Rough and Tumble

by Crystal Green

  Then he gunned the engine, the motor echoing and revving inside Molly.

  15

  Cash couldn’t have said no to Molly even if the road had caved beneath them or the sky had fallen.

  Maybe he was only a good time to her, but it was beyond him to deny her a few more hours, so he drove up the freeway and off-Strip to The Blue Bayou, an aged hotel-casino that was smaller than the huge corporate places on Las Vegas Boulevard, but big enough to disappear in. Since Kat had texted Cash that Leighton had been able to take off in his truck after she’d smacked him with the baseball bat in warning, Cash wanted to hole up for a while anyway. Later tonight, he’d leave town after getting Molly back to her hotel.

  Other than that, he didn’t have a plan as they walked through the mad slot-ringing of the Cajun-themed casino.

  Actually, yeah, he did have a plan—to get Molly to a room as soon as possible. And he was pretty sure that was what she had in mind, too. Still, he wasn’t about to come off as desperate.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  Molly rubbed her arms, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the air-conditioning. “No. You bought me a burger and fries today, remember?”

  Good old In-N-Out. “We never had dessert.”

  He flashed a smile at her. She was still pink-cheeked from the saloon escape, and when she brushed against him, his skin roared with its own kind of hunger.

  Pressing his advantage, he said, “I was thinking we needed a quiet night in.”

  “You mean . . . room service? A movie on the hotel TV?”

  “Both are options.”

  Was this him taking the subtle route to getting laid? The usual Cash never pussyfooted around bringing a woman into a hotel room.

  He manned up, refusing to act like a boy on prom night—not that he’d ever had one.

  After searching for the nearest direction sign and finding one, he headed for the lobby, sending Molly one of his guaranteed-to-get-banged smiles. When she bit her lip, chewing back a knowing smile, he knew that he could take off the gloves now.

  Anticipation tumbled in his belly as they entered the color-splashed, velvet-chaired lobby, which wasn’t crowded. Fifteen minutes later, they were on an elevator to the third floor, then walking in silence to a room.

  When her phone dinged, she glanced at him.

  “Answer it,” he said.

  “I don’t want Sofia to freak out if I don’t. . . .” She peeked at her screen, sighing. “It’s not Sofia. Just my sister getting stressed about her rent. She and I have already talked about it, though.”

  Molly didn’t explain any more, but she seemed tense, almost trapped in a way.

  Cash had all kinds of methods to relax her.

  After sliding the card key into the lock, he opened the door to a generic space with paintings of Mardi Gras on the walls, open curtains with a view of the local street, and a light that’d been left on by the housekeeping staff. Still, nothing else mattered but that king-sized bed.

  He looked at Molly. She looked at him. A palpitating cadence started up in his temples, making his sight constrict, his vision tunneling in on her.

  Molly. Only Molly.

  But if he expected her to be as greedy as he was to start this up, he was wrong. She was glancing around the room, her fingers working at her skirt before she quickly stopped herself.

  Jumpy. Well, he could take care of that.

  When he rested his fingers on her cheek, she held her breath. He’d only meant to calm her down, but instead, the gesture had motored him up in a way he hadn’t expected, her eyes melting him, like he didn’t have a spine anymore. He had an urge to take her into his arms and stroke that blond, blond hair.

  He pushed both sensations away. “You still in?” he asked. “Or out?”

  He’d put the same question to her this afternoon in the parking lot of the Pink Ladies.

  Without hesitation, she said, “In.”

  So why was she a ball of nerves when she hadn’t been that way in the car? Shit, why’d he have to work so hard to figure her out?

  All he knew was that, based on last night, she’d be worth the effort.

  Cash told himself to be patient, and he walked to the other side of the room, to a lounging chair, sitting in it, sprawling.

  “What?” Molly asked. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No. Just confused. You say you’re up for this, but I’m getting a lot of mixed signals.”

  “And you’re not used to that.” She sounded kind of proud of herself for besting him in this way. Kind of playful about it, too.

  “Are you messing with me?”

  “I didn’t set out to, but now I’m thinking that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

  He couldn’t argue. He’d been messing with her since they’d met.

  Her gaze skimmed over the bed, then back to him, and Cash realized something new about Molly—she might be the type who wouldn’t give herself permission to lose as much control as she had last night. She was thinking too much right now, overanalyzing.

  He’d give her permission.

  “When you came up here with me,” he said, “what was the first thing you wanted to do?”

  “I . . .” She really looked like she wasn’t sure.

  “Hell, I couldn’t stop conjuring scenarios—don’t tell me nothing crossed your mind.”

  She pressed her lips together, thinking some more, but that’s the last thing he’d been aiming for. Besides, he had the impression that she knew damned well what she wanted. She just wasn’t used to asking for it.

  “Get on the bed,” he said.

  She blinked, glancing at the mattress, then back at him. She even tucked a light blond wisp of hair behind her ear. “Can I . . .” She motioned at the bedspread. “You know that studies have shown there are a ton of really gross things on these.”

  Holy. Shit.

  “Take off the fucking bedcover and get on the bed, Molly.” His tone was frayed. God knew how much worse it was going to get if she kept trying to blue-ball him.

