True Confessions

by Rachel Gibson

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  They moved down the midway, past the crowded food stands to the relatively deserted game booths. Most people had taken a break to eat, and the Shoot a Squirrel game was empty except for the carnival worker. She’d seen the booth earlier but had forgotten about it, because not only didn’t she have any desire to shoot a BB gun, each game cost the exorbitant price of two bucks.

  She glanced at the five happy squirrel targets, then looked up at Dylan. One side of his face was lit by the light pouring from the booth; the other was covered in shadow. “When you said you wanted to shoot squirrel, I thought…”

  “I know what you thought.” He removed his hand from the small of her back and pulled his wallet from his pocket. He handed the carnival worker, named Neville, ten dollars and was given two BB guns. “We’re going to have a contest,” Dylan said as he shoved his wallet into his back pocket. “I get two games and you get two. You also get a free practice round.”

  She took the gun and held it at arm’s length. “What makes you think I need practice?”

  “Just a wild guess.” He smiled, a slow and sensual turn of his mouth. “We’re also going to place a little side bet.”

  “You don’t think I have a chance of winning do you?”

  “Nope.”

  He was probably right. “What’s the side bet?”

  Dylan leaned his gun against the booth. Then, without a word, he stepped behind her and positioned her gun against her shoulder. He placed his warm hand over hers and positioned his finger over the trigger. “Now squeeze the trigger,” he said next to her right ear. She did and the BB hit the tarp behind the first squirrel. He folded her within the warmth of his solid chest, and the hairs on the back of her neck tingled as she fired again. The shot hit a bushy-tailed target happily munching on an acorn. “The secret to a steady shot is knowing how to handle a loaded weapon,” he said just above a whisper as he cocked the gun for her. “It takes a smooth motion of the wrist… and a slow, firm squeeze of the trigger.” The third shot hit the third squirrel with a loud ping that sent Hope’s nerves pinging through her body. “You look like a girl who’d be good at nice, smooth strokes and a firm squeeze.” The fourth target fell, and then the last. “Are you, Hope?”

  Hope glanced at the carnie standing several feet away. He was watching them, but he couldn’t hear anything. She chose to ignore Dylan’s question, but that didn’t keep her insides from heating up and her nerves getting jumpy. She looked up into Dylan’s face and asked, “What’s the side bet?”

  He stared into her eyes for a moment and then lowered his mouth closer to her ear. “When I win,” he said, “I get to lick you up like you’re ice cream.”

  His breath on her ear warmed the side of her throat. “What happens if I win?”

  He didn’t answer right away, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility. “You won’t.”

  “What if I do?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  She tried to think of something to lighten the sexual tension, but her words came out sounding more sensual than she’d planned. “Like I could order you to come over and mow my yard?”

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  “Naked,” she added.

  “Naked is good. Take out the part about mowing your yard and I just might let you win.” He brushed her arm with his hot palm and thought for a moment. “Nah, I like mine better. Maybe you should admit defeat right now and save yourself some embarrassment.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  He dropped his hands and took a step back. “Hope, you always have a choice. I’d never make you do anything you don’t want to do. What’s the fun in that?”

  She believed him. “I get to go first.”

  He picked up his BB gun and handed it to her.

  She waited until Neville had reset the targets. Under Dylan’s watchful eyes, she shot two of the five squirrels. “That was pretty good,” she said, proud of herself.

  Dylan laughed, three low “huh-huh-huhs.” Then he raised his BB gun, squinted down the barrel, and knocked out all five targets in less than five seconds. He had that smooth squeeze motion down real good, an obvious expert at handling loaded weapons.

  “I think I’ve been set up,” she said.

  “You never stood a chance, city girl. I got my first BB gun when I was about four years old.” He lowered the barrel. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. All or nothing, and in the next round, you only have to hit three, but I have to hit every shot to win.”

  “You’re on.” As soon as the squirrels were once again standing, she took aim.

