by Tawna Fenske
“Okay, you’re right.” Bree giggles and drops her hand. “That’s pretty dumb.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.” She smiles, and my damn heart flops over like an excited beagle. “I do feel better.”
“Want another?”
“There’s more?”
“Sure, I could go all night.” Bree’s eyes flicker, but I ignore my own accidental innuendo and try to come up with another dose of comfort for her. I settle back on the couch, throwing my arm over the back of it. She settles against me, getting comfortable, too.
“Let’s see,” I say. “There’s the time I went to a concert in Portland a few years ago, and I accidentally walked into the women’s restroom.”
“Whoops.” She shifts on the sofa, bumping my thigh with hers. God, she feels good.
“Yeah. I thought I was so smart ducking out of the show a couple minutes early to beat the rush, and I was the first one into the stall. That should have been my first clue—no urinals.”
“What did you do?”
“I was already locked in the stall when I heard the voices and saw the shoes and put two and two together to realize where I was. But by then the line was out the door, and I couldn’t escape.”
Bree laughs. “So did you stay in there all night?”
“Nope. I finally got the balls to push open the door and walk out, apologizing the whole way. A few ladies yelled at me, but most of them laughed. One even high-fived me.”
Bree smiles and snuggles closer. Her shoulder is warm next to mine, and her skirt slides up her bare thigh as she rearranges her legs beneath her. “I don’t know if I’d call that dumb,” she says. “Definitely embarrassing, though.”
“Oh, I can do dumb. Let’s see.” I give it some thought. “Okay, here’s a more recent one—this was just last week at Macy’s when I went in to buy my mom a birthday gift.”
“What did you get her?”
“Perfume,” I say. “Her favorite.”
“Such a good son.”
“I try.” My fingers graze the edge of her bare knee, and she doesn’t draw back. “Anyway, I’m walking toward the perfume counter when I bump into this woman. I said, ‘oh, I’m sorry, pardon me.’”
“That’s not dumb, that’s polite.”
“It would be if she were a real person. It turned out she was a mannequin.”
Bree brings her hands to her mouth to cover her laughter. “That’s awesome.”
“Oh, it gets worse. I realized I’d just apologized to a mannequin, so I said, ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were a real person.’ That’s when the perfume counter lady walked by.”
Bree is practically rolling on the couch laughing. “What did she say?”
“Not a word. She just shot me this really weird look and gave me a wide berth as she walked away.”
She’s howling with laughter now. It’s so much better than the tears earlier, so I try to think of another one.
“Okay, I’ve got one.” Bree thrusts out her hand, spreading her fingers wide across my thigh. “See that scar right there?”
I nod and trace a finger over it. She shivers under my touch. “How did you do it?”
“Paring knife, sixth grade. I was home alone for the first time, and I decided I wanted a baked potato. Only I’d never made one before. I’d only seen my nanny do it, or sometimes the maid.”
“You had a nanny and a maid?”
She nods and makes a face. “I know, I know…poor little rich girl.”
“I wasn’t going to say that at all.” I catch her hand before she can pull it back, rubbing my thumb across the scar. “So, what happened?”
“Well, when I’d watched Matilda—that was my nanny—she always stabbed the potato a couple times before she put it in the oven.”
“Sure, so it doesn’t explode.”
“Right. But instead I stabbed my hand.”
“Ouch.”
“It bled all over the place, but by then, I was sort of in shock. So, I left this trail of blood to the oven and shoved it in and waited for it to get done. Only no one ever told me you had to turn the oven on.”
“Oh, no.”
“By the time my mom got home, I’d bled through a dish towel and gone into shock, and my potato was still ice cold.”
I rub the scar, wishing for some way to erase it from her personal history. “Did you go to the hospital?”
“Yeah. It took seven stitches. I always tell people that’s why I’ve never learned to cook.”
