by Fiona Archer
Reagan stepped closer. “Hello, Moira.”
“Come here.” The shopkeeper dragged Reagan in for a hug. Around the same height but a good fifty pounds heavier, Moira had a motherly softness to her that added extra comfort to her warm embrace.
A soft kiss touched Reagan’s cheek before the older woman stepped back. “Honey, I’m so sorry to hear your news and also for not calling you Monday. Tom had woke up sick and after arranging cover at the market and running around, I ran out of time.”
“I…” Reagan swallowed past the words bunched up in her throat. “Thank you.” She swiped at a stray tear. “Is Tom okay now?”
Moira’s hearty chuckle lightened the mood. “He’s fine. Men are either fighting fit or dying. His sore throat and flu rated a near-death experience.” She moved aside for two elderly men entering the market, both of whom nodded to each woman. “I better get back inside. Listen, I’ve called Phyllis and you can count me in for the coffee morning and the Q&A at the diner. We’ll help cater.” She glanced at the brown package in Reagan’s arms with a flyer taped over the top. “More flyers? I could do with more at the checkouts.”
“Happy to oblige,” Reagan said, relief at Moira’s continued support lending extra energy as she tore through the end of the taped package. Moira smiled as she accepted the bundle. With a wave and a promise to stop by later, she disappeared inside the store.
Well, okay. That was kind of neat. So, not everyone had turned their back. Her shoulders relaxed, previously tense muscles loosening with each step. Maybe a bit more perspective was in order. Give people a chance to speak before she raised her emotional drawbridge.
In under a minute, her red Toyota, parked in its usual spot behind the library, came into view. Each owner from the surrounding businesses had been allotted their own parking space. Her compact hatch looked so small in comparison to the various four-wheel drives and trucks parked alongside.
She unlocked her back passenger door and then grabbed the notebook she’d left behind earlier. One day she’d remember to bring everything from her car in one trip.
“Morning, Reagan.” The age-roughened tones of an older male voice came from a distance.
Leonard Aitken stood near the back entrance to his real estate office. His battered leather briefcase with its unclasped flap, his calling card for longer than Reagan could remember, was grasped in one hand. He walked closer, his awkward gait hinting his sciatica was acting up again.
His genial smile wilted, as if remembering other events that had overtaken since their last conversation. “We’re all so sorry to hear the news, Reagan, and for the pain this must cause you. Are you suspending your campaign?”
“No. I talked it over with my friends. They convinced me to keep going. Nothing I do now can bring Mom back.” There was a time, that night years ago and a few thereafter, that she’d offered to do deals with God to guarantee her mom’s safe return. However, the heavens had proved silent. “Suspending the campaign would only help Wagner, and that’s the last thing my dad would want me to do.”
Leonard glanced at his briefcase, then back up to her face. “So you’re prepared for the fallout?”
She felt her gaze narrow. “What fallout exactly?”
“There’s talk. I’m sure you’ve heard. About your dad. This is an accepting town, but murder is something altogether different.” He lifted up his hand, palm out in a gesture of peace. “Sam Edwards was a good man. But gossip like that…” His mouth twisted. “It’s sure to impact on votes.”
That didn’t make it right. “My father had nothing to do with my mom’s disappearance, Leonard. And I refuse to let gossip drive me under.”
“Good. Good.” His gaze focused on his boots before he glanced up again. He offered a grimace and hefted up the bulging briefcase. “And I’m late for my client.” With a salute, he headed off to his four-wheel drive.
Hmm, that was a bit abrupt. But like he said, he had clients to see, and she had a job to return to. At the library’s solid wooden door, she punched the security code into the keypad. So much for the days when the previous librarian of fifty years, Lillian, left the door open to catch the afternoon breeze.
She dashed through the back office, dumping her notebook and the flyers on top of a chaotic pile of papers on her desk. With a sigh, she hurried into the main area.
Mike, with his long denim-clad body leaning against the front counter, scanned the back cover of Lexi Blake’s latest book. From the wicked glint in his eyes and the way his mouth curled up at one end, revealing a long-hidden dimple, he seemed hooked.
