Into the Storm

by Susan Fanetti

  Before he was halfway in, her eyes flew open, and she pushed against his chest. “Wait!”

  He stopped, concerned.

  “God, you’re big. Wait. Slow. Better go slow. Start slow, anyway.”

  He held. With a laugh he said, “Sorry.” When next he moved, he did so slowly, inching into her—which was beautiful torment for him. While he ground his teeth, mustering every ounce of control, she breathed through his progress, until he was fully sheathed. Then he held again, as much this time for his sake as for hers. He dropped his head to her shoulder and forced his own need back.

  They lay perfectly still, joined together, for a long moment. Then Shannon whispered, “Okay. I’m good.” She shifted under him, flexing hard, and they both gasped.

  He reached down and grabbed her hip. “No. You don’t move.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t move. No matter what. Hold steady.”

  She wrinkled her forehead at him, clearly confused. He responded by pulling back and slamming home. She cried out, and arched her back. He pushed her down and held her. “Don’t. Move.”

  “I don’t—I want—why not?”

  Show didn’t entirely know. Part of it was that he needed to keep control of himself. The touch of her skin on his over the course of this…what? Thirty minutes? An hour? A day?...had had something like a cumulative effect, and his skin was buzzing with arousal. He was sheathed in her tight, wet box, inside a woman for the first time in years. Inside this woman, who’d dug into his head. But it was more than that. He needed her to be still because he felt out of control of everything. It was the whiskey, making him feel like he was alive. He wasn’t. Not really.

  What they were doing was a mistake. A risk on every level. Nothing had changed in him. That realization was settling on him as the Jack wore off, and he needed control to hold it off and claim this moment before it was too late.

  He pulled back and slammed into her again. And again, holding her down, keeping her still. He went at her hard, and she cried out with every thrust. And then she screamed. Breaking from his hold with a single, strong move he didn’t see coming, she wrapped her arms and legs around him as he pounded into her. She bit down into his shoulder, her nails hooked into the skin of his back, and she screamed. He felt her muscles clenching and releasing around his cock, and with a final, deep, wrenching thrust, he came, the force of it like a punch to the gut, and he groaned so loud and long that he felt his throat roughen from the effort.

  As he pulled out and lay next to her, sweaty and breathless, laying his hand on her heaving breast, his head grew loud again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Before Shannon opened her eyes, she knew she was waking up in a strange bed. She took a second and searched her head, trying to get oriented. Her head ached, actually, and her throat was dry—sore, too. And that wasn’t the only thing that was sore. Also, she was naked.

  Show. She was in Show’s bed. She opened her eyes and turned onto her back.

  She was also alone.

  There was a door in the corner of the room that obviously led to a bathroom, but it was open. He wasn’t in the room. She sat up, pulling the sheet up and tucking it under her arms, covering herself. Okay. It was okay. Maybe he was just getting coffee or something—it wasn’t like he could bolt from his own room. Okay.

  Scooting back to lean against the wall at the head of the bed, which had no headboard, she made herself relax. He’d be back. She was hung over, but not outrageously so; she’d always held her liquor pretty well. She remembered everything. Everything. And dear God.

  He was gorgeous. She’d known that; the first time she’d ever seen him, he’d been shirtless, and he was massive and cut as if from marble. She smiled, remembering that she’d called him a Rodin. Had he understood the compliment? His huge arms and shoulders were covered in ink, and a rearing horse with a flaming mane and tail spread over his back from his neck to his waist. His thighs and calves were heavy with muscle, and around his right thigh, a few inches above his knee, was a wide band of solid black ink, only the letters H-O-R-D-E left uninked around the band.

  On his chest, he had only one simple tat: the name “Daisy,” in script, over his heart. His dead daughter’s name, she knew that. The rest of what she knew was that she’d died in bad circumstances—but how could a child die any other way?—and that it had caused the end of his marriage. That much she got from the gossip she couldn’t help but overhear around town. She wasn’t yet really in the gossip loop. Since she herself wasn’t a big fan of that kind of talk, she didn’t mind.