  “Look down the sites.” Neville stepped forward to advise her.

  Dylan turned a narrow gaze on the carnie, and Neville went back to his position at the side of the booth. At the end of the barrel, she noticed what Neville was talking about. She lined it up on a squirrel with a green bow tie. “Take that,” she said as the target fell. She missed the next two targets, but hit the fourth. She sited the last squirrel, wearing a pair of pink pumps. “I’m going to nail her good.”

  “Now, there’s an interesting choice of words.”

  She glanced over at Dylan, then back at the squirrel. “Don’t think you can distract me.”

  “I’m not”-he paused to lower his voice a fraction-“but if I were trying, I’d probably just come right out and tell you I’m wondering about the color of your panties again.”

  She shook her head. “Not even your juvenile attempt to distract me is going to work.” She hit the target, then blew on the end of the barrel as if there were smoke coming out. “Worried, Sheriff?”

  “Honey,” he drawled as he shot and hit the first squirrel, “you’ve got me shakin‘ in my boots.”

  Hope decided it was time to do a little distracting of her own. She leaned her behind against the edge of the booth and crossed her legs. Her beige skirt slid up her thighs, and she ran her gaze from his big belt buckle up his chest to his face. “Why don’t you tell me again how to handle a loaded weapon?” She licked her lips and lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. “Tell me about that smooth stroke and gentle squeeze.”

  He shot and the second target fell. “It was ‘firm squeeze.’” The third squirrel went down and Hope straightened. “There’s a difference.”

  “Pink,” she said, loud enough for his ears only.

  He cocked the gun and looked across his shoulder at her. “Pink?”

  “My panties are pink.” She raised a seductive brow. “Silky pink with little red chili peppers and the words ‘Warning: Hot Stuff ’ embroidered on the front.”

  His gaze dropped to her crotch. “Really?”

  No, not really. “Yeah.”

  Ping. Ping. Ping. The rest of the targets fell and Dylan leaned the gun against the booth. “Well, look at that. I guess I win.”

  Neville offered Dylan his choice of a rubber chicken, an assorted selection of fake vomit, a Corvette mirror, or a plastic hard hat that held a beer on each side. Dylan took the hat and placed it on her head. “For your next twofer night,” he said.

  It was the first time in Hope’s life a man had given her a cheap carnival prize. The gesture touched her more than it should have, which she supposed was just one more reflection on her life. It was a pretty sad commentary when a beer helmet could make a woman feel sort of weepy.

  “Time to choose,” he said, placing his hand on the small of her back. They stepped away from the light of the booth and were wrapped up in the rapidly falling darkness. “No more games, Hope,” he said as they walked away the carnival booths. “I either take you to your home or take you home with me. If I take you home with me, I’m taking you to my bed.” They moved in the opposite direction of couples heading toward the edge of the lake, where the town would shoot off fireworks. “I doubt you’ll get much sleep,” he added.

  “I rode here with Paul and Shelly.”

  “I know.” He stopped at the entrance to the parking lot, giving her time t
o make her decision. “I already told them I’d take you home.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “When I first got here.”

  She gazed into Dylan’s dark face. Could she go through with it? Could she spend a night with him and feel good about herself in the morning? “Were you that sure of yourself?”

  He shook his head. “No. I was hoping you’d let me sweet-talk you out of your clothes, but I wasn’t sure of anything. I’m still not.” His hand moved from her back to her bare shoulder. “I wasn’t planning on coming here today. I wasn’t planning on coming back to town for a couple more weeks.”

  Could she? Could she get past all the emotions and treat an affair like men did? Could she be a man?

  “Remember when you asked me if I have an uncontrollable desire?” he asked, sliding his palm down her arm to squeeze her hand. “Well, I do. I have an uncontrollable desire for you.”

  Yes, she could, and the last of her pitiful restraint melted right there in the middle of the Idaho wilderness. Right there in her fake tattoo and beer helmet. “Okay,” she whispered. “I want to go home with you.”

