Hot Buttered Rum: Standalone Romance (Silk Stocking Inn Book 4)

by Tess Oliver

With our mouths pressed together, Turner felt my lips turn up. He pulled his face back and produced a smile of his own. “What are you grinning about?”

  I shook my head and ran my finger along his collarbone. “Nothing. An inside joke meant just for my ears. A buccaneer like yourself wouldn’t understand.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Then before I could even think about stopping myself, I leaned forward and traced the skull tattoo on his shoulder with my tongue. I was somewhat out of practice in erotic flirting, but it seemed I hadn’t lost my touch completely.

  “You are one sweet nugget of gold, baby,” Turner said in a low voice. I lifted my face and he kissed my lips again. “Say it, Ginger. Say you want me to fuck you.” He reached up and dragged his callused thumb across my bottom lip. “I want to hear it from these honey lips.”

  I pushed to my knees. He leaned back as I straddled him. His hardened cock pressed urgently against the tight fabric of his briefs. I couldn’t stop myself from rubbing my pussy over the bulge. My head lolled back as the warm friction made the heat between my legs surge.

  He reached up and pinched my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. I bit my lip against the sharp tingle. He seemed to know exactly how to reach that fine line between pleasure and pain without crossing it. He tugged softly at my nipple, and a breath caught in my throat as he reached that same fine line again.

  “Tell me you want this,” he ordered.

  “I want this,” My voice shook. “I want you to fuck me. Please. Now.” The last word came out sounding like a plea. None of it sounded like me, and yet, I loved the way it sounded. I loved the way I felt in Turner’s arms.

  No longer satisfied with the barrier of his underwear between us, I reached down and curled my fingers around the waistband. He stared down at my hands and watched as I slid down his briefs. It was like unveiling a masterpiece, and just as if I was looking at a fine piece of art, I stared at his thick, long erection appreciatively and with a discerning eye. My sex life had been sorely lacking in the past year, but I’d been with enough men to know that I was looking at something extraordinary.

  Turner misread my silent pause. “Disappointed?”

  A slight nervous laugh followed. “Holy shit. Disappointed? No. Definitely not. Slightly terrified maybe, but definitely not disappointed.”

  I ran my fingers along his cock. He groaned in response. As much as I wanted to convince myself that for this weekend I was a fictional heroine in a raunchy romance novel, a moment of reality returned. “Uh, I want to continue this amazing fantasy scene, but there is the little matter of—”

  “Protection?”

  “Yep. I know it’s like a slap of cold water to bring it up, but—”

  As I spoke, he reached around under his bed and fished out a box of toiletries. “My bathroom medicine cabinet.” His fingers deftly found a foil package. He held it up victoriously. “Anything else?”

  “That should do it.”

  “Good. Now turn around,” he said in a tone that would accept no challenge.

  I hesitated. He arched a dark brow at me. “Who is the pirate here? Turn that sweet ass around so I can get a good taste of that honey pot.”

  I got up on my knees and turned around as he pulled himself up to sitting behind me. The bed seemed to protest our new positions at first, but once Turner had position himself firmly behind me, the bed had stopped creaking. He reached up and opened a porthole. A breeze flowed inside, cooling my naked skin.

  The sea had calmed, and the boat shifted back and forth like a hammock. My arms wobbled slightly, as I tried to maintain my balance.

  Turner’s large hands took hold of my ass. He lifted it up giving him full view of my most intimate parts. “Beautiful and completely fuckable.” His warm breath tickled my pussy. He pressed his thumbs against the folds of my pussy and spread me wide open to his gaze . . . and his mouth.

  The second his tongue flicked against my clit, I nearly pitched forward off the bed. But once I regained my balance, my body began to relax and absorb the extreme pleasure his tongue and mouth were bestowing. I’d never had oral sex in such an exposed position. I found myself parting my thighs and lifting my ass higher to assure him I wanted more.

  His thumb took over the job of massaging my clit as his tongue impaled me, pressing deep inside and stroking places that made me cry out in pleasure. I began to rock back and forth, to absorb the feel of his mouth and tongue.

