Hung (Mister Hotshot Book 1)

by Anne Marsh

  “That takes money.” Pick opens his mouth and wisely closes it when I shake my head. I’m so not taking his money. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  He snorts. “Honey, you’re already standing midstream. A bridge might be a blessing.”

  “I’ll handle this.”

  He doesn’t hesitate.

  “You know that if you need help, all you got to do is ask.”

  “Thanks,” I say way too awkwardly. This is my business, not his, but this are-we-in-a-relationship thing (yes Damsel in Distress and Inner Hussy scream in tandem) complicates everything.

  “Uh-huh.” He shakes his head, and the bike begins the familiar ascent to Baby Bear Lodge. “Well, you change your mind, you know where to find me, okay? There’s no expiration date on that offer.”

  14

  SARAH JO

  I hear Pick humming before I see him. Okay, so I actually ogle his feet and not the entire man, but details. I can say with great authority that The Voice will not be beating down his door anytime soon—he may be super hot in the looks department, but he’s spectacularly untalented in all things musical. If I’m not mistaken, he’s performing an off-key version of “99 Bottles of Beer.” The fire camp boasts a block of plumbed showers, which puts the place in luxury territory as far as the hotshots go. Personally, I’m much more particular. Running water—particularly hot water—isn’t optional in my book. Which is yet another reason I’m clearly a city kind of girl and entirely fish out of water here. The showers are very utilitarian, all get-in and get-out, which makes it easy to spot Pick. In case I need more clues, he’s tossed his towel over the shower rod and left his clothes neatly folded on a nearby lawn chair.

  All evidence points to Pick being naked, so I take a brief moment to enjoy the mental image and some favorite memories. He has a spectacular body, undoubtedly from all that firefighting he does. When you drag heavy equipment all over a mountain, you develop yummy muscles. I guess it’s Karma’s way of making up for the whole daily risking-of-lives thing. I may also imagine grabbing that neat stack and running. He’ll laugh. And then he’ll get even. It might even include naked pursuit through the camp because I’m fast discovering that Pick doesn’t care what other people think. I don’t mean that in a selfish way, either. It’s just that he has strong ideas of right and wrong, and doesn’t deviate from them because of a little crowd-sourcing or negative public opinion. And honestly? I wouldn’t mind if Pick pursued me.

  Yay cheers Inner Hussy.

  This gives me an idea, and I’m out of my shorts and tank top in under two minutes. A quick shimmy takes care of my panties as well. The summer heat makes a bra pure torture, so I skipped it. It’s thunderstorm weather, or so I’ve been warned, and each breath I take is sticky and heavy. There’ll be lightning later, white bolts that slice down from the sky and strike the trees. The entire camp will be searching for smokes where the lightning’s strike has smoldered long enough to flare up into flames.

  I’m working on some lightning of my own.

  Pulling back the shower curtain far enough to slip through, I step into the shower. Pick is soaping up, back to the door, and for just a minute I stand there and admire my view. Soap and water slick the powerful muscles of his shoulders as he ducks his head beneath the spray.

  Showtime.

  “You got room for one more?”

  I barely get the words out, before he turns in a smooth, powerful move that leaves me up against the wall, his arm over my throat. Pick would never hurt me, but this rougher side of him is kind of (really super) sexy. He can and will take care of himself in a fight or a tight spot, and I like that. Unfortunately, I seem to like everything about him.

  He blinks down at me, looking a little dazed. I guess he’s not so good with surprises. I make a mental note to cross the surprise birthday party off my list. There might be accidental casualties.

  “Hell.” He doesn’t sound upset, just taken aback.

  “Surprise?” I offer. Thanks to his ninja warrior move, my breasts are squashed against his chest. When I exhale, my nipples rub against the rough dusting of hair on his forearms. This little accident feels so good that I do it again on purpose. His eyes darken, which I take as a sign of approval.

  “Did I miss the memo about water conservation?” A smile tugs at his lips.

