High-Stakes Loving [King's Bluff, Wyoming 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)
Page 13
Slowly, his amber gaze thawed, became hooded. “I should go slow. Dangle you on a string.”
Her pulse jumped.
“But you’ve got me so fucking hard, I’m gonna take what I want. Next time, sweetness, you won’t be so lucky.” He entered her with one forceful thrust, slamming to the hilt of his root, his merciless grip on her hips the only thing keeping her from flying back on the counter. “Come for me, Reagan.”
The pressure against her womb intensified with each hungry thrust. She never, ever, had been fucked so completely. Everything around her sped up, racing to a point ahead. Closer, closer, until—
A fierce, almost wrenching wave of pleasure blasted along the walls of her vagina, catapulting her beyond thought. Her mouth opened wide. Choked, half-guttural sounds rose up from her throat. She clasped her bound hands together, desperate to hang on to something.
“Fuck, you’re amazing.” Deep inside, Quinn’s cock pulsed as long, hard shudders overtook his body. His shoulders slumped as he leaned against the vanity. The rapid rise and fall of his chest matched her desperate need for air.
A minute, maybe more passed before he withdrew from her warmth. Tiny spasms flickered in her core as he slid free. She shivered at the loss.
Quinn reached behind her, untied her wrists, and then guided her arms in front of her. Sliding her farther back on the counter, he covered her hands with his and curled them around the rounded edge of the vanity. “Can you hang on without letting go?”
It wasn’t such a stupid question. She doubted she’d have the strength to slap away a butterfly right now. She flexed her fingers, surprised at the amount of grip she maintained. “Yep, we’re good for a few seconds.” Her wry chuckle showed she wasn’t half joking.
Tying off the spent condom, Quinn disposed of it in rapid time. In front of her again, he braced one hand in the center of her back and used the other to sweep away the wet tangled hair from her forehead. Moist, hot lips kissed her there, then down the side of her face before claiming her mouth.
His kiss tasted of salt and was all too brief. She scrunched her brows, wanting more. She moved to lift her arms but they rose a measly few inches before falling back to her thighs. Okay, so much for her dragging him closer.
She’d have to settle for words instead. “Why stop?” She jerked as a shiver raced up over her body.
“That’s why.” Impatience threaded his tone, yet his touch was gentle as he gathered her into his arms and stepped toward the shower. “Need to warm you up. We’ll cuddle in bed.”
She frowned as the sound of her teeth chattering together became almost embarrassing. As he lowered her to her feet at the shower’s door, she turned to cuddle against his naked chest. The fact her head reached somewhere near his mid-chest added to the feeling of security. Her protector.
He adjusted the temperature until warm steam caressed her back. “Hop under.”
She was quick to follow his order, standing under the stream seconds before he joined her, his bulk forcing her further under the water. The salesman in Sheridan had boasted a two-person stall when she’d toured the showroom. Two persons, not one person and one giant.
Soon he had her covered in soapy lilac suds while she rinsed out her hair for the second time that evening. When she was squeaky clean, he guided her out of the shower, refusing her offer to wash him, instead pointing to one of two bath sheets on the rail.
He stood there in the open doorway, water gushing down the tall column of his body, his gaze as unyielding as the hard muscles of his chest.
Was his order worth defying? Definitely, but even as she contemplated the spanking that would follow it, her energy level seemed to melt away under the glare of the overhead heating. With a sigh, she turned and dragged on the towel, drying herself with halfhearted dabs instead of rapid swipes.
By the time she was dry and had her wet hair wrapped up turban style, Quinn had washed and dried himself. The navy bath sheet hung low over his hips. The urge to reach out, tug on the cotton was so tempting. She threaded her fingers together, as if locking them against any foolishness.
He unwound her turban and gently rubbed her hair, then ran a wide-toothed comb through the strands. She studied their reflection in the mirror. How did he manage to look all he-man worthy and at the same time smell of lilacs? Mike, with his gruff, no-nonsense persona, couldn’t pull off such a miracle. It was just another one of the differences she’d discovered in these men. They were different, yes, but equal.