  I was in such delirium it took me a second to recognize that the soft mewling sounds floating around the room were from my own lips. My fingers twisted in the blankets, and I had to work to stay upright as he brought my pussy to the delicious frenzy of an orgasm. His tongue continued to lap up the moisture as my pussy clenched in shuddering waves.

  I stayed on my hands and knees, my arms trembling with fatigue as he repositioned himself behind me. I felt lightheaded with it all. I heard the foil package rip open and the next few seconds were pure agony as I waited for him. Visions of his enormous cock sent a shiver through me.

  A gasp escaped me as he took a firm hold of my hips. “God, your ass is beautiful.” Another gasp followed when he took a second to deliver a sharp spank before plunging inside of me.

  “Oh shit!” I cried out. I couldn’t support myself on my hands and dropped down to my forearms. My face pressed against the blanket and sheets, and I breathed in his intoxicating scent as he thrust into me with the precision and strength of a torpedo. My pussy was still tender from his mouth and tongue. Each time he entered me it renewed some of the erotic sensations.

  “Fuck, baby, I’m already there. You’re so damn beautiful, and your pussy . . . your pussy is so fucking perfect.” His grip on me tightened. I held my breath as he moved fast and hard against me. If the small bed hadn’t been bolted down, it surely would have scooted across the floor.

  “Fuuuck,” Turner groaned as he came.

  The fatigue in my arms had moved to my shoulders. I trembled as he remained behind me, still buried deep inside. He leaned over and pressed a kiss against the middle of my back. It was the perfect tender compliment and finale for the slamming sex we’d just had.

  Turner sighed loudly as he withdrew. He rolled down next to me and pulled me into his arms. We lay there for a few quiet moments listening to the sound of the water slapping the side of the boat. In the distance, seagulls screeched overhead.

  I lifted my head. “Where’s Dexter?”

  “Out napping on his perch. He gets drowsy after a big meal.”

  I sat up on my elbow and smiled down at him as I brushed a strand of hair off his face. I fingered the steel gray plug in his ear. “So, this is what it’s like to be bedded by a pirate? No wonder they ended up being the heroes in our books.” I got up on my knees and peered out the porthole. We were anchored just outside the cove. I could see the outline of the inn. The canoe was floating serenely toward shore as if being rowed by a ghost.

  “The canoe is finding its own way back to shore. Thank goodness. I hope the oar finds its way back too.” I spun around and sat down. “What time is it? I should get back to the inn.”

  “Why?” Turner reached up and ran a tantalizing circle around my nipple with his fingertip. “What if I’m not done with you yet?”

  “Oh? But what if I’m hungry?”

  “I think I’ve got some stale bread and a hunk of cheese in the ice chest. You know. A feast fit for a pirate.”

  “That’s where I draw the line on the pirate fantasy. Coco is cooking up lobster pot pie and apple cobbler. Now that the water has calmed, I’m not beyond jumping off the bow and making a swim for it.”

  Turner laughed. The bed wobbled as he sat up. “I guess I don’t blame you. My stale cheese sandwich is hardly a match for Coco’s cooking.”

  I lowered my feet to the flo
or and looked over at him. “Thank you again, Turner. Foreverything.”

  His faint, humble smile was just as breathtaking as the real thing. “I’m glad I spotted you, Ginger. I hadn’t planned to turn back to the cove so early, but—” He shrugged. “Don’t know why but something told me to head back. Kind of strange how fate works sometimes.” He smiled again. “Especially when Coco is near.”

  Chapter 9

  Turner had given me a ride to the beach before heading back out to sea. He’d seemed disappointed to see me go and once I got back to the inn, I wished that I hadn’t insisted on returning so soon.

  I hadn’t seen Coco upon my return. I’d gone straight up to shower. A few moments of the terrifying canoe expedition tried to creep back and put a shadow over an otherwise amazing afternoon. I pushed back the memories and concentrated on Turner.