Her eyes lock with mine and hold. I’m still holding her hand, still stroking the scar with my thumb. Bree’s lips part, her chest rising and falling quicker now. My senses fill with the scent of raspberries and oak-moss, and there’s a faint buzzing in my ears.
“Austin?”
“Yeah?”
“Whose turn is it to kiss first?”
The words shoot straight to my groin, and it takes me a second to answer. “Want to flip a coin?”
She bites her lip, shaking her head. “Let’s meet in the middle.”
And so we do, our mouths moving together, lips colliding, tongues tangling, as I let go of her hand and thread my fingers into her hair.
Chapter 8
BREE
How does this keep happening?
That’s the thought playing on a loop in my brain as my lips collide again with Sergeant Sexypants’ delicious mouth, and I find myself falling into another one of his toe-curling kisses.
Not that I’m fighting it. Hell, I might be the one who started it, which just goes to show I’m a wanton floozy who makes terrible life choices.
But this doesn’t feel terrible. It feels pretty damn amazing, honestly, and I slide my fingers around the back of his head to make sure he keeps doing it. That he can’t pull away or come up for air or do anything except kiss me until we’re both dizzy.
One of his great big palms finds its way to my bare knee, and I draw in a sharp breath.
Please move up. Please keep going. Just a few more inches.
The dirty angel whispering words from my left shoulder is an even bigger floozy than I am, but I can’t blame her. His touch is amazing, just the right balance of firm and gentle. His hand starts to move, and I swoon like a goddamn teenager.
Keep it together, Bree.
That’s the good angel talking, the one I usually listen to like she’s my own personal muse. But her voice is muffled now, like the dirty angel stuffed a pair of gym socks in her mouth.
Keep going, Mister Policeman. Keep that hand moving up my skirt and—
Austin must hear the bad angel talking, or maybe he’s just as hungry as I am for more of our body parts to become acquainted with each other. His palm slides firm and possessive up my thigh, disappearing beneath the hem of my skirt.
I give a groan of encouragement and press against him, brushing his tongue with mine as our kiss turns more intense. I’m gripping the back of his head like I’m afraid he’ll get away, so I let one hand drop to the front of his shirt.
Buttons. We know how these work, don’t we?
Honestly, my brain is too fuzzy to recall, and I’m half tempted to tear them open with my teeth. That’s how desperate I am to touch him.
Austin groans against my mouth as my fingers find their way into the front of his shirt. I only mean to undo one, but somehow three pop open with a few fast flicks of my thumb and forefinger. Before I know it, I’m stroking my fingers through his chest hair like it’s the first time I’ve ever touched a male chest that wasn’t manscaped to bare skin.
Actually, that’s true. I’ve never touched a man with a soft pelt of gloriously perfect chest hair before, and I can’t get enough of it. My greedy fingers fondle and stroke and delight in exploring this unexpectedly silky terrain. His pecs are sculpted and hard, just like you’d expect from a cop who’s being hounded to strip for a sexy calendar. But the feel of that soft layer of downy hair is like icing on top of a perfect cupcake. My mouth waters, my palms ache with th
e urge to press and stroke and memorize every muscular curve.
“Bree,” he groans against my mouth.
The word startles me, nearly as much as the thought that he’s as ravenous for my flesh as I am for his. That’s underscored by the fact that his hand just moved another few inches up my thigh to bring his fingertips achingly close to the edge of my undies.
Just a millimeter more. Please.
My whole body’s begging for it. I can’t take it anymore. I shift on the couch, enough to press the silky center of my panties against his fingertips.
Austin gives a low growl in the back of his throat and nips at my lower lip. “You’re making me crazy,” he murmurs, but doesn’t stop.
His fingers slip beneath the elastic edge of my panties and graze my molten core. I go off like a goddamn rocket.
“God, Austin.” I press against him, urging him on. “Don’t stop.”
He obeys, kissing me harder as the tips of his fingers play me like a violin. Or a piano. Or whatever instrument requires an unbelievable amount of dexterity, that perfect touch of soft and firm. I hadn’t realized how slippery-wet turned on I am until Austin’s middle finger makes the slow, tortuous journey the entire length of me.
