Reckless

by Teagan Kade

  His cock nuzzles deeper and he sinks home in one stroke. He holds his length there inside me, our pubic bones ground together.

  Carter draws back with his giant cock, seemingly too large, but as he moves and thrusts, it begins to diminish, a new flood of arousal slickening my walls, my body opening up and enveloping him in full.

  Soon we are pressed together in sweet agony. I moan and whimper while he grunts above, clouds of breath betraying his state of arousal. He moves slow in short, stabbing strokes and then draws into me long and deep, burying the full body of his cock into my wet pussy.

  I draw towards another release. He senses it, his surges becoming more urgent and fierce, the wet slapping of our bodies in contrast to the whisper of the breeze over his back and the crackle of the bonfire.

  His mouth comes against me, tongues twisted together while he pins me into the earth with every stroke. I soak his shaft, fistfuls of dirt and dead leaves in my hands as I shudder and shake below.

  We break apart and I look into the oceanic depths of his eyes, finding no mercy. But written on his face is something else, lines creased together and twitching, all the proof I need of the effect I am having on him.

  Holding my hair in one hand, the other under a buttock, sweat cooling on my skin to match his own, I whisper what I require in his ear before my voice returns to soft, animal whimpering once more.

  I lift my legs and he finds a new hollow inside my body. I ease a hand between us and let my fingers fall on my clit, a shock of sensation following and my climax slamming into me in a dark rush.

  My hips jam upwards soggy from the wet earth. I arch out, the very stars above caught in my eyes, as Carter gives a final thrust and fires forth his release.

  When he draws away from my body, spent, I collapse onto my back, licking my lips, a dull but welcome ache between my legs.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CARTER

  I don’t really know what’s happening. Not so long ago the height of my sexual contact was watching The Bachelor on the tiny prison TV. Now Wren and I are fucking in public like a couple of crazy teenagers. We were so close to that bonfire last night. For all I know that could have been a KKK convention out there.

  I think the Wren I remember is starting to return now she’s free of my brother, and yes, that sounds fucking harsh, but it’s the truth. He took the fun and virility that was Wren Banner and bottled it up into the kind of socialite-slash-trophy wife he wanted. She’s even started to dress down, wear less makeup, and she’s ten times more beautiful for it.

  “You coming in?” calls Wren from the bath.

  I take the eggs off the heat and set them aside. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

  “You don’t want a little rub-a-tug-tug first?”

  Fuck it. The eggs can go cold.

  I’m about to pull my shirt off when there’s a knock on the door.

  I look through the window.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  I open the door and step out, closing it behind me so Wren can’t hear.

  I keep my voice low. “You’ve got some set of balls showing up here. I’ve got a gun inside, you know.”

  Matt Leroux is travelling light, only his cell phone in hand. “Please, hear me out.”

  “This is private land and I have every right and shoot your ass. I’ve been down once for assault with a deadly weapon. What do they say about the second time being easier?” I look behind him. “Where’s your shitbox of a car?”

  “The front gate was locked. I walked.”

  The lock’s a recent addition. I couldn’t have just anyone showing up here these days. “The road down is three miles.”

  He wipes his brow. “I know.”

  Fucking hell.

  I lean back against the door. “Alright. Go.”

  “I want to start by apologizing.”

  “Good start.”

  “I was an asshole when I worked for the Oatville Enquirer. I wrote some shitty stuff about you, no doubt.”

  “You did.”

  “That’s not to say it wasn’t true…”

  “Watch it, and okay, maybe it was, but that drivel you printed… those photos of me in any number of compromising positions that got circulated… You ever been in the middle of a shitstorm like that?”

  “No, but I appreciate my words could have… contributed.”

  I nod. “That’s very big of you. Now, you can continue to dig yourself up my tailpipe, or you can tell me what the fuck you came here to really say.”

  He wipes his brow again. “Right.” He points behind himself with his thumb. “These big city journos, they don’t get it.”

  I have noticed the odd news van parked up by the gate, reporters swimming around town like sharks. “And you do?”

  “I’ve known you for a while, followed your story.”

  “But you said you want to write about Wren, and David.”

  “I do, but I’ve dug deeper. I know about David’s infidelity. I have messages, pictures… proof. I have statements from people close to Wren, you know how he really treated her.”

  “So you want to smear my dead brother’s name?”

  “Don’t you? I know you and Wren are together, maybe always wanted to be, and that’s the angle everyone else is going to take—Wren jumping on the convicted brother-in-law the moment David’s dead, but not me.”

  “Why not?”

  “David fucked up,” Matt continues. “He was a crook, no doubt, but I don’t think he should bring down Wren with him. I think we can both agree on that, can’t we?”

  I do, but I don’t think I can trust this guy. The nonsense he used to write about me back in the day…

  Like he said, most of it was true, as outlandish as it seemed at the time.

  I look through the window, check Wren hasn’t gotten out of the bath yet. I have no idea what she’d make of all this.

  “I can get her a big feature, maybe even air time if she’s interested. I’m prime now, lots of contacts.”

