Rough (RRR #2)

by Kimball Lee

  He’s in his element here, part of a history as rugged an untamed as he is. We swerve onto a grass and dirt rutted path worn into the earth by truck tires, most likely, and a stunning glass and wood home rises up like a modern miracle among the rolling plains.

  Traeger waits for us, leaning against a tree trunk used as a column on a low, flagstone verandah that skirts the front of the house. He’s shirtless and grinning as he rakes a hand through his shaggy, sun-bleached hair.

  “Corrigan, hey asshole, where ya been? Ohhhh, I see! You’ve recaptured the heart and hand of our fair lady,” he says, stretching his long body with his hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans.

  I get out of the car and stop in my tracks, and I cannot look away from him no matter how hard I try. His jeans hang low on his hips and they’re faded, ripped, and worn, with a gaping hole a couple of inches below the fly, and the head of his penis is clearly visible, and large.

  “For fucks sake Traeger, your personality is showing. Isn’t that what you call that nasty thing?” Holt says, laughing. “Put some decent jeans on, Scarlet doesn’t want to see your dick, you dick.

  “Shit, sorry ‘bout that, the fucker has a mind of its own,” he says and doesn’t move an inch, just sticks a hand down his pants and moves it to the other side, where it bulges impressively. He smiles and says, “Guess I should go wash my hands now or Scarlet will think I’m a crude country bumpkin. Come on in, grab a shot of TNT and I’ll show you where the leak is. I know what I’m talking about, the fucking roof is leaking. You build a fine house, Holt, but the fucker has a hole or some shit, you’ll see.”

  We follow him inside and into the ultra-modern kitchen. I listen to their boyish banter and I just freaking love the sound of Holt’s deep sensuous voice. The way he draws his words out nice and slow, and anything with an ‘R’ sounds like a growl. When he says Traeger it comes out as—Trayyyyy grrrrr. He adds two or three syllables to words like ‘bay’ and ‘mare’ and ‘yes’. Yes sir, I am definitely in over my head and leading with my heart when it comes to this man.

  I’m still blushing from the glimpse of Traeg’s “personality” as I rest my elbows on the island and watch Holt. He listens intently while Traeger pours shots of his all-natural, incredibly tasty tequila. Traeger is nearly as tall as Holt, and his body is a marvel, all sleek sculpted planes and angles, lean but muscled, with abs that are so ripped they’re more like a twelve-pack than a six-pack. Still, standing next to Holt he doesn’t quite measure up, but seriously, what man could?

  “Show me the damn leak, I have better things to attend to,” Holt says impatiently after he licks a trail of salt from his hand, tosses back the shot, and bites into a wedge of lime. And that’s it, I’m done for, pulse racing, heart dancing a two-step in my chest, I want that tongue and those hands on ME.

  “Better things, yeah I can see that,” Traeger chuckles and raises his eyebrows, cuts a sideways glance in my direction as I fan myself with a cocktail napkin. “C’mon, it’s leaking into my office, like fucking ruining every document on my desk.”

  We follow him into his office and damn! He has this massive antique Biedermeier desk that’s not only rare, but classically cool. The entire house is a marvel of glass, wood, corrugated metal, and stone, it’s edgy, contemporary, and rustic all at once. Holt built it from the ground up with mostly recycled materials, and with his own calloused, skilled hands. I’m impressed and ready for sex, yet again.

  “How the hell you created a hand-crafted, award winning tequila, turned it into a world-class commodity, and you can’t tell the difference between a leaky roof and an overflowing bathtub is beyond me,” Holt says, and heads up the stone and metal staircase with Traeger assuring him, “The fucking roof is a nightmare, it’s defective, just look at my motherfucking desk, I gotta haul it to the dump, it’s trash!”

  “Uh, can you see the problem, limp-dick?” Holt asks, he’s standing over an enormous porcelain bathtub in Traeger’s bedroom and water is everywhere. The tub is big enough to hold at least six people and perched on the edge, barely wrapped in a monogrammed bath towel, is the red-haired veterinarian who came to Holt’s place when the horse was dying.

  “Oh shit, well fuck, we might have gotten kinda rowdy. Fuck, Randa! You could at least throw some towels on the floor, are you too good to clean up this mess? On top of being Dr. Feel-good you think you’re the queen of every-fucking-thing?” Traeger says, laughing as he pulls her up and against him trapping her lips in a steamy kiss.

