Buckled

by Pam Godwin

  I wish I wasn’t attracted to her. This would be less complicated if she were more of an adversary and less of a fascination. But she seduces me without even trying. The silky feel of her skin, the sweet taste of her mouth, the fight she gives me at every turn—she’s a mysterious dream wrapped in the promise of sex. No single man could’ve turned her away.

  I didn’t just demand that she stay. I gave her a well-bred, papered-up British White Park calf, for fuck’s sake. What was I thinking?

  I wasn’t. This goes beyond fascination and headlong into insanity.

  The door to my suite emerges at the end of the hall, and I consider it for a span of several seconds before forcing my feet into Lorne’s room. As I lower her onto the bed, she rouses.

  “I fell asleep.” She peers up at me with heavy-lidded eyes and touches my face. “God, you’re handsome. I bet you hear that all the time.”

  I usually find those words trite and unctuous, but on her lips, they sound genuine.

  “I almost carried you to my bed.” I turn my head and kiss her fingertips. “But I want you there on your own accord.”

  “I won’t—”

  “You will.” I crawl over her and lower my body between her legs. “I’ll wait.”

  “Is this waiting?” Her hands fall to my hips and clench.

  “You have no idea.”

  The impulse to grind against her is overwhelming, but if she says stop, this ends. I would lose her, and I can’t risk that.

  Instead, I wait for her to push me away.

  She doesn’t.

  An inner battle tightens her expression, her body stiff and resistant beneath me. Then her gaze lowers and parks on my mouth. That’s all the invitation I need.

  I swoop in and draw her bottom lip between my teeth. She gasps, and I bite, forbidding her from jerking back.

  A startled noise sounds in her throat. Then a heartbeat of hesitation. And another.

  She lifts a hand to my hair. The other slides along my jaw. Her mouth closes over my upper lip, and she presses closer, leaning up, breaths accelerating, fingers curling and pulling at my roots.

  She wants this. Christ, I feel the need vibrating through her. But I hold still, forcing her to come to me.

  Give in, baby.

  With a groan, she suckles my upper lip, softly at first, then harder, hungrier. Her jaw unlocks. Her tongue darts out, and she liquefies beneath me in irresistible submission.

  I dive in, taking over the kiss and claiming her with urgent strokes. My cock wakes up, and my breaths escape in bursts. I grip her thigh around my hip and dig closer, rubbing my zipper against her core and seeking relief. Fucking hell, I want her so badly this is torture.

  Her hands hold my face to hers as I plunder her mouth, preventing her from forming words. Each lash of my tongue is an order to accept, every bite a demand to surrender. My grip on her thigh commands her to let go, to give into my desire, to join me in the urgency.

  “Jarret.” She pushes against my shoulders, panting. “I can’t. I’m not…”

  Blood throbs along my shaft, my thoughts a cloud of need, need, need. “Not what?”

  “I’m not like the women you sleep with.”

  “I know.” That’s precisely why I’m all tangled up in her.

  With great effort, I roll off her and sit on the edge of the bed, dropping my elbows on my knees.

  She pulls the covers to her shoulders and settles on her side, watching me. “If I wasn’t here tonight, would you be in town?”

  “Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair, unnerved by the fact that at some point over the last twenty-four hours, I lost all interest in other women.

  “I don’t know how you work twelve-hour days and find the energy to pick up girls at night.” An acidic undertone sours her voice. “Don’t let me stop you from going out. It’s been two whole days since you got laid.”

  She’s jealous, underlined by the scowl she tries to hide behind the fold of her hand on the pillow.

  It’s fucked up, the conflicting feelings pulsing inside me. Satisfaction, because I affect her. Guilt, because it upsets her to think of me with someone else. The latter makes me want to drag her onto my lap and assure her she’s the only one I want.

  But I’m not in a monogamous relationship with this woman. She’s on an errand to expose my family, and I’m certain she’s harboring her own secrets. I respect her, but I don’t trust her.

  I need to work her out of my system, convince her I have nothing to hide, and send her home. At least I don’t have to worry about her getting attached.

  “I’ll let you sleep.” I rise from the bed and head toward the hall, denying the urge to give her a parting glance.

  Until I reach the doorway.

  I can’t help it. There’s something so striking and addictive about her it draws my gaze and makes me twitch to put my hands all over those soft curves in a way I’ve never considered touching a woman.

  I want to hold her without the anticipation of sex. I want to learn where she’s ticklish, what makes her toes curl, and how to coax a smile with the caress of my hand. More than anything, I want to capture the flame inside her and keep it burning between us.

  Her full lips flatten, and her bright blue eyes narrow over a pert nose as we remain locked in a stare. I don’t know what she knows about me or the things I’ve done, but whatever it is, she isn’t afraid. Perhaps all she has is that list of names and a head full of assumptions.

  Is that enough to compel a homeless journalist to drive nine-hundred miles to investigate?

  Six years ago, Sandbank crawled with reporters from all over the country. With Lorne’s trial and the disgusting attack on Conor, there were enough lurid details to fill newspapers. But that’s in the past. The parade of news vans and fancy cameras rolled out as quickly as they rolled in.

