Stirring up the Sheriff (Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book 3)

by Leslie North

  "Oh!" The explosive cry came out of her when a particularly hard thrust took her by surprise.

  She wanted to hold him inside her and enjoy the fullness of him—she wanted to keep hitting that spot—but Trent pulled her almost all the way off him and forced her to beg for it. Her hips tried to maneuver down again in vain, and a low, infuriating chuckle escaped him.

  "God, Trent!" she exclaimed. She couldn't articulate what she wanted anymore, not with words. A keening noise of longing filtered past her lips, and she didn't care who might hear. She swirled her body again; his fingers clenched the tight flesh of her backside, and then he eased himself back into her.

  Their bouncing resumed, more frantic this time. The chair beneath them scraped across the floor from their combined weights.

  "Oh, God." A shudder coursed through her. Trent's hands slid up her back, skimming perspiration from her skin.

  "Do it," he urged her. "Let go, Marianne."

  For a moment, she wasn't sure she could. Even the mounting pressure, the bursts of bright pleasure that overwhelmed her with increasing frequency, might still not be enough to aid her in finding that long-withheld release. Old anxieties raced across the back of her mind, competing with her present. It had been too long. Her body wouldn't remember how. And maybe worst of all was the fear that giving into her desire now would lead her back into unhappiness, despair, disconnection. Had she ever known lovemaking without it?

  But none of that fear could compete or compare with the feeling of being locked in Trent's tightening embrace.

  "Come for me," he said. He gazed at her; their eyes locked, and she shuddered again. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with the weight of his passion, gave her permission. There was no expectation, no aggressive anticipation, just inevitability. He had never been inside her before, but Trent knew the signals of her body. He held her gaze, thrust himself deeper, and heat ballooned in her belly.

  When she came, it was as if a dam broke. A cascade of pleasure rolled through her, so powerful and unexpected that she cried out and tightened her quivering legs around him. Trent's hands braced her back with an answering pressure, holding her in place. Marianne's head fell back as she was rocked by pleasure, and rocked by the gorgeous man who had made it his business to give it to her.

  Her orgasm had barely crested before Trent unexpectedly started to jog her in his lap. Marianne rode his quick thrusts, and before she knew it, her cries were mounting again. You can't be serious, she thought in wonder. Her lips parted, her eyes widened in shock as her orgasm was arrested mid-fall and she started the climb all over again. Trent's cock slid in and out of her in strokes that were maddeningly fast and too fleeting. God, why couldn't he just hold her still and let her feel the full length of him buried deep inside of her? She just knew that was the key. Building up to that breaking point all over again was beyond her endurance. She couldn't take any more of it!

  "Trent!" She cried his name in rapturous demand, and Trent locked his arms around her waist. He slid into her with a finality she hadn't been expecting, and the tip of his cock struck that throbbing spot within her that ached for more. A second orgasm ripped through her, and she rocked in his lap as if she lived only for the pleasure he gave. Trent hissed a low oath, and his fingers dug into her ass as if he was the one who needed to hold onto something.

  When Marianne once more had the awareness to take in what had happened, she realized she had come with Trent that second time. His grip on her relaxed, and she collapsed against him with a rough exhalation. She rested her breasts against his fever-hot chest, enjoying the feel of naked male solidly beneath them.

  It took her a moment to distinguish the pounding of her heart from the pounding of a fist against the door.

  "Last call!" the bartender hollered through the wood. The door knob jiggled, and Marianne leapt out of Trent's lap. She scrambled quickly to recover her clothes. "Hey!" The bartender rapped on the door more sharply this time. "Did y'all mean to lock this door? I'll give you about thirty seconds before I go for the key."

  "Pants!" Marianne hissed. In their haste to get dressed, both she and Trent managed to grab the wrong jeans. Trent tossed hers over, catching his own out of the air when she flung them to him. Dressing quickly became an illicit game of hot potato; by the time they were mostly decent, Marianne was breathless and laughing, and Trent's broad smile had gained at least an inch.

