Driving Whiskey Wild

by Melissa Foster

  “I’m doing a pretty damn good job of it.”

  “No, you’re not. You couldn’t be inside my house, Bullet. I don’t know if that was from the shock of the accident and all that happened, or…” Her eyes found the scar on his chest.

  The scar that peppered his nightmares.

  He blew out a breath. “What do you want from me, Finlay? What do you want to hear?” He pushed past her and stalked across the deck. “That I have fucking flashbacks sometimes? That I’m fucking invincible until they hit? That they make me want to get the hell away from everyone I know so I don’t ruin their lives? That while I was laser focused on saving those babies, knowing I had to get to the people in the other vehicles before they blew up and the mother’s bloodcurdling screams threw me right back to the battlefield? That part of me wished the accident had happened on the other side of the bridge instead of at the end of my goddamn street? Or that it took every ounce of my strength to get back in that car and get them to safety without shutting down completely?” He paced the deck, unable to keep his voice from rising. “That I was afraid I was going to fail and someone would die because of my fucking head?”

  She lowered herself to the chair, and only then did he see the tears streaming down her cheeks. He rushed over to her and sank to his knees. “Shit. I’m sorry, Finlay. I didn’t mean to yell and take that out on you.”

  She closed her eyes, rivers streaming down her cheeks as he gathered her in his arms. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not you,” she choked out. “It’s war. It’s…”

  Sobs stole her voice, and he pressed his hand to the back of her head, holding her against him. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay, baby.”

  “No, it’s not okay.”

  “I never should have said a word. You don’t need darkness in your life.”

  She drew back, the pain in her eyes as tangible as the ghosts inside him.

  “It’s already there. I had a serious boyfriend when I was younger. He was in the military and was killed during his second tour. It was awful.”

  He pulled her against him again. “I’m sorry. I wish I could take that pain away.”

  “It was a long time ago. Now it only hurts when I think of him out there alone when he died.” She inhaled a ragged breath and blew it out shakily. “War sucks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you survived,” she said softly, and leaned up, wiping her tears. “Don’t let the war steal more of your life. Aren’t there things you can do to help ward off flashbacks?”

  “Bones hooked me up with a buddy of his who taught me some strategies to use, and it helps, but sometimes, like tonight, if I’m not focused on triggers, they can hit like I’ve stepped on a mine.”

  “I thought you and I were so different when I saw you at Tru and Gemma’s wedding. But we aren’t that different after all.”

  It pissed him off that she’d been touched by the ugliness of war. “We’re different, lollipop. You’re as precious as they come.”

  “I know you’ll dispute it, but so are you.”

  He raised his brows. “I don’t think anyone has ever used that word in connection with me before.”

  She smiled and ran her finger along his collarbone. “That’s because most people look at you and see big, bad, tattooed Brutus, the intimidating guy who doesn’t let anyone get too close. I was almost one of them.”

  “Almost?”

  “When you walked down the aisle holding Lincoln’s hand at Tru and Gemma’s wedding, he looked up at you like you were his world, and I remember thinking that babies had an innate ability to judge good people from bad people, like animals do. I’ve always believed that, as children, we have this sense of clarity that gets clouded as we get older and we’re influenced by society.”

  “Are you telling me that when you came into Whiskey’s that first day to meet with Dixie, you didn’t see me as a badass? Because I might have to work on my intimidation skills.”

  “Oh no, you were definitely badass. But no matter how hard you were, somewhere in my mind I still had the image of you and Lincoln walking down that aisle. And there were other moments I’ve been thinking about, like when you were dancing with Kennedy and then with your mother. And the way you continually scanned the yard, as if you had to make sure your chicks were all in the pen.”

  “Something like that,” he admitted.

  “They’re lucky to have you, and I think I’m pretty lucky, too.” Her gaze moved to the gash on his stomach. “We’d better get you cleaned up. I forgot the ointment and bandages. Hold on.”

  She pushed to her feet and took a step toward the door.

