I moan around his swelling shaft.
He shudders. “Who even are you?”
His hips begin to subtly thrust toward my mouth, so I know he’s close.
“And I’m keeping those panties when you’re finished with them.”
The next minute or so proves to be an unexpected test of willpower for me. The need to replace my upper lips with my lower ones and take him deep inside me is almost violent in its intensity. Every part of me is calling out to him, desperate to climb on top and ride him like I would if I were trying to tame a wild beast.
Only, I never want this beast tamed.
I want him uninhibited and ripping his way out of any and every cage that tries to keep him away from me.
“Christ, darlin’,” he breathes. “There is no such thing as your mouth.”
He spills down my throat moments later with a furious bellow that mingles with the other sounds of the shadowy night. I barely have time to swallow and lick my lips before he’s surging forward and pulling me to my feet to stand in front of him.
But he remains bare-assed on that bench.
My shorts and panties hit the ground with a whisper of material. His mouth latches onto me, his tongue lapping me up with purpose, finishing me off in seconds.
His hands on my waist pull me closer when the sensations rippling through me become so powerful that I instinctively jerk back. Then his hands lower to my ass, gripping tightly, as his mouth gently guides me back down from my peak, rather than leaving me to plummet toward a hard, merciless crash.
With his forehead pressed against my stomach, he whispers, “There is no such thing as you.”
As if that comment doesn’t have my heart doing somersaults like a toddler on crack, what he breathes through his parted lips when we’re lying in bed later and he thinks I’m already asleep escalates those somersaults into break dancing.
“I think I have to keep you.”
When I open my eyes the next morning, the first words out of Carter’s mouth are, “Have you ever been fucked in a hammock first thing in the morning?”
My brain is instantly awake, though my voice is still groggy. “No…?”
His grin turns sly. “Oh, darlin’. You’re in for a treat.”
So, that’s how I find myself on the balcony outside his bedroom, naked in a hammock at sunrise.
We eat biscuits and gravy for breakfast at Hattie’s place. I read more of Seymour’s journals while she works on her knitting and Carter lounges in one of her armchairs, reading a book. It’s not worked-related or even the newspaper.
He’s reading…for leisure.
My heart sighs at how content he looks sitting there, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He hasn’t once tried to rush me along as I read or huffed in frustration, like Grant used to do when I’d get lost in research.
Carter acts like he’s happy just to be near me.
Or he’s happy as long as he’s near me. Like my mere presence is enough.
When I feel like I’m about to go cross-eyed and need a break, I beg Hattie to teach me how to make huckleberry pie. Maybe having a real-life baking aficionado next to me, helping me work through the step-by-step recipe, might be the key to my success.
I almost burn the entire house down.
I thought pouring in the filling was something simple I could handle by myself while she was in the bathroom. Sure enough, I put way too much in, causing it to bubble and overflow the pan like crazy. So much of it dripped to the bottom of the oven, that it just about set the whole appliance ablaze.
I nearly destroyed a two hundred-year-old house with priceless history, all because I can’t bake a goddamn pie.
“Ah, another flaw,” Carter muses after removing the smoking pan from the oven and hosing it off outside. “You really are human after all.”
“You’ve witnessed my greatest shame,” I grumble into my hands, hiding my embarrassment. “I can’t make desserts. Not even a little. It’s seriously the most pathetic thing you’ve ever seen.”
He gently pries my hands away from my face, kissing each one. “Good.”
I squint at him. “Good?”
He shrugs. “That works for me. I have the world’s worst sweet tooth anyway, so I’d prefer you never make me desserts. I have to go on a strict diet for at least two weeks every time I eat one of Hattie’s pies.”
“That sweet tooth was the whole reason for his chubby phase in middle school,” Hattie chimes in from across the room.
“Thanks for that,” he deadpans.
“But I’ll give ya credit, boy” she adds, chuckling. “You ain’t too bad with a whisk yourself. At least I know you were payin’ some attention back when I was teaching you how to work a kitchen.”
“You can cook?” I sputter.
He makes a face that says eh, I get by. “I’m not too bad. When you’re on your own long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. But it was Hattie who taught me most of what I know.”
Hattie places her hand over her heart. “He baked me an angel food cake for my birthday a few months ago ‘cuz he knows it’s my favorite. And I swear that thing was so light and fluffy, it tasted like it’d been made by angels.”
He. Can. Bake. Fucking. Desserts.
I throw my arms around his neck and lay an obscenely inappropriate kiss on his lips in the middle of Hattie’s kitchen.
We have to excuse ourselves right after that so I can “finish the job I started,” Carter says.
We barely make it across the grounds and inside his bedroom before we’re ravaging each other like starving nymphomaniacs.
“You should always kiss me with the taste of huckleberry pie on your lips,” he pants as he pounds into me on the bed. “Fuck. I’ve never had anything so sweet.”
“And you should never wear a shirt with these again,” I say, pulling him to me by his suspenders.
I ripped his button-down off him the second we stumbled into the room. But I made him leave the suspenders on over his bare chest. Now, he’s driving into me with maddening force, his pants shoved down just past his ass.