  "Was that less than thirty seconds?" she asked. She made efforts to rearrange her hair as one of Trent's arms encircled her waist.

  "We'll find out," he muttered as he twitched the lock and opened the door. The bartender glanced up from where he stood fiddling with his keys on the threshold.

  "Everything all right?" His tone was polite, but his eyes were suspicious, like they weren't the first poker-playing pair to have "accidentally" thrown the lock.

  Marianne smiled pleasantly, and Trent tipped his hat. "Yup," he replied. "You have a good evening." They strolled together out the door. Neither of them looked back to see how far the bartender's disapproving gaze followed.

  "This is not the sort of thing that's going to happen at the Honky Tonk," Marianne vowed. "No cards, no backrooms. Atmosphere be damned."

  Trent grinned. "Don't install locks on the tasting rooms. You'll just be inviting trouble."

  Marianne glanced up as he opened the passenger side door for her. "Something tells me I already have."

  10

  Trent

  This is not the sort of thing that's going to happen at the Honky Tonk.

  "Trent?" Marianne asked. "Are you in there? Are you listening?"

  "I'm listening," he agreed. To what you said to me a week ago, he appended privately.

  It had actually been eight days since the card room at the Swing Station. Eight long, agonizing days of seeing Marianne, speaking with Marianne, getting passes in where he could, but mostly it had been eight days of helping her setup the front room of the Honky Tonk for the festival while she took care of the more space age-looking brewing equipment in back. Eight days with no resolution to the fantastic sex in the cardroom. Their relationship was still as open-ended and unlabeled as the spare bottles she kept stacked in the back, and Marianne seemed unconcerned that over a week had passed already.

  But who was counting?

  "I asked if you were really reading that." Marianne pointed toward the tatty old Moleskine notebook he held open in his hands. "That's my old brewing book from school. I thought I had thrown it away ages ago."

  Trent shook his head. "You don't want to throw something like this away. This here…this is a piece of new Honky Tonk history."

  "Ha!" Marianne scoffed with a laugh. She didn't sound completely disapproving for once; if Trent didn't know better, he’d say she was almost gazing at him fondly. All the rough work around the brewpub was done, so today Marianne had traded her usual jeans for a pair of tight shorts that hugged her shapely ass and slender legs. Her porcelain skin was tinged with the beginnings of a tan, just slightly more caramelized than it had been when he first laid eyes on her.

  Trent wanted to run his tongue along that skin, just to see how it tasted after it's time in the sun. He wanted to trail kisses along her inner thighs, feel them tense and quake despite their best efforts to hold still. He wanted to tear the thin material of her white tank top to get at the body it barely hid, buy her a new one, and repeat the process as many times as she would allow.

  Marianne's outfit was the reason Trent's thoughts had been drifting to sex in the first place.

  Inspiration struck. "Who's Simon?" he asked her. He flapped the journal at her. "I saw his name written in here a few times with little hearts all around it."

  "No, you did not!" Marianne exclaimed shrilly. She lunged forward suddenly to take the notebook from him. Trent didn't bother holding it out of her reach. While it may have been his original plan to lure her in close so he could get a kiss, seeing the way she reacted now wasn't as funny as he'd hoped. Her eyes showed real fear.

>   Who the hell was Simon, and what had he done to Marianne?

  "You're right. I didn't," Trent conceded as Marianne snatched the Moleskine and stuffed it back into a drawer. "Just saw that he was your partner in a lot of projects, that's all."

  "He wound up being a partner in more than that," Marianne muttered. "I'm sorry, Trent. I didn't mean to freak out on you. Thanks for finding my old recipes…they'll be fun to go through later, even if I can't implement any of them now."

  "Why not?" Marianne shot him a look at his question, but Trent didn't pause. He moved in, letting his hand trail along the bar to alight on her own. "I thought some of them looked pretty good."

  "You did?"

