by Alison Kent
“Probably not. I’m tempted, but that’s more about giving the old man a big fuck-you rather than being broke.”
“How broke are you?”
“Broke enough.”
“Then we should go,” she said, uncrossing her legs.
“Not a chance. I want to sit here, drink my Prairie Rotie, eat Chef Arman’s wasabi ginger rib eye, and think how I’m going to go about getting you out of that dress.”
“It’s easier than you think. And I’m not wearing anything beneath it.”
He choked on the water he’d just swallowed. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,” she mouthed, licking her lips.
“I’m pretty sure the country club has a dress code.”
“What the country club doesn’t know…” she said, letting the sentence trail.
“So.” He sat forward, thought better about it when his cock complained, and sat back. “About this nothing that you’re wearing. Tell me more.”
“Well,” she said, toying with a curled strand of her hair. “Obviously I’m not wearing a bra.”
“Not even one without straps?”
She shook her head, a slow back and forth. Then she asked, “Do you think I need one?”
“Hell no. But if you want to let that top slip a little lower, I wouldn’t mind.”
She crossed her arms and tugged on the fabric until the barest edges of her areolas blended with the pink of her dress. “Does that work for you?”
“You have no idea,” he said, and then he felt the sole of her foot on his thigh.
“Oh, I have an idea,” she said, her foot sliding higher, her arch settling over his cock that had grown as stiff as a cattle prod.
“You’re playing with fire, woman.”
“Fire? And here I thought we were just having sex in the middle of our date.”
He reached across the table for her wrist, a move that pushed his cock against her foot, and squeezed, gave her a warning look before letting her go. “What about the rest?”
“The rest?” She moved her foot, crossed her legs and leaned just enough to the side to show a long length of bare thigh. “If you move your chair a little bit closer you can find out for yourself.”
He cleared his throat. “Shit, Arwen. Don’t do that to me here.”
“Why not?” she said, her voice low, raw. “You don’t want to feel how wet I am?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, shook himself, then lifted his chair and moved it to bump against hers. When he did, she draped her skirt and the extra length of the tablecloth over her lap.
He leaned closer, his hand on her chair’s cushion, then beneath her leg until his fingers dipped into the folds of her pussy. He pushed one inside and she caught her breath, her chest rising and falling so quickly the crescents of exposed areola pebbled.
“Can we go now?” They only needed to make it as far as his truck. He wasn’t going to make it any farther than his truck.
“I’m not ready,” she said, shifting sideways in her chair and moving her hand to his thigh. “Do you trust me?”
“To do what?”
“To make staying worth your while.”
He didn’t know about that, but he was interested to see what else she might have up her skirt. “Give it your best shot.”
“Sit back. Relax. And don’t make those noises you do when you come.”
Shit. “When I come—”
“Shh,” was all she said before her hand found his fly and deftly worked it open.
“Arwen—”
“I think the server is on his way.”
“Shit.” His cock was stiff and her fingers were slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs, smearing the bead of moisture he’d already released around the tip of his head.
“I love it when you’re wet,” she said, letting him go and sitting back and bringing her hand to her mouth to lick the damp pad of her finger.
“Here you go, sir, ma’am,” the server said and Dax tried not to die.
He screwed his eyes shut, huffed out a sharp breath, grabbing for control and instead grabbing the server’s attention. When the other man stopped pouring the wine, Dax motioned him to continue.
He did, explaining the evening’s specials while Arwen listened, and Dax tried not to jerk himself off. Once the meals had been laid out, Arwen placed their order, and Dax nodded when the server looked at him to double check.
“Very good. I’ll have your salads out to you shortly.”
As the other man walked away, Dax whispered, “Can we leave now?”
“What did I tell you?” Arwen asked, sliding her hand along his thigh again and picking up where she’d left off with his cock. “Sit back and enjoy. And none of those sounds.”