  Gratitude pooled inside him. Bullet grabbed her sweatshirt, drawing her back. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For giving a shit.”

  Her lips curved up and her smile reached her beautiful eyes. “I’m sure anyone who knows you would do the same if you’d let them.” She turned and walked inside.

  She had no idea how wrong she was. The last time he’d been taken care of like this was when he was lying flat on his back beside a dying man, staring up at a dark sky crackling with crossfire, sure he was going to die.

  He sank down to a chair, leaned his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, willing the memories to remain at bay.

  Chapter Eight

  BULLET FELT FINLAY’S hand on his shoulder and sat up, breathing deeply as she applied the ointment and bandaged the wound in silence.

  “Is this hard for you? Letting me take care of you?” she asked as she used the washcloth to cleanse the dried blood that had seeped through his shirt onto his torso.

  “A little.”

  “Because you’re the protector?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she lifted the washcloth and said, “Lift your chin. There’s some blood on your neck.”

  The longer she cared for him, gently bathing his arms, hands, chest, and torso, the easier it became for Bullet to relax. Her touch became the salve to his emotional wounds, her sweet, caring nature, the sutures to the fissures tonight’s flashbacks had caused.

  “When my dad would get a cold, or sick, which wasn’t very often, he’d do everything he could to keep from resting,” she said as she rinsed the washcloth. “And my mom would tell him that it took a stronger man to let someone take care of him than it did to be the caretaker.” She gazed into his eyes and said, “I think that goes for you, too, Mr. Whiskey.”

  “I’m not feeling very strong at the moment,” he mumbled more to himself than to her.

  “Strength of character is stronger than power of muscle. That’s another of my mom’s sayings. You have both, and what you did tonight proves how strong you really are.”

  He pulled her closer, wanting to kiss her, to soak in her goodness, but he didn’t want her to feel like he was taking advantage of her generosity. “Are you close to your parents?”

  “Yes. But we lost my father a few years ago, and then my mom moved to Montana, where she was from. She said she saw my dad everywhere, which I understand, because I still feel him around sometimes. Then she remarried. I’m happy for her, and it wasn’t like she was running away from me and Penny. She just needed to move on and couldn’t do it here.”

  “I’m sorry you lost your father.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “That must have been awful for you.”

  “It was. My biggest regret was that I was living in Boston at the time. He worked at the power plant and there was an electrical misfire or something. They classified it as an industrial accident. I guess they were lucky no one else was hurt.”

  He pulled her into an embrace, wishing he could have been there for her when she’d lost him. “Are you okay here? Being back in town?”

  “Yes. I needed to be here, closer to Penny.” She pushed away, busying herself with the washcloth again, but as she washed him, her touch changed.

  No longer was she washing him with a corner of the cloth. She spread it over her hand, bathing
him from shoulder to shoulder, slowly and sensually, furtively glancing up as she moved over his chest and down his ribs. Her eyelids grew heavier, and he wasn’t sure she realized it, but she moved closer, until the space between them was barely big enough for her hand. Desire filled the space between them, growing hotter with every stroke, but the conflict in her eyes told him she was struggling—to decide if she should go for it or ignore it, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her, either. And when he rested his fingers on her hips, she trapped her lower lip between her teeth, inching even closer.

  That subtle, telling move brought their mouths a whisper apart. Their gazes locked, lust pulsing between them like a drum. He wanted to tell her it was okay. Just let go. Surrender to me. The urge to take was strong, but his desire not to screw this up was even stronger.

  The tip of her tongue swept along her lips, and he gritted his teeth.

  “We should…” She nibbled on her lip again. “Um. Let’s check out the cut on your stomach.”

  She crouched before him, and holy mother of God, seeing his blond angel crouched in front of his cock shoved all the ugly thoughts of war and flashbacks aside. The therapists had never shared this tactic with him. Wanting Finlay Wilson was magic. When she put one hand on his stomach, the other on his thigh, balancing as she inspected his wound, he clenched his teeth harder.