  “Conservation is very important,” I agree, tilting my head back to see his face better. When I draw a leg up his, part of him makes it clear that surprise shower intrusions aren’t all bad, because he’s now sporting one very impressive erection. He’s hot and slick, so I just have to angle myself against him for an even better fit. We’re kind of perfect together.

  “Yeah.” He whips his arm away from my throat, as if he’s only just realized he’s on me like a caveman, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans in closer, planting his arms on either side of my head. “You in the mood for a shower or something?”

  “Can I vote for or something?”

  When he smiles, he gets this little crinkle around the edges of his eyes. Probably from the sun—or from laughter. I like that about him. He enjoys life. The same way he enjoys my body. Wholeheartedly, rolling with whatever punches life tosses him. Too bad I can’t be more like that. I’ve just never been a particularly laid back kind of person—I’m more of a worry wart, although it seems like Pick can work with that.

  “You planning on starting something right here in the shower?”

  Sometimes the doing is even better than the planning. I press my mouth against the firm line of his jaw, loving the rasp of his ten-o’clock shadow against my lips. That has to be why I’m practically humming with pleasure (and not “99 Bottles of Beer”). It has to explain why I shamelessly run my fingers over his skin wherever I can reach. There’s just so much Pick to love that I’m not sure where to start.

  “I won’t start anything I can’t finish,” I promise, tracing my lips over his throat and down his chest. He tastes like soap and man, which are now officially my favorite flavors. He’s feeling cooperative too because he holds still for me, letting me touch him however I want. So I do because this man totally deserves a reward. I lick away the water from the shower, swirling my tongue over his stiff nipples before I head lower. My body tightens with anticipation because this is going to be good.

  “Sarah Jo—” He tugs on my hair, a little rougher than is strictly necessary because the man already has my full attention.

  “Uh-uh.” I reach up and circle his nipple with my finger before pinching lightly. It’s not much as far as kinky sex acts go because the sad truth is, I’m a pretty vanilla person. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He groans, his fingers flexing in my hair. My clit gives a little pulse in time to the sound. I don’t know why working him up gets me going too, but it does. I want to do him in the shower even though there’s an entire camp outside and someone’s going to know.

  His stomach definitely qualifies as a work of art. It’s all hard ridges and sexy muscle. Usually I’d be busy comparing his and hers—and I definitely sport more of a beer keg than a six-pack myself—but right now I’m just letting myself enjoy. Who wouldn’t like having a big, sexy, hung hotshot at her mercy? So I take full advantage, running my hands down all those gorgeous muscles and nipping lightly, although it’s harder than you’d think because there’s not an inch of give in his abdomen.

  And speaking of inches… there’s a whole lot of inches going on down below. The man’s practically packing a yardstick, and I’ve got a ringside seat. His dick is huge, and I have some dirty, dirty plans for it. I wrap a hand around the hard length, and miracle of miracles, my fingers can’t meet. He’s such a keeper. His groan gets a little deeper, a little rougher. Somebody’s feeling impatient. I pull my hand away for a second, lick the palm, and wrap my present back up. I’d go for the soap, but that would make stage two in this plan less fun for me.

  I work his dick, sliding my palm up and down. At some point, I add my other hand because it wants in on
the action, too. And there’s something about choosing to go down on my knees, about just taking my time and getting lost in the moment, a decadent rhythm that’s in no rush and yet headed only one place. Eventually he tugs on my hair again, trying to pull me up. I think he might be worried he’ll come on my face, which is sweet but I’m nowhere near done with him.

  “This is my turn.” I look up at him. “You’re just going to have to stand there and take it, big guy.”

  His laughter rumbles over my head as his hands stop their tugging. He braces himself against the wall, palms flat against the tile. “Now there’s a hard thing.”

  The muscles of his abdomen demand more attention. The shiny scar from a burn is impossible to miss, a visible reminder of the risks he takes each day of the summer. I’ll just have to kiss what I can better.

  “You didn’t win that fight.” I press my mouth against the mark while my hands keep using his dick as my own personal slip-and-slide. I kiss over his ribs and down his stomach. Kiss lower, brushing my cheek against the tip of his dick.