  Holt shakes his head, mutters “degenerate moron” grabs my hand and drags me quickly out of the room, out of the house, into the car, and we’re outta there.

  “Is he really a moron?” I ask, well aware that Penn has had some sleepless nights since she left Traeger in Austin.

  “Traeg? Nah, he’s brilliant. His IQ is off the charts, he just thinks with the wrong head is all. Can’t blame him really, he’s a victim of fucked-up-fathering, guess it’s why he and I and the McCauley’s get along so well.”

  *

  “Hungry?” Holt asks once we’re at his house.

  Like Traeger’s place it’s a marvelous testament to Holt’s skill as a carpenter and builder, his unerring craftsmanship and unequalled imagination for finding usefulness and beauty in unique structures. It isn’t huge but it’s stately and impressive—a grist mill built in 1878 on a tributary of the San Antonio River. The walls are eighteen inch thick limestone blocks quarried nearby and hauled to the property on mule-drawn wagons. They were painstakingly stacked three stories high on top of huge foundation stones that are so heavy they were loaded on barges and floated down river to the site. Inside, on the main floor there are no interior walls, only well-worn posts and beams, and the most beautiful stone staircase that zigzags back and forth upon itself to the far reaches of the third floor attic.

  “Beauty, did you hear me? What would you like for supper?” He asks, and while I’ve been turning in slow circles, gazing in awe at this wonder he resurrected from a burnt out shell, he’s opened a bottle of cold Sauvignon Blanc, sliced a pear, and arranged cheese and a rounded loaf of sourdough bread on a dinner plate.

  “Hmmm, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou,” I say, and the blood rushes to my face, my neck, as his eyes glint greener-than-green and he walks slowly toward me, big, hulking, out of this world sexy, he looks like he might lift me onto the counter and prove that sex is way better than wine or poetry.

  “Ah, Omar Khayyam, I like the sound of it, and you, my beauty, are driving me wild. When I asked you to change your dress did you have to pick the shortest shorts in the history of the world? Sorry if that wasn’t romantic, did I mess up the moment?” He says as his arm slides around my waist, his hand brushes the hair from my face, and the tip of his tongue skirts across my bottom lip just long enough that I melt into his arms, and I don’t care that I’m as easily won over as the bad girl in a Soap Opera.

  “Nope, the moment is just fine….” I say and he stops my words with a kiss that’s one of his specialties— slow, soft, wet, insistent, a perfect complement to his rough hands sliding under my T-shirt, up my back, unsnapping my bra….

  “I’m gonna tie you up, beauty,” he says, and my heart and stomach somersault at the sheer heat of implication in his words. He exhales long and low as he steps back and peers so deeply into my eyes that I can’t imagine that anything I’m feeling is hidden from him. He smiles and his eyes narrow, and I swear every ounce of blood in my body rushes to that spot between my legs that has missed him every minute of every day for the past two months. “But not tonight, it’s been a long day. Tonight we drink wine, take a bath in the open air, and get some rest. You okay, Scarlet? You look a little pale and you’re shaking.”

  “A bath outside? I want you to tie me up, and not like before, not just my wrists. All of me,” I say, glancing down at the evidence of his arousal. He draws in a sharp breath and pulls me against the brick wall of his chest, just where I want to be.

  “My
impatient girl, I love seeing you like this, pink-cheeked and panting, fucking dying for my cock,” he says without a hint of cockiness as his lips graze mine and his hands reach behind me.

  My breath hitches as he lifts my hair and deftly works it into a loose braid, I’m standing with my ass against the kitchen counter and he’s so close and so tall that his cock digs into my stomach through the smooth fabric of his pants. I love the feel of him, the sight of him in his suit-pants and starched white shirt, so different from his usual jeans and cowboy attire. Sparks zing through me, cutting a lightning fast trail from my brain to my pussy.

  This man is the absolute definition of confident masculinity. He knows what I want and that he can, and will, give it to me. That he can easily make me come faster and harder than a crossfire hurricane. That in the week we spent together, he took possession of my body and no matter what happens, he owns that part of me, and glory hallelujah, he is a master—the master of my body—in and out of bed, on every flat and non-flat surface in his house, barn, field….