He loosened the bath sheet covering her body, unwrapping her as if she was a dangling thread on a ball of wool. “Go climb into bed. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
Lacking the energy and reason to argue, she wandered into the bedroom and climbed between the sheets, careful not to pull them from the neat tucks on each side of the mattress. She fluffed her nearly dry hair and settled the pillows behind her, sitting up in bed, the sheet and cotton blanket covering her breasts.
Quinn strolled into the bedroom, confident in his nakedness. And with a body like his, why shouldn’t he be? Besides, his self-assurance wasn’t showy, more a statement of “this is who I am.”
He held up a fresh glass of water, smiling as she said thanks and took a sip. Those small acts of consideration on his and Mike’s part impressed her to no end, luring her deeper under their spell.
In one mighty tug, he pulled the sheets and blankets from their tight moorings. All Reagan could do was sigh. Men. Spell broken.
He settled beside her, handing her this week’s book club assignment and the one he’d been reading last night. Curiosity got the better of her. “So, what did you think?” She held the book up to his gaze.
“Sounds interesting. It’s cool, having towns like here with men and women living a ménage lifestyle. But I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m sure as hell never drinking any beet juice.”
She chuckled at the reference to one of her favorite author’s fictional towns and a character’s affinity with said juice as a cure-all against alien probes.
“Yeah, you don’t look like the beet juice kind of guy.” She shook her head. How surreal was this, discussing an erotic romance with an ex-SEAL in her bed. As if a character had come to life.
She caught her breath. Coldness seeped into her belly. Was that what had happened? Had she mistaken an idealized version of her fantasy heroes for real-life men, transposed them onto Quinn and Mike so that all she was seeing was exactly what she wanted to see? Sure they fit the bill, but would reality trump fiction and slap her in the face? At what point would the sheets crinkle, would their differences grate against each other, would this soft-centered BDSM exploration burst its bubble?
Or had she drenched herself in a dose of paranoia? Maybe she had won the prospective boyfriend lottery and had been given not one but two amazing men to test-drive a possible future together.
How high a price would she pay if she got this wrong?
“You okay?” Quinn slung an arm around her shoulders, nestling her into his side.
“Uh-huh.” She forced her mouth into a smile, her cheek muscles resisting as her mind raced ahead, searching for further complications. Because that was what crazy paranoid twits like her did for kicks.
Quinn’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. She leaned up, kissed the underside of his jaw, and settled down against his chest. Avoiding his penetrating gaze seemed the safest bet.
He raised her chin, compelling her to accept his scrutiny. “I can handle whatever you throw at me, sugar.” His thumb brushed over her lips as he studied her face.
“I recognize you and Mike are the bosses in the bedroom, but I’m still me, a person. And there’s going to be times I’ll want my privacy, including for my thoughts.” She waited seconds before he released her chin.
His expression returned to that damn neutral zone. “I never want to own your thoughts, Reagan.” He settled back, his breath wafting against her hair. “Hopefully soon, you’ll come to understand that’s the last thing I want from you.”
* * * *
Mike’s gaze swept the spacious main room of the Youth Café, taking in the kaleidoscope of colors on the walls. Posters of anime drawings, rock stars, rodeo cowboys, and sporting idols competed for prominence alongside bookshelves filled with DVDs, reading material, and the odd baseball glove. Halfway across the beige carpeted floor, he spotted a teenager sprawled on one of the navy blue corduroy beanbags. The kid’s eyes were closed. A tinny noise, punched with an occasional thump of bass, leaked out from his earbuds. The sound wasn’t loud. It was just always there.
Man, this was a bad idea. What the hell was Flynn thinking?
“You want me to mentor these kids?”
Flynn’s face cracked wide in a smile. “What’s the matter? You scared of a bunch of teens?” His deep chuckle added baritone to the room’s phonic mix.
Mike snorted, earning him a few stares from the kids on the three computers nearby. “I have nothing in common with them. I growl. You don’t want a growler. Get Quinn for this shi—” Kids present, asshole. “For this stuff. Not me.”