  “Can’t win them all.” The words come out hoarse and needy. “Sarah Jo—”

  “Shhhh.” I rub my cheek against him again. He’s all hard wrapped up in velvety goodness. “I’m not done here.”

  He can’t say I didn’t warn him, right? I suck him into my mouth, wrapping my lips around the thick, slick head. His hips shift hard when I start sucking. His head hits the side of the shower, and his fingers find my hair again. I kiss and suck, swirling my tongue around his enormous cock like I’m inking his skin with our own design. He wraps me up, pulling me closer with his arms and legs, covering me with his big body. It’s almost overwhelming, but this is Pick. I need him close.

  I need all of him.

  I take as much of him in my mouth as I can, wrapping a hand around the inches I can’t cover. There’s a whole lot of Pick, and it’s hard to choose my favorite spot. So I explore. I run my tongue up the bulging vein, pressing against the spot beneath the head. The hands in my hair tense.

  Definitely mine right now.

  “Sarah Jo,” he bites out.

  I pop off just long enough to answer him. “Yeah, baby?”

  It takes him a few minutes to answer the question because I part my lips and go right back to sucking him. I work him with my tongue, moving from the tip to the base and then back up again. He’s so hard and getting harder with each stroke. He’s exactly what I need to hold onto, someone solid in the shit storm that is my life. And maybe not just in the stormy parts, something whispers in my head. I don’t think that’s my inner Damsel in Distress, either. It might be my heart, but I’m not listening.

  Pick groans something that sounds like a curse. “Tell me you’re stopping, because I’m not.”

  Nope. No intention of stopping here.

  And then he totally loses control. He pushes through the tight ring of my lips before popping back out again. I take him as deep as I can, not wanting this to end.

  I need this.

  I need him.

  Pick

  I fuck her mouth. Not sure what else to call it, but the sight of my dick sliding in and out of Sarah Jo’s pretty pink mouth makes me feel dirty as sin and twice as blissful as heaven. Sarah Jo on her knees, wrapped around me like I’m her favorite flavor of sweet, is the most erotic sight I’ve ever seen. Her water-slicked hair makes her look like a naughty mermaid, naked, kneeling. Needing.

  She moans, and the sound starts in my dick and plays straight up to my heart. She doesn’t seem to mind that I’m driving faster and harder, hammering in and out of her mouth like it’s her pussy. It feels so goddamned good. Better than anything anyone’s ever done for me before, which is why I’m seconds away from blowing down her throat and then yanking out and painting her tits with my jizz. Watching her take me isn’t helping me hold back any, either. We need to slow this down before I disgust her.

  “Christ, Sarah Jo. You want to pull back? I’m not going to last.”

  Her eyes twinkle up at me, and fuck me, but she doesn’t let go. Not one inch.

  Instead, she sucks me back in deep, her tongue rubbing my dick until I can’t take it, and I blow up harder than a goddamned forest fire. There’s a fucking inferno in my balls, and Sarah Jo is the only cure. I come, hard and fast, and she swallows me down. She’s not letting go, not now, and my whole world is nothing and no one but Sarah Jo, right there on her knees, giving me something I hadn’t known I needed.

  “Fuck me,” I grit out. Those aren’t the poetic words she deserves. They’re not the pretty words that would tell her how much I enjoyed what she just did. But I’ve got nothing. She smiles and swallows, and I shudder and curse and try to pretend that she hasn’t completely undone me. She reaches around me and flips off the water, which is already running lukewarm. The next Rogue into the shower is gonna curse me.

  Or cheer.

  There should definitely be cheering.

  With a small smile, Sarah Jo pulls my towel off the rod, wipes her mouth, and hands it to me. Holy. FUCK.

  And then she says the only thing that could make today better. Well, other than maybe three little words that I’ve previously thought belonged on a candy heart, but that I’m starting to want to hear from her.

  “You want to go make that RV of yours rock?”

  “Hell, yeah.” I drag on my shorts, wrap the towel around her, and pull her up into my arms. “You’ve got a turn coming to you, honey.”