  "You still think you're going to win this little bet between us, don't you? You still underestimate my ability to be…discerning when it comes to what I taste."

  "No way I'm going to lose."

  "Not if you surrender willingly," he agreed. He swooped in before she could retreat, catching her lower lip with a light nip of his teeth. Marianne expelled a shaky breath of thrilled surprise and almost leaned into him, but then she appeared to recover her senses—or at least what she personally considered to be her senses—because she pulled away when Trent tried to repeat the kiss.

  "I can't, Trent. I'm working." For once she sounded genuinely sorry about the fact.

  "Relax. The open sign isn't even on. No one's going to come in."

  "You can't know that," Marianne murmured as he backed her behind the table. Trent continued his advance. He was enjoying the cat-and-mouse game, and Marianne was too, if he wasn't mistaken.

  "I know how many times I made you come in a row last time," he replied. "Something like three?"

  "Two."

  "Don't you want to see how many I can give you this time?"

  He closed the gap between them and thrust her back against the wall beneath him. He supposed her decision to get rid of Celia's decorations had been a good one, after all, because there was nothing to obstruct him now. He pinned Marianne and ducked his head to lavish the kisses she resisted along the base of her throat.

  Marianne writhed and cooed, half-gasping, half-laughing, whenever his stubble came in contact with her bare skin. Trent's cock reared up against the material of his boxers, demanding a release. He reached between them, unzipped and shoved Marianne's tiny shorts down first. The little minx wasn't wearing any underwear. Had she planned this all along? Or had she realized that he would be after her today no matter what? Whatever her thinking, Trent owed her nothing but gratitude now. He let the hand that undressed her below snake between her legs and begin a slow, sensuous massage of her wet folds. His other hand helped Marianne pull her shirt up and yank off her bra. She thrust herself into the hand between her legs, moaning, as her own hands dropped to undo the front of his pants and push them down.

  He paused only long enough to sheathe himself in a condom—her little whimper of impatience only made him harder—then slid his cock between her legs. She cried out as he entered her. He groaned in response, losing himself in the heavenly sensation as she enfolded him utterly. She was slick and hot and tight, with just the right amount of resistance to send bolts of electricity shooting through him. He reached down between them to give her clit a rough, careless rub; Marianne arched back with a wail, and he slid all the way into her. His hips butted up against her inner thighs, and he wanted to curse with how good it felt.

  "You're…absolutely…the most…" Marianne struggled to form whatever insult came to mind. Trent smiled wickedly and gave an experimental thrust. The drawn-out moan that punctuated her attempted tirade was almost enough to undo him; it vibrated through both their bodies with its intensity.

  "I'm 'the most,' huh? And don't you forget it, Marianne Stanton." Trent leaned in to press a proprietary kiss to the frantic pulse point in her neck. "The next time you pretend to resist me, I'll have to bring out the cuffs."

  "God, I wish you'd handcuff me while you fuck me," she moaned.

  "Marianne," he murmured approvingly. "Why, I do declare."

  "Not the kind of Southern roleplay I'm looking for, Sheriff," Marianne ground out. Her expression was exquisite, both tense and vulnerable; her fine eyebrows were drawn together around the scrunched bridge of her nose, and the blush that suffused her cheeks only brought out the dusting of her freckles. Her lips shone with the faint polish of the gloss she wore. Trent leaned in to taste them again, teasing the sweet, plump flesh with his teeth until he succeeded in arousing another moan from her.

  "What are you looking for?" he asked her. He emphasized the question with a pump of his hips. Marianne cried out, wordless and wild, as she rode the sudden thrust.

  Thoughts of her filthy fantasy threatened to drive him to the point of no return. Trent groaned deeply, clenched his teeth, and spun them both away from the wall. He carried her down to the ground, using her shed shirt as a cushion between her and the hard stone floor. Marianne stirred and writhed, hiking her legs up as Trent slid easily into her. This latest angle wasn't helping him stave off thoughts of what it would be like to fuck Marianne, while she wore nothing but a pair of his handcuffs…hell, why not do it at the cell at work? It would only be fair, considering they were in the process of christening her brewpub properly.