  I smell desperation, but The American is no small-town paper like the Oatville Enquirer. It’s circulated to millions.

  I stand before him. “You know, Matt. No one ever asked for my side of the story when it came to what happened that night.”

  “Which night?”

  “You know very fucking well which night.”

  “I read the police reports. It was pretty cut and dry.”

  “But do you know why I did it?”

  He shakes his head. “I won’t presume to speculate.”

  I throw my head back. “That would be a first.”

  I jab behind myself. “I did it to protect her. David had some big debts and the people who funded him were looking for a payout, as I’m sure you know.”

  Now he’s getting it. “And they threatened Wren.”

  “I simply couldn’t allow it.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “That’s right, so believe me when I tell you protecting her is my number-one priority. I’ll do time again if it means keeping her safe.”

  He puts his hands up, backing away slightly. “All I’m saying is I’m ready to tell her story, and yours, if that’s what you want.”

  “You leave me out of this.”

  “Carter?” It’s Wren, calling for me inside.

  I point to the woods. “Get going.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “No,” I state. “Now go, before I go and get that shotgun.”

  He fishes in his pocket, handing me a card. “Call any time.”

  I don’t reply.

  He turns and starts walking back up the drive.

  I flick at the card between my fingers, shoving it deep into my pocket. I have zero intention of keeping it.

  I head back inside.

  Wren stands there in a towel. “Sorry, the water was getting cold. Were you talking to someone outside?”

  “It was no one.”

  She sniffs at the stove. “Shall we have breakfast th
en?”

  I come forward and take the towel off her shoulders, let it drop into a puddle around her feet. I take her hands and kneel. “Best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WREN

  I collapse against Carter’s chest in the tub, my breasts flattened against his pecs. My ass cheeks bob above the waterline, Carter’s cock continuing to pulse inside me. “Can we stay here forever?”

  He holds the side of my face. “There’s a whole forest of firewood out there, a bed, a bath. What more could a man want?”

  I lift up and let him slide free, his still-hard cock trapped against my belly. “I was thinking of cooking dinner again tonight.”

  He sits up, one arm over the edge of the tub. “Says the girl who couldn’t even cook two-minute noodles back in school?”

  I lift myself up and slap him in the chest, water splashing over the edges of the tub. “Like you were any better, and hey, you enjoyed my concoction the other night, didn’t you? Besides, I’ve learned a lot since high school.”

  He flexes his cock. “I know.”

  “Do you mind if I take the Jeep?” I ask.

  “You’ll have to drop me at the rink. I can get Steve to bring me home later.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “You’ll have to ask Merida.”

  “Who’s…” And then I figure it out.” My eyebrows fall together. “You call your trombone ice machine thing Melanie and you named your Jeep after a Disney princess? I’m worried.”

  “It’s green with a red roof—seemed fitting enough.”

  I shake my head and slowly step out of the bath. “What am I going to do with you?”

  I scream when he pulls me back into the bath, great, gulping waves of water cascading off the sides.

  “I could think of a few things.” He smiles.

  *

  It’s been a while since I drove stick, the gears churning as I try to get a grip on how to drive this monstrosity.

  “Don’t let her drive you,” Carter informs me, close to losing it.

  Yeah, thanks.

  Fifteen minutes later I’ve clunked and jerked us into the middle of town.

  I drop Carter off at the rink and head down Main Street, parking the Jeep on the side of the road and heading across to what counts for a supermarket in this neck of the woods.

  Pasta’s about the only dish I can put together without a visit from the emergency services, so I select a box of spaghetti, tomato sauce, and fresh basil from the display. It’s more of a general store than anything else, but I find what I need, lifting the items one by one onto the counter.

  A middle-aged woman looks over the top of her reading glasses at me. ‘Glaring’ would be the appropriate term. It’s so blatant I actually stop, asking her, “Is everything okay?”

  “You’re her, aren’t you?” she says.

  “Sorry?”

  “That murderer’s plaything.”

  The hell?

  I immediately come to Carter’s defense. “He’s not a—”

  She cuts me off. “We don’t take kindly to his kind around here.” She’s looking at me like I’ve crawled out of a sewer. “And you? How could you be with a monster like that? Your husband’s own brother. It makes my stomach turn.”

  I leave the food and get out of there, close to tears as I head to the Jeep. I’m opening the door when someone taps me on the shoulder.

  I turn, a microphone shoved into my face. “Mrs. White, do you have a comment on your late husband’s investigation?”

  I pull at the handle, can’t work out why the door’s not opening. “I, I—”

  “Is it true that you’re seeing his brother, convicted criminal Carter White?”

  What the fuck’s going on? I’m flustered, reaching at the handle now but the door refuses to budge.

  Open, damn it!

  I spin. “Please, leave me alone.”

  The man with the camera adjusts the lens. I’m sure he’s zooming in on my face.

  “Are you sleeping with him, Mrs. White?” I see she’s holding her cell out, a photo of Carter and I coming off the St. Mark’s hike together on it.