“I disagree. Here, have one of these. I kept my own stash.” Flynn dropped a small container on the wood-grain laminate table.
“Lemon brownies.” He should have known.
“That’s the last of them. Be honored I’m sharing.” Flynn sipped his coffee and inspected the room. “Fair crowd for a weekday afternoon.”
Mike counted ten kids, mostly boys but a few girls. Ages ranged from about twelve to sixteen. Spread out using computers, lying on beanbags reading, or sitting on couches talking, they seemed content. He was glad to see the café active. Flynn spent a healthy portion of his free time here volunteering. With the Aussie’s experiences growing up in foster care and then juvie, nobody doubted his commitment to ensure these kids had an easier path.
Hell, Mike would continue to provide funds and work in the background. He and Quinn had donated the security system, Quinn overseeing its installation. Maybe they could use another new computer.
He shifted in his chair. Why the sudden need to give more? Guilt? Fuck knows. Mike bit down on the brownie. The tang of the lemon popped in his mouth before the underlying creamy cake base charmed him with its sweetness. It was tart and sweet all in one, just like the woman who baked them.
The same gorgeous woman who two days ago had her world turned upside down. He and Quinn had already started their investigation. Trudging back into twenty years of other people’s memories had proved murky, especially when it came to establishing Sam Edwards’s alibi. No need to worry Reagan with that yet. Something or somebody would turn up with evidence to shift focus elsewhere. He hoped.
Taking a hearty swallow of coffee gave him a few more seconds to phrase his letdown while not offending his friend.
“Walk with me.” Flynn gestured with his head toward the back room, and then rose from his seat without a backward glance.
Mike followed, nodding at the female on-staff counselor as he went past. The kids were never alone on the premises.
Flynn emptied their coffee cups in the sink, unlocked the back door, and ushered Mike outside. They stood amidst the empty bins and Flynn’s and the counselor’s parked cars.
“You didn’t invite me out here for the scenery.” Mike leaned back against the brick wall, his arms folded across his chest.
“If we’re going to talk man-to-man, best do it away from the kids.”
Aussies were straight talkers and that suited him fine.
“I’m not cut out for the role of social worker.”
“Good. We already have one and she’s a hell of a lot better looking than you.” Flynn shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. Around the same height as Mike at six foot three, he was slightly smaller across the shoulders. But Mike wasn’t fooled. He’d seen Flynn in action during one of the Aussie SAS and SEALs combined missions in Iraq. The man was one mean bastard in hand-to-hand combat.
And he’d saved the lives of some of Mike’s teammates. For that alone he deserved Mike’s honesty.
“Flynn, what you’re doing here is too important to be fucked up by me saying the wrong shit to an impressionable kid.”
“You planning on telling them to rob a bank? Take up drugs?” Flynn’s challenging stare smacked him between the eyes. “Here’s the thing, mate. You need this far more than those kids need another mentor.”
Hackles pierced his skin sharper than spines on a porcupine. “What sparked that brilliant deduction?”
“It’s been, what, eight months since you dragged your arse here from Walter Reed hospital. Your therapy’s completed. The PI stuff takes up some time, but let’s face it, that’s Quinn’s baby.”
“So I’m a charity case?” His gut rolled. Confirmation of what he’d been thinking to himself for the last two months. He wasn’t contributing in a meaningful way as long as he was confined to sitting on his ass, working in the background.
Flynn shoved a hand through his hair, his fingers carving plowlines in the short brown waves. “Jesus, mate, that’s not what I’m saying. Nor would Quinn. Don’t pull that shit.” He looked to the heavens.
Whatever inspiration Flynn was hoping for, it hadn’t worked for Mike in the past.
Flynn continued. “I see you walking around, watching everyone else getting on with their lives. And you’re left there, frustrated and pissed at the world. You need to find your own niche.”
He had to be fucking kidding.
“I lost my niche.” Each word was bitten out through clenched teeth. “Not much call in the SEALs for snipers that can’t climb up a mountain.”
