Give It All

by Cara McKenna

  “No.” He halted her as she planted her knees and brought her face close, clasping his cock.

  She shrugged his hand from her shoulder. “Oh yes.”

  “I’m telling you no,” he said more firmly, grip closing tightly around her upper arm. “Consider this my equivalent of an elbow to the eye. I don’t want that.”

  A man who didn’t want his dick sucked? Did such a thing actually exist? “Why not?”

  He swallowed, distracted by her stroking hand and clearly struggling for composure. “It doesn’t matter why.”

  “It always matters why. No question ever matters more than why.”

  “I prefer to be . . . doing,” he said carefully.

  She frowned, all at once worried where this trigger had come from. “Were you—”

  “No. Just chalk it up to my control issues. I find few things less rousing than passivity.”

  She relented, though the frustration nagged. It wasn’t a favor she’d have been doing him—it would have turned her on as surely as feeling his mouth between her legs had.

  “What would you like, then?”

  He answered with his body, urging her onto her back, bracing himself with his erection hovering above her mound. She opened a condom, then watched him roll it on with those beautiful hands.

  He said, “Let me feel what I did to you.” And no doubt he felt just that as his cock sank deep with a single, slow, slick push. She locked her thighs to his hips and closed her eyes.

  “Whatever you want,” she whispered. “Take it.”

  What he wanted was slow as honey, punctuated by a moan each time he slid home. Little by little, minute by minute, the thrusts came faster, until finally he was embodying that word that had taunted her from the moment he’d uttered it. Vigorous. He was rocking into her body, setting her breasts bouncing, recalibrating her breathing to the rhythm of his demands. He had to be close—his control was gone, the pace so clearly his cock’s dictation.

  “Duncan.” She stroked his back and arms, his bunched shoulders, touched his face with wonder. Say it, she willed him. Those tender pleas that felt more explicit than the nastiest pillow talk . . .

  He moaned against her throat, his cock driving quick and steady.

  “Say it,” she whispered, holding his head.

  His breath warmed her skin. “Hold me.”

  She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, palms flat, fingers splayed—every bit of the contact saying, Mine. And in every motion of his needy body, he seemed to tell her, I’m yours.

  Finally, those words she craved. “Say my name.”

  She kissed his ear. “Duncan.”

  His hips sped and another low moan hummed against her neck. A minute later he panted, “Say what . . . ,” then trailed off.

  She stroked his hair. “Say what, what?”

  “Say what you’ve called me before. Not my name.”

  It took her a moment to make sense of the mumbled, shy request, but then she put her mouth just below his ear and murmured, “Baby.”

  He groaned.

  Kneading his back, she said, “Come on, baby. Come for me.” She kissed his ear again, nuzzled it with her nose. “Like I did for you.”

  He was panting now, fucking hard and quick—almost too rough, yet so helpless.

  “Come on, Duncan. I want you.”

  Another groan, so fierce he could’ve been in pain.

  “I want you so much.”

  He lost it, hips racing gracelessly, pleasure calling all the shots. “Oh. Fuck.”

  “Good,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “Show me.”

  “Hold me.”

  She pulled him to her, arms around his shoulders, so close they were chest to chest, his thrusts reduced to short, desperate little motions. But it did the job—brought him home. He went rigid against her, burying himself deep for three long, clenching thrusts. Then he stilled.

  He propped himself up on his forearms, the rest of him going slack, his back bowing and his belly moving with needy gulps of air. He rested his forehead on hers, their collective skin damp and hot. She moved her nose against his, and wondered if he could sense her smiling.

  Smiling, after everything he’d leveraged out of her tonight. Smiling, after he’d stood her up to chase after . . . what, precisely? Distraction, or peace of mind? Fixation, more likely. His mind was faulty in some ways—wired not quite right. Was the sudden interest in riding just a different manifestation of his obsessiveness, some new facet of his disorder that bore no resemblance to her now gleaming bathroom?

  They rolled onto their backs, and Duncan’s fingers closed loosely around her wrist, the gesture equally possessive and tender.

  “You cooking for me tomorrow night?” she asked.

  “Tonight, technically.”

  True. It was easily past three a.m. “What are you making?”

  “Nothing fancy.”

  “Something involving vegetables, to judge by the contents of my fridge.”

  “Is that okay?”

  “Asparagus has some logistical issues . . . But we can fuck first.”

  He laughed softly, the noise packing her heart with daisies. Christ, how did he do that?

  “Must have cost you an arm and a leg, all that stuff,” she said, forcing her attention off the squishier feelings. “All the stickers said organic, and even regular produce is overpriced way up here. Unless you dig alfalfa hay.”

  “Do I seem like a man who skimps on quality to save a dollar?”

  “Never for a moment.”

  “Don’t tell Agent Flores,” he said, “but I had to cross the town border to get it all.”

  “Naughty you.”

  He turned and she did the same, letting him hold her stare.

  His irises looked dark in the red glow, as did his hair. Cologne gone, crisp cotton traded for bare skin. A stranger, nearly, yet she could touch this version of Duncan in ways his well-dressed, calculating persona would never allow.