  He was so much bigger than she was. She felt small and delicate in his arms, and the way he’d touched her, like he was committing her to memory, had made her ache and flutter. The recollection of it now, alone in his bed, made her wet. His coarse hands had been light and gentle on her skin. Until they weren’t. Until they were rough and demanding, holding her in an iron grip. Dear God.

  And his cock! Entirely proportional to the mountain he was, and bigger than any she’d experienced. He’d hurt her at first. Honestly, he’d hurt her at the middle and last, too, but once the burning stretch had calmed, the pain had been exquisite. She’d come hard, twice, by his hand and by his cock. The soreness she felt this morning was a welcome reminder, and she squirmed a little. She’d like to feel that achy fullness again. Right now.

  But she was alone.

  She didn’t have a watch. Since she hadn’t been planning to stay long at the party, she hadn’t brought her bag, with her phone, in from her car, so she looked around the room for a clock—there, on the dresser. Nearly eleven. Shit! Where was he? Did it take this long to get coffee? Was he getting breakfast, too?

  At eleven-thirty, it had become more than sufficiently apparent that yes, indeed, Show had bailed on her in his own room. Humiliated and depressed, she got up and used his bathroom, then got dressed and checked in the mirror that she was fairly back to rights before she did the goddamn walk of shame through the goddamn clubhouse. Her back straight and her head high, she walked out of his room, figured out what direction to go, and headed down the hallway.

  As she came into the main room, which was littered with unconscious bodies and smelled like the dumpster behind a dive bar, she nearly ran headlong into Isaac, who was heading toward the other hallway. He grabbed her arm to avert the collision.

  “Whoa, sweet—” He stopped, his brows raised, and Shannon knew he was just realizing who she was. His surprise humiliated her even further. “Shannon. Oh. Uh…hey. You okay?”

  Other than the powerful need to cry, she was just peachy. But she held it together and smiled. “Yeah. Great. Just on my way out.”

  The surprise did not leave his face. He did not look like he’d had the kind of night the rest of the Horde had had. He was showered and wide awake, here to work, she guessed. She had no idea what that exactly meant. Probably town stuff. She didn’t rightly care at the moment; she needed to get out.

  “You, uh, want some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. Got to go.” She pulled her arm free from his grip and strode out with as much dignity as she could muster, careful not to trip over the unconscious people and other detritus of Badger’s party.

  ~oOo~

  When she got back to the inn, everything seemed quiet. She’d checked her phone when she’d got into her car—no messages, so the night had been quiet, too, apparently. That was good. They were booked solid for the weekend, but Beth always ran breakfast without her, so she probably hadn’t been missed. She could take it easy until the late afternoon, assuming no crises. Badger had an assistant, Kenny, who would be tending the animals and running the trail rides today, while Badge recuperated from his party.

  Shannon needed to do some recuperating of her own, at least mentally. Emotionally. She’d thought she had made a connection with Show, that the night had meant something. She’d obviously been very wrong. She’d never had such a humiliating experience. She’d never been left like that after sex. Even the casual e
ncounters she’d had had ended with some dignity. With a proper goodbye and maybe a croissant and a cup of coffee first.

  Back in her apartment she cast off her clothes, feeling disgusted by their feel and smell. She walked naked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, making the water as hot as she could stand. She stepped in and washed, shampooing her hair, lathering up her shower puff and cleaning away the night. She couldn’t clean the sick feeling in her chest, though, the lingering weight of it. She rinsed off and stood in the scalding stream, her mind running over the night with Show, turning sweet and sexy memories into cringe-worthy abominations. She’d been a fool.

  She shouldn’t have gone. What an idiot she was. But Badger had invited her, and he’d been so sweet and excited, trying to play it off all cool and detached, but failing miserably. And yes—she’d known she’d see Show, and she’d dressed for his attention.

  Well, she’d gotten it. And here she was, washing his come away. Because she’d let him go without a condom. A biker, who spent his days surrounded by girls who got passed around. Suddenly, her knees gave out under the weight of it all, and she sat hard on the floor of the shower, sobbing.