  It’s lucky I decide to use the keys I fish from my pocket to open the door instead of opening up this bitch’s face.

  I pull the door wide, the two of them jumping back, and get into the Jeep. I somehow stall it before taking off on the second attempt, Merida bunny-hopping her way down the street, the reporter and her cameraman running behind us, others joining them from the other side of the road.

  I’m flustered as I drive. I’m tense, my fingers aching as I grip the steering wheel tighter and tighter. I knew the media wanted to talk to me, but I didn’t think they’d work out I was here, with Carter. I know how it must look, of course, but they don’t have the facts. They don’t have the full story.

  And when has that ever stopped a witch-hunt?

  I’m so caught up in my thoughts I don’t realize how fast I’m driving.

  I hear the siren first, glancing up into the rear view at the patrol car approaching, its lights flashing.

  Shit.

  I pull over to the side of the road and turn the Jeep off, the engine ticking and pinging ahead.

  There’s a tap on the window, a police officer standing there, a sheriff’s badge affixed to his shirt.

  I wind the window down. “Sherriff Lawson?”

  He puts his hand out, ignoring me. “License and registration, please, ma’am.”

  I hunt through my handbag and glovebox, handing them over. He looks over my license. “Mrs. White. Mrs. Wren White.”

  “Yes. You don’t remember me?”

  He hands the license and papers back, leaning into the car, his arms on the windowsill. “Oh, I know you. I know you’re the same Mrs. Wren White who’s bunking up with one Carter White at the cabin up o-yonder?”

  I swallow. “That’s none of your business.”

  He smiles, taking off his sunglasses. “Little miss, everything that happens in this county is my business.”

  “I’m not doing anything illegal,” I add, trying to keep the nerves from my voice.

  The sheriff puts his hands up. “Right you are, Mrs. White, but a word of warning, if I may.” He spits to the ground before continuing. “Carter’s bad news. If I was you, I’d be keeping my distance. Hang around someone like that long enough and you’re bound to become a little…” He licks he lips. “Tainted. Trouble follows men like that. A fine thing like you wouldn’t want to be caught up in trouble now, would you?”

  “Did Magnus have something to do with this?”

  The Sheriff spits to the ground again. “Now that Magnus White is a fine, upstanding pillar o’ society. I’d say it’s in your best interests to listen to what he has to say.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Well, I think that’s Magnus’s business, don’t you?”

  “Am I free to go?”

  He nods. “I’m going to let this one slide, for now, but remember what I said.”

  He taps the side of the Jeep door and steps back, watching as I start the car and move slowly back onto the highway, my head a jumbled mess.

  Reaching the turn-off, I notice a camp of reporters at the front gate leading down to the cabin. Panic seizes me. I’ll have to get out to unlock the gate, and I simply don’t have the energy or strength to deal with their questions, the underlying accusation of why I’ve hooked up with my dead husband’s brother-in-law so soon, like I was waiting for him, or worse, that I had some hand in David’s death.

  It’s an outrageous idea, but I know how the media can take hold of these things and make them real, shape and carve them out until they’re fact.

  I pull a U-turn and head back towards town, to the rink.

  *

  I knock on the door, checking behind my back for a pack of reporters about to crush me against the glass, but no one’s there.

  Relief runs through me when I see Carter approach the doors. He’s sm
iling at first, but once he sees my panicked face, it slides away.

  He unlocks the door. “Wren, what’s wrong?”

  I fall into his arms, let all the tears and worry flow on out until the shoulder of his shirt is a soggy mess.

  He leads me over to a table, sitting me down and returning with a bottle of water. “What happened?”

  I wipe my eyes. I must look terrible. “Reporters. A lot of reporters.”

  Carter raps his knuckles against the table, shaking his head. “Fuck. They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  “Not physically, but…” I don’t know if I want to repeat their questions, to speak and give them mock credibility.

  He wraps his arms around me, pressing me into the same, wet shoulder as before. “I’m sorry, baby, but we both knew they’d come. It will pass. They’ll move on to the next story. We just have to give it time.”

  I nod against him. “I know. I just didn’t expect…”

  He holds me away, smiling, bringing the bottle of water to his lips. “Here. Drink.”

  “Why are you so good to me?” I ask. “I thought ex-cons were supposed to be all hard and badass, all ‘you’re mine tonight, not tomorrow’?”

  In a burst of laughter he sprays water over the carpet. “And I made shanks out of combs and never bent over to pick up the soap too, right?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Well, did you?”

  He tilts his head. “Sure, and Morgan Freeman left me a note under a tree.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck, always surprised by how firm he is—a rock. “You know I don’t like people dissing my favorite movie.”

  He narrows his gaze. “Get busy livin’, or get busy dyin’.”

  “Guess we better get living then.” I lean my head forward and kiss him.

  I’m freshly shaved, already wet.

  He lifts me up from the seat.

  There are no windows, no way to see through the front doors. We’re safe.

  “Take off your dress,” he says.

  I begin to shake with anticipation, the need so urgent it hurts.