingers inside her as he worked at that most sensitive place with his tongue. She was panting, gasping, and he thought that she might try to get away from him again, so he held on to her as tightly as possible, his blunt fingertips digging into those lush hips.
When she came, it was like the clouds had broken open and he’d gotten his first hit of sun in months. The first bright thing. The first good thing.
He moved away from her, shucking his jeans and underwear, kicking them on the floor. “Condoms?” he asked.
“Um... In the bathroom?”
That was more steps away than he cared to take. He bent down and grabbed his wallet, producing protection and rolling it on as quickly as possible. She was staring at him, wide-eyed, and he felt that like a physical touch. Then she sat up, clamoring to the edge of the mattress. She curved delicate fingers around his hardened length, glittering brown eyes looking up at him in wonder as she squeezed him.
He groaned, flexing his hips forward, thrusting upward into her grasp. She held him like that for a while, exploring his length, testing him.
“I’m done playing,” he said, grabbing hold of the back of her head and bending down, kissing her hard as he pressed them both backward onto the bed, as he settled himself between her legs.
They had all night. They could play around later. But for now, he needed to be inside her.
He felt like he had waited forever, even though it had been no time at all. They hadn’t wasted any time talking, and yet he felt like he knew her. He knew that she should be a lot more confident in how beautiful she was; he knew that a man was responsible for making her feel like shit. He knew that she hadn’t been pleasured nearly as extensively as she should have been in her life. Knew that she had a neat little life. Knew that she took care of her things, and that having undivided attention on her made her uncomfortable.
All that knowledge added up to something big. Made him feel like he’d been waiting for this moment for years rather than an hour or so.
He pressed the head of his arousal against the slick entrance to her body, dragging the broad head through her wetness before pushing in an inch or so, rolling forward slowly, teasing her methodically.
Teasing them both.
She whimpered, the sound building into a moan that came from deep inside her.
Then he lost it completely. He bucked forward, burying himself to the hilt, swallowing her little gasp of pleasure as he did.
She gripped his shoulders, wrapping her legs around his waist, her lush lips pressed against his ear. “Yes,” she whispered. “Harder.”
And Cooper was a gentleman, so he obliged.
He bucked into her, losing all sense of time, of anything other than the red-hot pleasure that was racing down his veins, that was overtaking him completely.
She was hot, so hot and responsive, tight around his cock. She met his every thrust, a sweet sound of pleasure on her lips each time he thrust back home. When she came, she gasped, the expression on her face one of wonder, like he had given her a gift. And damn it all, he couldn’t hold back any longer.
His control broke entirely, and he froze as his own release took him over, grabbing him by the throat and shaking him hard, leaving him nearly blacked out as he pulsed deep inside her tight, wet body.
He collapsed against her, pressing his forehead down on hers. She clung to him, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, her heels pressed into the backs of his thighs.
“Cooper,” she whispered. “Oh, Cooper.”
A rush of adrenaline worked its way through him, a strange sensation prickling over his skin.
He had never told her his name. He was sure of that. He lifted his head, looking down at the woman who was currently staring dreamily up at him.
Eyes that were very familiar. An expression that was very familiar.
A memory swam in front of his vision. Of waking a sleeping teenager in the loft of his parents’ barn. Those sleepy, dreamy brown eyes had looked up at him just like this.
And suddenly he realized that he was buried balls deep inside little Annabelle Preston.
One of his father’s best friends’ daughters. A girl who had spent ages following him around the family ranch, all round chubby cheeks and hopeful eyes.
A woman he’d known since she was a child, and who he had just screwed within an inch of both their lives.
Well, fuck.
CHAPTER THREE
COOPER HAD GONE still on top of Annabelle, and her brain was buzzing from the spectacular orgasm she’d just had.
