by Lia Riley
“Good?”
“Oh, God.” Her knees splay farther as she gets into it, works herself faster. A hot tangy smell undercuts the pine air freshener dangling from the rearview. I bite down on the inside of my lip. She slides her free hand under her lavender T-shirt. “Jealous?”
“Fucking A.”
“Want me to stop? I can stop.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I—I think I could come like this.”
“Counting on it, sweetheart.” Sweat sheens my chest. My T-shirt sticks to my skin. If my dick gets more taut it’s going to break. “What are you thinking about?”
“You.”
“More.”
“Your mouth on me. Down there. Kissing.”
Fuck. “Where?”
“You know where.”
“’Course I do, but I want to hear you to say it.”
“My…my God, what? My pussy?”
“I can get down with pussy.”
“Don’t make me laugh.” Her giggles are more than slightly strangled.
“Less talking, Captain. More fingering.”
“Almost there.” The husky note to her voice is the sexiest bloody thing I’ve ever heard. No matter how much stupid shit I’ve done in my life, I’ve done something right to earn this girl. She makes me feel things I never knew I was capable of. My heart was a geode. Plain. Gray. Cold. Hard. She drove her sweet blade into my center until I cracked and discovered a hidden beauty.
She gasps. Her legs take on their own bucking motion. Each micro-movement hits me like a double-overhead, sucks me into a relentless undertow. I barely have time to come up for air. Outlook is good that I’m going to come in my boxers without laying a single finger on myself. I’ve never done such a thing even at my most green, adolescent horny apex. Even though I’m expecting it, her cry recoils through me like a shot.
“Well, golly gee whillickers,” she mutters, lazy, slow, like she’s chewing saltwater taffy. I check the mirror. No one’s behind me. A turnout is right ahead. I veer off the road, far up on the shoulder. We jounce over gravel until I brake hard.
“What the—”
I’m out of my seat and halfway over the console before she can finish the question. Her mouth tastes like lemonade. When she lifts her hand to touch the side of my face, I grab her wrist and bite the fleshy rise of her palm. Not enough to make it hurt, but with enough pressure that she sucks in a surprise hiss.
“Talia.” She raggedly inhales when I suck in a finger, enjoying the salty taste on her skin before flicking my tongue in the crease between her fingers. “There was a time when I believed wanting you would break me.”
“And now?” Her pupils are huge, unfocused.
“Your love is what makes me.”
She grabs hold of my erection through my shorts. Her touch is a magnet, pulls blood from all my extremities. “Your turn?”
I don’t have a choice. I never did. Not with her.
“This won’t take long.”
She works my belt loose and when she palms me, I can’t hold on. It’s too much. I collide against my seat. Throw my arms around the back of the headrest and hang on. It’s that or burst from my skin.
She crawls onto her knees, doesn’t stop pumping, but at this angle she gets a better grip. “Won’t take long” was an exaggeration. If I last another minute it will be the most control I’ve ever executed in my entire life.
“I love seeing you like this,” she whispers.
“How’s that?” I open one eye. Her shorts are still open and reveal a glimpse of her white cotton panties. Jesus. Fuck. Not much longer.
“Wanting me.”
“I always wanted you. From the first second I saw you on Lygon Street. I wanted.”
“Can’t say the same.”
I flinch, but she keeps her grip firm. “You wore a koala head, remember? If I had wanted you straight off that would have been creepy. My fascination didn’t start until you walked into that dodgy pub.”
“After that you were all I thought about.”
“You drove me crazy.” Each stroke is magic.
“Good, because I was half-mad.” Heat scorches my lower belly, my quads, I pump against her, riding the build. “I still am where you’re concerned.”
Her thumb brushes my tip, spreads the moisture beading there over my sensitive underside. Can’t process. Can’t think. The rush, it’s too much. She sweeps a light caress over my balls. Here we bloody go. “Fuck, Talia.” I explode right as her teeth lock on my flexed bicep. It hurts and is incredible and holy shit…
When my brain resumes function she’s cleaning her hands with a wet wipe. “Why don’t we road trip every day?” I ask, scrubbing my face.