  “Thank you, God,” he whispered back.

  She thought he might kiss her. A romantic little kiss under the moon and the stars, but he didn’t. Instead, he about jerked her out of her sandals. They walked through rows of cars, station wagons, and Jeeps. He pulled her behind him until they reached the passenger side of a dark blue truck. Opening the door, he practically shoved her inside. In under a minute, he had fired up the engine, shoved the truck into drive, and they were heading away from the grange. Complete darkness filled the cab, and only the weak dash lights illuminated the bottom half of Dylan’s face. Hope looked across the bench seat at his profile. He stared straight ahead, deadly serious about something.

  He had a death grip on the steering wheel, and she wondered if he was having second thoughts.

  “Dylan, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you staring straight ahead?”

  “I’m just sitting over here trying to keep the truck on the road, but it’s damn difficult because I keep thinking about sliding my hand down your panties.” He glanced at her, then turned his attention back to the black highway. “I don’t want to pull over and jump on you before we make it home.”

  She laughed and he shook his head. “It’s not funny,” he said.

  “Maybe you should recite something in your head.”

  “I’ve tried that. It never works.”

  “I’ll help you.” Hope tossed her helmet on the floor and slid across the seat. “Let’s try something that isn’t sexual.” She rose to her knees beside him. “Like, ‘Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation.’ ” She tossed his cowboy hat next to her helmet, then tugged at the front of his shirt, popping the snaps one at a time until the shirt lay open. She slipped her hand inside, and he sucked in a breath. His muscles flexed and turned hard beneath her touch. “ ‘Conceived in liberty. Dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.’ ” She ran her finger through the short hair on his chest. Abraham Lincoln had been wrong. Not all men were created equal. Some just possessed more. More than charm and good looks, they had that certain elusive something. Whatever it was, Dylan had more than his share.

  He reached for her hand, flattening it against his chest so she couldn’t move. She kissed the side of his neck and slid her open mouth to the hollow of his throat, tasting his aftershave and warm skin.

  “Hope, I can barely see.”

  “You don’t need to see.” She moved his hand from on top of hers and placed his palm on her breast. “You’re a big boy, feel your way,” she breathed right before she sucked his neck.

  “Jesus.” His fingers closed over her and the whoosh of air he’d been holding rushed from his lungs.

  Hope’s breasts grew taut, her nipples puckered, and she pulled at the ends of his shirt from his jeans. She looked down at the hair on his chest, the gold light from the dash caught in the short curls and shined across his tight skin. As the truck motored down the highway, she combed her fingers down the thin line of hair to his flat belly. “Am I helping?” She moved her hand to his zipper and, through the heavy denim, pressed her palm against the impressive length of his rock-hard erection. “You haven’t answered my question,” she said, her insides turning liquid, responding to him.

  “When you touch me like that, I can’t remember what you asked.”

  She kissed her way across his collarbone. “Are you still having trouble keeping the truck on the road?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  She had a vague sensation like the truck was turning. Then the next thing she knew, they’d stopped and she was on her back on the bench seat, staring up into Dylan’s dark face. And he kissed her. Long and hard, his tongue thrusting into her mouth. The bottom of her skirt was up around her waist and he knelt between her legs. He shoved his pelvis snug against her crotch, and he might have hurt her if she hadn’t wanted him so badly. She wrapped her legs around his waist and placed her hands on the sides of his head, kissing him like he kissed her, like neither would ever get enough. Enough mouths or tongues or the hot, liquid juices flowing through their bodies.

  Dylan hit the horn with his foot, and he pulled back, gasping for air. His shirt hung open, his gaze wild within the shadowy cab. “Let’s get out of here,” he said and somehow managed to get them both out of the truck. He grabbed a box of condoms from the jockey box before heading across the driveway to the back door.

  Hope looked over her shoulder at the truck, parked sideways, like it had skidded to a stop. She couldn’t remember if they’d skidded or not. She couldn’t remember much beyond the taste of Dylan’s skin beneath her tongue.