And what a glorious ass it is.
“Darlin’, I’ll burn every goddamn shirt I own if you like the look this much. I’ll buy out Neiman Marcus’s entire stock of suspenders. Whatever you fucking want. Just never stop telling me what you want. Because I’ll give it all to you.”
“Okay.” I tighten my legs around his waist. “Then I want you to go harder.”
I’ll be shocked if Hattie doesn’t hear our finishing screams all the way from her kitchen across the property.
As delightful as spending the rest of the day in bed with him sounds, the sunny weather is too perfect to waste indoors.
We pass the afternoon with him giving me a more thorough tour of the property, including the former rice field and horse stables. Before we left earlier, Hattie sent us off with sandwiches for lunch, which we eat sitting side-by-side on the porch swing. The cloudless day shines bright over the yard, the scent of lilacs carries on the breeze, and our feet lazily keep the swing rocking back and forth.
It’s scarily almost too perfect.
Are his desire for a family and the fact that I’ve been divorced for only a week the only catches with our situation? Because it feels like there should be a lot more obstacles to overcome here. More hurdles to jump before things can become this storybook.
In my experience, there’s always a wrench thrown into a relationship, especially one that seems too good to be true.
Not that his desire to have children soon isn’t a big enough problem because it certainly is.
With Grant, the wrench came when I found out his family had money and that he’d lied to me about it. With my father’s marriages, it was when he realized his wives only “loved” him because he had money. With my mother’s marriages, it was when her husbands ran out of money. Whether big wrenches or small ones, they always appear at some point.
All I’m able to think about on our way back
to town for my shift at The Suckling Pig is, when the hell is Carter going to nail me in the head with a big-ass wrench?
Because that has to be coming, right?
Something has to happen in order to prove that it’s impossible to fall in love with someone in just one week. And with a rebound, no less.
Because that is most definitely impossible.
I have not fallen in love with Carter.
After the last four years, I cannot be that big of an idiot.
These are the nights when I really, really want to go all Road House Patrick Swayze on some bastards and kick their asses through a plate glass window.
The nights when people have a reason to celebrate.
Because where do they usually go to celebrate? A bar. Unfortunately for me, I work at one of the most popular ones.
And the table of recent college graduates—all guys, of course—are about to get on my last John Dalton nerve.
“Hey, sugar boobs,” one of the loud mouths calls out to me, waving me over. “We have a special request.”
Grinding my teeth together, I barely contain the string of vile curses perched on the tip of my tongue. By the time I reach their table, I’ve mentally rammed my foot into each one of their crotches, sending them sprinting out of here and back to their mommies.
“Sir, I’ve already asked you twice to call me by my name,” I say haughtily. “It’s Sloane.”
His grin is lopsided and unattractive as hell. “But sugar boobs is my name for you. Because what you’ve got there is sweet as hell.”
Every guy at the table snickers while clinking glasses and fist-bumping each other.
His words agitate me on a more personal level. They remind me too much of what Carter said just this afternoon in bed. He’s the only person I want calling me or any part of me sweet. After all, he’s the only one sampling this sugar, thank you very much.
Any politeness I have left inside me toward this guy vanishes. “If it happens again, I’ll tell my manager, who will have security remove you and your friends from the bar. Knock it off.”
Some of his friends whistle at my caustic tone, their eyebrows shooting up their foreheads.
“She’s a feisty wench,” one of them mutters.
“Might want to cover your junk, bro.”
The floppy-haired jerkwad still doesn’t get a clue. “I know this sassy game girls like you play. Normally, I don’t care for it. But with you, I’m actually into it. What time do you get off?”
I ignore the question. “If there are any more problems, you and your bros are going to be cut off.”
I turn to walk away when his hand snatches my arm up, moving much quicker than I would have expected from a guy who’s five sheets to the wind.
“We weren’t through here,” he snarls, all manner of teasing or flirting now absent from his face.
“Aw, no, did you really just touch her?”
My head swivels in the direction of that masculine timbre.
Carter is stomping in our direction, making for one hell of an intimidating sight. With his clenched fists, hulking posture, wide-set shoulders, and gnashed teeth, he resembles a fierce warrior about to go into battle.
Wait, what is he doing here? He told me he was going to get some work done from home tonight.
His gaze is lasered in on where the a-hole’s hand is still gripping my arm. I tug it free just before Carter reaches us, which is a good thing considering he probably would have ripped the guy’s arm out of socket if he had to do it.
“And who is this?” the moron sneers with a cruel smirk. “Your dad?”
Carter actually laughs, though it’s stilted. “Jesus, kid, what are you? Fifteen? I guess the bouncer didn’t spot your fake when you came in, did he? Lucky you.”
He glowers at Carter, who stands flush against my side. “I’m twenty-two, asshole.”
“And I bet your mommy and daddy are so proud. But I guess they never taught you how to keep your hands to yourself?”
