by Sylvia Fox
I had no game plan in mind; I was lost in the moment, enjoying handling the root of his sexual power as I pleased.
My hand opened and slid down to his balls, cupping them and rolling them across my palm. They felt heavy and full, even though he’d just emptied what felt like a gallon of himself into me. Fuck. What kind of man was Lincoln Sinclair?
Sinclair, I snickered to myself.
My hand returned to his cock, giving it long strokes.
His voice startled me.
“That feels so good that I’m tempted to just let you do that all day, girl. But I’ve been wondering something all night. And I just can’t wait any longer to find out,” he said.
I glanced over at him, finding his eyes open in the darkness, looking at me.
“What’s that?” I replied, still holding his dick in my hand.
“I want to know if you taste as good as you look.”
A lightning bolt shot from my ears down my spine to my pussy. I’d had a few guys in college make brief, clumsy attempts at going down on me, obligatory, it seemed. Turtle never even hinted at wanting to do it, and the few times I mentioned it, he laughed it off as something “real men don’t do.”
Yet here was the manliest man I’d ever met, telling me he wanted it?
Yes, please.
But I’d just gotten my brains fucked out… and I hadn’t showered since New Mexico…
“Mm,” I responded. “Let me freshen up and I’d love that.”
“Fuck that,” Lincoln replied. “I don’t want to know what soap tastes like. I want to know what your pussy tastes like.”
I collapsed back under the weight of his words, of his overpowering masculinity, of my own lust. He sat up and turned me, putting me right where he wanted, effortlessly, like I was weightless.
He rolled onto his stomach and kissed my thighs softly. Fuck, just his breath down there and I swear I felt like I as already coming.
His mouth was magical, exploring me with lips and tongue. I melted when he French kissed me there, pushing my knees up toward my shoulders to grant him deep, complete access to all my secrets.
Unhurried, he took his time worshipping my pussy, slowly coaxing climax after climax from it, leaving me breathless and whimpering, clutching at his sheets to keep my mind from spinning irrevocably into orgasmic madness. After a deep probing, he’d kiss my thighs until I recovered, then wrap his lips around my clit and flick it rapid-fire until an entirely different kind of orgasm jolted my body. My favorite may have been when he circled my clit with his tongue slowly while humming.
That was the last one he gave me with his mouth, and I waved the white flag after that climax nearly paralyzed me with its intensity.
I was a limp noddle by that point, sexually spent and exhausted, the muscles in my pussy aching from the tremors of the night before and relentless oral he’d just given me. I felt like I’d need a month before I could come again. My eyes closed and I felt myself drifting back into a dreamy state of joyful relaxation, oblivious to the world around me.
Oblivious to the fact that Lincoln had knelt between my legs and was about to slide his sledgehammer of a cock back inside me.
“I was happy to go on drowning in your come, Darcy, but my cock has other ideas.” The room was brighter now, the morning sun having risen and breaking through the darkness, and I could see his cock for the first time, a frightening slab of angry muscle he held in his hand.
My protestations were pitiful, and destined to be ignored, but I begged anyway. “I don’t think I can… it’s so big… please, gentle…”
But I knew there was nothing “gentle” about a man like Lincoln Sinclair.
Or the weapon he wielded.
I groaned as he drove it into me, that familiar ache of fullness returning, a warm pain that spread through to the small of my back and down into my thighs.
He fucked me long and slow, letting me feel him inch by glorious inch.
“Slow, baby, that’s it, yes, that’s it, mm,” I encouraged him, and my body responded to him despite my exhaustion. My hips rose to meet him, and my legs went ‘round the backs of his, desperate for more. More contact with his body, anywhere and everywhere I could get it.
I pulled his face to mine and kissed him hungrily, the flavor of my fluids fresh on his lips and tongue. The taste only increased my desire, and I found myself coming again, a deep orgasm curling my toes as I felt tears of joy roll down the sides of my face from the corners of my eyes.
“Never… stop… fucking me…” I pleaded with him, words coming between thrusts.
Inspired by my slutty begging, he began to pound my body, the slow, languid lovemaking replaced by primal, animalistic fucking.
It seemed like he fucked me all morning, but eventually even the inexhaustible stallion Lincoln Sinclair had to surrender to the power of my pussy, and I felt a perverse pride as he gasped and growled through emptying himself inside me again.
He stayed hard a good, long while after that, and we kissed and caressed each other until he finally slipped out and rolled onto his back.
Eventually, we rediscovered the ability to walk, and he showed me to his shower. Only male hygiene products and Irish Spring soap, but I liked the smell. It reminded me of him.