His last visit with his family had proved his new worth in their eyes. Had to fuck it up, didn’t you, boy. His father’s fist bashing down on the dinner table. Cutlery jumping, clanking against the plates. The sour stench of beer on the old man’s breath fouled the air. His mother’s resentful stare, blaming him for her lot in life. You were a hero. Now look at you. A fucking cripple.
Happy homecoming.
His two younger brothers had made the right choice. Enter the service and keep family contact to a bare minimum. Hell, Mike hadn’t even seen them in over five years.
“Shit. There’s a limit of one niche per lifetime? And I was just about to take up crochet.” Flynn’s sigh reflected the tiredness of his smile. “You forget I watched you with the younger guys on your team. Saw you listen to them. Heard you give advice when needed without acting like their all-knowing savior.” He flicked his head in the direction of the café. “You think those kids inside are any different? Granted, they’re younger but their needs are the same. Often it’s just someone to listen.”
Young men staring down death on a daily basis sometimes needed to talk. Not fucking new-age, bleed-your-heart-out shit, but just talk. He’d surprised himself at the satisfaction he’d felt when those pups had listened to his advice. Had he done any good? Maybe. They’d seemed more settled afterward. However, he’d been a whole man then, strong and part of the team. He’d been needed. But now? He tightened his jaw. Things were different. “I’m busy with Reagan’s case. It’s been two days since the discovery of the body. We’re deep in the investigation.” He shrugged, unable to meet Flynn’s gaze. “Maybe afterward.”
“Spare me the bullshit. Yes, Reagan needs you. But the two hours a week we’d start you off with is hardly taxing.” He paused, rolled his tongue in his mouth, and stared at Mike before continuing. “Answer me this. Reagan’s running for office against a man who’ll do his best to fuck up her reputation. She remains undaunted, even after Sunday’s news. The woman’s fighting for something that means so much, not only to her, but to others in King’s Bluff. What do you think she’d say about my idea?”
His gut tightened. She’d be excited for him. Her eyes
would shine and she’d rattle on about how the kids would love talking to an ex-SEAL. She’d be surprised. And pleased.
And he wanted to please her. To make her proud. To make everyone proud of him once more.
His gaze narrowed on Flynn tighter than the pinpoint accuracy of his old .300 Win Mag rifle. Fucking manipulative bastard.
Could he do this? He’d never had a mentor as a kid. What did he know about talking to youngsters? The only father figure he rated was Quinn’s. From the moment he’d met Quinn in the SEALs, the Texan’s family had adopted him as one of their own.
A sense of inevitability swallowed him up whole. How many lives could he fuck up in two hours? He’d drink some coffee, nod, and smile. Easy.
“One shot. Next Tuesday.” He pointed his finger at Flynn’s chest. “And I take no responsibility for subsequent acts of teenage rebellion.”
Flynn’s lips turned up. “Any self-respecting kid already has that covered. Next Tuesday. We have a deal.” The Aussie extended his hand as his gray-eyed gaze pinned Mike to the wall.
As they shook hands, Mike tried to kick away the sense of impending doom churning in his gut. Two hours was all he’d promised. So why did his gut scream a warning that time would drag longer than a day strapped in a dentist’s chair—without the Novocain.
Chapter Seven
Reagan hugged the package of flyers close to her chest and strode down Victoria Avenue. But the whispers followed. On their land. Found the father’s watch. Husband did it.
Forcing her chin higher, she put one foot in front of the other. Keep. Walking.
Ahead, Moira Hansen, her short gray curls near white in the bright sunlight, stepped out the main door of the market carrying a colorful board advertising fresh-cut tulips. After standing the sign up against the window, she stood, admiring her handiwork. It took a minute before her gaze hit on Reagan.
Would she turn away? It wouldn’t be the first time in the last four days someone had “not seen her.” Moira hadn’t contacted her after Reagan’s message to cancel the election committee meeting on Sunday. Dread knotted her belly. Her fingers crinkled the brown paper covering the flyers. Would the market withdraw their support?