He teases at first, swirling, stroking, coming dangerously close to that tight, sensitive bundle of nerves before backing off again and moving away. I’m practically electrified, waiting for the touch I know is coming. Does he want me to beg?
“Austin, please.” I’m not proud. I’m already throwing myself at him, so what difference does it make if I let him see how badly I need this? “Please.”
He doesn’t need to be told what I’m pleading for. He knows damn well, and I feel him smiling against my mouth. The tip of one long finger slides breathlessly close to that tiny knot of nerves that’s screaming for friction. Just a millimeter more and—
“Jesus, yes.” My words come out muffled against his mouth as he strokes me so perfectly I nearly fly off the couch. I clutch at his shoulders like I’m anchoring myself on this couch, on this planet.
Good Lord, Officer Yummy knows how to touch a girl.
I grip his shoulders harder because ohmygod, I’m being fingered by a cop. A freakin’ officer of the law.
But he’s Austin right now, sweet and gentle and mind-numbingly sexy Austin, so I give in to the pleasure he’s delivering with just the slightest swirl of his fingers. How does he do that?
I’m practically on his lap now with my legs slung over his and my knees splayed open like the lust-addled hussy I am. Self-consciousness seeps into my brain, but Austin pushes it back with the shift of his hand.
I start to protest. “What are you—Oh.”
Oh, indeed. He dips two fingers inside me as the heel of his hand offers my clit all the delicious friction I’m aching for. The result is the perfect storm of pleasure, thrust and slide, rub and glide, everything a girl could ask for in one massive hand-sized package.
Christ, I’m going to lose it.
He must know, because his free hand tightens around my shoulders, keeping me from falling backward. Between my legs, his fingers keep their steady rhythm, coaxing me closer, tugging me right to the edge. My brain’s buzzing with heat but sharply conscious of the fact that his fingers are inside me—inside me—for God’s sake, is there anything more intimate than that?
There is, and I want it.
But before I can voice the thought, Austin curls his fingers the tiniest bit and hits something really, really good, and I come completely unhinged.
“Oh!”
It’s the only syllable I can manage before I plunge over the edge, clawing and clutching at his shoulders like I’m either pulling him with me or clinging to him for dear life. Austin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t miss a beat, even though I’m grabbing him like a crazy woman, like a woman who’s never had a guy finger her to orgasm so intensely.
I haven’t.
Not like this, anyway, and it’s all I can do to hold on to him panting, breathless, delirious, as he brings me back down in one piece.
At least I think I’m in one piece.
As the sensation ebbs, I open my eyes and look around.
“Hi, there.” Austin smiles, his blue-gray eyes holding mine. Releasing my shoulders, he lifts his hand to brush a stray curl off my forehead while the other hand slips discreetly from between my thighs.
I slam them together, determined to regain my dignity. “Hello.” I clear my throat. “That was—um—thank you.”
He laughs, and my heart melts again at the little crinkle at the corner of each eye. “You’re welcome. Is this where you get all polite and weird and try to pretend this was some sort of business transaction?”
Heat rises to my face, or maybe it was already there. I feel flushed and discombobulated, and I’m not entirely sure how I ended up here on Austin Dugan’s lap.
Sitting on Sergeant Sexypants. Good Lord, it’s like a bad ‘50s pop song.
I swing my legs off his lap so I can plant my feet firmly on the floor. I make a feeble attempt to smooth my skirt down, but it’s hopelessly rumpled. I’m halfway between wanting to throw him out of my living room so I can pretend this never happened and wanting to throw him back against the couch cushions, unzip his fly, and straddle that impressive bulge straining at the front of his pants.
“Say something,” he says. “You’ve got a million thoughts running through your head right now, but I’ll be damned if I can read a single one of them.”
Thank God.
I clear my throat again and wonder if he thinks I’ve got bronchitis. “Thanks,” I say again like some kind of idiot. “That was—nice?”
