by Alison Kent
“Good lord, no,” she said, frowning. “I’m not a gambler. The money’s free and clear. No bookie’s going to come demanding a cut.”
“And you didn’t embezzle from the bank.”
She hesitated for an extra long moment, then reached for his plate and took it away. “You need me to show you the way out?”
“I’m not done,” he said, grabbing for his ribs.
She held them out of reach and said, “You are done.”
He shook his head, making a gimme motion. “Not with the food.”
“Then no more questions about the money,” she said, letting him have the plate but only after he grunted his agreement, earning himself a roll of her eyes.
“There’s just one more thing,” she said, wiping her hands on a paper towel. “I need to ask you what you know about the house.”
He thought back to their sharing chicken fried steak at the Rainsong Cafe. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
But she ignored his question to ask one of her own. “You don’t have any idea how your father came to own it?”
“Not a clue.” He licked barbecue sauce from the fingers of his right hand, looked up to catch her watching the motions of his mouth. A fire lit in his gut, and he let it grow, the flames flicking their way lower. Then he realized something was going on here, something she’d been obsessed with now for days. “What do you know that I don’t?”
“The day you came to the bank? I started thinking about the house. What you might get for it if you sold it. If it would be worth fixing up first. That sort of thing.” She gathered up her hair, held it to her head, cocked back in her chair. “So I looked at the tax and property records.”
He stared at the strands that fell from her fingers, wanting to bury his nose beneath her ear, against her neck, at her throat. “That’s one thing I do know,” he finally said. “Suzanne kept the taxes current.”
“Yeah, you’re good there. You’re also the owner of a piece of Texas history.”
“What?” he asked, still caught up in breathing her in and not sure what she’d said.
“That house was built by Zebulon Crow.”
“What?” he asked again, but this time he’d heard her.
She let her hair fall, leaned toward him. “Any idea how your father ended up owning a house that belonged to the founding family of Crow Hill?”
“No fucking clue.”
“Do you have a number for your mother?”
Yeah. Like he’d have Suzanne on speed dial. “Why? You think I’m going to call her and ask?”
“Aren’t you curious?”
He was, but…“Not that curious.”
“C’mon, Casper. This is a huge deal. It could make all the difference in the world to how we tackle the renovations.”
Uh-uh. He wasn’t getting tied up in returning the house to its roots. He wanted it done. “Faith. All I want is for the house not to fall to the ground from rot, or catch on fire from bad wiring before I decide what to do with it. After that, I really do not care.”
She reached for his plate, which was empty this time, then scraped his rib bones into hers and stacked them. “If we can find a number, do you mind if I call her?”
Pit bull. Steak bone. The woman was a force. “Could be something on the papers she sent.”
“Can I look at them? Since obviously you can’t be bothered. And since we’re partners,” she added before he had a chance to bring up how nosy she was.
“We’re not partners yet. Not without a signed agreement.” He offered his hand across the table. “Or at least a handshake.”
“This better get me your mother’s phone number,” she said, determination firm in her expression as she placed her palm against his.
They shook, but she didn’t pull away, and he made no move to let her go. She had a tiny speck of ground pepper from the ribs just to the right of her mouth, and it hit him that she’d hate it if she knew. She wanted everything to be just so.
So what was she doing with him?
He let her go, brushed his finger to his face, saying, “You’ve got—”
She jerked her hand from his, wiped at both sides of her face. “You could’ve said something earlier.”
“That would’ve been out of character.”
“Being nice is out of character?” she asked as she got to her feet.
Getting to his, he shrugged. “So I’ve been told.”
“Then you’re listening to the wrong people.”
“Who should I be listening to?”
“Me, for one.”
“What would you tell me?”
“That you’ve got more nice in you than you think,” she said, but that was all before she took him by the hand and pulled him to the front door, stopping first by the sofa for his hat. “It’s late.”
“It’s not that late,” he said, though he did reach for the knob.
“It’s late enough that I need to start getting ready for tomorrow.” When he made no move to turn it, she added, “And go to bed.”
“I can stay,” he heard himself saying. Heard himself sounding too much like a man begging for pussy. He hated hearing men beg for pussy. “But I can go.”
He still didn’t open the door. Still didn’t turn the knob. He looked down at her from beneath the brim of his hat, not sure what he was doing. She stood with her arms crossed over her sleeveless white blouse that was properly buttoned and didn’t give him a single hint about her bra. Her black skirt was slim, hitting her knees, and her legs and feet beneath were bare.
Nothing about her screamed sexy, and yet all he could think about was sex. His mouth on her tits. Her mouth on his cock. His cock sliding into her from behind. For years he’d made himself think of her only as Boone Mitchell’s sister, off-limits and the source of half the grief he’d given the other man. But since having her, he hadn’t once razzed her brother about the Dalton Gang’s no-sisters rule.
He couldn’t make her the butt of his jokes anymore, even if Boone was his real target. And when she reached up to tuck back a lock of hair that had fallen forward, he let go of the door and reached for her instead, hooking an arm around her neck and pulling her close.