That’s when the idiot takes in our proximity and Carter’s protective stance. He starts laughing hysterically and pointing at us. “She’s fucking the old dude! Holy shit, that’s hilarious. Sugar Boobs likes Wrinkled Dick.”
Several patrons at other tables hear that, their attention snapping around in our direction.
I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment and lower my voice when I speak to Carter. “I’ll just go tell my manager—”
He lunges toward the guy so fast I don’t even have time to react.
Holy crap, he’s like The Flash.
Carter grasps the guy’s hand that grabbed me and twists his wrist at a painful angle. The guy sucks in a breath and tries to lean into his grip for relief, but Carter is relentless and holds him still.
“You fucking wish you were me, kid,” Carter says in a low voice. “You know why? Because I’ve had her perfect legs wrapped around me as my dick pounded her sweet pussy. I’ve buried my face between those luscious tits.” He tightens his hold, making the guy whimper in pain. “I’ve tasted heaven, motherfucker. And if you ever lay a finger on her again, I’ll give you a taste of hell.”
The entire table falls into silence.
Then, “I think Old Guy might be my hero.”
“Fuck. I need to write this shit down.”
“You understand me?” Carter grates out, ignoring the other morons.
The guy nods, his lower lip quivering. “Yes. I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry.”
Carter’s lip curls in disgust. “Don’t fucking apologize to me. Apologize to her.”
The guy’s eyes dart to me, pleading. “I-I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
I’m too stunned with this series of events to do anything but nod.
Still looking wholly pissed off and only marginally satisfied, Carter flings the guy’s hand away. It flops onto the table hard, sending him into another whimpering fit. When he cradles it to his chest where it hangs limply, he acts as if it’s about to fall off completely.
Jesus, how hard did Carter grab him?
“Ice will fix that,” Carter says in a parting shot. “But address her by anything other than a term of respect again, and I’ll put it in a fucking cast.”
Dismissing his victim, Carter turns to me, his hazel eyes still blazing with fury.
I was wrong earlier. I’m not Patrick Swayze in this scenario. He is. He’s John Dalton all the way right now, and it’s enormously sexy.
Somehow, through the fog of arousal that just washed over me like a rogue wave upon witnessing Carter’s possessive, territorial side, I’m able to smile. “You good now?”
He cracks his neck from side to side, scowling. “It was the wrinkled dick thing that really got to me. There are just some lines you don’t cross as men.”
My lips purse right before I burst into full-on belly laughter.
“I thought you were working from home tonight,” I say after eventually catching my breath.
I was also planning on staying at Gretchen’s apartment. Some part of me felt like it might be wise to separate after staying together two nights in a row.
“I did.” His expression turns serious. “Then I suddenly had a craving for Elijah Craig.”
“Almost every bar downtown carries Elijah Craig,” I point out.
If a nod could be full of contemplation, his would be. “True. But there’s something different about this bar.” His eyes drag over me. “It’s unique and spunky. It’s actually reminded me what it feels like to have fun.”
Either he’s had much different experiences at The Suckling Pig than I have, or we aren’t talking about bars.
I lift an eyebrow. “I can see why you’d want to keep coming back, then.”
“Oh, I think I’m becoming a regular customer for sure.”
My tongue slides over my bottom lip, his eyes tracking the movement. “You’re in luck, then, because regular customers get to take their last calls to go.”
Those eyes glaze over. “Do they also ge
t to take their favorite waitresses to go?”
“As long as she gets a midnight snack.”
“Darlin’, you are the midnight snack.”
Remember when I said I had a feeling the fall I’ve been taking was going to end in a brutally painful landing?
This is the moment when my body splatters all over the pavement.
It seems absurd that I would find a mansion on Murray Boulevard like Carter’s ever paling in comparison to anywhere else.
But I miss Rice Hope.
I get what he means about the mansion’s life force lacking compared to the sprawling plantation’s. Both have history and charm, but there’s just a liveliness to Rice Hope. It’s enchanting and almost…hypnotic in its appeal. It seems to put the visitor under a spell, one that can’t be broken unless you actually step foot across the property line.
“I can’t believe you’ve lived here since you were basically my age,” I say in wonderment from my position next to Carter on his unmade bed. “You owned two houses by the time you were twenty-five. All I have to my name is a buttload of debt and a bare bones bank account.”
I place a forkful of huckleberry pie to his lips, courtesy of Hattie’s to-go package.
I got my midnight snack, after all.
He takes the bite, talking around his mouthful. “Owning something through inheritance isn’t the same as earning it, so you shouldn’t be impressed.”
“But you’ve still made your own money. It’s not like you screwed off to some island to become a bum after your grandfather passed. You still went to law school and became a badass with a bowtie.”
He smacks his hand against his abs in laughter.
He is so devastatingly handsome, he almost doesn’t seem real.
And after his proprietary display at the bar, there was no way I couldn’t not go home with him.
So, here we are, eating huckleberry pie in his massive four-poster bed, in front of the open French doors that lead out to the second-floor balcony. We already have the first round of sex under our belts and needed food fuel to re-charge before round two.
The Divorce Attorney Page 14