  When she delicately raised the cover and brought it to the floor at the end of the bed, he wiped a hand down his face, trying not to chuckle. Warmth had darted into him, a silent laughter that whooshed around his chest until he finally smacked it out, paying more attention to the heat in other parts of his body.

  She took off her purse, set it on a nightstand, then got to her knees on the mattress, sitting down on one hip and folding her legs beneath her. But she still didn’t look comfortable.

  “I’m going to . . .” she said, gesturing to her sandals.

  “Be my guest.”

  She unstrapped them, going so slow that the blood laboring through him started running around itself in circles. Goddammit, she had to be acting like a smart-ass with him right now.

  But she looked pretty innocent when she tossed her sandals to a chair, then adjusted her position on the bed, resting a hand on the mattress and facing him like a posing Cleopatra.

  In the next instant, though, she’d changed her mind, fluffing pillows and testing them, probably for maximum slut positioning impact.

  “Molly,” he said.

  She tossed her hands in the air. “I know. I’m terrible at this.”

  At foreplay? He thought back to last night, remembering how good it’d been in the end. But now that she mentioned it . . . yeah, she’d been nervous as hell at first.

  Clearly, Molly only needed some warming up.

  He got out of the chair and, like she couldn’t help responding, she lay back on the pillows, her eyes wide. He was sure he could even see a pulse in her neck fluttering like a butterfly’s wing.

  Blood boiled, knocking against itself. “What kind of bra are you wearing tonight?” he asked.

  “Black,” she whispered.

 
“Did you wear it for me?”

  “No.” She waited, then rushed out with more words. “You have my other one, and this was the only bra that was left in my suitcase. . . .”

  “Stop talking, Molly.”

  She did. And he approached the bed, bending down to remove his boots and socks as he talked, using a gentle tone.

  “Why’d you say you’re no good at foreplay?”

  Closing her eyes, she spread her fingers over the sheets, like she wanted to hold on to something. She opened her eyes. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

  “I’m only curious. Besides, you could’ve fooled me last night.”

  A small smile lit over her lips. She glowed, and that made a part of him do the same—a part that hadn’t glowed for years.

  Fuck that. He stamped it out, reaching down to shuck off his T-shirt, throwing it away from him.

  “I might’ve mentioned,” she said, her gaze roaming over his chest, “that I’m too busy with work to go to bars or parties much. Hence, I don’t get a lot of practice.”

  Hence. Jesus.

  He skimmed a gaze over her: the light blond hair that was spread over the pillow, the slender body under the dress he was going to peel off inch by inch, the long legs that tapered into red-tipped toenails that gave her a rattling touch of naughtiness.

  As he climbed onto the bed, the mattress sank under his weight. She shifted, her eyes going even wider.

  “You’d rather read books on a weekend night,” he said. “Is that the story?”

  “I’ve been on dates. Horrible ones. Boring ones. That’s why I’d rather not waste my time on them.”

  “And . . . ?”

  He moved closer to her, and she slanted her legs away from him. They were closed.

  But that wouldn’t be the case for long.

  “And I’ve had sex before, just like I told you,” she said. “If that’s what you’re asking again.”

  “You told me you’re not a virgin. I’d say some of your experience was to my benefit already.”

  He slid his hands around her ankles, shackling them. That flutter in her throat vein seemed to intensify . . . or maybe it was his own desire projecting itself onto her.

  “It’s just . . .” she started to say.

  “Just what?”

  He slipped his hands up her legs, easing inside her knees, coaxing them open as her dress rolled away, exposing her thighs. His cock nudged his fly, beginning a pounding countdown.

  Her words spilled out. “It’s just that I never enjoyed sex much. Not until last night.”

  Passion zinged him. She hadn’t even needed to touch him, because her simple confession had gotten him more excited than he’d thought possible. He felt it in his gut, then up in his chest, warmth spreading like his own pair of wings, dark and ragged and burning like shredded emotion.

  She went on. “I wasn’t sure I’d be good at it, and that’s why I wanted to come here with you. Because I wonder if last night was a fluke.”

  “We have a few more hours to find out.”

  “Okay.” As he tickled his fingers down her thighs, she flinched, laughing. “A few hours until you’re done with me.”

  She was kidding but, for him, those were words to live by. “Then I’m hitting the road, just like Jesse said I should.”

  “Most guys have blow-up dolls, but it looks like I’m a blow-off doll.”

  More jokes. She was getting more comfortable, and he was getting less. And when he spoke, he barely even had time to wish he could take the words back.

  “Don’t worry, Molly. I’ll remember you forever.”

  ***

  Molly thought she saw a flash of emotion fly through Cash’s gaze.

  She kept catching glimpses of it, like after he’d punched that man at the Pink Ladies, or when she’d asked him at the Rough & Tumble why he’d defended her with such verve. But as soon as she recognized the flash, it was gone, and Cash was back to grinning as if he’d been messing with her again. But when he quite seriously ran his hands down her thighs, pushing down the rest of her dress until it bunched around her waist, her skin sizzled with need.