  I smoothed the velvety liquid soap over my skin, happy to wash away the smell of the salty sea but not as keen to wash away the lingering scent of the man. My hands pressed against my pussy, and I thought back to Turner’s mouth and hands on me. He seemed to know my body as if he existed purely for my pleasure. But I knew too well that his skills came from a great deal of practice, and that notion tugged at my heart.

  A heavy feeling pressed against my chest, and I let the soap drop as the warm water washed over me. Silly Ginger, I told myself. I thought I could allow myself this wild weekend with a complete stranger. Then I’d just drive back to town with only the fond memories. But Turner just wasn’t the type of man you could drive away from without giving him another thought. It had only been twenty minutes since I watched his fishing boat sputter out of the cove, and I already missed seeing him. I actually had no idea if and when he’d be back.

  I stepped out of the shower and dried off. It was still a few hours before dusk, but my stomach growled with hunger. I wrapped myself in the robe, and naturally, my mind went right back to Turner and the night before when I’d dropped the same robe for him.

  “Stop, Ginger. Since when do you obsess about a man? This isn’t you. Talking to yourself isn’t you either.” I clamped my mouth shut.

  Maybe this weekend wasn’t such a good idea after all. That notion was quickly put to rest when I stepped out of the bathroom and was met with a delicious tray of snacks and hot coffee. An adorable emerald green dress was hanging on the back of the door with a note pinned to it. I walked over and unpinned it. “Hope you’re enjoying your stay and since the canoe came in on its own, I’m going to assume you had a wonderful high seas adventure this afternoon.” Just reading the note covered my cheeks in a blush. If I didn’t know any better I’d think that Coco knew I’d been with Turner. But how on earth would she know that? Unless he’d returned.

  My heart raced as I quickly pulled on the dress. Coco, the five star hostess, had even left a brand new pair of silk panties and sandals to go with the dress. I glanced in the mirror on my way out. The color and style were perfect for me. The woman was truly magical.

  My stomach protested loudly. I walked to the tray of goodies and picked up a cranberry scone. It was sitting on a white linen napkin with the words Silk Stocking Inn embroidered in pink across the top. As hungry as I was, I was too nervous to eat the whole scone. I took a few delicious bites. I picked up the napkin and rubbed my fingers over stitching on the back. I turned it over expecting again to see Silk Stocking Inn. Instead, someone had taken the time to hand stitch a phrase. I blinked in surprise at the words as I rubbed my finger over the pink thread.

  “Every story needs a happy ending,” I read aloud.

  I was no longer the writer. I was part of the story, and Coco seemed to be the author. And I was standing alone in my room while my hunky hero was downstairs. I used the napkin to wipe the crumbs from the front of my dress.

  On my short journey to the door, I reminded myself not to act like a star-struck teenager when I saw Turner. I made myself stop and take a deep breath. “You are a professional, an award winning automotive engineer, Ginger. Don’t forget that.” Then I reverted straight back to a gushing teenager and raced down the stairs like a girl running down to her first date.

  I reached the landing and glanced around. I couldn’t find Coco anywhere. My nose directed me down the hallway to the kitchen. Aside from a wonderful aroma seeping out of the oven, there was no sign of the cook.

  As I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of a pink note tucked underneath a rolling pin. My name was written on the note.

  I picked it up and recognized Coco’s swirly, fancy script.

  The oven timer is on for the pot pies. The apple cobblers are in the refrigerator. Just heat and don’t forget the ice cream. It’s in the freezer. I left a bottle of wine in the dining room. I’ll be back late tonight.

  Enjoy,

  Coco

  I walked to the oven and saw myself, in my perfect fitting dress, in the reflection. All dressed up to eat dinner completely alone in the dining room of an inn, which, at the moment, was as quiet as a morgue.

  I headed into the dining room, figuring I’d make fast friends with the bottle of wine. Maybe it would appreciate how amazing I looked in my new dress.