  Maybe Quinn might dress like a reporter, but she doesn’t behave like one. She’s tough, but not in the pushy, aggressive way I expect. I haven’t seen her with a recording device or even a memo pad. She has a phone, but she’s not connected to it or the outside world. Aren’t journalists obsessively passionate about the hustle of life and capturing it all for public consumption?

  She doesn’t fit that persona at all.

  I cast her a hard look. Why are you really here?

  She glares right back, and damn if I don’t want to kiss the attitude off those pouty lips. Instead, I flick off the light and shut the door.

  On my way to the back porch, I stop in the laundry room and switch her clothes to the dryer. Before dinner, I washed the things she wore today. She’ll have to wear them again tomorrow and the next day and so on until I figure out a solution. I draw the line at going shopping.

  As I toss her wet clothes into the dryer, my fingers slide against a thin scrap of satin. I pause with my hand in the machine, bending down to stare at the pair of black panties in my hand.

  I glance back at the door where I left her, imagining the look on her face if she walks out and catches me.

  Don’t be that guy.

  Too late.

  I lift it to my nose by compulsion, not by choice. The laundry soap erases any scent of her, but my cock reacts anyway as I visualize the fabric rubbing against her pussy all day.

  “Are you sniffing her panties?” Conor’s whisper drifts from the entrance of the hall.

  In an attempt to embarrass her, I hold them up, dangling by a finger, and arch an eyebrow in her direction. “If you think my brother doesn’t smell yours—”

  “I know he does.” She strolls toward me and hops up on the dryer. “What are you doing, Jarret?”

  The loaded hush of her voice tells me she’s not asking about the laundry.

  “I have no idea.” I toss the panties in, push her legs aside to shut the dryer door, and reach around her to power it on. “What do you want?”

  “You were gone a while. Jake and I took bets on whether you and the reporter were getting busy. Then he got tired of waiting and went to bed.”


  “Who won the bet?”

  “I did.” A smile softens her eyes. “She’s not one of your buckle bunnies.”

  “No, she’s not.” I turn away and head toward my room.

  “If she’s staying, she needs more work clothes.” Conor’s footsteps follow on my heels, down the hall, and into my suite.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “We both know you don’t shop.” She shuts the door behind her. “Want me to order some clothes? I know a few online stores that—”

  “Yes.” I pull a wad of cash from my wallet and hand it to her. “That would be really helpful.”

  “Consider it done.” She pockets the money and climbs across my bed to root through the drawer of my nightstand. “Do you still keep your—?” She yanks out the tin box. “Yes!”

  “Don’t even think about it.” I snatch the box of weed from her hand and return it to the drawer.

  I smoke to mellow the aches and pains of hard labor. When we were younger, Conor used to sneak out and get stoned with me. Until Jake and Lorne found out.

  They let me know what they thought of that by rearranging my face.

  “Jake’s not the boss of me.” She crosses her arms.

  “Try telling him that.”

  She makes a growly noise and flops onto the bed. “I talked to Lorne about your house guest.”

  “He responded to my email this morning.” I tug off my boots and sprawl on my back beside her. “He wants to meet her.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “It’s not like he’ll say anything incriminating. The prison monitors everything.”

  “Shh!” She slaps a hand over my mouth and whispers, “What if she planted something in here? She could be listening right now.”

  I push her arm away. “She hasn’t had the opportunity.”

  “You can’t watch her every second of every day. Aren’t you worried about her spying?”

  “No.”

  “Jarret, this is important. If I lose another one of you to prison…”

  The worry in her voice prompts me to turn on my side and face her. “Her mind doesn’t work like that. I can’t put my finger on it, but I know she’s not as manipulative or conniving as she wants me to believe.”

  “What do you mean? Like she’s not a reporter?”

  “No. Yes. Fuck, I don’t know. Something led her to my dad. She said it was a lead on another story. That’s plausible, but…”

  “But?”

  “This feels personal. She’s homeless because… How did she put it? Bad judgment and rotten luck.”

  Her green eyes flare. “Do you think she was involved with the moneylenders? Or someone in her family? What if one of those men was her father or brother…?” She gasps. “Oh God, Jarret.”

  “Slow down, Watson. It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the facts.”

  “Was that Sherlock Holmes?” Her gaze flicks to the steel bookshelf, where my favorite childhood books reside.

  “Yeah, and the facts are these… She has no siblings or living parents.”

  “That’s if she’s telling the truth. Are you listening to your gut or something else?”

  “All of it.”

  I roll to my back and launch into a rambling diatribe about my conflicting feelings regarding the woman in the other room.

  Conor settles in on her stomach. Resting her chin atop her folded hands on my chest, she absorbs every word just like she did whenever I vented about girls in high school.

  When I fall quiet, she makes a humming sound.

  “What?” I peer down at her.

  “She’s going to fall in love with you.”

  I release a startled grunt. “That’s not even in the realm of possibilities.”

  “If you believe that, I feel sorry for you.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re a good guy. A great guy. I know you’ve done things you’re not proud of, but it doesn’t define who you are.”