  “What happened to that law-abiding man who first strolled into my bar all those weeks ago?” she asked.

  “He’s been getting dismantled from the second he met you.”

  “And he’s adapting well.”

  He smiled and she felt another welling in her chest.

  “It’ll be weird when your name’s cleared,” she said. “And Sunnyside takes you back, and we’re on opposite sides of the casino again . . . If you’d even take your old job back, of course. You can’t be impressed with how they’ve treated you.”

  He turned to stare up at the ceiling once more. “For the amount they pay me—and the raise I’d likely negotiate in light of everything I’ve gone through—I could be convinced to muster forgiveness. Maybe.”

  And that means you’ll stick around. At least until the Eclipse is built. Why should she even care? Why care if a man would still be warming her bed in a week, let alone in two years?

  Raina’s lovers kept about as long as Duncan’s precious organic vegetables; history promised their affair would spoil in a matter of days. Hell, she and Miah had grown up together, known each other inside and out, shared affection and trust and respect before they’d ever hooked up, burned like wildfire after dark . . . yet they’d still only managed a couple of months. So Raina and Duncan? No fucking chance, sadly. Even if she searched her soul and caught some voice whispering that maybe, just maybe she’d like this to be something real . . . well, she had no guarantee Duncan felt the same. It was more likely than not that this fling could only last as long as his professional exile. And while that was a touch sad, it was also infinitely understandable. He’d shelve her along with those Red Wings the second his normal life resumed, tuck them neatly into a dusty box labeled Fortuity, and the most she could hope was that he’d think of her fondly. If he thought of her at all.

  Still, sh
e couldn’t help wondering, had he grown attached as well?

  “I feel like I ought to warn you,” she said, grazing his collarbone with her fingertip, “this town’s very hard to escape from.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s the Fortuity bungee effect. My dad used to say it was the dust—you get the red dust in your lungs, and it always calls you back.”

  “It’s certainly difficult to get out of one’s floor mats.”

  “Casey almost escaped,” she said. “Maybe his bungee was just really long. But even he’s finally snapped back.”

  “Do nonnatives stand any better chance?”

  She made a curious face, stroking his stubbly jaw. “Time will tell. We’ll have to make a case study of you.” Unless of course you decided to stay. She could laugh at herself for even thinking such a ridiculous thing. Duncan Welch, settling in Fortuity?

  “Have you ever tried moving away?” he asked.

  She held her breath, and nodded. She rarely told this story, but she was kind of enjoying the naked feelings tonight. With this man as her witness, anyhow, and facilitated by the judgment-clouding sex.

  “When?” he asked. “And to where?”

  “To Vegas, when I was twenty-six. It lasted less than a year.”

  “What made you go?”

  She shrugged one shoulder, cringing inside. “To run away from that horrible night, partly. And partly just to get away from Fortuity.” Away from too many familiar faces, too many ugly thoughts about what the people you thought you knew might be capable of.

  “Why Vegas?”

  “I thought I wanted glamour and excitement.” She laughed. “Can you tell I’m from the sticks, that I thought Vegas was the epicenter of urbane sophistication?”

  He smiled. “Second only to Paris.”

  “Anyhow, I ran down there thinking I’d get some dream apprenticeship at a cool tattoo studio, build a reputation for myself. Escape the town where nobody thought of me as anything other than Benji Harper’s daughter. But I barely had any experience, and nobody’d hire me, and I wound up bartending at a couple casinos. I made good tips, but at least back here, there’s no dress code dictating how much cleavage I have to show.”

  “Is that why you came back? Professional frustration?”

  “I wish. But no, I fell in love.”

  “Oh.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Like, head-over-heels, brain-out-the-window in love. He was a real slick number—not like you, though,” she said, tracing his ear. “Real flashy. Web entrepreneur. This guy was waving so many red flags, but I totally thought he was, like, the one. My ticket to some luxurious, awesome new life.”

  “And?”

  “And after about three months, he tells me to meet him in his hotel room that night after I get off work. He said we’d order room service, a bottle of champagne, and that he had something to ask me. Idiot that I was, I was hoping he’d guessed my ring size right.”

  Duncan winced, his anticipatory horror well founded.

  “So I got my boss to let me off early, and I spent the afternoon making myself beautiful—and sick with nerves. And I head up there. He makes a toast to the future or some vague crap like that. Then he pops the big question—did I know what camming was?”

  “Camming? Like web-camming?”

  She nodded, stomach flipping even now, more than four years later. “He wanted to be my digital pimp, basically. I’ve never felt so slapped in my life.”

  “Understandably.”

  She spoke to Duncan’s throat. “I didn’t say anything, at first. He opened his laptop and showed me the site he ran, the different feeds. I remember him saying the words ‘Real classy stuff’ while I watched some clip of a girl sucking on the end of her pigtail, dressed like a cheerleader.”

  “And?”

  She had to smile, both proud and embarrassed of what came next. “And I threw his computer through the window.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Slapped it shut and flung it like a Frisbee. It just missed the pool, probably fifteen flights down.”

  “Did you get in trouble?”

  She laughed. “Oh, hell no. I told security he got pissed because I wouldn’t fuck him, and threw it himself.”