And Lord above, so was she, on her own hero standing no more than eight feet away.
She glanced at her slim leather wristwatch. “This is a surprise. I’m not supposed to meet you for another thirty minutes.”
When he spoke, his voice, low and heated with a thread of command, coiled around her. “It pays to keep a lady on her toes.”
She lifted her chin. “Good thing I took ballet lessons.” Well, for two weeks anyway, when she was nine.
His eyes shone back with humor.
Phyllis, her lips quirking as she avoided Reagan’s gaze, held out her hand toward Mike. “Here’s your new library card. I just need to scan that book and you’re all set.”
“Sure.” Mike passed it over.
Reagan moved up next to him. The uncomplicated masculine scent of his aftershave—leather and woody—invited her to lean in close. But she couldn’t. Not here in the library, in front of Phyllis, who was winking at her as she handed back Mike’s library card.
He dropped a kiss on her forehead, the sweetness of the gesture in glaring comparison to the way his free hand curved at her waist, drawing her in closer.
“You’ve become a member?” she asked.
The sun lines around his eyes creased as he nodded his thanks to the middle-aged blonde. “You bet. Quinn joined too.” He glanced toward the back end of the room. “You’ll find him over in…what did you call it, Phyllis?” His near-onyx gaze landed on her friend. The volunteer’s cheeks bloomed cotton-candy pink as she looked from her fidgeting hands to the Dom. “That’s right, Spank Me Central.”
In the distance, Quinn threaded his way between two little ones, a brother and sister, who were spread out on the navy carpet, engrossed in picture books. At the counter, he dropped down four novels and came on up on her free side.
He neatly hemmed her in between Mike and himself.
A flush of excitement filled her system, warring with the instinct to flee, her half step overridden by Mike’s tightening grip on her waist.
Quinn’s gaze flicked from Mike’s hand to her lips. He planted a kiss on her mouth, lingering long enough for her to sway toward him. “We were early for our lunch date and decided to grab some reading material.”
“So I see.” She cast her gaze over the covers as Phyllis scanned each book. Hmm, he showed good taste. A couple of Cherise Sinclairs, an Eliza Gayle, and…was that Pepper O’Neal? Smart choice from the ex-SEAL. “You’ve found the first Black Ops Chronicles.”
“Phyllis told me the author has friends in the CIA and Special Forces. Used them as the basis for her characters.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d give it a read.”
And here she was, standing between two real-life versions, both of whom with their every move exuded the same power and danger.
A sweet pulse of pleasure rushed through her core, even as the comparison zeroed in too closely to her thoughts from last night of holding fiction up against reality. She dashed a curl behind her ears. There’d be time enough for self-analysis later.
Yesterday she’d worked without a proper break. Such is the life of a small-town librarian. Today, Phyllis was manning the desk for three hours. Maybe she could sneak some extra time. “Phyllis, I’m going to leave early for lunch. Do you need anything before I go?”
“No, I’m all set. Enjoy yourselves.” The volunteer smiled as she formed a pile of the men’s books and then slid them over the counter toward
Quinn.
“Thanks, honey.” He nestled them against his chest and took Reagan’s hand. Mike grasped the other. “We’ll drop these off at the truck before heading over to the diner.”
Holding hands with two men in public for the first time felt strange and yet delightful. Now, as she walked down the street, she neither overheard furtive whispers nor caught people avoiding her gaze. Was it her imagination? Or did having these men flanking her—tall alphas with the carriage of warriors who embraced a good fight—make that much of a difference?
A part of her resented the implication. Any intelligent woman would feel the same. Half a lifetime of fighting her own battles had given her the confidence to take two steps forward, not one back.
But, these guys weren’t your average cowboys. Hard to blame the citizens of King’s Bluff for being intimidated.
And after a morning feeling on edge, there was no denying the guys’ public and physical declaration of protection warmed her body quicker than gulping down hot chocolate on a cold winter’s night.
She was safe. Claimed. Theirs.
Politically incorrect? Sure. Too early in their relationship? Maybe. But damn, it was sexy.
