Gibson Boys Box Set

by Locke, Adriana

  “If you consider a date with the drive-thru guy a date, then possibly,” I wink.

  He rests back, one hand flat against my stomach. I’m not sure he even knows he’s doing it. It’s like he’s subconsciously asking me not to get up. I hate to tell him, but I’m perfectly comfortable right where I’m at.

  “Pie or cake?” he asks out of nowhere.

  I want to ask why he’s asking me such randomness, but I don’t want to spoil whatever it is he’s thinking. “Pie.”

  “Pepper or salt?”

  “Salt bloats. Pepper.”

  “Television or movies?”

  “Depends who I’m with,” I say, taunting him.

  “Me?”

  “Movies.”

  “Why?”

  Clenching my stomach, his fingers flexing against me as I do, my brain immediately goes to the gutter. “They take longer. More cuddle time.”

  “You want to cuddle with me?” he asks carefully.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?” he says, fighting a smile.

  “Casserole or cobbler?”

  His eyes light up. “Cobbler.”

  “But I thought cheeseburger casserole was your favorite comfort food?”

  “Have you ever had cobbler?” he deadpans.

  “Fair enough. Plane or truck?”

  “Depends on where I’m going.”

  “Can you just answer a freaking question?” I laugh.

  He laughs, taking off his hat. Running a hand through his hair, I can’t help but notice how relaxed he looks. “Why do you dye your hair purple?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, lifting a strand of colored locks. “Do you not like it?”

  “I love it. I just wonder why purple?” He takes the strands from me and slips them between his fingers.

  My heart falls a bit as I remember Carrie’s face. “I had a friend in California. She was twenty-four and diagnosed with pancreatic cancer,” I say softly. “It’s a fatal disease and she passed away only nine months after she found out. She was so free-spirited and beautiful and kind and everything good. Purple is the color of that ribbon, so sometimes I just feel like it honors her in the dumbest way.” I feel my face flush. “That seems so stupid, doesn’t it?”

  Instead of laughing or agreeing or ignoring the crack in my voice, he hugs me into his chest and holds me against him. I feel him press a soft kiss to the top of my head. There’s something about the gesture, the super sweet way he holds me. There’s nothing sexual about it, no overtones or indications this is anything but a man sensing my broken heart and wanting to try to ease it somehow.

  We sit quietly on the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms. He draws small pictures on my side from the tip of my sweatpants to just beneath my bra. I can’t tell what they are, but I love the way they feel.

  “I didn’t realize how much you love baseball,” he says, the swirls stopping.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The thing with Daisy and then there’s an Arrows blanket over there and you knew a lot about baseball with Machlan and Lance. You had an Arrows shirt on today too.”

  “Very perceptive,” I say, sitting up and stretching. “I really don’t love baseball, but I was an Arrows fan.”

  “Was? Not anymore?”

  Climbing off his lap, I start gathering our containers and putting them back into the bag. Chewing my bottom lip, trying to decide how to tell him Lincoln is my brother, I move to the other side of the coffee table.

  I’ve never been in this situation before. Everyone in Savannah knows who my family is. My friends in California knew too. It’s not that it’s a big deal to me, but sometimes other people think it is and that makes things awkward. I don’t want to do anything to destroy this serenity with Walker, but I can’t lie to him either.

  So, I go for nonchalance.

  “My brother doesn’t play for them anymore,” I shrug, turning away towards the kitchen. “I don’t have to like them now.”

  “Your brother what?” There’s a tinge of disbelief on the end of the question, a rasp to his voice that makes me recenter before speaking or turning around.

  After a deep breath, I explain. “My brother, Lincoln, played centerfield for them. I had to like them. Family rules.”

  Stopping and looking over my shoulder, I see Walker lean forward and balance his elbows on his knees. “Your brother is Lincoln Landry?”

  “Yup.”

  “The Lincoln Landry?”