I wore a green Army Ranger t-shirt I found in his closet, with nothing underneath, as we sat out on his porch. He wore only jeans, looking so good shirtless that it was unfair to the rest of the male population of the state of Texas. If he’d put on his cowboy hat, like that, barefoot and clad only in tight jeans, I could have happily returned my eyes to God, as I’d have had no future use for them. What could look better than that?
Not a damn thing.
We sat in our rockers, sipping lemonade, and chatting. Our stomachs were grumbling, but Lincoln said he didn’t have much around to eat and we were both too content to want to drive into Lonely Pine until we absolutely had to.
“I’ll call Rosie and get us a dinner reservation,” he joked.
“Doesn’t she deliver?” I asked.
“I wish,” he answered, a faraway look in his eye. “So, what’s next?”
“Eating, right?” I asked, puzzled.
“Beyond that, I mean. Once your car is fixed. Because we might have a problem.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Ma’am. I mentioned before that we don’t have any ad agencies around here. And I’m a Texas Ranger, not an Arizona one. And what we’ve done last night and this morning? I need that all the time. I mean all the time.”
I watched him sip his drink and I squirmed in my chair, flipping through my mental rolodex of the best orgasms of my life. Lincoln was responsible for all of them. I’d known him barely twenty-four hours and I had a full-blown addiction.
“So, what do we do? Because, Darcy, I know this will sound crazy, but even more than the sex, you’ve made me think of things and feel things I haven’t thought of or felt in years. Do you get what I’m telling you?”
I wasn’t sure I did. I looked at him hopefully.
“I don’t know, because I’ve never been, but I think I’m falling in love with you.”
I wasn’t sure what I felt was love, but I was sure it was right. Lincoln did things to me that no man ever had. Or ever could. And not just sexually. He made me feel a safety and a peace I’d never known. And fuck a damn duck he was so hot.
How could this be happening? Love in less than a day? I mean, I’d read it about it, but it seemed like a fairy tale.
And I didn’t get fairy tales. Or did I?
I sauntered over and straddled his lap, kissing him hard. He held my hips and guided me to sit, legs akimbo, on his thigh. His iron grip held m fast, pressing down even as he flexed his quads. We kissed and my hands roamed over his pecs and shoulders as I shuddered through the tremors of a small orgasm.
“I’ll do anything you want me to do,” I confessed to him. “I’m yours, Lincoln. I want to fall right along with you.”
“You’re so damn beautifu
l,” he said. “But if you don’t put some clothes on, we’re going to wind up right back in bed, and as much as I want to have you again and again, this motor needs some fuel.” He patted his six-pack as he said it.
I stood up and pouted, playfully. “Okay. If you insist.” I pulled his shirt up and over my head, letting it fall to the floor before as I reached for the doorknob. “We can go eat if that’s what you want.”
“Compromise,” Lincoln said, as she stood up. “Rosie’s for dinner, and you, Darcy Shotwell, for dessert.”
12
My car was eventually repaired, and Turtle released from the county jail when I decided, on Lincoln’s advice, not to press charges. He’d gone to see Turtle in jail, and according to Lincoln, they’d come to some sort of agreement as to Turtle’s future, which involved him staying far, far away from Lonely Pine and making no attempt to contact me ever again.
I called work and arranged for an indeterminate leave of absence. Michael, my boss, didn’t understand, but he told me he’d do his best to keep my seat warm should I decide to return.
Lincoln and I drove to Phoenix in his truck to clean out my condo. Turtle had been there, and his things were gone. He’d made no attempt at an unwanted reconciliation or to get some sort of revenge on me. I supposed Lincoln had actually scared him off.
Turtle had been a bully at heart, and when bullies get punched in the nose, they deflate into cowards. He’d been there, and his things were gone, so I cleaned out mine and settled matters with the office.
Lonely Pine became home, and in the absence of having to go to a nine-to-five job, I started writing fiction, exercising a muscle that had been dormant since high school. I found some freelance work online doing editing, not that we needed much extra cash, given Lincoln’s Spartan lifestyle. I spruced up his place, trying to give it the “woman’s touch” he correctly surmised it had missed.
Being with a lawman was an adjustment, given his peculiar hours and need to travel to the far reaches of not only his home county but from time to time a larger swath of West Texas.
I became friends with Ruth, the daughter of the owner of Pages From the Past, and discovered that she was likewise an aspiring author. We helped encourage and critique each other’s work and started our own little book club, which over time grew to include nearly a dozen rancher’s wives and other local women.
A week after making the move to Lonely Pine permanent, I built up the courage to tell my parents about my new address, leaving out Lincoln, just telling them I’d had a falling out with Turtle and needed a change of scenery.