Oh, criminy, she felt her nipples tighten to hard points. Risking a peek down to her blouse she saw they were, oh, heck, now clearly visible underneath the crepe material. Fantastic. Maybe if she hunched her shoulders, the blouse wouldn’t cling so much. Either that or she’d looked like she’d turned into the hunchback of King’s Bluff.
After unloading the books at Quinn’s truck, they entered Penny’s Dinner.
A slight hush covered the room. She stiffened, her feet immovable, as if giant steel cables had smashed through the black-and-white-checked vinyl floor and twined around her ankles, locking her in place. A few patrons turned their heads away or lowered their gaze. Others stared. Was their curiosity more about her being with two men or linked to the discovery of her mother’s body?
Mike spoke gently in her ear. “Keep walking, sweetness.”
He was right. She needed to chill. Sometimes people simply didn’t know how to react, needed time to shake things out. Mrs. Baker, the church organist, smiled. And there was Wes Daniels, Purdy’s dad, lifting up his cup of coffee in salute. She had friends here.
Quinn surveyed the diner. “Big lunchtime crowd today.” All of the booths were taken, leaving two vacant tables.
“Hi there.” Penny Gordon waved to them from a four-seater table down at the far end. “Take a seat here and I’ll be with you in a jiffy.” In her late fifties, Penny didn’t let age, or current fashion, hold her back. With her titian hair teased and lacquered and her eyes accented with various shades of pink and purple eye-shadow, the woman had never been accused of being a shrinking violet, or of having a small heart. Some of the best hugs Reagan had ever received had come from Jackson Gordon’s mother.
Once seated, they perused the menu.
“I’m thinking a burger and fries.” Mike snapped his menu closed.
Reagan tapped her stomach. “I’ll stick with just a burger. This morning’s waffles were more than my normal bowl of cereal.”
Quinn glanced up from his menu. “We like taking care of you.”
And had they! From a night of bondage-fueled lovemaking to waking up to a mug of her favorite tea on the bedside table, followed by Mike’s waffles and their imaginative use of syrup in certain crevices of her body, Reagan’s experiences of being spoiled had reached new heights.
Mike’s insolent gaze swept over her. “You earned it. Judging from your squeals, that bigger butt plug challenged you.”
“Mike!” she hissed, heat scalding her cheeks as she cast a look over her shoulder. She wasn’t worried about outrage. Not in King’s Bluff, where keeping your woman happy in and out of bed was part of a man’s code of honor. She frowned. So what was her worry exactly? A feeling her behavior should be beyond reproach while her family was torn apart from innuendo and gossip?
Penny, in her pink waitress uniform and white apron, appeared at her side. “Reagan, how did these men finally wrangle you on a date?”
“We used our charm,” Quinn said.
Reagan snorted. “Quinn threatened to throw me over his shoulder if I didn’t allow them to drive me to a barbecue at King’s Haven.”
Mike shrugged. “A man’s gotta do…” He spread his hands in the air.
Penny chuffed with laughter. “I love it.” She tittered at Reagan’s frown. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’ve been avoiding these fellas for months now. And, honey”—she gave Reagan’s shoulder a soft squeeze— “We only want you happy.”
The kindness of the older woman’s gesture took the bitter out of her mood.
Penny tapped her pen on her order pad. “So, what are you having today?”
Orders given and glasses filled with iced tea, Penny left their table.
At the same time, the booth next to them vacated. Quinn gestured they should move across, but Reagan shook her head. The horseshoe-shaped design in its familiar red vinyl would hem her in. She needed the advantage of open air between these men. At least now, with no occupied table close by, they were afforded some privacy.
“That woman’s a force of nature.” Mike glanced at Penny’s departing figure, a trace of awe in his voice. “The first time we came in here with Noah and Flynn, she scolded me for not finishing her cherry pie. It was my second piece after a full meal!”
“I remember. No wonder she has two husbands. I bet Ryan and Parker battle to keep her in line,” Quinn said.
“Jackson’s dads adore every feisty inch of their wife. But hang on a minute. What’s this about keeping her in line? Is that how you see a woman’s place in the big picture?”