  He expertly pulled her panties off, discarding them and leaving her bare to him once again, and her mind filled up with sensations from the present. The past tried to barge its way in—so did the future, with her job interview and her boring life—but all of that was destroyed in a muted boom as he scooped his hands under her butt and lowered his head, bringing her to his mouth, pressing his lips to the spot between her legs.

  “Fuck!” she said as he kissed her.

  She slapped a hand over her mouth, afraid of what else might come out of it while he used his tongue, licking, bathing her with strokes that made her vibrate. With every move, she shifted her hips, reaching up to grasp a pillow with her other hand.

  It was like her mind had become a fuzzy screen, no images, no thoughts, just pure ecstasy as he worked her like she’d never been worked before—lips, tongue, delving into her until she softly squealed against her hand. Pressure braced against the inside of her belly like it wanted a way out, pushing, pushing . . .

  He opened her more with his fingers, coming up for air. Her body thudded hard, needing him back down there, dying for it.

  “Has anyone ever gone down on you before?” he asked.

  “A couple times.”

  “How hard did you come?”

  Dirty talk. She’d missed it from him, craved it. Nobody had ever dared to say things like this to her.

  She reached down and fisted some of his hair, opening her legs wider, wrapping one over his back, arching up to meet his mouth.

  “No matter how hard I might’ve come,” she said, watching his head go up and down as he devoured her, “I know you can make it harder.”

  Oh God, he was good. Tender yet aggressive, and seeing him do this to her undid her seam by seam, unbearable electric buzz by buzz.

  Truthfully, she’d always been too nervous to come during oral sex the few times she’d had it. Not that he needed to know this as he loved her, tasting her and sucking at her until the pressure became too much for her to handle. Heat abraded her, and she rocked against him, pulling in air because she was sure she’d never be able to breathe again, and—

  Slam!

  The orgasm crashed through her, reverberating like a bullet in a closed room, a bullet that—double slam!—couldn’t find its way out until it crashed its way out of her, forcing the room open, light eking its way home.

  Cash had only gotten started, though, tugging her dress over her head, unhooking her bra, taking off his jeans.

  She could only lie back and watch some more, satiated, dizzy with a smile that wouldn’t leave her alone.

  A wicked thought spiraled through her, and she let it out.

  “Kiss me,” she said, her voice so throaty that it couldn’t be hers.

  He’d gotten his fly halfway unbuttoned, but it didn’t seem to relieve him any. The bulge in his pants had to be painful.

  A wolfish smile took him over. “You want a kiss now? You want to taste yourself on my mouth?”

  “Yes.” It seemed like such an agonizingly sexy idea.

  He was breathing hard, but he made her wait for him, slowly bending to kiss her belly, her muscles flinching. Sliding his lips up, between her breasts, grazing his teeth up until he got to her throat. He licked his way up from there, to her chin, and she raised it as they paused, luxuriating in the moment before an indecent, she-flavored kiss.

  With excruciating deliberation, he licked her bottom lip, then her top, giving her only a hint of herself.

  She moaned without meaning to, but he seemed to like it.

  “Molly,” he whispered, his breath warm and moist on her mouth before he slid his tongue into her, but just barely, just enough to tease.

  W
hen he did it again, she impulsively closed her lips over him, sucking off his tongue, tasting her own desire.

  “More,” she said on a gasp.

  And he gave it to her, pressing all of his mouth to hers, ravaging her with a lazy, maddening rhythm, his bare chest against hers, making her nipples go hard, making them ache.

  She breathed away from him. “Get those jeans off.”

  And he did that, too, the denim thudding to the floor.

  She’d seen a shadowed glimpse of him last night in the Thunderbird, but now in the light, she got a full view. He was thick, so hard and ready.

  Somehow, he’d extracted a condom from his jeans—she hadn’t noticed him do it—and he opened the packaging before he sheathed himself. Then, with an unexpected move, he pulled her up until she rested against the pillows, then hooked one of her legs over his upper arm. The feel of his muscles against her inner thigh made wetness pump her to swollen anguish, her clit stiff again.

  He drove into her, and she rose up, grasping the headboard behind her. Her breasts were sensitive, sore, and he cupped one, squeezing in time with every smooth thrust.

  She was so juiced as he stroked in and out of her with erotic ease, her head pounding against the headboard, uncontrollable “ooo”s coming from her as he got closer to coming.

  Slow . . . then faster . . . faster now . . . hammering a sinful song out of her lungs, the notes getting higher and higher—

  He came with a slivered, “Dammit,” and she planted her hand in his hair again, pulling at it, forcing him to look at her. His gaze was as feral as it’d been after he’d punished that drunk at the Pink Ladies, and she thrilled to that. And when he used his fingers to play her into another building orgasm, she closed her eyes, falling into a whirling hole.

  “Fuck,” she said as she got closer. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

  With a brutal bang, she surged back against the headboard, hitting it but not feeling it, dizzy and spread apart and unable to get herself back together again as she fought for oxygen and sanity.

  But even as she recovered, she knew this wasn’t enough. She’d become an addict for him, a girl who’d learned to say “fuck” and even feel the fuck.