  ~oOo~

  That evening, not long before they’d serve the nightcap to their guests, Shannon was sitting at her desk, preparing for the coming week—or longer. The first Hollywood contingent, two writers and a photographer, were checking in the next afternoon, with an open check-out. They were planning a week at the least. Three rooms booked for seven days was good; the inn tended to be quiet during the week. But these guests would take some extra management. They wanted space for interviews, they wanted a “guide” (as if Signal Bend was some wild, uncharted territory), and they had an array of special food requirements that would take some effort to meet in these parts—gluten-free, dairy-free, vegan. Feeding these three people for a week would require Beth’s full attention—and all of her patience. She had had no idea what ‘quinoa’ was until Shannon had explained it, and the look on her face once that explanation had been made suggested that Beth thought people who couldn’t or wouldn’t eat wheat or dairy were not her kind of people and never would be.

  It was bound to be an interesting week, one that might be a harbinger of even more interesting times to come.

  And that was good; it would keep Shannon’s mind off more personal concerns. It wasn’t just Show, though that was bad enough. This was a tiny town she’d moved to, a few hundred people. Not only would everyone know that she’d gone back to Show’s room—they probably already did, had probably been sitting at Marie’s talking about it over their ham and eggs this morning—but it would be impossible not to see him everywhere, all the time. God, he was at her work, her home, regularly, for one reason or another. The inn was practically an annex of the clubhouse. So she could relive her embarrassment over and over and over.

  It wasn’t just embarrassment. She really was disappointed. Her chest ached with it. She liked him so much. No rhyme or reason to it—until last night, their relationship had barely even existed. She’d told him last night that she could feel him, and that was true. When their eyes met, something happened inside her. And last night had been…well, beautiful. Perfect, even, if she let herself get dreamy about it. He’d made her feel special. And then he’d made her feel worthless.

  She had no business letting a man make her feel anything, giving somebody else so much power over her self-esteem. What the hell was wrong with her?

  And that’s what really had her down. For a week now, she’d been faced by all the ways she was just wrong. That she couldn’t be satisfied with a man like Keith, who loved her and didn’t crowd her and wasn’t threatened by her success or her power. That she’d lived in Tulsa for twenty years—her entire adult life—without forming a solid bond with anyone. That she’d run, again, from her past with nary a pause. And now, that she was so twisted up over a man she hardly knew, a lachrymose biker who ran a feed store and was clearly, seriously fucked up. How on this verdant earth could she possibly feel the way she did for Show when she couldn’t feel anything like it for Keith?

  And what kind of name was “Showdown” for a grown man, anyway?

  Shannon felt her throat tightening again, and she swallowed hard. She’d had her cry. Enough of that nonsense. Show didn’t want her? Fine. Or even if he wanted her and was too screwed up to deal with it. Fine. She would not be treated the way he’d treated her this morning. She did not get bailed on. Period. She would focus on work and keep her head high in town. No one would know that she’d had this day and let a man make her feel less than she was. She captained her own damn ship.

  It was nearing nine o’clock, so she closed her laptop and headed out to the parlor. The inn was full of weekend guests seeking the tail end of the fall weather—a traditional B&B crowd, the lot of them, who’d spent this Saturday antiquing, hiking, and riding the trails. Those who stayed in for the nightcap would want a traditional B&B ending to their Saturday, which meant conversation, maybe some games, possibly some music on the upright piano. Shannon wasn’t a fan, actually; it struck her as aggressively precious. But she ran a B&B, and there was a cultish kind of B&B crowd, who wanted everything quaint and precious.

  Just please not charades. She didn’t think she had enough in her tonight to fake her enjoyment of charades.

  ~oOo~

  When she woke the next morning, snug in her comfy bed, cocooned under her favorite down comforter, she felt better. Still a shuddering pang of regret if she thought about Friday night, but she was able to push Show into a cupboard in her head and lock him away. She got up and started her day. It was going to be a busy one, with the first wave of movie people checking in in the afternoon.