  15

  SARAH JO

  After too many hours on my feet, I’m glad to curl up for my dinner break and hold a book instead of a spatula. The way I see it, I have forty-five perfect alone-time minutes until I have to return to the cafeteria, and I plan to maximize each and every one of them. Because fire camp tends toward the primitive and there’s not a whole lot of places to go to get away from everyone on your break unless you’re partial to trees and bushes, the cooks have rigged up an impromptu break room in the small building that doubles as a pantry. In addition to a stunning quantity of industrial-grade metal shelving holding a lifetime supply of tomato sauce and syrup, there are two bright green plastic lawn chairs, plenty of pillows, a small TV, and whatever else the girls have left behind over years of stolen breaks. We’ve nicknamed our hidey hole the Chateau du Nap, and while I suspect it’s not quite so secret, it’s still pretty sweet.

  Since I’m the only one on break right now, no one will bother me, and I’ve got my butt planted on a chair and a mountain of pillows at my back. I’ve also got a drink, a snack, and the book. Right now, however, the story in my hands isn’t working its usual magic. Instead of losing myself in the world of Highlanders, I’m thinking about making a field trip to camp and finding Pick’s RV.

  Again.

  For the third time this week.

  We’d made a mad dash to his RV after I heated him up in the shower. He’d shoved open the door and all but scooped me up in his arms, his hands on my butt as he’d carried me over to his big bed. Then, he’d proceeded to reclaim his towel, kissing every inch he’d uncovered. I’m pretty sure half the camp heard me shrieking his name, but no one said anything. Even Rosalie hadn’t done much more than smile and high-five me. She’s still convinced that fire camp is a synonym for matchmaking service.

  But cozying up here alone is, well, alone. I have a serious Pick addiction, and hooking up with him isn’t curing me. If anything, I’m getting worse. Now I want to spend the entire night wrapped up in his arms, whether we’re banging like crazed bunnies or sleeping. Or talking. So far, the only F-word we’ve exchanged has been fuck, but I’m sensing that feelings aren’t far behind. I’m not sure what to do.

  I turn the page. Nope. The Highlander in my book isn’t doing it for me tonight, no matter how hot he is in his kilt. I’m apparently Team Pick, and right now I can’t think of a single good reason why I shouldn’t head on over in his direction after I finish work and make myself at home with his big body.

  I’m still thinking that through (and c
oming up empty on the reasons to-not-to) when the lights flicker and then go out. Crap. Closing the book, I set it gently on the bed. Even Mother Nature and the local electric company think I should Pick over print, so who am I to argue?

  Sliding off the lawn chair, I feel my way over to the window. Power outages aren’t uncommon, and the average age of a building in the fire camp is downright geriatric. When I look out, though, the rest of the buildings still shine with light. I jiggle the light switch by the door, but no dice. Maybe I’ve blown a fuse.

  The door opens behind me, and I turn with a smile. We cooks stick together. Rosalie has likely sent a rescue party. Or an electrician. Either one works for me since I’m standing in the dark. There’s just enough light from the window to let me see the shadow of a man stepping inside. It’s probably Hunter, Lola’s main squeeze. He’s handy and extremely useful to have around, so I’m not above borrowing him to handle my electrical emergency.

  “Fuse box?” I ask.

  “That’s one way of looking at it.” Thad’s voice is an unfortunate cold dose of reality. He shuts the door carefully behind him, and I hear the snick of the lock as he flips the deadbolt.

  “You got a warrant this time?” My voice doesn’t shake. That makes me proud, because I have a feeling my knees are shaking visibly. Being locked up anywhere with Thad is a recipe for disaster. I don’t need the light to know there’s a whole lot of ugly written on his face. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The bastard’s spinning out the sickening anticipation and it’s working.

  “That’s a real nice getup.” He gestures toward my shorts and tank top with his service weapon. Which is drawn. I rub suddenly clammy palms on said shorts. He’s between me and the door. The window isn’t much of a possibility, either, too small for a quick exit. I’d never kick out the screen before he was on me. He stares, thinking God knows what (but the gun’s a bad sign as is the lack of a warrant) and I panic. The soft whup-whup of the slowing overhead fan is the only thing filling in the silence.