  My earlier erratic heartbeat had slowed to a dull thud. I’d rushed down like a silly love smitten girl, hoping to run into Turner, but it seemed that had been wishful thinking. He was, no doubt, out on his boat, or docked in some faraway marina, or, I thought glumly, at home with his beautiful girlfriend. After all, I knew nothing about the man other than that he was incredible to look at. He owned a rather rusty fishing boat named Pickled Pepper. He had a flirtatious parrot. His spectacular teeth were the result of growing up in a family of dentists. And, now that I’d thrown all caution and reason to the wind, I knew that he was nothing short of masterful between the sheets. Other than that, I knew nothing. I didn’t even know if I’d ever see him again. That possibility darkened my mood.

  The dining room had been furnished with a beautiful Victorian era table and chairs. The wallpaper and colors were all a perfect representation of an era long gone but still admired. I loved reading and writing about the nineteenth century. The old house, with its creaky bones and whispered secrets of the past, made the whole stay worth it. Even if I’d stupidly allowed myself to fall for a tall dark stranger during my short stay. It was all so out of character for me to make such a rash decision. But then the entire weekend had been so extraordinary and hard to explain, I decided I could forgive myself and blame it on the good food and romantic ambience of the inn. The fact that Turner was a hard man to resist was another worthy excuse. Even the most steadfast and rational woman would have a hard time saying no to him. At least that was my final rationale, and I was sticking with it.

  After a long struggle and a string of cuss words, I finally managed to get the cork out of the wine bottle. I pulled out the ornately carved chair and sat down. I filled the glass and leaned back to sip my wine. Not only was I dressed for fun, but I was going to be good and tipsy along with it. It seemed a darn shame that I was going to be completely alone.

  I drank my wine and stared out the dining room window. It had a nice view of the cove. The sun was setting. It seemed once again, angry, brooding clouds were rolling into the otherwise peaceful setting. They were still a good distance off shore, but the trees and bushes surrounding the inn had started to sway back and forth with an on shore breeze.

  As I gazed outside, a flash of pink caught my eye. I stood and walked to the window. I took another sip of wine as my eyes surveyed the yard. Just like the picture on the website, plump pink roses bloomed like tufts of cotton candy on the vines clinging to the facade and the porch.

  “Impossible,” I muttered aloud and then took another big gulp, deciding it was called for. I looked again. I hadn’t been imagining the roses. The day before, when I’d arrived at the inn and stomped up the porch steps ready to give the owner a piece of my mind, t
he vines had looked as if they’d been dead for years, just the skeletal remains of century old rose vines. How did I miss the big pink blooms?

  I drained the glass and returned to the table and the bottle. There was so much to ponder and wonder about that I had to push it out of my head or risk a tension headache. I wasn’t in the mood for a headache.

  I glanced down at the green dress. The material shimmered like emeralds beneath the warm lights of the dining room chandelier. “What a waste of a pretty dress and a good wine buzz,” I lamented. My voice echoing through the cavernous room was the only thing to answer me back.

  The timer on the oven rang. I got up with some renewed enthusiasm for the evening. All was not lost. At least there was lobster pot pie and apple cobbler. Thank goodness for tasty food and its innate ability to fill in any of the holes left behind by life’s little disappointments.

  On my way back to the kitchen, I tried hard to imagine what Turner might be up to on a Saturday night. A man like him surely wouldn’t just sit alone on his boat drinking beer. Then the image of a beautiful girl sitting cozily under a blanket with him at the stern of his boat dropped into my head. I shook it like an Etch-a-sketch to erase the image. Even if he was out with a beautiful woman, I certainly didn’t need to envision it.

  The aroma coming from the oven was nothing short of heavenly. I plucked the oven mitts off the hook by the stove and opened the oven door. Hot air blasted my face. Once the initial shock of heat had dissipated, I could once again open my eyes. There were two individual pot pies, complete with golden brown crusts and buttery liquid bubbling through the knife holes on top. It seemed strange that Coco would have made herself a pie before leaving for the night.

  I reached in and cupped one pie in the mitts. I carried it to the kitchen island and returned for the second one.

  I turned around just as the kitchen door opened. It seemed as if Coco would be joining me for dinner after all. I lowered the hot pie onto the counter. “As usual, your timing is perfect.”