  Her legs clenched all at once around his waist. Trent knew the signal, but he didn't let up. His hips slapped the junction between her thighs, and he stared down into her exquisite expression. Her mouth inched open, and only when she flung her arms around his neck did he duck down for a kiss. He thrust his tongue between her teeth and filled her moaning mouth; their lips tangled and slid together, and he caught most of Marianne's cry of release as she came hard. Her inner muscles contracted around him, pulling him in deeper, and suddenly Trent was coming as well. He exploded with a hot, ecstatic rush and succumbed to the thoughtless bliss that followed.

  When he withdrew moments later, he hitched his boxers back up quickly and decided he could drive back home to change. He’d just duck into the restroom here for a quick cleanup. He rose, and Marianne extended her hands to him, her expression that of a deeply satisfied, newly-crowned queen. She looked good decorating the floor she had spent all that time varnishing. Trent grinned as he hauled her up.

  "You were saying something?" he asked. Marianne exhaled in frustration, eyeing him from beneath a loose strand of chocolate hair. Trent smiled, and she turned her back on him to give him better access to help her with her bra. He was all too happy to oblige, although he intended to have his question answered one way or another.

  "I don't recall," Marianne replied.

  "Something about how I'm the most…?"

  "The most frustratingly sexy man I've ever met," she provided. "There. Happy?"

  "I've never been more let-down, actually," Trent said. "Funny thing is, I thought you had a mind to say something else while we were coming together like that."

  "Yeah? Like what?" She pulled away to shimmy into her shorts. Trent watched her hop on one leg, then the next, as he meditated on his next words. Marianne knew how to work her body in ways that were almost criminal, but it was the little moments when she didn't realize he was watching, memorizing, that he prized above all the others. He had never felt this way about any woman before, and he wanted her to know it.

  "Marianne…" As soon as she was firmly planted again, Trent stepped forward to draw her into his arms. She sank into his embrace so readily now that he wanted to shout it to the brewpub's rafters: Marianne, can't you see that you love me? "You don't need a shirt," he said instead. He nodded to her crumpled tank top in the corner.

  Marianne laughed appreciatively. "Is that your latest contribution to the Honky Tonk's atmosphere, Sheriff Wild? You want to make me the town's topless brewer?"

  "I wouldn't arrest you for exposure, if that's what you're worried about." He lowered his mouth to graze his lips along the outside of her ear. "Not even if you wanted me to." No way in hell he was going to readily forget what Marianne had said to hi
m in the heat of their earlier moment. He relished the little shiver she gave at his words.

  "And if I wanted you for more than just that?" she whispered.

  His arms tightened. "You have an active imagination. Wouldn't put it past you to think of another use for me."

  "I think we're past questions of usefulness at this point," Marianne said. "Trent, I think I'm falling in love with you."

  Marianne may have thought she was falling, but Trent's heart soared to hear her say the words. She looked up to gauge his response. He caressed her satin cheek with his knuckle, wanting to soothe the tumult he was sure she felt. The fact that she could bring herself to make a confession, after she had been through so much that she still wasn't telling him…

  "What do you think?" She studied him, and her uncertainty was obvious in her voice. Her whisper had steeled itself a little, hardened in the seconds it took him to process all that she was saying to him. The tone she used now was one of a businesswoman trying to get a bead on what day his schedule might open up.

  "I don't only think," he murmured as he leaned in. Marianne scoffed.

  "Well, I'd say that's obvious."

  "I mean I don't only think I'm falling in love with you, Marianne. I know it." He touched her hair again, shifting it out of the way of the pale, hopeful face hovering just below him. He leaned in.

  The front door of the bar sailed open with a bang. The two of them turned and discovered a shocked-looking young man discovering them; Trent saw the startled whites of his eyes, before those same eyes inevitably dropped to the way Trent embraced the shirtless Marianne.