I wanted to surprise my Dad with the return of his prodigal quarterback.
Lincoln required no convincing that Palmetto Creek was safe for him. Whatever danger may have existed there when he was in high school was either long gone or was something he felt more than capable of facing head on.
We flew into Columbia, rented a car, and drove to Palmetto Creek under the premise that I’d met somebody and was bringing him home to meet my folks.
My parents were waiting on the porch when we pulled up, and they approached the car as we got out, smothering me with hugs and kisses.
My Daddy took one look at Lincoln and went white as a ghost.
“Good God almighty! Cade, is that really you? Darcy, why didn’t you tell me?”
My Momma wept, and even Lincoln had to wipe a tear from his cheek.
The reunion, appropriately enough over my Momma’s pancakes, went deep into the night, the two men trading stories about seemingly every snap of the football Lincoln ever took while playing for my father.
Asking Daddy for my hand in marriage was a mere formality, though it came as a complete shock to me.
We were married in Lonely Pine by the town’s only ordained minister, the man who’d greeted me on horseback upon my arrival on the outskirts of town, Monroe Givahns.
I’d known Lincoln Sinclair for six weeks, and suddenly I was Darcy Sinclair.
13
EPILOGUE: Eighteen Years Later
“You know that quarterback who A&M just signed? Cade Sinclair? That’s his twin sister right there. The tall girl with the blonde hair. She just shot the ball.”
I was eavesdropping on two old men having a conversation behind me. I nudged my Daddy to make sure he was listening as well. He winked at me.
We were sitting in the NBA arena where the Dallas Mavericks play, watching the Lonely Pine High School girls’ varsity basketball team warm up before their big state championship showdown with a little school from near the Louisiana state border.
Cadence, my daughter, stood a graceful 6’0” and had accepted a scholarship to play college basketball at the University of South Carolina, where her grandparents, uncle, and cousins could all make an easy drive to see her play.
For this game, however, they’d all made the trip to Texas.
“What in tarnation is your momma doing up there? They’re going to miss tipoff at this rate!” My Daddy complained to me. Just as I turned to look back up the stairs toward the mezzanine level, where the concession stands were, Lincoln appeared at my side, with my mother and our two sons in tow.
“Coach, I think I managed to rescue one hot dog from these grandsons of yours. But, only just,” Lincoln said to my Dad.
Cade, our oldest, held a tub of popcorn and soda in his hands. His LPHS letterman’s jacket was covered with patches, most prominent the football state champion emblem he’d won just a few months prior.
Our third child, Carter, juggled a box of nachos, a soda, and three hardback books in his hands. Fourteen years old, he spent his time with his nose in books or his fingers on a keyboard rather than bouncing a ball or running from tacklers. Lincoln didn’t always understand him, but he’d always be my sweet baby. Whatever he may lacked in on the field or court, he more than made up for by having a heart and imagination bigger than the entire Lone Star State.
Cade and Cadence turned heads wherever they went, whether due to their extraordinary athletic gifts or their looks (Cadence had been approached on two separate occasions by modeling agency representatives. And not the kind who get you a job in the catalogue for a local department store. Serious, big-time agencies. She couldn’t have been less interested), but Carter was destined to change the world. He was too special not to.
We never heard from Lincoln’s father, and if the bikers who’d chased Palmetto Creek’s star quarterback out of town so many years back had any inkling that he’d frequently returned to town as the son-in-law of the legendary local retired high school football coach, none of them did anything about it.
My life had only improved since my first time landing in Lonely Pine. I was married to the great love of my life, Lincoln Sinclair, who still made love to me like no one else ever could, and who had also blessed me with our three beautiful children, who were now on the edge of being grown ups themselves.
Turtle, per my friends in Palmetto Creek, never returned to Bamberg County. One of them said she’s heard through the grapevine that he’d wound up in Oregon and gotten himself jailed selling prescription painkillers to an undercover cop. He never bothered us.
Whenever I remembered to pray, which was never often enough, given all the blessings I’ve received in my life, I never forget to give thanks for dodging the bullet that was Jake “Turtle” Henry and for landing me in Lonely Pine, Texas.
And for sending a Ranger to rescue me.
THE END
Thank you for reading Rescue Me, Ranger! For news on the next Sylvia Fox releases, sign up for her mailing list. More books coming soon!
Also by Sylvia Fox
Drill Me, Sergeant
Frisk Me, Officer
Cock Me, Pilot
Mentor Me, Professor
Save Me, SEAL
Play Me, Coach
Love Me, Cupid
Treat Me, Doctor
Plow Me, Farmer
Love Me, Cupid
Ignite Me, Fireman
Service Me, Mechanic
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