Between the Sheets Page 9

  This is Dean all over again, she thought, panicked. This is some kind of awful self-destructive behavior. I use sex with inappropriate men as a coping mechanism. How can this be okay?

  But she knew in her gut that Ty wasn’t Dean. Ty wasn’t going to hurt her, not the way Dean had.

  “I don’t want to go on a date,” she whispered, staring down at her boots.

  “Oh.” He sounded surprised. Hurt even. “Well, then—”

  She was past worrying about whether or not this would work. Whether it would turn around and ruin her life in a few months. The pressure release valve was in danger of breaking right off, her whole life about to implode.

  And she had to do something.

  “Follow me,” she breathed and stepped off the porch toward the barn.

  Chapter 7

  Ty had been around the block a time or two, and if it were any other woman leading him across the silver-tipped grass to a dark barn, he’d think he was about to get lucky. But this was Shelby, and she’d answered that door looking both gorgeous and like she was about to twitch right out of her skin.

  I’m either going to get laid or she’s going to take an ax to my head.

  She pulled open the door and turned on a few of the lights. The chandelier she’d been fixing now hung above the small gathering of couches near the flower wall and created a gold pool of light.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “All I have is bourbon.”

  “Bourbon is fine.”

  She threw her coat down on the low table where they’d sat the other day and he followed suit. The barn wasn’t freezing. She must have had it insulated at some point. He contemplated his couch choice: a blue velvet thing that looked like women used to faint on it or a big, fat leather couch with some of the stuffing coming out. He chose the leather and sat in the corner of it, one arm along the back, the other along the armrest, and waited to see what was going to happen next.

  Who knew a date with Shelby would feel … dangerous.

  It was a good sign when she came down the small, dark hallway with a bottle of bourbon and not an ax. He noticed the bottle was the good stuff, too. And she had two mugs.

  Volatile energy poured off her and he was surprised the lightbulbs overhead didn’t shatter as she walked under them. As she got closer, her energy, like a virus, spread to him and he felt the hot coil of need in his belly.

  Need. And want.

  She sat across from him on the blue velvet couch. With her hair down like that and the flowers behind her, she looked like a woman from a different era. A different time. A pristine, beautiful lady in an ivory tower somewhere.

  He wanted to get her messy. Dirty.

  She put the mugs down on the floor and poured a hefty double shot in each mug.

  “We’re getting drunk?” he asked.

  “That’s my plan.”

  He nodded and accepted the mug. She lifted hers in cheers and then shot it down.

  “You … okay?” he asked. She leaned back over to pour more bourbon in her mug and her hair fell down over her face, over her arms. So much hair, a golden curtain.

  He liked it. Imagined it against her bare chest, that golden hair obscuring her pale skin. Her pink nipples. He imagined it in his fist. The silk of it caught in his fingers as he pulled it, making her cry out.

  A deep breath shuddered and shook in his lungs and he took a big sip of the bourbon.

  The need and want she inspired in him scrubbed away at the polite veneer he was determined to hold onto.

  “Not really,” she said. She drank another ounce and took a hissing breath. “I am not really okay.”

  That she wasn’t all right wasn’t a surprise. It was all over her face. But that she was being honest and telling him that—that was a surprise. And, kind of an honor. “Can I help?”

  She laughed, glancing at him through her hair. “Probably.” She downed what was left in her mug.

  “I feel like we should get some food in you if you’re going to drink like that,” he told her, putting down his mug. One of them needed to have a clear head.

  “I don’t want to go out to eat.” Those level brown eyes saw right through him. Past skin, past muscle and bone. She looked right at his heart, beating hard with anger and lust and frustration.

  Anticipation sizzled through him. It had been a very long time since he’d anticipated this. And never with a woman like her. Someone so far out of his realm of experience. The whole act felt new.

  “What do you want?” His voice was low. Hot. Loaded.

  “I want to fuck you.”

  Hard. His cock was hard as stone in a heartbeat. The world swam for a second and he didn’t fully grasp the implication of her getting to her feet and crossing the small, worn rug to stand between his legs.

  And then she sank to her knees.

  “Shelby,” he breathed, part prayer. Part are you sure you want to be doing this?

  “Do you want this?” she asked. Again, straight to the point. No bullshit.

  He nodded, speechless.

  “Me, too. I just … I just want to forget for a little bit.”

  It took him a second, because he didn’t intend this. He’d expected a dinner date, some small talk. He’d even been polishing up his bad first date stories to tell her over the appetizer. But at the root of his attraction to Shelby, at the base of it, was this.

  He wanted to forget for a little bit, too.

  She tucked her hair behind her ears and when she looked at him she was steadfast. Rock solid. Whatever had driven her here, between his legs, she was making this choice. She wanted to be down on her knees in front of him.

  He stretched his arms back out and shifted his hips forward slightly on the couch and she took him up on the subtle invitation. Her fingers moved over his belt, the buttoned fly of his jeans. On fire, he pulled his sweater over his head and she glanced up, her eyes running over his chest like fingers. She shifted on her knees, her lips falling open, her brown eyes dilating, and he felt stupid hot pride swell through him. He liked the way this woman looked at him. He liked her, but suddenly, the way this was playing out was totally wrong. It was hot that she planned to kneel between his legs and suck his dick. But he hadn’t even kissed her. And a woman like Shelby, she should be kissed.