“We’re pretty dang good at it.” She giggles.
There’s another sound. Quiet. Almost nothing. But not nothing.
I throw open the driver’s side door. Shit. A nail protrudes from the driver’s side wheel. Air hisses.
“Your dad has a spare, right?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Talia
If anyone asked me five minutes ago what was the hottest thing I’d ever seen in my twenty-two years spinning around the sun, my answer would have been unequivocal. Jerking off Bran while he allowed himself to be completely bare to me in all his aching vulnerability. I did bite him. Because I love him so much it set my teeth on edge and drove out something animalistic within me.
What a difference three hundred seconds makes. Because here is Bran, shirtless, changing a tire while I watch his lean muscles bunch and flex while I sit cross-legged beneath the shade of the scrappiest tree this side of the Mississippi. I could be badass and get in there and change it. My dad insisted I learn how when I got my license. But there’s a deep pleasure in watching a guy be manly. I take another swig of lemonade. I rest my head against the bark, pick up a piece of loose gravel, and roll it between my fingers.
For once I don’t require a worry stone. It’s not only the recent orgasms making me feel relaxed. It’s everything. A month ago, I feared I’d lost myself in a wrong direction, but I found my way back to myself. Fear is part of living, and for me, I’ll probably always be more anxious than most. Despite the recent panic attack, I have this rare feeling, cocooned around me. Maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.
“This is as secure as I’m going to get it,” Bran says. There’s a greasy handprint on his lower belly. I want to place my hand over the outline.
We get inside and I breathe deep. “It smells like—”
“Sex.”
I grimace. “We’ll need to air it out before coming home.
“We’ll have to buy one of our own.”
“A shared car.” The idea gives my heart a happy little tug. “God, it seems so official.”
“Owning a vehicle together?”
“Yes, it’s one of those things, you know. Like grown-up couple things.”
“What kind do you want?” He wipes a hand over his forehead. We’re winding into the foothills.
“Don’t know. I’m not that big on cars.”
“Maybe a VW van.”
“Ooooh, that idea has serious legs, like a camper.”
He arches a brow. “Instant bed action might come in handy.”
I raise him a wink. “This is true.”
Mariposa is ahead, a big enough mountain town to support a mechanic. It’s getting late so we’ll probably have to overnight there. No point risking a drive into the Sierra high country on an ancient spare. We hit the city limits. There’s an auto shop connected to a gas station. Bran hops out and talks to the guy inside. He returns with a resigned look. “The shop will open first thing. He gave me the address for a cheap motel around the corner.”
“What can go wrong?”
We park in front of an uninspired, single-story motel. The name on the sign, Vagabond’s Rest, is marred by graffiti. Some genius sprayed a thick black line through letters so it reads, VAG REST.
“Classy joint.” Bran
gets out of the car.
“Looks cheap.” I join him on the sidewalk. “Anyway, it’s only for a night.”
We open the door to the lobby, and a Christmas bell jingles. “Hoo wee, what has the cat dragged in?” The woman behind the counter must be pushing the wrong side of seventy. Her hair is tinted an orange better suited to jack-o’-lanterns, but when compared to the alarming purple lipstick, seems muted and tasteful.
“You kiddos on your honeymoon?” She peers over turquoise bifocals.
“Car problems.” Bran whips out a credit card. He gives the plastic a long look before handing it over. I know what it costs him, spending the loan his dad gave him. He must be champing to earn his own cash. Zavtra is eccentric, but obviously brilliant. Got to say, I am pretty confident about Bran holding his own against any guy in the forceful personality department. Besides, I can always tickle him if he unleashes too much of the intense kraken. I know exactly how sensitive that underbelly is.
“Where do you recommend grabbing dinner?” I ask. Car trips and an amped-up sex drive have given me one hell of an appetite.