Her hands came up between them, settling on his chest, ready to push him away, and yet she didn’t. She stared at her fingers, flexed them against him, flexed them a second time before gathering the fabric of his T-shirt into her fists, and shaking her head as she dropped her forehead to her hands.
“Why didn’t you just open the door and go?”
His heart kicked hard in his chest. “Because I wanted to stay.”
“For the sex? Or for me?”
This was going to be a tough one to answer. “Faith—”
“Never mind. I know what you’re going to say.”
“No. You don’t. Because I don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“You’re going to say for the sex.”
“If I did, it would be true.” He could smell her hair, the cinnamon and sugar scent of it. “But it wouldn’t be everything.”
“Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”
“Goddamn right.”
She swallowed then, lifted her gaze. “I told myself after the restaurant I was done being stupid with you.”
He lowered his head, brushed his lips against the corner of hers. “I thought we did stupid pretty well together.”
Shivering, she kissed him back, then said, “I can’t be stupid. I don’t care how good you are.”
His cock jumped at that. “Am I good?”
“As good as the hundreds of women you’ve had before me have told you, no doubt.”
“I hope you’re asking how many there’ve been and not how you compare.”
“I wasn’t asking either one, but now I’m asking both.”
“And you’ll be waiting till kingdom come for an answer.”
She groaned. “Why do you do this to me?”
“I’m not doing much of anything yet.”
“But I’m going to let you.”
Hallelujah. “That’s good to hear.”
“For you maybe.”
Or not. “If you don’t want me here—”
“I do want you here. I just…”
That sounded like an invitation to him. He moved his arm from her neck to her waist and scooped her close, bringing her body to his, her breasts to his chest, her hips to his fly, her cheek to his when he lowered his head and inhaled. She smelled like barbecue and beer. She smelled like Faith and good sex, and his cock went tire-iron hard, but he didn’t press.
He’d do that soon, press and urge and let her know exactly all the ways he wanted her. But after his not being nice in the saloon’s restroom, and being too caught up in lust in the ranch house kitchen, and being too aware of all the noises they’d made in his bed, he owed her another side of himself. And he owed himself a long, long night.
She parted her lips, and he slid his tongue between to find hers, toying with her softly, and swallowing a groan when she drew her thumbs to his nipples, circling them, squeezing them, digging into the flesh around them the way she’d learned quickly he liked.
He wanted to touch her, to unbutton her blouse and heft her tits in his hands, to lean down and suck the pebbled centers, to hold them with his teeth, and tongue the tips. He wanted to bruise the soft skin over her collarbone, scrape her with the stubble of his now two-day beard. He wanted to treat her in the ways that made him most happy and do things to her that got him off.
But this was about her, and she had doubts; hell, he had doubts. Scaring her off wouldn’t do either of them any good, and he wasn’t ready to put an end to whatever this was that had sprung up between them when he’d only been looking to get laid. Except that wasn’t true. He’d been looking at her since she was fourteen years old and he was a randy sixteen with no concept of boundaries.
But he hadn’t been looking for her. For anyone, really, but he would’ve never looked for Faith to come to his bed. To give herself to him. To want him.
Who the hell had ever wanted him?
And so he let her set the pace, let her take control. It really wasn’t that hard. Especially when she reached behind him to lock the door, flicked off the lights in the living room, and laced their fingers together to lead him to bed.
THIRTEEN
HER BEDROOM MADE him think of a southern plantation, her bed a queen-sized four-poster of draped and gauzy whites. A ceiling fan whirred overhead, stirring waves in the fabric wrapped loosely around the frame’s corners. The floor was hardwood and glossy, the braided rag rugs tossed around the room the only bits of color.
It made him feel really shitty about bedding her on dirty sheets. “This is not the room I would ever have imagined you naked in.”
She stood facing him at the side of the bed, her quick fingers tugging his T-shirt from his jeans. “Have you imagined me naked?”
“Since you were fourteen years old,” he said, growing impatient and stripping off his shirt when she stopped to stare up at him.
“Perv. You thought about me that way back then?”
Should he be honest? “I thought about every girl with great tits that way back then.”
“I had great tits?”
“Then and now,” he said, forcing himself to go slow as he started at her throat to unbutton her blouse. “I have a thing for tits.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” she said, the words droll, the corner of her mouth trying to turn up.
“Probably hard to since I’ve got a thing for pussy, too.” He pushed her blouse from her shoulders, slipped his hands to her back to release the catch of her bra. He waited just a second, taking a breath, anticipating, before letting it go. The cups weren’t fancy—just a bit of ribbon, a bit of lace—but the flesh they bound in place…“Damn.”
“Thank you,” she said, trailing a finger from his breastbone to his belt buckle.
“No. Thank you.” He bent, took a nipple into his mouth, swirled his tongue around the tight pebble before moving to its twin. She tasted like cinnamon and sugar, like cream, like Faith. Like a big, fat gift he didn’t deserve, and that had him wrapping an arm around her and bringing her close. He didn’t want her coming to the same realization and changing her mind.