  She squinted, her lips twisting in contemplation. “That definitely needs some attention.”

  Fuck yeah. She had no idea how dirty his thoughts could be.

  She reached for the washcloth, and he caught her hand. Their eyes connected and the temperature spiked. Her eyes turned midnight blue, and the pulse at the base of her neck throbbed erratically. The hell with the cuts. He wanted to seal his mouth over that frantic pulse and drive it up even higher.

  She licked her lips again, and he placed his other hand on the back of her thigh, bringing her closer. Sparks showered around them, sizzling and popping, but neither one said a word. He fought the need to kiss her, wanting to stay on this emotional high with her, suspended from the rest of the world forever.

  She didn’t say a word as she reached for the washcloth and carefully cleaned the cut. The energy between them shifted again, spiking hotter, delving deeper, as if their confessions had bound them, creating a pulse all their own. Every swipe of the cloth against his skin brought more awareness—of her stilted breathing, stolen glances, her legs brushing against his inner thighs. He wanted to feel her legs against his bare skin, to have her hot little hands all over his body, healing his fractured soul.

  “Okay,” she whispered, and set the cloth down. She patted the area dry with a paper towel, her face a mask of attentive sweetness.

  She reached for the ointment, and he ran his fingers along her arm from elbow to wrist. She stilled, her hand inches from the ointment, her soft exhalations filling the silence. He pressed his thighs tighter against her legs and traced the curve of her hip with his other hand. She tensed at the first stroke down her thigh, but she didn’t look away, a whirlwind of emotions passing between them. Wordlessly, she reached for the ointment again.

  He wanted her to reach for him, but he knew that wasn’t her way. She was like a scared rabbit coming out of its hole, then retreating, only to return and sniff the air, inching closer until she trusted him completely.

  He watched as she applied the ointment to his wound, admiring her for so many reasons. She wasn’t living her life angry at the world for stealing her father and her man away, or walling herself off for fear of being hurt again.

  “How do you do it?” The question came unbidden.

  She picked up a bandage. “Clean out your cuts?”

  “No, Fins. How’d you move past the hurt? You’re so happy.”

  “Now? Sure, but back then? I cried a lot, talked my friend Izzy’s and Penny’s ears off. I cooked and baked enough food for a small army, and I prayed a lot. I’m not religious, but I thought if I sent positive, loving thoughts into the universe they would somehow make it back to Aaron and my dad. And you know, I was so young. Twenty-one when Aaron died, and then we lost my dad a couple years later. Time may not heal wounds, but it allows for perspective. I’m thankful I had them in my life.”

  She put the bandage down and said, “I’m afraid to put that on your cut.”

  She was as adept at changing subjects as he was. He understood that. Sometimes enough was enough. Beating things into the ground wouldn’t bring people back.

  “It’ll stick to the hair on your stomach and hurt like crazy when you take it off.” Her eyes widened. “I could shave a path around the cut.”

  “Real men only shave for tattoos and blow jobs. Get up here.” He motioned to his lap.

  “Why, Mr. Whiskey, are you getting frisky with me?”

  He lifted her onto his lap, guiding her legs around his hips, and ran his hands along her outer thighs. Her cheeks heated, and he loved that about her. The women he’d been with had never blushed. They’d never felt real either. They were a means to an escape, a release, while Finlay…She was the only reality he didn’t want to escape.

  “Don’t worry, lollipop.” He wound his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer, speaking directly into her ear. “I’m not asking you to blow the whistle or ride the train.” He slicked his tongue along the shell of her ear, earning a lusty moan. “I just want to taste you, get a little sugar rush to hold us over.”

  He sealed his mouth over the sensitive skin at the base of her neck, and a sexy little gasp slipped from her lips as he took a long, sensual suck. She inhaled a series of sharp breaths as he loved his way along the column of her neck to the other side.

  “You’re so sweet,” he said between tastes. “So perfect, lollipop, but I need your mouth on me.” He told himself to slow down, but she whispered, “Yes,” silencing his thoughts altogether.