“The diner is popular.”
“Diner.” Bran perks. “Those actually exist?”
The motel lady shoots him a strange look. “Son, I can’t understand a word that came out of your mouth.”
“Australian.” I pet his head, like that’s explanation enough.
She nods, as if it really is.
I stifle a yelp when Bran pinches my ass.
We stroll hand in hand to the diner. “Why are you so excited about diner fare?”
“Seems like being in a movie.”
“You don’t have diners back home.”
“You’ve been there. Ever seen one?”
“I don’t routinely seek them out.”
We reach the building and it’s all retro stainless steel, red vinyl booths, white Formica tables, and black-checkered tiles. Real deal though, not a tourist trap.
“What to order, what to order?” Bran studies the deep-fried menu. “Club sandwich? Tuna melt?”
“You sound positively gleeful.”
He snorts. “Diner food is one American tradition I can get behind. Except for ketchup; it should be tomato sauce. And your fries suck compared to our chips.”
“You are such a snob.”
“Guilty on all charges.”
“Can’t go wrong with a chocolate malt. I’m nabbing one of those bad boys.” I point to the glass case bursting with thick slices of homemade pies. “Blueberry. With vanilla ice cream.”
“For dinner?”
“There is no judgment in a diner. That’s the rule.”
“Noted.”
“Where do you source your tuna?” Bran asks when the waitress arrives to take our order.
“Chicken?” She stares, baffled, over the top of her pad.
“Tuna,” he repeats.
“Sorry, what?” The waitress raises her voice like he speaks a foreign language.
“Tuna.” Bran grips the table in an effort to maintain patience.
I bite my top lip, but the gesture does nothing to prevent an escaping giggle. Bran throws a ch sound in front of some words. Tuna comes out choona.
“He’s asking where your tuna comes from,” I say.
“A can?” The waitress frowns, snapping her gum in impatience. The diner is filling up. She doesn’t want to decipher.
“A malt,” Bran mutters. “I’ll take a chocolate malt, garden salad, and chips.”
“Fries,” I amend before the he said/she said gong show starts again.
When the food arrives we clink glasses—my coffee mug to Bran’s milkshake tin.
“So this is my equivalent to a last meal.” I cover my mouth to make my massive pie bite appear slightly less greedy.
Bran leans over and dabs the corner of my mouth with his napkin. “Tomorrow will be epic.”
I grimace. “It will be something.”
“Look, I won’t get you into anything you can’t handle.”
“Why are you pushing me so hard on this?”
“Because you’re afraid you can’t, but I know you can. Have faith.” He waves a fry at me.
“Careful, tiger. If your magic wand splatters ketchup on my a la mode we’ll have words.”
“I’d prefer to settle our differences horizontally.”
I waggle my brows and continue to dollop ice cream on the crust. I have to agree with him.
“What are you doing?” He nudges my ankle. “Little mess maker.”
“I prefer the term delicious disaster.” I hike my foot to rest on his inner thigh, tickle my toes against his dick.
His eyes widen, mouth fastened to the straw. He looks almost boyish—ripe for corruption. I place the spoon in my mouth and polish it slowly clean.
“You’re trouble.” His voice holds more than a trace of gravel. The memory of him, bared to me, in the car earlier sparks behind my eye. Okay, perhaps not so boyish.
“Trouble’s my middle name.” I clear my throat and his knowing look sends heat to my cheeks. I spoon more ice cream and he leans forward, licks it before I have time to squeak in protest. “Didn’t your mother teach you table manners?”
His gaze shutters. “Apparently not.”
Ice cracks under this conversation. I’m not backing away, but need to choose my words carefully. “Hey now, you can’t avoid your family stuff forever.”
He cracks his neck. “It’s tempting to try.”
“Don’t give your past that much power.”
“I can’t be what they want.” For a second I see it. That little boy. The one who ached to be loved.