Especially after what had gone down between them a short time ago. He’d been angry. He’d wanted to strike out, to make her hurt. But the way he’d gone about it hadn’t been smart. Neither had it been effective. He’d stopped being angry as soon as he’d stepped through the ladies’ room door and seen her reflected expression.
None of what he’d been feeling mattered. He’d had to have her. She was mad and flushed and gorgeous, and where another man might’ve shown better judgment, his cock had been too greedy to care. It was close to being as unthinking now, the smell of Faith’s skin making him fence-post hard.
One nipple caught with the edges of his teeth, he pinched the other, twisting it, pushing her to stop him because he didn’t think she was ready for all the things he wanted to do. But she didn’t stop him. She covered his hand with hers and pressed into him, holding him there, her breaths shallow, her heart beating with an insistent rush.
He replaced his teeth with his lips and sucked her, laughing against her flesh when she groaned, her other hand coming up to cup the back of his head. He wanted her out of her clothes. He wanted out of his. He wanted to slam his cock into her cunt until neither one of them had the strength left to think. All of that after having her earlier. After losing himself in her just days before.
It didn’t make any sense, this need he had to make his mark, to brand her as his, to own her. It didn’t make any sense, but he was hosed up in the truth of it, that she was getting to him, worming her way inside of him, prying out secrets he preferred to keep hidden…and those things just wouldn’t do. But this would do, this filling her with his cock and drowning in her body.
He let her go, reached for the zipper and button at her waistband, undoing both. She shimmied out of her skirt, and he dropped to one knee, burying his face between her legs and breathing her in along with the lingering scent of his cum. She smelled like the sea, rich and liquid, and he slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, tasting her salt, her sugar, tasting himself. Then he slipped into her folds, found her hole, and speared her.
The sounds she made were breathy and anxious, little whimpers and deeper, urgent pants. He loved that she was noisy. Loved that tight-as-a-one-lane-road Faith Mitchell was a girl who knew how to let go. Loved that he was the one making her sweat. Making her slick. Making her reach for the post of her bed to keep from falling.
He licked her, and pushed into her, and pulled out, and sucked on her clit, tugging hard, then using just the tip of his tongue to flick and to tease. Her knees buckled, and he caught her, braced her, crooked a finger deep inside of her and played her, rubbing her pillow-like G-spot while his tongue stroked her clit, circling, coiling.
She writhed against him, shuddered, and cried out his name. He stayed with her, gave her what she needed, and finished her, lapping her juices as they dripped, easing his finger from her pussy, his tongue sliding from the top of her mound up her belly to her navel, to her breastbone, and as he rose to stand, to the hollow of her throat, then her mouth.
He kissed her, sharing her flavor and scent, his tongue, his joy at making her come, his own desire. And then he let her go, tugged off his boots, and stripped out of his shorts and his jeans. Scooping Faith into his arms, he crawled onto the bed, rolling them to the middle of the mattress and covering her, pinning her, his thighs in line with hers and pressing down.
“You taste good. You smell good. You feel so damn good.”
“There’s a whole lot more good in me, but you’re going to have to let me move to prove it to you.”
“You have nothing to prove to me, woman,” he said, threading his fingers into her hair, holding her head still, moving his mouth to her jaw, her throat, returning to her ear, healing the t
iny bruises he left with soothing touches of his tongue. “I am sorry, you know, about earlier. In the saloon—” was all he got out before her fingers came up and stopped him.
“Shh,” she said, rubbing a thumb over his top lip, moving it to the lower and tugging down. “Let’s not talk about that. Let’s forget about that. Let’s pretend it never happened.”
He would never forget, and he would never pretend. If she didn’t want to talk about it, fine, but something told him her denial was less about what he’d done to her than the fact that she’d let him. Let him, instead of walking out and leaving him alone in the restroom before things got out of hand.
But he let it go because he didn’t have it in him to keep up with a conversation anyway. His cock was full and tight, and he raised his hips just enough to prod his way between her legs. She wiggled and closed around him, tugging on him with the muscles of her thighs.
He sucked in a hissing breath, kissed her fingers, then dropped his forehead to her pillow, turned his face toward hers and growled into her ear. “I’m going to fuck you,” he said, and her nipples pebbled, her thighs trembled, her fingers dug grooves in his shoulders. “I’m going to fuck you hard.”
“Yes,” she said. “Please,” she begged. “That’s what I want,” she told him, pulling her legs from beneath his, drawing her knees along his sides, opening for him, shifting her hips to better align their bodies. Making it easy for him. Making him want her even more than he already did. “I want you.”
God, what it did to him, hearing that from her, being wanted by her. He took his time pushing into her, drawing out the slow, steady thrust as long as he could, wanting it to last forever, the sensation of filling her, of possessing her, of being lost in her.
Once he hit bottom, he stopped, and she let out a contented sigh. It blew along his cheek, his ear, soft and warm and comforting, when he wasn’t here for comfort or contentment. Being with her, being inside her…
It was eating him up, getting in his way. But here he was because nothing in his life had ever given him this same sense of being himself. And even when she called him on it, she didn’t try to change who he was. How could he not enjoy her?