  “C’mon,” he says, his thumbs trace over my collarbone, my cheeks, and then he takes my hand and leads me to the far end of the house and out onto a screened porch.

  “Oh my gosh! I love this,” I say and wonder how I missed this small, enchanting haven when I was here before. The screened-in porch is small, furnished only with a bent-twig porch swing and table, and an antique copper claw-foot bathtub. It faces the fork of the river that once powered the grist mill and now is only a trickling stream. A path cuts through the course grass outside and leads across the exposed rock bed of the creek. The days are lengthening as June approaches and although it’s early evening the sun has yet to slip below the horizon.

  He strikes a match and lights a small lantern as I look around in wonder and pick a dog-eared book from the table.

  “All The Pretty Horses,” I say, leafing through the book as he turns on the faucet and steam from the hot water billows into the night air as the tub fills. “I love this book, it’s one of my favorites.”

  “Mine too,” he says, and taking it from me he tosses it aside and bends down to kiss me, stopping just long enough to lift my shirt over my head. “You’re my favorite, the only girl I’ve brought here to my house, the only one I want,” he says and his eyes are on fire as I fumble with the buttons on his shirt, his belt buckle, and then our hands are wild, unfastening, pushing fabric away, kicking off my shoes, his boots, in a frenzy until we stand naked and ready for what will come next.

  “Why me?” I ask, shivering as he holds me at arms-length and seems to drink in the sight of my naked flesh.

  “I don’t know,” he says, “it’s just the way it is, there’s something about you I can’t get free of… I don’t want to get free of you.”

  I blink up at him, astonished that he’s said it so soon, that his thoughts echo my own, as he helps me over the high edge of the tub and I sink down in the perfect warmth of the water. He stands over me for a moment before he steps in and my eyes can’t find any particular place to rest as they sweep over his monumentally awesome body. This is what God intended when he created Adam, I imagine. Massive and yet elegant, tall, bronzed and broad-shouldered, tapering to a narrow waist with that perfect muscled V leading from his carved abs to his astonishingly beautiful cock. And this thought startles me—can a penis be beautiful?!!—and makes my cheeks blaze and my sex clench. His skin is smooth and taut over hard muscle, not a single tattoo marks him, only a few thin scars that have faded to silver slivers scattered across his chest, his arms, and the palms of his hands.

  I asked him about the scars before, my fingers lingering on the straight lines cut into his palms and he brushed the question away, mumbling something about knives and bar fights and teenaged stupidity. “Scoot forward,” he says as he grins and climbs in, settling behind me, pulling me back to rest against his chest, his erection hard and huge between us. I squirm with impatience and I want to turn and face him but he laughs and holds me still. He squirts bath gel into his hands and begins to lather my breasts as I give in and melt back into him.

  “Like that?” He asks, his hands are hot and soapy, slippery as they knead and caress my breasts, nipples, down my sides to my waist, hips and when they slide between my thighs I feel like a clock wound too tightly, a bomb that could go off at any minute, ignite under his deft touch and explode into nothing but pure feeling.

  “Y-yesssss,” I groan, arching into his touch, ravenous for more, for anything, everything—his fingers, mouth, tongue, cock—HIM, all at once. I’m at the brink so quickly, (how the fuck does he do that?!) my hips jutting forward, crying out as he slides two fingers inside me, Ohhhh, it’s too much and not enough, and I’m moving to the rhythm of his fingers, riding a wave that’s ready to crash and carry me away.

  “Slow down, beauty,” he says, and his magic fingers are gone and I want to scream but he flips me around on his lap, parts my lips with his tongue and I’m crazily sucking at his lips, my hands clutched in his thick, silky hair, my tongue meeting his, thrusting, twining… divine.

  He deepens the kiss as his hands stroke my back, my breasts, rinsing the soap away before he lifts, pushes me up until I’m standing before him, clear water dripping down my body, my sex level with his mouth. My knees nearly buckle then, when I realize what’s coming, his big hands wrap my thighs to hold me steady as he urges my legs apart and his hot tongue lashes my sex. And that’s it, I’m in heaven, I’m lost to feeling, quivering as I spread my legs eagerly without an ounce of shame. I lean forward and rest my hands on his shoulders, our eyes meet and hold, his eyes are fucking blazing as he licks and sucks, tender and rough, magic, exactly like he’d kiss my mouth. His hands cup my ass, fingers digging into my skin and he groans, loud and long, choking out words that push me close, so close—Sweet, so sweet, I fucking love your sweet, high ass! You feel so good in my hands, and you taste like a fucking miracle! You like that, beauty? You love my mouth or my cock? Tell me what you want, I need to hear it.