  My stomach cramps. “Abandoning you for six years makes me the worst brother—”

  “Jarret.” She lifts her head and grips my t-shirt. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I forgave you for that. Let it go.”

  I can’t let it go, but I ruffle her hair until she relaxes on my chest.

  If she’s referring to the bodies in the ravine, I don’t feel an ounce of remorse about that. Those men threatened her, and I did exactly what Lorne would’ve done. I protected her at all costs.

  “I missed this.” She flips to her back with her head propped on my torso. “We used to have the best girl talks, didn’t we?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah. How are you doing?”

  “Better. Jake’s kind of a bear, but I need that. He makes me write down every feeling and memory and…” She groans. “It’s awful. But then we rehash it over and over until it’s not so awful. He has the patience of a saint.”

  “I need some of his patience to rub off on me.”

  “You know, it’s nice to see you working for a woman’s attention for a change. You’ll appreciate her more.”

  I already appreciate her. Every insatiable, infuriating inch of her. That’s the problem.

  Conor laughs to herself. “Remember Stacy in high school? The girl who gave you a scrapbook album of your future life together? It included your wedding with her and random things about you, like your favorite food, color, songs, and there was a whole page dedicated to the shape of your lips.”

  I shudder. “The longest conversation I ever had with that girl was, What’s up? Nothing.”

  Conor highlights a few more stalkers from my past, and we slide into easy conversation about everything and nothing at all, laughing and reminiscing and losing track of time.

  Until the door creaks open.

  Jake fills the doorframe, shirtless and scowling.

  “You said you were going to grab a glass of water.” He folds his arms across his chest.

  Conor sits up and shoves the auburn tangles from her face. “Jarret needed help with his girl problems.”

  “She came in here to bum a joint.” I give her a kick off the bed.

  “That, too.” She lands on her feet and sashays toward the door, smiling back at me. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “You’ll be too tired for conversation.”

  Branding season starts tomorrow, which means no downtime for a week.

  “Good point.” She pauses beside Jake. “Can I have a piggyback ride?”

  “No.” He pops her on the ass. “Get to bed.”

  Her laughter follows her out of the room and down the hall.

  He turns back to me and hardens his eyes. “Don’t get her stoned.”

  “Chill out. Her lungs are safe.”

  He studies me for a moment, measuring my mood. “If you need to talk about…whatever’s going on…”

  “That’s what I have Conor for.”

  We share a grin. Communication between us doesn’t require words. Sometimes we use our fists, but that’s not needed tonight.

  With a nod, he steps into the hall and closes the door.

  I sink into the mattress and consider rubbing one out before the evening is spent. The bed frame creaks as I shove the jeans down my legs and yank off the t-shirt. Exhaling, I grip the base of my cock through the briefs and close my eyes.

  The image of blue eyes and blond curls flickers across the backs of my eyelids. I creep my hand along my swelling shaft, and the air thickens with a craving that goes beyond a quick release.

  My heart hammers just thinking about her. I know she wants me. I sense it every time our eyes connect. So why am I lying here alone when she’s right down the hall?

  This is madness.

  I swing my legs off the bed, fasten the jeans, and walk with purpose to the door. I don’t stop until I reach Lorne’s suite and step inside.

  My body tingles as I approach the bed, and I become painfully conscious of my breaths.

 
And hers.

  Soft and feminine, the sound of air flowing past her lips gives me pause. The depth of her slumber is a testament to how much I overworked her today. As I perch on the edge of the mattress, she doesn’t even stir.

  Why did I come in here? I knew she’d be asleep, and I have no intention of waking her. I just needed to check on her. I needed to see her.

  The hallway light slants through the partially open doorway, painting a gentle glow across her face. She’s a side sleeper, her arms tucked against her chest and hands folded around the pillow. The perfect position to back up against me, side by side, in the center of my bed.

  Ringlets of gold splay around her shoulders and arms, engulfing her small frame. Her full lips, slightly parted, emit a small puff of sound with each exhale.

  What holds my attention the longest, however, are her lashes. Long and thick, they aren’t clumped together with the black goop most women wear. I don’t think she even owns makeup.

  What I wouldn’t give to trace a finger along those lashes. I bet they feel like feathers against the apples of her high cheekbones. Someday soon, I’m going to kiss each of her eyelids and let those sexy lashes caress my lips. I never want to see them wet. Unless it’s on the cusp of pleasure.

  She’s going to fall in love with you.

  That’s not the danger here.

  It’s me. I’m slipping, and I fucking know it. I need to pull back.

  I don’t even know her.

  Except every breath in my body demands that I do.

  Reaching toward her face, I carefully sweep the soft curls away from her cheek. The simple touch comes with startling realization.

  I want to take care of her. It’s not just a desire. It’s instinct. Whether I’ve earned that right is negligible. She’s my responsibility.

  I don’t know what that means exactly, but it feels like I could run forever, search forever, and end up right back where I’m at.

  I’m destined for this, whatever this is.

  The third week of every June is our date of brand. The next six days consist of long, miserably hot, back-breaking hours of sorting, branding, vaccinating, and castrating cattle on little sleep. It’s also an excuse to blare music, barbecue meat, and talk a ton of trash.