“I’d say fuck you—”
She laughed, a sexy throaty burst that had heads turning their way while she stroked him and while he nearly strangled.
“I’m going to get you back for this.”
“I’d say I certainly hope so, except I owe you for Boone and Casper seeing us in the back of your truck.”
She thumbed the slit in the head of his cock, used the moisture to wet her palm. Then she rubbed him, around and around and around, and he heard the sounds building and reached for his wine, with a growled, “Fuck you.”
“Have I ever told you how much I love the way you fuck me?”
“Jesus Christ, Arwen—”
“Or how very very much I love your cock?” She leaned closer, licked her bottom lip, held it with her tongue and breathed so hard her tits strained against her top. “I love it on my tongue. I love it in my pussy. I love it in my ass. Almost as much as I love fucking yours with my finger.”
He jerked in her hand, squeezed his eyes shut, rolled them open, his balls pulling into his body, his anus clenching tight. “I goddamn swear…”
But he couldn’t say anything else. She was stroking him, up and down his shaft, a sweep of her palm over his head, back to his shaft, to his head, yanking, spanking, pulling while she held his gaze, her eyes wide and wild, her lips parted. She was just as turned on as he was, and that was going to do him in.
“I want to eat your pussy,” he said. “I want to smell you. I want to taste you.”
“I’m on your finger,” she told him, and he remembered and brought his hand to his nose, breathing in and sucking at the juice she’d left on him.
“Right now,” she whispered, crossing her legs and leaning in close. “If you could have me. Tell me how you’d want me.”
He’d been picturing it all night. He didn’t even have to think. “In this chair. In my lap. Your skirt to your waist so I could see my cock in your cunt. Your top down and your tits in my hands. I want to come all over your belly. I want to come in your mouth.”
“I want you to come. I want you to come now. Help me,” she said.
He wrapped his hand around hers and pulled in the rhythm he knew well until the blood pounding in his head took over. He grabbed the tablecloth and groaned, slumping into the chair and holding her gaze as she finished him, pulling until he had nothing left and couldn’t even move to fasten his pants.
She sat back, a look of cat-licking-cream pleasure on her face, and reached for her wineglass, draining it as dry as she’d drained him, excitement lighting her eyes when the salads arrived.
“I’m starving,” she said, then looked over and asked, “You?”
“Hungry? Yeah. Able to lift my own fork?” He shook his head, unable to find the strength to give her the evil eye when she laughed.
THIRTY-THREE
“YOU ASKED ME once about taking over the ranch and turning it around like I had the Buck Off Bar.”
They were in bed, naked, exhausted, sated with good food and good wine and excellent service and sex, and Arwen didn’t know about Dax, but she was sore and raw and aching. All in all it seemed the perfect time to plant the seed she’d had growing since he’d mentioned being broke at dinner.
“Yeah, so?”
He asked
the question sharply, but she didn’t take offense. He was half asleep. She and her nefarious purposes were keeping him awake, and he knew exactly what she was doing. He just didn’t know why. “You do remember?”
“Yes, Arwen. I remember.”
“Okay, then,” she said, glancing down to where he lay, eyes closed and curled around her. “Keep that in mind and don’t immediately reject what I’m about to say.”
“You’re making me not like it already,” he said, his tongue coming out and finding her nipple.
She lifted her breast out of his way. “You listen, or I’m walking out of here.”
“I’m listening. I’m listening. Shit, woman.”
“I was thinking about what you said. About your money situation. I know things are bad—”
“And I hope you have a point because I’m fading here.”
Her point. Yes. Out with it, Arwen. Spill it and take the hit. “You lease what acreage you can afford to Henry Lasko.”
He waited, one heartbeat, two, a third, and then a disbelieving and sarcastic, “What the hell did you say?”
She laid out her argument. “Tess had already planned to. Henry needs the grazing land. And you need the money.”
“Fuck that. Fuck the money. We need the grazing land just as much as Henry, if not more.”