  He grabbed her waist, feeling the tension of her muscles and the soft give of flesh, and pulled her up into his lap, shifting so her legs were split over his, her butt against his knees. She tried to shift closer, but he kept her there. Someone had to slow this shit down.

  “I haven’t even kissed you,” he whispered.

  She blinked at him as if considering his proposal. “Okay.”

  He cupped her face in his hands, his fingertips pulling on the thin strands of hair by her ears. “You’re beautiful.”

  She flinched. “Don’t—”

  He sat up, stopping her words, sealing her lips with his. Softly at first, because she was that kind of lady. Because whatever sexual instinct he had, he had the good sense to do the opposite with her. Instead of feasting on her, opening her mouth with his tongue, sucking on her lips, he pressed his closed mouth against hers. A little respect, because she was something to revere.

  The heat of her sigh against his cheek inflamed him but he kept it slow. Gentle. She put her hands against his shoulders, the fingers curling over the muscles to bite into the skin on his back. He hissed against her lips; he loved that touch. The sharp pain of a woman’s nails against his back. Nothing threw gasoline on the fire better than that.

  Slow, he told himself. Slow.

  She leveraged herself against him, crawling upward on his knees until she was fully in his lap. The heat of her pussy hard against his dick. He recited the parts of the Velocette carburetor in his head.

  She licked at his lips, merciless and driven. He stopped trying to resist it and let her in. The kiss he wanted, she gave him. And then some. Hot and wet, sucking at his lips, his tongue, sh
e raked her teeth over the inside of his lip. Her hands left his shoulders and cupped his head, yanking out the ponytail until his hair filled her hands. She gathered it up and pulled.

  He yanked his mouth away, more turned on than he could handle. “Slow down—”

  Her eyes were wild and she pressed herself hard against the erection in his jeans. “I don’t want slow.” Her hands dropped his hair and ran down his chest, her fingers trailing across the muscles of his stomach down to his belt. He didn’t stop her this time. He was powerless to stop her, and her fingers slipped in the gap of his open jeans and grabbed him through his boxers.

  “Fuck,” he breathed, the word nearly soundless. He arched his head back and she leaned forward, licking his throat, biting at the soft skin under his chin. He jerked in her hands.

  “I don’t want gentle,” she whispered into his ear. And then she sucked the lobe into her mouth, bit at the tender flesh with her front teeth, and he nearly twitched right out of his skin. His hands grabbed her hips, his fingers curving over her ass, and she moaned into his ear.

  The walls could have come down around them. The place could have been on fire and it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this sudden surprising heat that melted them together.

  “Honey,” he breathed, lifting a hand to stroke her hair, but she dodged it. Instead, she gripped his hair in her hands, fists of it like she didn’t care if she hurt him, like she wanted to hurt him. He hissed and arched against her, unable to stop himself, unable to curb this wild violence humming between them, a motor running at full throttle. She pulled his head back until he met her eyes. “I. Do. Not. Want. Kind.”

  She was the fiercest animal on the planet; he’d never seen anything like it.

  He shed any idea of the way he should be with her and gave in to the animal living in his skin. The animal that had been working really hard to play by the rules, to do the right thing, to be a father and an employee and part of this town. He gave the animal—who remembered selfish, wild pleasure—free rein.

  He pulled her harder against him, so his cock nudged up right to her, separated only by the fabric of their underwear. And then he took that long blond hair of hers in his fists and pulled her down for a kiss. His kind of kiss. Raw and wild. He fucked her mouth with his tongue, and layers fell off of them. Civility. Manners. Courtesy.

  They were animals against each other. Hair and teeth, tongues and lips. He curled a hand over her shoulder, holding her hard against him while he ravaged her mouth and pushed himself between her legs. He felt her muscles shaking, her throat working as she groaned into his mouth.

  Fuck, he thought and stood, pulling her with him, her legs around his waist.

  “What—” she panted, pulling her mouth away as he walked over to his coat. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting a condom,” he said, walking over to his coat, wallet, and the small silver packet of wishful thinking he’d slipped in there earlier tonight.

  “I’m … heavy.” Her muscles, so loose a second ago, were now tight and she was pushing against him. He made a pit stop at the low bookshelf and shoved art projects out of the way so he could set her down there and kiss her back into agreement. Into soft muscles and small groans against his mouth. He slipped his hand from the top of her boot up her thigh, under her dress.

  Her ass was bare, the muscles twitching under his palm.

  “Oh,” he whispered against her lips, smiling as his fingers found the small bit of silk between her legs, running through that dark valley between her cheeks. She twitched away and he stopped, not wanting to force anything on this woman. But then she pressed back against him.

  “Yeah?” he whispered against her lips, wanting permission to be clear.

  “Yeah.”

  “So hot,” he breathed, tracing the edge of her thong down between her legs to where she was wet and hot and perfect. He pushed the silk against her. Against her clit. And she dropped her head back, crying out. He followed that silk back down to the hot, sweet entrance of her body and then back farther, all the way up to her waist. He did it three times, until her hips were arching against his fingers like she wanted all the touches. All the places.