“Which is?”
“My dad. He’s been talking to the media about me. All the Eco Warriors crap. He wanted me to come home. Do interviews. Be a lap dog. He doesn’t get that’s not me. Someday, sure, I’ll probably step up and take a more active role in the Lockhart Foundation, but I need more time to be my own person. Not sure that’s good enough for Dad though. He wants a fictional son, not the one he has.”
Ahhh, a dawning knowledge settles on me. “This is how your phone found its way to being broken, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I lost my temper. Not proud of that fact.” He picks up his straw wrapper and tears it in half. “Why would he go to the papers about me? Never mind, I already know the answer. To gain exposure for the foundation, but not everything is for sale. I’m not a commodity.”
“Are you sure that’s the situation?”
“He spoke to reporters.”
“What if he was bragging?”
“Why?” He looks so baffled that I jump out of my booth, walk around the table, scoot beside him, and wrap him in a hug.
“Because you”—I kiss the tip of his scrunched-up nose—“are amazing.”
“Hmmmph.”
“I’m serious. I understand that Eco Warriors show is going to be your worst nightmare, but you don’t see yourself the way everyone else does.”
“I’m not a—”
“You are a hero, Brandon Lockhart, and I’ll tell anyone who disagrees to call their seconds.”
“You’d duel for me?”
“Any dawn, anytime. Although realistically I’d probably be a terrible shot, so if you value my life, you’ll accept the facts.”
He grimaces.
“Curious, this little double standard of yours. I’m supposed to take on face value every last compliment you dole my direction. Regardless of if they feel uncomfortable or untrue.”
“Because I’m right,” he says.
“Then don’t disrespect my intelligence. If I say you are a hero, that means you’re a motherfucking hero.” I mock slam my fist to the Formica, and the people at the table beside us jump.
“Okay, okay.” Bran’s shoulders convulse. “Bloody hell, Captain. No need to Hulk out.”
“Don’t make me angry.”
“Pie does things to you.”
“You have no idea.” I grab the bill. “Now let’s pay up and ge
t out of here.”
He looks around. “I seem to have mislaid my cape.”
“Jokes are the first step to acceptance.”
He stands and grabs me right before I walk to the cash register. “Thanks for believing in me.”
“Likewise.”
“I’m being serious now.”
I brace his face and meet his eyes. His gaze is full of gratitude, and a relief that makes my throat thicken. “So am I,” I whisper huskily. “So am I.”
His lips brush mine, and I’d trade all the blueberry pies in the world for this moment of sweetness.
* * *
The motel is cheap, which is good. It also doesn’t have functional plumbing, which is bad. Especially when you need to clean off after car self-love and after-diner, un-air-conditioned monkey sex. “I’ll go see the lady.” I drop my towel, and Bran sits up from the center of the bed. I shake my head at his latest and greatest erection.
“You can’t be serious?” I pull my head through my T-shirt. “You can go again?”
He shrugs.
“I’m sorry, this…”—I wave my hands over my nether regions—“is on R and R.”
“You make me sound like a war zone.”
“I understand that in romance novels people go at it again and again. But in real life, after two back-to-back sessions, I need a break.”
“Fine.” He flops back against the pillow. “I’d rather lose the battle and win the war.”
“Get some rest, G.I. Joe.”
He salutes me, his eyes already closed.
I’m still snickering when I push the door open into the motel lobby. A little Christmas bell tinkles my presence.
The woman looks up from cards splayed on her desk. “I know.”
I halt midstep. “You do?”
“We called the plumber, but no promises.”
“Oh, okay.” I start to back track calculating how many wet wipes are in the truck. If we start backpacking tomorrow, I really would prefer to start in the green as far as personal hygiene goes.
“Not so fast.” The lady purses her purple lips, and crooks a finger at me.
“Um, okay.” I creep cautiously forward.
“Pick one.”
I look down. “Tarot?” My friend Sunny’s grandmother is really into it.