by Meghan March
She wants me. I know it. She knows it. Now the question is—what are we going to do about it?
“You offering, sugar?” I feel her out with the question, and her temper surfaces again.
“Don’t call me sugar just because you don’t remember my name.”
She’s still got me in the same category of every asshole who’s come into this bar with a record under his belt.
“I call you sugar because even though you’ve got that sharp tongue, I expect you’d be sweet as hell once I got you under me.”
I’m halfway expecting a knee to the balls like the guy at the White Horse, but I get the tart side of the tongue I just mentioned. “You practice your lines in the mirror, Thrasher?”
“Only the good ones, Ripley.” I put the emphasis on her name, making damn sure she can’t miss it.
She mumbles something under her breath, and then seconds later, pops up on her toes and yanks my head down, smashing our lips together.
It’s been a long, long time since a woman kissed me with more passion than skill, and something about it makes my dick go as hard as a steel spike. I bury one hand in her hair, tilting her head to the side for better access.
Ripley moans into my mouth, and I slide my tongue inside to finally get a taste of her.
I was wrong. She’s not just sweet, she’s spicy too. Her fingers grip my shoulders, pulling herself up to wrap a leg around my hip.
Tearing my mouth away, I stare down at her kiss-swollen lips. “I wouldn’t call it a revenge fuck because this ain’t got shit to do with anyone but you and me. But if you don’t tell me no right now, fucking is exactly what we’re gonna do.”
My blunt words won’t win any poetry contests, but I couldn’t care less.
Ripley’s response is to tighten her hold on the back of my neck and hop up, circling both legs around me and pushing her skirt up her thighs.
My free hand finds the curve of her sweet ass, cupping and kneading like I was made to touch her. I taste her jaw and her neck as the heat of her pulses against my stomach.
She’s going to be as hot as fire, and God help me, but I don’t care if we both burn.
The need surging through my veins is primal, and I can’t remember the last time I felt it this strongly. Maybe never.
“Bedroom?”
Ripley moans and throws out a hand toward my left. I take one step in that direction, but the couch is closer and way more convenient. I lower us both, and her ass hits the cushion at the same moment my knees hit the floor.
Ripley looks up, her eyes hazy and heated, but so fucking beautiful.
“When’s the last time someone made you scream?” I could kick myself for asking the question the second it’s out, because I don’t want to think about her with anyone else.
“Too long.”
Her answer gives me a dark sense of satisfaction as I press her thighs apart.
“Slide that ass out, sugar, because it’s time I taste how sweet you really are.”
After a moment of hesitation, Ripley follows my directions, scooting her butt to the edge of the couch. I expect to see the fabric of some sexy panties, but instead, all I see is bare, wet pussy.
“Sweet fucking heaven.” I breathe out the words like a prayer, wasting no time getting my mouth on her.
The second my lips make contact, Ripley arches her back off the couch, my name a throaty moan echoing in the room.
Possessiveness overwhelms me as I tongue and lick and grind down on her clit until she’s writhing beneath me. I want to hear her scream my name. Hell, I want everyone to hear it.
22
Ripley
I don’t care that I’m the world’s biggest hypocrite, because an orgasm the likes of which I’ve never before experienced is barreling down on me. Boone’s mouth must be blessed with some kind of country-boy magic, because he’s working me over until I can barely hold back a scream.
When he presses one long, thick finger inside and finds my G-spot, I’m gone.
“Boone!”
His name bounces off the walls and ceiling of my apartment.
“Oh my God! Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop!”
He growls something unintelligible against me, and while I can’t make it out, vibrations rip through me and the orgasm intensifies.
I’m not sure how much more I can take, but he shows no sign of slowing.
“Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.” I’m an incoherent, shaking mess moments later when he lifts me into the air.
“Need to fuck you. Sweet Christ, sugar, you go off hotter and harder every time. Sexy as fucking hell.”
He carries me into my bedroom, and I don’t care that I’m naked from the waist down when he lowers me to the bed.
But I do care when his hand freezes on the button of his jeans.
“What? Why are you stopping? You can’t stop.” Maybe later I’ll want to kick my own ass for how desperate I sound, but right now I don’t care.
“Condom. Shit. I don’t know if I have one—”
I reach out and flail one arm around until I latch onto the nightstand drawer and yank it open. “In there.”
Boone reaches for the lamp switch and flicks it on. A soft light fills the room.
“Don’t know if I should be worried or impressed that you’ve got a box of magnums in there. But then again . . . they’re not open, so I’m going with lucky.”
He needs the magnums? I send up a quick prayer of thanks and mumble, “Bought them by accident.” I stare at his perfect chest for a beat while he unzips his jeans, and my attention drops to the equipment he’s packing.
Holy. Hell.
Boone doesn’t notice that I’ve stilled completely as he focuses on tearing open the package and rolling a condom down his tree trunk of a cock.
“It’s not fair for a man to be gorgeous, rich, talented, and have a huge cock, is it?” I ask no one in particular.