And now for the next part. “Not if you sell off part of your herd. For now,” she hurried to add. “Build it up again once this drought breaks.”
He snorted, rolled to his back and crossed an arm beneath his head. “If that’s your idea of management, I’m surprised your saloon didn’t go under the first month.”
Her idea of management was not holding on to the past for sentimental reasons, not being stupid just because smart hurt a lot more. She was also a big proponent of the long term. “But it didn’t, did it? In fact, my saloon is the number one go-to place in Crow Hill.”
“That’s not saying much.”
Right. She’d put the idea out there. She knew he’d mull it over, and that was pretty much all she could ask. He’d have to be the one to add the fertilizer and see what he could grow.
Still, she couldn’t let his slam go unanswered. “It’s saying plenty.”
“Says you.”
“Do you want to fight?”
“No, I want to fuck.”
“We can do that.” She took a deep breath, and an even bigger leap of faith. “Or we can make love.”
It took a long moment for what she’d said to settle, and for him to look over, lying as he was on his back, one arm beneath his head on the pillow. The shadows in the room made it hard to see his face, harder to see his eyes and his expression.
But it wasn’t hard at all to understand that he wanted her when he reached across her body to roll her on top of his. When he threaded his hands into her hair. When he pulled her head down and kissed her.
His tongue was sure in its possession, bold and strong in its claiming. He stroked it along hers, mating, playing. She pushed into his mouth and did the same, stretching her legs out atop his, settling her pussy over his balls, his cock warm and insistent where it snuggled between their bellies.
He felt so good, head-to-toe hard and so wonderfully hot. She scooted lower, kissing his jaw, his neck, and farther down, finding a nipple and teething it until he sucked back a curse and groaned. Then he laughed, a deep throaty sound that had her biting harder, had him growing harder, stiff and thick and damp.
“Be careful with those teeth, Ms. Poole. Damage any of the goods and it’ll be your loss.”
Cocky beast, she mused, pushing her chin into his pectoral muscle until he gave up and groaned, and then sliding one hand between their bodies to capture the head of his cock and squeeze.
“Jesus Christ,” was all he managed to say, and even those words had trouble clawing their way free.
She liked this Dax. Helpless Dax. Dax surrendered. Dax unable to fight her or the demons possessing him. She wanted more of this Dax. She loved this Dax, and he would know exactly how much before leaving her bed. He needed to know. His knowing gave her the power to convince him this was where he belonged. With her. To her. Without her he would never be who he was meant to be.
The responsibility thrilled her, challenged her, and she dragged her tongue down the center of his torso, wetting the strip of silky hair bisecting him. He was salty, always salty, so much time in the sun left him baked and brown and the sheen of sweat refused to be scrubbed away. She loved that about him, loved that his body belonged to the life he loved as much as his mind and his heart.
His cock came next, her tasting of him, skin stretched to near splitting over the head, the tip that was open and salty, too, the seam beneath, the ridge of the mushroomed cap that fit her mouth and filled it. She ministered to all of it, sucking and lapping and loving, her hand ringed around his shaft just beneath, squeezing and letting go, squeezing and letting go.
“Goddamn,” was all he got out this time, his hands at his hips digging into her sheets and bunching the fabric into balls in his fists.
Scooting lower, she blew a stream of warm air over his balls, licked the center of his sac, separated his testicles with her tongue. She pulled first one then the other into her mouth, rolling them gently before spitting them into her palm and slipping a finger into his ass. Kissing her way up his shaft, she held him, pumping and sucking and sliding her lips to the base of his cock and back.
He groaned, bucked upward, his cock bouncing against the top of her mouth, and he tried to tell her, but she knew. She felt it in his balls, in his ass, in the tension like rigor stiffening him. He came in bursts, long liquid pulses of semen that she swallowed and cleaned from his cock, easing him back in time and space to where she waited.
He looked at her, dazed and amazed and not far from stupid. “What do you want?”