  After she’d showered and dressed, she heard Weasel, Badger’s pup, barking outside. So Badge was already in. He hadn’t been in at all yesterday, so he was probably worried about the baby goats he was working into the herd. Shannon hoped he’d gotten their feed right—Show had been around almost daily last week, helping Badger out with those damn goats.

  Nope—not thinking about…that guy. Nope.

  The morning was busy with breakfast and then checkouts. By eleven, the inn was empty and ready to turn. She wasn’t one to micromanage her staff, but on this day, she went in and double-checked the rooms their California guests would be staying in. Barring any unlikely drop-ins or late reservations, they would be the only guests until Thursday.

  Satisfied that the rooms showed their best, Shannon went down to check with Beth in the kitchen. This week, she’d be making dinner on request as well as breakfast every morning, and she’d be challenged every meal, unable to prepare her usual country-style menu. She was crabby and snarky, barking at her assistant. She bitched that quinoa bread tasted like the cardboard her old man kept on the garage floor to soak up oil, except not as moist. But she had everything under control. Shannon, who had eaten quinoa bread before, tasted Beth’s loaf. It was good. Nothing would ever be as good—in taste, smell, feel, or sight—as an old-fashioned loaf of country wheat or white, but Beth’s quinoa would pass muster in any high-end restaurant in Tulsa.

  With the kitchen well in Beth’s hand, Shannon grabbed a jacket and went to sit in one of the rockers on the front porch. She needed a minute of quiet—and she got five before Lilli’s SUV crested the hill on the drive. It wasn’t surprising that Lilli would make an appearance today; their guests were a big deal, and Shannon had noticed some unease in Lilli that didn’t seem to be about their stay at the inn.

  She sat where she was, rocking and watching Lilli collect Gia from the back seat. She was about…three months old now, and she’d calmed down a lot. She was a delicately pretty little thing, with dark hair and green eyes. As often as Lilli and Gia were around the inn, Shannon had managed never to hold her. She got passed around the kitchen, around the housekeeping staff, even Badger liked to give her a squeeze, when his hands were clean and he was allowed, but Shannon had successfully avoided it, without too many awkward acrobati
cs. Yet she watched.

  Lilli came up the porch steps, smiling, and sat down in the rocker next to Shannon, setting Gia on her lap. “How you doing?”

  It wasn’t the question Shannon was expecting, and it quickly dawned on her that Lilli knew about her and Show. Of course she did, even though she hadn’t been at the party. Isaac—and he wasn’t stupid. He knew whose room she’d been coming from. She put the pieces together: Isaac had known that Shannon had slept with Show. He must have known that Show was not in the clubhouse, so he therefore knew that he’d left her alone in his room. So her whole sordid story was no secret. Neither Isaac nor Lilli told tales, but she had no idea who else knew enough to put the whole thing together. The town gossip wouldn’t simply be that she’d fucked Show. It would also be that he’d chucked her and left her to walk alone through the clubhouse in the morning.

  Rocking hard, making the porch creak, she tried to force all that behind the door in her head. It didn’t want to fit. Lilli grabbed the arm of her rocker and stopped her frenetic motion. “Shannon. You okay?”

  Shannon caught hold of herself and took a breath. “Yeah. I’m good.”

  Unwinding her long hair from Gia’s little pink fist, Lilli said, “I know I’m a pain in your ass, but if you want to talk, I’m here.”

  No. Even if she were inclined to bare her soul—and she wasn’t—Lilli was too close to Show. “No. If you want to talk about our incoming guests, I can update you on all that. We’re in good shape.”

  Lilli shook her head. “I know. I’m not worried about that at all. I came to check on you. Stupid and intrusive of me, and I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re on an island. I’d say I know what it’s like to be the new kid around here, but I had it kind of lucky. Everybody saw me as attached to Isaac almost right away. But I know these people, and they’re quick to be polite but slow to be warm. Hey—why don’t you come out to our place for dinner again. Now that the diva is more even-tempered, it might even be relaxing.”