  “The one and only,” I say with a shrug. “I told you my last name.”

  “Yeah,” he scoffs. “But I had no idea that you were from that family.”

  “That family is my family. It’s not a big deal.”

  “So, that makes your other brother a senator or something?”

  “Governor. For now,” I add. “He’s not running for reelection, so that’s about over.”

  “That’s a big deal. I …” He shakes his head, like he can’t make sense of what I’m saying. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Resting the bag of trash on a stack of boxes near the doorway, I take a deep breath. “Would it have mattered?”

  He ponders this, his eyes kind of glassing over as he lets this marinate. Finally, after what feels like a hundred years, he flips his gaze back to me again. “I guess not. But I wouldn’t have fed you cheeseburger casserole, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Why not?” I laugh. “It was amazing. Is there anything Nana can’t make?”

  “No,” he agrees. “But you could’ve had …” He shakes his head again, harder this time. “You’ve been cleaning my fucking office and you’re practically royalty.”

  “Oh, I am not,” I huff. “That’s tabloid bullshit.”

  “I’m a little shocked, okay?” he laughs. “This does explain a lot.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you just paying for MaryAnn and Dave’s cars like it was nothing,” he says slowly. “You could’ve just bought them new ones.”

  “I couldn’t because Graham would ask way too many questions,” I laugh. “But, yes, now you see why I didn’t want you calling the police on me over Daisy. It could’ve been a big deal.”

  He nods, standing up. Wiping his palms down his jeans, he takes a deep, labored breath.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” I tell him, panic starting to seep in my tone. “I just wanted to be honest.”

  “I’m glad you did. Honesty is the best policy, huh?”

  Even though he’s the one who said it, I have concerns that maybe he doesn’t necessarily prescribe to that theory. There’s a niggle in my stomach that worries me.

  “I always go for honesty,” I say. “So you can say goodnight or we can watch a movie. But I’m not discussing the Landry thing anymore.”

  “Good. Because I don’t want to discuss it either. Let’s go get some root beer and come back and watch a movie. That is, if you want to cuddle.”

  “Are you any good at cuddling?”

  His eyes darken. “I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

  Twenty-Four

  Sienna

  “Well,” he says, stretching his arms overhead. My body just moves along with his because I have no intention of getting up. He smells too good. Feels too sturdy against my cheek. Makes all the butterflies swarm like it’s the first day of spring in my belly. “Am I a good cuddler or what?”

  “The best.”

  “I was afraid I forgot how,” he yawns, scooping me up into his arms again.

  “How long has it been since you cuddled someone?”

  He moves us side to side in a breezy kind of way, like we’re on a hammock somewhere warm with no cares in the world. “I don’t know.”

  “Last week? Month? Six months?” I prod. “Not that I care, just curious.”

  “I’ve been with women in the last six months. But no cuddling.”

  Burying my face in his shirt, I smile against his torso. He chuckles, his chest rumbling. “You like that?”


  “Of course I like that,” I giggle. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why me?” I ask, pulling away.

  He furrows a brow. “Why you what?”

  “Why are you cuddling with me? If it’s not your thing.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t my thing,” he says, tilting his chin to the ceiling. “I just said I hadn’t done it.”

  “So … why me?”

  I think he’s going to blow me off. If I poke too hard, he changes the subject or turns it around on me. This time, however, he seems to consider my question. “I don’t really know. Whatever I say will make me sound like a pussy.”

  “I think you’re a pussy anyway, so …”

  He grins, cinching my waist and moving me so I’m straddling him. We face each other. “There was something about you from the night I met you. You were a little mouthy and I was a little mad, but there was this thing in your eyes that I couldn’t stop thinking about.”

  “So it wasn’t my ass? Peck said it was my ass.”

  Laughing, he digs his fingers deeper into my hips. “Your ass is perfect, but that’s the thing—that’s not what I was thinking about that night or the night after or the night after that. It was that thing. Like there was more to you than some drunk girl smashing my headlight out.”