I want you to love me. I want you to need me. I want you to stay here and be with me for the rest of our days. But she didn’t say that or say anything. She just smiled, telling him with her eyes that she had everything if she had him.
“Anything, baby,” he said. “Anything. Tell me. I’m yours.”
That was what she needed to hear. What she’d wanted for days now to have him say. Yes, this was sex and he was drunk on it, and she could’ve asked him for the world and he would’ve given her the last penny in his pocket. She knew that, and yet she was filled to bursting with loving him and having him, and his need to give back to her was the pin that was going to pop her.
She crawled to the head of the bed, wrapped her hands around the headboard’s railing, and caught her lower lip with her teeth. She rolled her hips, side to side, a figure eight above his face, his gaze slipping from hers to her breasts to her cunt inches from his mouth. And the look in his eyes nearly did her in, fierce and full of knowing and ready.
Closing her eyes, she waited, dipping down when he tapped her thighs, feeling the tip of his tongue splitting the seam of her pussy’s lips, circling her clit, sliding back to push inside of her, moving in and out until he replaced his tongue with a finger, two fingers, and she rode them, a slow up and down.
He blew against her, his breath warm and raising gooseflesh, his other hand finding the bud of her ass. She pushed against him, reached for one of the rings in her nipples and tugged, the tips of her breasts drawn tight, her heart racing, blood rushing beneath the surface of her skin.
And then he bit her, her inner thigh, her labia, and sucked the whole of her clit into his mouth, holding it with his lips while he used his teeth to scrape her, his tongue to soothe the tiny wounds, the fingers of one hand in her pussy, the thumb of the other up to the knuckle in her ass.
She was on fire, burning with need, her arousal consuming, tearing her apart. The butterfly touches of his tongue had her wanting to climb the walls, to claw her way through the barriers keeping them from having this together for the rest of their lives. She wanted him. She loved him. And then she came, a rush of sensation that left her unable to breathe or
to think or to do anything but succumb.
Dax caught her when she fell and pulled her to him, pulled her to her feet. Pulled her with him to the shower and then inside once he’d turned the hot water on high. She hadn’t known she was shaking until the water rushed over her, until Dax held her from behind and stilled her.
“I’ll think about it,” he said against her ear, and it took her a minute to recall what she’d said to him about the business before he’d taken her apart.
She nodded. It was enough to know he hadn’t blown her off. That he hadn’t forgotten. That he’d remembered.
THIRTY-FOUR
FOR THE SECOND and what he hoped was the last time in his life, Dax found himself walking the main corridor of Crow Hill’s Coleman Medical Center, and this time because it had to be done. Not because guilt over his sister standing vigil was driving him or because Arwen was making him. His father was finally awake, and though he wanted nothing less in the world than to talk to the man, a whole lot of things needed to be settled.
He kept his gaze trained ahead, his hat brim pulled low, his focus on the door at the end of the hall. He didn’t want to be distracted or to hear good wishes for his old man’s continued recovery. He wanted to have his say and get out, to never have to see Wallace Campbell again in this lifetime. Seeing him in hell would be punishment enough.
He didn’t bother knocking when he reached the door, but pushed in before he could talk himself out of it and headed straight for the bed. The young Hispanic nurse tending to his father put herself between them and reached for the call button. He crossed his arms and waited, not saying a word.
“It’s okay, Marisol,” Wallace Campbell boomed hoarsely, taking the controls from the nurse’s hands. “This is my boy, Dax. Been a long time since the two of us have seen one another. I think maybe we should do our catching up one on one.”
“As long as you’re sure, Mr. Campbell.” Dismissing Dax, she looked back at the chart she held and finished whatever she’d been writing. It took her way longer than Dax thought it should have, but finally she closed the folder.
Holding it to her chest, she looked down and patted his father’s shoulder. “You call if you need anything, and that includes privacy or security.”