  “And that was the end of your Vegas period.”

  “Pretty much. I stayed for another month or so, but the shine had totally worn off. The next time my dad told me he missed me on the phone, I burst into tears and caught a bus headed north in the morning. He got diagnosed the next month, but even if he hadn’t, I doubt I would’ve left again. Not anytime soon. And I’ll be happy if I never set foot in Vegas again.”

  “Is that why there are no gaming machines in the bar? Bad associations with your casino days?”

  She shook her head. “Nah, there never have been.”

  “Did your father not approve of gambling?”

  “Oh no, he had nothing against the gambling. He never missed a poker night, not even during chemo. Those machines bring in good money, and just about anyplace can get a license, but my dad found that stuff depressing—video poker and slots. He said if you’re going to throw your hard-earned money away, at least have the dignity to lose it to your friends. Or a blackjack dealer, or because of a slow horse—something with a pulse.”

  “Interesting.”

  The once-refreshing breeze was cold now, rousing goose bumps down Raina’s arms and legs.

  She froze where she lay, her gaze locked on Duncan’s chin. Shit. I just told him all that, didn’t I? Totally sober. And it felt good.

  With the sex haze burned away, fear crept in. She’d told him about the assault—before tonight, Vince and Miah had been the sole audience to that secret. Now he knew about Vegas, and she’d only ever given Miah the vaguest summary. Miah knew her better—there was no doubt about that—but she couldn’t help realizing that Duncan knew more of the things that mattered. The things she chose to share. The things she almost always chose not to share, not even with her dad.

  Duncan would never understand her the way a childhood friend could, but she’d handed him her secrets—the only two events she was truly shamed by. The one that had left her feeling helpless, and the one that had left her feeling used. The two times she’d ever doubted herself in her thirty-two years, ugly bookends bracketing a phase of her life she’d give most anything to erase.

  It had taken two decades’ shared history to let her open up to Miah this way. She’d known Duncan seven weeks . . .

  What the fuck have I done?

  And why on earth did it feel so nice?

  She got to her knees, relishing the ache in her hips and the faint sting between her thighs as she shut the window on the night and dropped the blinds. Dropped them into darkness.

  She held her breath as she wrestled her way under the covers, sure Duncan would excuse himself to his own room, but curious to see if he’d kiss her good night.

  He left the bed without a word, and she bit her lip, hating how disappointed she felt.

  But to her surprise, he returned a moment later after opening the door, his bare legs finding hers under the sheets.

  “You sleeping over, then?” she asked.

  “I see no reason to rumple two beds. This is far more efficient, don’t you think?” he asked, and pulled her close, kissed her neck.

  A happy shiver crept through her, though this didn’t explain why he’d bothered to open the door—

  With a soft prrrup, the cat was on the end of the bed, settling in the well the blankets made between their two pairs of ankles.

  Duncan laid the reassuring weight of his arm along Raina’s waist, and said to them, “Good night, ladies.”

  Chapter 19

  Duncan was gone by the time Raina rose the next morning. Eight fifty-five, a bleary squint at the alarm clock told her. Crazy. The sex seemed to be cu
ring her insomnia. It was better than a prescription, getting well and truly laid. Now all she needed to do was fuck Duncan so good he’d never have to buy another jug of bleach.

  Her phone buzzed on the side table, telling her she had a text waiting—sent by Vince around five thirty, to her, Duncan, and Kim. Didn’t see a thing all night. Heard a few disturbing noises, but that’s a different matter entirely.

  Raina rolled her eyes and texted him back privately. Guess we’re even for the time you banged that chick in the back room while I was trying to close.

  Brrrzzzz. Don’t know what you’re talking about.

  She wrote You broke my office chair.

  Brrrzzzz. I have to get back to work.

  Dick. She pocketed her phone.

  She didn’t hear Duncan when she emerged from the shower, didn’t spot him. But on the kitchen table she found a note propped against the pepper mill, bearing his tidy handwriting.

  Out riding. See you later if I don’t break my neck or get shot by a drifter. If I fail to return, I hereby charge you with the care of my cat.

  Astrid brushed against Raina’s shin, and she cast the tabby a dry look. “You much harder to keep alive than a jade plant? Because that’s the extent of my nurturing skills.”

  The cat didn’t reply, sauntering to its new favorite corner by the pantry to commence mouse patrol.

  Probably best that Duncan was out, Raina decided, starting a pot of coffee. Yesterday’s client was coming by in a bit so she could finish the shading that had been cut short by his work schedule. Like Vince, he worked at Petroch Gravel, and he’d agreed eagerly when she mentioned she was going to organize a big portfolio shoot at the bar. He’d even asked for Raina’s card, to give to his cousin. She underestimated shit like that—word of mouth and self-promotion. She’d never taken her side job seriously enough, always putting the bar first. That was her real job, she’d told herself. Her duty. Her real role here in Fortuity. But this town was going to change if the casino went through. Not for the better, not in most ways. Sure, there’d be fewer potholes, more public services. But far more strangers passing through, and many of the locals would likely only be sticking around long enough to see what the boom did for their property values before they sold up and shipped out.