  She bowed toward him, pressing her sweet center against his hard shaft. He pushed one hand up her thigh, and when she ground harder, he slipped his long fingers beneath her shorts. The scratch of lace pulled a groan from his lungs as he filled his palm with her tempting bottom. His emotions reeled, as he groped and kissed, sucked and nipped, and the real world failed to exist. His hands were everywhere at once, caught up in the spiral of desire, on a mission to feel as much of her as he could. He pushed under her sweatshirt, palming her breasts as they rose with her heavy breaths. Her sexy moans and whimpers drove him out of his fucking mind. He rocked his hips, and she pushed her hands into his hair, grinding harder, kissing him deeper. She was too much, too good, too willing, filling him with all that sweetness.

  He tore his mouth from hers, needing to see her beautiful face, to make sure he wasn’t imagining her eagerness, wasn’t forcing and taking, too caught up in her to catch her signals. Her lips were swollen from their kisses, her cheeks pink and scratched from his beard. It probably made him an asshole, but he loved knowing she’d feel his mouth on hers tomorrow.

  “Kiss me,” she pleaded, and lowered her face toward his again.

  The kiss started out soft, sweet, but within seconds they were eating at each other’s mouths, ravenously taking and giving in equal measure. Greedy sounds slipped between them like they’d both been waiting years for this connection—and in his case, he’d waited a lifetime. He claimed her neck again, loving the way she quivered and shook with each stroke of his tongue.

  “I’ve got to feel you against me, Fins.” He rose to his feet with her in his arms and laid her on the lounge chair, coming down over her.

  She was so small, so feminine, his protective urges surged, and he was getting too carried away. He forced himself to move beside her. They lay facing each other, kissing and smiling. Jesus, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled when he’d kissed a woman. The last time he’d cared.

  He ran his hand down her leg, and words poured out. “I love your legs. Your soft skin.”

  He hooked his hand beneath her knee, bringing her leg over his, her knee resting
by his hip. Oh yeah, that was nice. All her softness pressed against him. She arched forward, rubbing against his cock, and he lowered her onto her back and gazed into her eyes, overwhelmed by the trust and emotions staring back at him—for him.

  He wanted to be the man she counted on, to see that trust in her eyes always. To be the man who would be there for her when she hurt and when she celebrated. And he had a feeling Finlay’s life would be full of celebrations, because she didn’t wallow, didn’t let the darkness overtake her. She was open and caring, and that trust just about did him in. Bullet knew all about trust. It was the very foundation of his being. His brothers at arms had an unbreakable trust, and the club brotherhood and his blood family lived and breathed by that bond. He wanted that with Finlay, and he knew it all started now.

  “Tell me to stop, Fins, and I’ll back off. You own tonight.”

  She craned up and touched her lips to his. “I don’t want you to stop, and I don’t want to own it. I want to share it with you,” she said earnestly, unleashing his desires.

  He explored the dips and curves of her body as they made out like they’d waited their entire lives for each other and they may never get another chance. She arched and moaned, pressing her whole body against his. He pushed his hand up the leg of her shorts, beneath her panties, seeking her slick heat. She bent her knee, letting it fall to the side, giving him better access to tease her silken flesh. Emotions bubbled up inside his chest, mounting and throbbing as he discovered just how badly she wanted him. She was so wet, felt so incredibly warm and sweet. He dipped his fingers inside her, gently taking her where they both needed her to go as he kissed her deeply.

  He crooked his finger and her head fell back with a long, surrendering moan. Her hips rose to greet him, and he tugged up her shirt and unclasped the front of her bra, freeing her magnificent breasts. He stole a glance at her closed eyes, the flush of her skin, wanting to remember this moment forever. The closeness, her openness. He dragged his tongue over her taut nipple as she met each of his probes with a thrust of her hips, her breathing coming in shallow, needful gasps. She clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, probably carving scars he’d proudly wear.