  “Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t,” I tease.

  “Oh, there is. I’ve seen it now. You’re kind,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to my sternum. “And thoughtful,” he says, laying a series of kisses from my collarbone up to my ear. “And so fucking sexy.”

  The last words come out as a growl, making me tremble in his hands. He nips at my lobe, his breath hot against the sensitive flesh at the back of my neck.

  “Are you trying to keep me from asking you more questions?” I breathe, melting into him.

  “I’m trying to make you forget about whoever cuddled you last.”

  “Done.” Moving my head to the side, allowing him all the access he wants, I rock back and forth as his cock grows beneath me. I can feel it moving, lengthening, the urgency of his kisses growing more frantic as he lets himself unwind. His tongue draws a line to my mouth, his eyes flashing open as our mouths meet in a slow, delicious union.

  He kisses me with the ease of a man who knows what he’s doing and with the hunger of a man who needs more. His hands roam my body—squeezing my ass, skirting up my shirt and pinching my nipples until they harden between his fingers, cupping my cheeks as he holds me still and kisses me like a cool drink of water on a hot day.

  I’m drunk, doused in his spell, lit up with his attention and sated with his tenderness. It’s dizzying, my brain befuddled with too many sensations fighting for attention.

  “Walker,” I moan, tipping my head back as he kisses down my neck. The ends of my hair tickle my waist, my breasts pushed forward as my shirt is lifted. They’re freed from the constraints of my pink lacy bra, resting on top of the cups.

  When I look up, my breathing ragged, he’s smirking. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  “You know what you are?”

  “An asshole?”

  Rubbing myself against his hardness, I lay a hand on each shoulder. “You can be. So much that I can’t stand you,” I say, kneading his muscles in my hands. “But you can be protective, like with Tommy at Crave. And caring like changing my oil, and even sweet like how you held me while we watched the movie,” I say, trying to drive home my point by refusing to let him look away. “You make me feel good.”

  “I want to make you feel good, baby.”

  Before I can process it, his head bends to my chest and sucks a darkened nipple between his teeth. Instantly, I’m wet, my pussy clenching, begging, throbbing for contact. I grind against him, swirling my hips as his hands hold on and guide me in slow, small circles.

  It’s his turn to groan, biting the peak lightly before pulling back and looking at me like he’s about to devour me.

  “That feels beyond good,” I moan, arching my back. My eyes fall closed, unable to hold open as my body switches to life.

  “I told myself I was going to go slow,” he pants. “Easy. Enjoy it. But damn it if you don’t make it hard not to lose control.”

  Climbing off his lap, I peel my shirt off and toss it to the floor. Emboldened by his words, buoyed by the confidence he bestows by giving me every single ounce of his attention, I don’t lose eye contact as I unbutton my jeans and tug the zipper down. In a couple of seconds, they’re in my hand and dropped to the side.

  There’s a rush of breath, a blowing out of a lungful of air that accompanies his shirt flying through the air and landing near mine.

  I’m almost naked, my bra and panties the only pieces of fabric still partially covering my body. I turn and face the wall. The sound of denim being discarded, shoes thudding against the floor, is the background music to the sound of blood whooshing by my ears.

  I’ve never stood naked in front of someone before. Even now as I bend at the waist, sticking my ass out for his benefit, and peel the pink lace down my thighs, I wonder why in the world I’m not more self-conscious. I unsnap the back of my bra and feel it pool into my hands just beneath my breasts.

  Flipping my head to the side, all my hair falling to one shoulder, I look at him over the other. He’s standing, his eyes glued to me, one hand gripping his cock.

  The sight of the dot of pre-cum at the head, gaining a little more each time he strokes his impressive length, my legs feel like I’ve run a mile.

  “Can I suck you?” I rasp, not just wanting but needing to make him feel as wanted as he makes me feel.