When Boone’s deep laugh booms out, I realize what I just said.
“I guess I got lucky in that too.” His blue eyes fix on me. “But I’m about to get luckier.”
He spreads my legs and pulls my ass to the edge of the bed before his cock nudges against my opening.
“You still good with this? Last chance to change your mind before I bury the beast inside you and make you scream my name again.”
Ummm. Let’s stop for a minute and consider—
Fuck it. I nod instead.
“Lemme hear it.”
“Yes! For the love of God, fuck me already, Boone!”
He surges forward. I only have a split second to think my words might have been the tiniest bit hasty because he takes my breath away with the first thrust.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.”
“It’s Boone, sugar. No need to be taking this up with God. Don’t want to be struck down before I get to feel you squeeze my cock as you come.”
With one hand on either side of me, Boone works his hips, pulling back and pushing forward, each stroke unleashing pure pleasure.
How in the world did she ever walk away from him?
It’s the last place my mind should be, but as he drags me toward another orgasm, I can’t help but thank the Lord that Amber Fleet is a straight-up idiot.
Lifting my hips, I buck against him, wanting more and harder, at the same time knowing I’m going to feel like I got railed by a train in the morning. This is totally worth it.
When Boone reaches down and finds my clit, it is over.
“Boone!”
My scream turns his name into eight syllables as my body convulses under him.
His roar fills the room, and he thrusts three more times before going still. Well, everything goes still except for his cock pulsing in my body.
Boone leans forward, his heaving chest pressing against mine as I try to catch my breath. A few moments later, under the heat of his body and with the aftermath of a perfect orgasm washing over my drunken self, my eyes flutter closed and I drift off into sleep.
23
Ripley
The incessant ringing coming from somewhere in my apartment wakes me before I’m ready. With one arm, I reach out to smack my nightstand where my cell usually spends the night, but it’s MIA.
I roll over, and the bright light streaming in through my craptastic blackout curtains nearly blinds me. My head pounds, my stomach rolls, and I remember why I rarely drink.
Hangovers blow.
Ugh.
The band of my bra digs into my side as I roll again. Why did I wear my bra to bed anyway? Carefully, I lever myself off the mattress and take baby steps toward the door to my room, which is wide open.
Since I live alone, it doesn’t matter, but on the rare occasion Brandy crashes here, I usually close it. A peek through the doorway of the spare bedroom shows that it’s empty, but she obviously hasn’t learned how to make a bed yet.
Not surprising.
My purse is on the floor near the inside of the door that leads down to the bar, which I’m thankful I apparently had the presence of mind to lock.
The ringing coming from my purse stops right before I pull my phone out, but starts again a second later.
Hope.
Seeing her name on my screen starts jogging my memory.
White Horse Saloon.
Last night.
Lots of booze.
“Hey, sorry, I was still asleep,” I say.
“I was five minutes from having the cops to come break into your place. You scared the hell out of me. I’ve been calling on and off all freaking night.”
Squinting at the clock on the microwave in my tiny galley kitchen, I see it’s not even seven thirty.
“It’s still early. What’s going on?” I head for the cupboard where I keep the Advil, because I doubt the drum line in my head is going to succumb to much else.
“Early? It’s late! I didn’t want to go to bed until I got an answer from you. I’ve been up all night. The bar was insane last night after Boone Thrasher left. Zane Frisco stayed and played two more sets of his own shit.”
Boone Thrasher.
At his name, the bottle of Advil falls from my hands, the top pops off, and the small brown pills fly everywhere.
“Hey! You okay?”
“Uh. Yeah, sorry. Dropped the Advil.”
“You’re gonna have to fill me in because when I finally made it back to your end of the bar, you were gone. Joanie said security hustled you out the back door with Boone Thrasher, and you just disappeared. I didn’t get a call or text or anything. What happened?”
My memories of last night are as scattered as the pills on my floor.
“Nothing,” I tell her, even though I know it’s a lie.
“So you just walked out the back and went your separate ways? I figured you would’ve read him the riot act for getting you caught up in his shit. I know how you are with those guys.”
By those guys, she means the celebrity types. Have I always been such a bitch about it? After picking three pills up off the floor, I shove them in my mouth and swallow them dry.
“It wasn’t a big deal. It was time for me to go anyway.” I make my way through the kitchen around the mess, vowing I’ll clean it up when bending over doesn’t make me want to hurl, and head back to the bedroom.
What exactly did happen?
The fractured dreams floating around in my head starring Boone are all just dreams, aren’t they? I would never . . .
“You sure? I was worried about you, girl.”
That’s when I see the condom wrappers scattered on my bedroom floor.
Oh. Shit. What did I do?
“Rip?”
I drag my attention back to the phone call, knowing I need to get Hope off the line ASAP or she’s going to see through my bullshit in record time.
“Thanks for worrying about me, babe. I don’t feel so great. I gotta go.”