  “You are so hot,” he whispered into her ear, pressing kisses against her cheek. The corner of her mouth. She made a groaning, laughing noise as if her hotness were all news to her and he hated that that might be the truth for her. He circled her clit again through the silk and she started to grind against him.

  He stepped back.

  “Show me.”

  “What?” Her lips were swollen, her eyes unfocused. The neckline of her dress had been pulled aside to reveal the black lace edge of a bra. Oh, fuck, he was going to strip her down to that underwear and make a feast of her.

  “Show me,” he said but she didn’t move, so he turned her around so that her hands were braced against the bookshelf and lifted the back of her dress, revealing her strong white thighs, the perfection of her round ass, bisected by the black silk.

  He groaned, palming her in his wide, rough hands, and she pushed back against him, arching against his touch. He bent and kissed her there, once on the top of each cheek, and then bit her. Her hands splayed out, her fingers curling around the edges of the bookshelf.

  “You are gorgeous,” he said, running his hand up over her ass, over her dress to the back of her neck. He lifted her, held her back to his front, the hard length of his cock pressed right against that thong. He didn’t have to turn her face; she was right there kissing him so hard he saw stars. She turned around, pushing herself up onto the bookshelf, wrapping her legs around his hips. Her lips still fused with his, she dropped her hands back between his legs and he shifted his legs wider, giving her room to do whatever she wanted. Whatever. She. Wanted.

  She broke the kiss and looked down, her hair falling over her face so he couldn’t see her eyes, her expression, anything. But he hissed when she pulled him free of his boxers, her hands tracing the hard length of the veins that pounded against the thin skin. Her finger touched the head, the slit, and he bit his lip as she swirled the liquid she found there against him. He held onto her shoulder, careful not to grab too hard when she circled her hand around him and jacked him, once. Twice. Down to the sac, up to the head.

  Unable to bear it anymore, he gathered her hair up in his fist and held it away from her face so he could see her watching him. But she was focused on what she was doing. Her eyes locked on her own hands, the hard length of his dick.

  “Your hands look so good on me,” he whispered.

  Her sigh was a rush of breath against his chest.

  He reached down and pulled the dress out of the way so he could see her breast in that black lace bra. God, she was stunning. He cupped her in his palm, his thumb against the hard ridge of her nipple. She jerked against him, soft wild sounds coming out of her mouth. Her hands squeezed him so hard he had to bite his lip against the feral groan reaching up out of his chest.

  The orgasm was right there. Barreling down on him from way up high.

  With shaking hands she pushed him back and jumped down off the bookshelf.

  She took the three steps toward the small table and grabbed his coat.

  “It’s in my wallet.” He stood where she’d left him because he was scared that the way the fabric of his jeans would rub him if he moved, he might just come. That’s where he was at. That’s where she’d pushed him.

  She pulled out his wallet and grabbed the condom he’d put there.

  “Back to the couches,” she said. It was the same woman with the level eyes from Mr. Root’s office, but he barely recognized her with the flushed skin and the wide eyes. The swollen lips. Her dress was still pulled aside and he was mesmerized by the sight of that ivory flesh through black lace. Like he’d never seen a woman in a sexy bra before. Somehow she redefined all of it.

  “Go,” she said, unsmiling.

  He walked back to the couches and toed off his beat-up cowboy boots and shucked off his pants.
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  “Sit down,” she breathed, pointing to the corner of the leather couch where he’d started the night. He sat and she went back to her knees in front of him, but this time he didn’t fight it. Had no power to. She braced her elbows on his knees and bent toward him, but he stopped her.

  “Take off your dress.”

  She shook her head.

  “Take it off. I want to see your body while you suck my dick.”

  She turned away, resting her cheek against his thigh as if gathering her strength. “No. I want to do this my way.” When her eyes met his, he realized she was serious. It wasn’t a game. And that her unwillingness to be naked in front of him had nothing to do with a few extra pounds or this idea she had in her head about what was supposed to be sexy. It wasn’t even about the illicit thrill of having him naked, while she was fully dressed.

  It was way colder than that.

  She might fuck him. She might let him put his finger and his tongue and his cock inside of her, but she was not going to show him any piece of herself that she didn’t want to expose.

  This was what she meant by her way.

  Fair enough, he thought and nodded.

  She came up between his spread legs and wrapped one arm around his waist, while the other pulled his hard dick away from his belly and right into her mouth. He hissed, arching against her, involuntarily shoving himself farther into her mouth.

  “Sorry—”

  She took him deeper. Deeper still. He looked up at the ceiling, unable to watch, though it killed him not to. It was liquid and silk. Firm and soft touches, the feathering of her tongue, the suction of her mouth. She worked him hard, only to slow down and gently take him. She swirled her tongue over the head, the cupped palm of her hand following. A one-two punch that killed him.

  “Fuck,” he groaned. He gathered her hair in his fist, too rough, he knew he was being too rough, but she pushed into the vee of his legs harder, took him deeper.

  Rough was apparently good. Rough was apparently her way.