  As they walked into the kitchen, Dylan hit the switch by the back door and his keys and the box of condoms slid across the counter. Hope squinted against the overhead light, catching glimpses of blue walls, white floors, and appliances. Marble counter-tops and a wooden table in the middle of the room. Seeing a white cake with slices of candied peaches on top, sitting on the table, surprised her, but then Dylan tore at his shirt and she forgot all about the cake. He balled the shirt up and tossed it on the electric stove. Without a word, he pulled Hope against him. Her hands landed flat on his bare chest, her palms covering his nipples. She looked up from his golden-brown hair curling about her fingers to the dip in his throat. She placed a kiss on the mark she’d left there earlier, and she lowered her hands to his big belt buckle.

  “You could kill someone with this,” she said as she unhooked it and pulled it from his pant loops. She glanced up at him and added, “It could be considered a lethal weapon in some states.”

  His green eyes looked at her from beneath lids heavy with desire. A blatantly sexual smile pushed the corners of his mouth upward. “You got that right,” he drawled, and she had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the buckle. The belt slipped through her fingers and hit the floor with a thud.

  Dylan reached for her waist and grasped the edge of her tank top. “Raise your arms,” he said and slowly pulled the shirt up her stomach. The soft cotton snagged under her breasts and he gathered the material in his hands and drew it over her head. The cool ends of her hair fell about her shoulders, and she dropped her hands to her sides. Dylan tossed her shirt with his, and Hope stood before him in her black stretch bra and khaki skirt.

  Suddenly she didn’t know if she could go through with it. Not like this. Not in the bright kitchen light where all of her flaws would be magnified. When she took off her panties, he’d see the thin silvery scar on her lower belly. He’d see her scar and he’d ask about it.

  She looked up at him, up past the perfection of his corrugated stomach and broad chest with its swirls of fine hair and hard muscle. Up past the strong column of his throat and chin and the finely etched lines of his sensual lips. He was perfect, standing there beneath the bright light, wearing nothing but h
is jeans and boots. Absolutely perfect, while she had an old scar.

  He reached for the button on her skirt and she grabbed his wrist. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the scar, but he would notice she wasn’t wearing pink silky panties. For a few seconds she couldn’t remember if she was wearing her good underwear or getting-close to-laundry-day underwear. Then she did remember and relaxed a bit. White. Plain white bikini panties. They were new, but they didn’t match her bra. She should have planned better. She should have worn something silky. She should have worn something to knock him off his feet, but she hadn’t even known he was in town. “Maybe we should turn off the lights,” she suggested.

  “Why?”

  He was going to find out soon enough. “My panties don’t match.”

  He looked at her as if she weren’t speaking a language he understood. “Don’t match what?”

  “My bra.”

  He blinked once and his brows lowered. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, my panties are white and…”

  Dylan lowered his mouth to hers. “I don’t give a goddamn about your underwear,” he whispered against her lips. “I’m more interested in what’s inside.” He kissed a warm trail across her cheek to her ear. “Inside where you’re soft and warm.” The wet tip of his tongue touched the side of her throat, and he slid his fingers between her breasts to the black rose holding the cups together. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” With a twist of his wrist the closure sprang free and he pushed the straps from her shoulders. The bra fell to the floor. “Problem solved.” His hot hands closed over her bare breasts as his mouth once again closed over hers. And suddenly Hope forgot about everything but the touch of his rough palms sliding back and forth across her hard, sensitive nipples. She drove her tongue into his mouth as he walked backward, driving her against the kitchen counter. Lust coiled low in her abdomen, pooled between her thighs, and tightened her breasts. The feelings were almost painful, they were so intense. Wonderful and overwhelming. She moaned deep, deep in her throat and ran her hands over him. His hair, the sides of his face, down his neck to his shoulders. She touched everywhere she could reach, his back, his sides, and his belly.