“Nice?” He laughs and brushes a kiss against my earlobe. “I promise you I can do much better than nice.”
My whole body shivers, from the tips of my earlobes to my bare toes curling against the carpet. I make a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and somehow find myself clutching at the front of his shirt.
Austin looks down like he’s trying to figure out how that happened. I let go and fold my hands into my lap. He reaches down and picks up one of them, then brushes the softest, sweetest kiss across my knuckles.
“But not tonight,” he says softly. “Not until you’re sure it’s what you want.”
“I—”
That’s all I get out before I stop myself and press my lips together. I’m still not sure if I meant to beg him to stay or ask him to go, but he saves me the trouble by getting to his feet and buttoning up his shirt. He leans down and plants another soft kiss along my hairline.
“You’re fucking amazing, Bree Bracelyn,” he says. “And I’m going to go now before we end up doing something one of us might regret.”
It’s not until the door closes behind him that I think to wonder if he meant him or me.
I love my brothers.
Sometimes I wish there weren’t so damned many of them, but I’ve never questioned that every single one would cheerfully disembowel someone who hurt me.
But there are some things a girl can’t talk about with her brothers, which is why I’m grateful to find myself sitting stiffly on a stool parked at the kitchen island in Jade and Amber King’s cozy farmhouse.
I trace a manicured thumbnail over a line in the marbled surface, marveling at the craftsmanship. “Jade and I watched YouTube videos on how to build a concrete countertop,” Amber says as she sets a mug of spicy herbal tea in front of me. “It was one of our first big projects when we started remodeling this place.”
“You built this?” My opinion of the reindeer ranching, wedding planning sisters has just gone up twelve notches, and it was already pretty high. “And Sean told me you also refinished that old chapel on the edge of your property.”
“True story,” Jade says as she sets a basket of muffins on the counter and folds a red cloth around them to keep in the heat. “Don’t get too impressed, though. The money comes in spurts in this biz, so that’s as far as we’ve gotten until we see how the ne
xt season goes.”
I swallow back a small bubble of guilt. Sometimes I hate that I have no idea what it’s like to struggle financially. I may not have had the best role models of parental warmth and normalcy, but I always knew that the best clothes, the best schools, were just a Visa swipe away.
Maybe that’s why I’ve loved opening Ponderosa Resort with my brothers. Our inheritance may have afforded us a certain financial freedom in building the place, but we’ve had to be smart about it and work together. We aren’t struggling by any means, but we are watching the bottom line.
“Thanks so much for inviting me to brunch,” I say now to the King sisters.
“Thank you for including us in the plans with Genevieve Freakin’ Dugan.” Amber shakes her head in awe. “I still can’t believe you talked her into scouting us out for her show.”
I sip my tea, grateful for the warmth in my hands and in this small but tidy kitchen. “There’s no guarantee she’ll do it, but I think I made a strong case for a feature that would spotlight both ends of the country chic wedding spectrum,” I say. “You two have the rustic charm, and we’ve got the luxury pizazz.”
“Something for everyone.” Jade sips from a big mug with a picture of two reindeer humping, and I suspect my cousin ordered it for her. It seems like something Brandon would buy. “That was nice of Austin to make the introduction.”
There it is. My opening. My opportunity to engage in the sort of girl talk I dreamed of when I was an awkward teen with no idea how these things worked. I swallow back a mouthful of tea and consider how to phrase my next line.
“You two know Austin well?”
Amber gives a knowing smile, and I suspect I’ve just stepped through the secret passageway into the girl-talk zone. It’s nice here, and the tea is tasty. “Jade knows him better than I do, since he and Brandon were buddies in high school,” she says. “But all of us ended up back in Central Oregon after college, so I guess we’re part of the same club.”
There’s a pang in my chest that fills me with an achy brand of middle school nostalgia, but I force it back with another swallow of tea. “He’s a good guy, then?”