Quinn’s amber gaze lit up, his stare pinning her into her vinyl seat. “Do I think it’s a man’s role to protect his woman? Yes. Do I think she has no right to voice her opinions and make decisions for herself? No. Neither I, nor Mike, want a lady who’s afraid to know her own mind.”
He leaned closer, his forearm brushing against her hand. “Do I think it’s a man’s duty to intervene and protect her from bad decisions she’s making for herself? Damn straight, and for that I won’t apologize.” He paused, giving her a second to digest his statement. “And to dispel any myth about me thinking I’m infallible, I’d want her to do the same for me.”
“I agree.” Mike lifted his glass of iced tea. Were his eyes twinkling as he sipped his drink? Nah, twinkling wasn’t a word to use with this guy. Shone, maybe? That suited better.
“Give me an example of a time you’d feel obligated to intervene.” Any chance of a future relationship with these guys needed a clear understanding of all their boundaries.
Quinn glanced at Mike, who nodded, as if giving consent for him to answer on their behalf. “Say you had a friend who often let you down, who was basically using you but for whatever reason you couldn’t see that. They ask you for a huge favor, one that impacts greatly on you. I’d step in and say no, tell your friend to find another schmuck.”
Nobody wanted someone they loved being used. “Okay, I can understand your motivation. But I think you’re throwing me a softball. Give me something you know we’d argue over.”
Mike spoke without hesitation. “You’re going out to dinner with Chloe and Purdy. Organized to meet them in town. Say we have an agreed to rule. No drinking and driving for you, even if it’s one glass. You want a drink, call us and we’ll come drive you home. This night, I smell wine on your breath. You don’t deny it. Quinn and I have a choice. Let this slide or stand our ground as your men.” He paused, dropping his voice low. “And as your Doms and deliver a punishment.”
Punishment? Moisture dampened her panties.
She licked her lips. “What would that entail?”
Quinn took over. “I’d carry you to the bedroom, no doubt with you kicking and screaming, and we’d strip you naked.”
Mike nodded. “Start off with a spanking.”
She blinke
d. “Start off?”
Quinn’s smile pulled the edges of his mouth wide. “Definitely. Take turns heating up your bottom a nice shade of red.”
“Then we’d tie you to the bed, spread eagle.” Mike traced a finger over a scratch on the wooden tabletop. Long fingers led to wide, strong hands capable of holding—and tying—a woman, her, so easily. “Despite all your cursing, you’d be wet. And we’d let you curse. A handy way for a sub to earn extra punishment.”
And then?
Drawn by Mike’s silence, she glanced up.
The fierceness of his gaze stole her breath. “Then we’d gag you.”
Her clit throbbed. She didn’t move, simply stared, as if hypnotized by the promise burning hot in those espresso-colored eyes. One of these days, he was going to do that to her. Dominate her in the most thorough way possible. She knew that down to her soul.
Quinn started in again. “Now’s the time we get nasty. Maybe clamp those sweet nipples.”
“And her clit,” Mike added.
Oh. My. God.
Quinn gave a nonchalant shrug, as if such details were minor. “Next we’d use one of our floggers, a deerskin to start. Less sting, more thud. Think of your body as a canvas and the falls of the flogger dipped in pink ink. Picture the colorful strokes we’d leave on your skin. The flogger’s gonna hit those full breasts, jarring the nipple clamps before we strike lower, much lower.”
Yikes, they’d flog her there. A flush stole over her chest. She shifted in her seat, pressing her thighs together. If anything her actions ramped up her frustration. It was like her pussy sent a memo to her brain to try harder.
A huge tray laden with their meals landed on their table.
“And here’s lunch.” Mike didn’t bother to hide his wide-ass grin.
Tease her with images of erotic punishment and then leave her hanging. In public.
Jerks.
Sitting up taller in her chair, she battled under the scrutiny of both men’s stares. How easy had it been for them to lure her into a pool of need? And she hadn’t voiced one squeak of argument against said punishment. Lift your game, girl.