  I’m quivering, quaking, coming on his lips and begging for his cock. His hands move up to my waist and pull me down hard on his length, water splashes out of the tub in waves and who the fuck cares! He thrusts into me until I’m so, so full, and he’s so, so deep, it’s like I’ve never been this full in my life and he’s mumbling as I ride a spasm and clench down hard on his cock and he’s holding back, jaw clenched, knuckles white as he grips the edge of the tub and I fall against him, my chest heaving as I work to suck in a single breath.

  His cock is still rock hard inside me and finally I lift my head and see that he looks strained and miserable.

  “What is it?” I ask, summoning the strength to sit up and he groans again, lifts me off his lap and stands up.

  “I need a condom, Scarlet, we shouldn’t push it two times in one day. Don’t get out of the bath, I’ll be right back, just hold on, it’s okay,” he says, rising out of the water like a glorious Sea God, and damn, I feel bad for riding his face and his body like an unhinged maniac and he just let me while holding his own raging need in check. “Hey, I’ll be right back, don’t look so shattered, we get to do it all again.”

  He ducks into the house and returns with a condom packet, pauses next to the tub and rips it open with his teeth, one hand holding his pulsing erection. I rise to my knees, push his hand aside, grasp the pulsing shaft, and glide my hands up and down while my tongue flicks over the tightly flared crown. He moans, a deep, guttural sound, and thrusts into my mouth instinctively. My tongue circles and swirls, and my cheeks hollow as I suck, until he pulls out panting hard and lifts me up and against him in one swift motion.

  “Too close, too good, beauty. I can’t stop,” he mumbles, his lips on my eyelids, my cheek, my mouth, he slides the condom down his cock as my legs circle his waist. He’s wild and rough then, lifting me up and pulling me down hard on his thick length, pounding into me, willing himself to make it last. Then coming so hard and fast it’s like a jolt of heat pouring into me,
and I’m right there with him, falling to pieces, gripping his cock, refusing to let go, clawing his back as we shout, our animal sounds rising, brazen and primal, filling the humid air.

  My ears are buzzing as I cling to him and how he’s able to stand still and hold me I’ll never understand. The buzzing turns into a whirring, whooshing sound, and an impish grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as I raise my head from his shoulder in time to see a dozen or more cyclists rush past outside on the trail to the creek. We’re in perfect view with the lantern lighting the interior of the porch against the darkening night, and the bicycle riders wave and laugh, and I gasp and cling to him harder.

  “Hey Holt, looks like fun!” One of the bikers calls out, and then they all grin and flash a thumbs-up or a peace sign like it’s the most natural thing in the world to see this giant of a man naked and fucking a girl on his porch.

  “Hey, y’all! Nice night for a ride,” He calls back, grinning, not the least bit surprised or incensed. “Idiots,” He says when they’re gone, he’s breathing hard against my chest, his arms holding me as if he never intends to let me go. “They pass by here all the time. The trail that cuts through my land leads to the State Park on the other side of the creek, they’ll camp there for the night but they’ll be in agony in the morning. Mosquitos and chiggers love to get inside those fucking tight bike shorts, this is Texas for Christ’s sake, they need to rethink their hobby, or invest in industrial strength bug repellant.”

  *

  I wake in the morning with a combined feeling that I might possibly suffocate from the weight of Holt’s giant arm and leg thrown over me, and just thrilled to death to be in his bed with him curled around me, holding me in his iron grip. He stirs, loosens his hold on my waist, and turns over, pressing that glorious, hot ass into my belly as he gathers the pillow under his head, mumbles a few incoherent words, and sleeps on. Holt is usually up with the first rays of sunlight, but last night we made up for the time we spent apart—with Holt doing most of the work—and he’s obviously wiped out. I turn on my side to get an optimal view and take this private time to study his body up close and personal.