“Did you get roofied? Because if you did—”
“No, of course not. Just hung over. I’ll call you in a bit, okay?”
I don’t wait for a response before lowering my phone and ending the call. I drop to my knees and grab the condom wrappers like they’re crumpled dollar bills tossed across the bar.
Maybe it was someone else. Maybe it wasn’t Boone Thrasher I spent last night with. Maybe my mind overlaid Boone’s face on top of some random one-night stand who was too ugly to remember.
Which would mean I’m apparently now into taking stupid risks with my safety.
One word on the condom wrapper gives my memory a jump-start. Magnum.
Boone’s voice drawls in my head. “Don’t know if I should be worried or impressed that you’ve got a box of magnums in there.”
Holy. Freaking. Hell.
I didn’t.
I wouldn’t.
But the condom wrappers in my hand are irrefutable proof.
I did.
Unbalanced from the realization, I fall backward onto my ass on my bedroom floor and immediately start rationalizing what happened.
It didn’t mean anything. It was a mistake. It was a one-time thing. I was drunk. Shit happens.
This doesn’t make me like my mama.
I’ve held on to my no-celebrity rule for so long, the fact that I broke it is too much to grasp in my hung-over state. Then righteous indignation fills me.
I can sleep with whoever I want. I don’t have to apologize for it or feel bad about it. It’s not like I was cheating on someone—and neither was he.
But what did I do?
Everything’s okay. Everything’s fine.
Seriously, I’m never drinking again.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
It was the alcohol. I was just a stupid, horny drunk girl. Acting my damn age for once instead of twenty years older.
All rationalizations aside, it doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again anyway. It’s not like I’m getting involved.
24
Boone
It’s been a long time since I’ve sneaked out of a woman’s bed in the early hours of the morning. What surprises me even more was that I didn’t want to leave.
Once wasn’t enough. Hell, the three rounds we went weren’t enough.
Even though I don’t know Ripley well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that my presence would not be a welcome one this morning.
Which is why I’m sitting on a rocking chair at the end of my dock, casting into my trout pond at seven thirty in the morning, wearing the T-shirt I stripped off her last night with the spicy citrus scent of Ripley teasing my nose.
There was no point in going back to bed, because I’d reach for her and want more.
How the hell did I get myself into this mess?
Any of the women who threw their panties on the stage last night would have been hard-pressed not to handcuff me to the bed to keep me longer, but I had to set my sights on the one woman in the bar who not only didn’t wear panties, but also didn’t want anything to do with me. And there’s the fact that she probably wouldn’t have touched me sober.
Smart, Boone. Real smart.
Now I’m the chump who wants another shot with the chick who probably never wants to remember what happened last night.
I get a bite on my line and tug sharply before reeling it in. The fish fights for a few minutes and then the line goes slack. When I bring it up, there’s nothing there.
Probably about the same luck I’d have with Ripley if I tried . . .
But as I cast again and let myself remember how good she felt when she was curled around me, I decide I’ve got nothing to lose by trying.
I get another bite and devise a plan of attack. What exactly would get that woman to bite?
As I reel in a nice-sized bluegill, an idea hits me. I turn it over in my head a few times, trying to figure out the best way to go about executing it, when my cell phone buzzes in my pocket and the fish spits out the hook.
Dammit.
The only person who ever calls me this early is Ma, but when I pull out my
cell, it’s definitely not her.
Nick.
“I didn’t know you ever got up before nine a.m. What’s the occasion?”
“What did you do last night?”
His harsh tone has me stopping the rocking of the chair and planting my feet firmly on the dock.
“You want to try that again, Nick?” My response doesn’t leave any question as to how I feel about being spoken to like that.
“I’ve got an e-mail with a list of links to articles and pictures of you singing at the White Horse Saloon, and then there’s some asshole threatening to bring you up on assault charges. You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Assault charges? You’ve gotta be kidding me. I stepped in between a guy pawing at a woman who didn’t want his attention. She kneed him in the balls, but I never touched him.”
“Well, apparently he’s saying you did.”
Now I wish I’d hit that douchebag. “He’s full of shit.”
“You got a witness who can make a statement to that effect?”
My jaw clenches tight, not just because I know Ripley wouldn’t want her name mixed up with mine, but also because the last thing I want is to drag her into a media circus. That would be the fastest way to scare her off for sure.
“If it’s necessary. Tell him to go fuck off, or the woman he was groping will press charges.”
“Fine. But if it gets ugly—”
“It won’t.” My answer is resolute, and I hope like hell I’m right.
“Good. Charity’s practically doing backflips over the other articles this morning. Public opinion is in your corner. They love the brokenhearted Boone Thrasher, coming out and saying that you gotta get back up and try again when it comes to love.”
I scowl, letting the chair rock again. “Pretty sure that’s not what I said.”
“Well, that’s what the headlines say, so Charity’s happy as shit. The first YouTube video posted from last night has over a half million hits already. Bet it’ll get to a million by the end of the day.”