  “Don’t say that,” he growls, squeezing himself harder. “I’ll come right now.”

  He watches me with the intensity of a cat ready to pounce. His eyes strike down my body and up again, leaving a trail of flames in their wake. My mouth goes dry as he takes a step towards me.

  My breasts are pulled together, the bra dangling from my hand beneath them. I feel like a vixen, as sexy as a cover model on one of the magazines I used to find hidden in my boyfriends’ rooms. I’ve never felt this way before; it’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever experienced.

  I let my hand drop, the bra falling to the floor right along with Walker’s jaw. I take the remaining steps between us, and before he can pull away, wrap my mouth around the head of his cock and take him in as far as I can. His semen is warm and salty and coats my mouth before sliding down my throat.

  He groans, his head falling back, his hips pressing forward towards my mouth. But as I take him deep a second time, he quickly pulls away.

  “I can’t,” he croaks. “Don’t make me come yet.”

  “Do I have that much control?” I tease, wiping my mouth with my hand.

  “Woman, you’re in total control. Don’t you know that?”

  My clit sends a zip of energy through my veins every time I move. My stomach is in knots, wetness streaking my thighs as I feel the desperation for him to be inside me compound to a point I can’t control it.

  “If that’s the case,” I tell him, walking over to the couch, spreading my legs a bit wider than shoulder width, and turning my body towards the couch but my head towards him, “Don’t take it easy.”

  “My God,” he hisses, walking up behind me. The lines of his abdomen ripple with every movement. The scars dotting his arms and chest from years of manual labor just turn me on more. “You don’t want it easy, right?”

  “Just fuck me,” I beg, my ass popped in the air. “Get inside me and make me come all over you.”

  He swats my backside, the sound ricocheting through the room. I yelp, only because I’m surprised because the sting, a sweet, sinful kiss, only makes me drip faster down my own legs.

  One hand digs into my hip, the other presses on the back of my head. “Head down, sweetheart.”

  I fold my torso down so I’m resting on my forearms, feeling the cool air hit my pussy. The tip of his cock lines up, only barely parting the lips of my
vagina. I’m stretched around him, my body pulsing, trying to drag him in farther. I try to push back but it’s met with another swat.

  “Will you please fuc—” The rest comes out in a gush as he sinks inside my body in one long, heavy thrust. He hits the back, an explosion of colors lighting up my vision. A hand claws into my ass cheek before moving over and holding my other hip.

  He sinks into me again. And again. And a third time, each movement nailing the spot on the back wall of my pussy.

  “You’re squeezing the fuck out of me,” he grits. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

  “No,” I gasp, the force of him behind me all but taking my breath away. “Keep moving.”

  “Damn you.”

  Our skin slips by the other, our bodies slapping as he builds me up like an expert craftsman. My arms begin to go numb, my legs threatening to give out, as I fall forward into the cushions and use them to help keep me propped.

  I know it’s going to end soon; I can’t continue much longer. Every part of me is worked into a luxurious dance of hums and screams as I rise to the point of no return.

  “I have to stop,” he groans, “or come. What will it be?”

  “Keep. Going,” I pant, my feet almost coming off the floor. “Right there, Walker. Right there!” I scream into the cushions as a shot of energy tries to shoot through the top of my head. My legs shake just like they describe in raunchy rap songs, pulsing to a tune I can’t hear over the orgasm ripping through every cell of my body.

  I hear him moaning behind me as he finds his own relief. Somewhere I register the burn of his hands in my hips. There’s a part of me that picks up the sweat dripping down our bodies and the scent of sex that permeates the air.

  He thrusts one final time before slowly removing his cock. I fall into the couch in one very un-ladylike fashion, unable to keep my eyes open.

  “Hey,” he whispers. His hand brushes a strand of damp hair out of my face. When I open my eyes, I see him kneeling beside me. “Are you okay?”

  “Do I look okay?” I ask, my throat burning. “I look awful, huh?”