Grin and Beard It (Winston Brothers #2)

by Penny Reid

  My head swimming became brain drowning and I moaned, shifting an inch away and reaching for the buckle of his belt. His breathing quickened and so did mine, and when I finally, finally circled my hand around his length, we both shuddered.

  I loved the feel of him, the dichotomy of hard and smooth, the involuntary, primitive, and yet controlled nature of his arousal. Taking action was always a choice. But the physical evidence of how Jethro saw me, how he desired me—wanted me—was raw and honest and impossible to deny.

  I needed to feel him, taste him, consume him. In much the same way I’d hoped Jethro would be insatiable for me, I was—in that moment—insatiable for him. And something happened that had never happened to me before.

  I actually wanted to give a man a blow job.

  Not only did I want to do it, I felt like I might go batshit crazy if he didn’t let me do it. I felt the frantic need in my chest and the tips of my fingers, on my tongue and low in my belly. Armed with this need and intent on my goal, I began lowering myself to my knees, tugging his boxers and jeans down as I went.

  But Jethro—who had been standing so still as I’d touched him, as though he’d been afraid the moment would disappear or prove to be a figment of his imagination—stopped me. His eyes flew open, just visible under the starlight. His searched mine and gripped my arms to halt my movements.

  “Wait, wait. What are you doing?” His words were breathless and held an unmistakable air of panic.

  “I’m heading downtown,” I answered, equally breathless.

  He blinked at me, didn’t move, and said nothing.

  So I pushed his jeans down his hips and moved to kneel.

  He stopped me again.

  “Don’t—”

  I reached for him again, gripping the smooth, thick length of him and stroking, effectively cutting off his words. His eyes closed again and his forehead met mine, but he didn’t loosen his grip on my arms.

  “Jethro, I want to.”

  He groaned. It sounded tortured.

  And perhaps thinking about my mother in that moment was a little weird, but I did. Specifically, I thought about her words, It’s good for a man’s soul to be tortured in this way.

  Without thinking, I asked, “Are you afraid of temptation?”

  He shook his head. “God, no. Just being with you, just seeing you. Fuck.” He mostly swallowed the expletive, his hips rolling in a way that made me think the movement was instinctual, then added on a rush, “You breathing tempts me.”

  That made my heart do happy backflips and I smiled, feeling bolder.

  Lowering my voice to the octave reserved for seduction, I pressed, “Then what are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Then what—”

  “I don’t want you to have any regrets.”

  Oh, Jethro . . .

  I removed his fingers from my arm and placed them on my shoulder. Then I lifted my chin and gave him a tender kiss, a gentle kiss. Paired with my tight, rough strokes I hoped it conveyed the weight of my affection, the complexity of my feelings.

  “I will never regret you,” I whispered solemnly.

  He released a shuddering sigh and I felt some of his tension drain away.

  Those seemed to be the magic words, or maybe what I was doing inside his shorts was magical. Whatever it was, he didn’t try to stop me this time as I knelt on the cushion provided by the sleeping bags, bringing his shorts all the way down as I lowered myself, enjoying the feel of his legs as I skimmed my fingers over his thighs and behind his knees.

  Darkness pressed in on us, cloaking my movements. Though I was greedy for the sight of him, the moonless night obscured his bare skin. But I could feel him, still heavy and hard and smooth. With no further prelude, I took him in my mouth and moaned.

  I moaned because a bone-deep satisfaction warmed my blood as he filled me. With each pass of my lips and each of his ragged breaths, a growing fulfillment blossomed, ballooned, eliminating the void carved out by weeks of frustrated longing. Now I was able to indulge myself, I felt the full weight of my desire. My pent-up frustration dissolved.

  I’d wanted to give without expectation of receiving.

  I’d wanted to suffocate him with affection and touch.

  I’d wanted to love him.

  And so I did.

  CHAPTER 27

  “No effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost.”

  ― Helen Keller

  ~Jethro~

  “Sienna—” I reached for her.

  “Jethro.” She stepped away.

  “You’re killing me here.”

  “You look healthy to me,” she said, moving the flashlight up and down my person as I tried to buckle my belt.

  I tried to grab her again but she moved away again, flicking off the flashlight, sitting and settling on top of the sleeping bags, out of my reach. So I chased her, kneeling in front of her drawn-up legs and wrapping my hands around her thighs.

  “You can’t just do what you just did—”

  “You mean give my boyfriend a spectacular blow job?”

  I frowned because it was more than that. Calling what she’d done just a blow job was like calling Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata just a song. It hadn’t been part of my plan for the evening. I’d wanted a repeat of what happened after her first Daisy doughnut, at the very least, but I’d hoped for more—more of her sweet sounds, more of her bare skin. I’d also planned to take my time with her body, learn every soft curve.

  But she’d surprised me; in that moment I’d never wanted anything more than her mouth on me. Although, want might have been an understatement.

  “You can’t expect me not to want to return the favor.” Again, want might have been an understatement. I tugged on her legs, already anticipating the taste of her.

  “It wasn’t a favor.”

  “Then a gift.”

  “It wasn’t that either.” Her tone was more serious than I’d expected, so I stopped tugging and endeavored to make out her features.

  It was dark, but we Winston boys could see better than most with very little light. With no moon in the sky, the stars alone illuminated her gorgeous face. I wanted to see her naked body under the starlight, her tits rise and fall with excited breaths as I slid my tongue inside her . . .

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  I couldn’t breathe with how much I wanted her.

  Sienna turned her face away, giving me her profile. She looked to be studying the surrounding blackness.

  “Sienna.” I tugged on her legs once more, wanting her to lift her hips so I could ease down her tights and expose her exquisite skin.

  She covered my hands with hers, halting my movements, and she had emotion in her eyes as she brought them back to me. “Why haven’t you been coming inside my trailer? In the mornings?”

  Her question sounded like an accusation. It took me a moment to respond, but then she cut me off with another question before I could.

  “And why haven’t you spent any alone time with me other than when we’re rushing to the set, or to your house for dinner, or to the cabin? You just drop me off and leave.”

  She sounded hurt and her eyes were wide with it. And her hurt burned me.

  “Sienna . . .” I struggled for the right words. Her anger blindsided and perplexed me. I needed to make things right.

  I needed to hold her, and I saw she needed me to hold her, so I did.

  I gathered her in my arms and laid us both down on the sleeping bags. She didn’t fight me, she snuggled closer, burying her face in my neck and gripping my shirt.

  Now that we were touching, I started again. “We haven’t been spending time alone because there’s no place for us to be alone.”

  “What about my trailer and my room at the cabin and—”

  “Sunshine, those places aren’t private.”

  “They are private.”

  “Not private enough. ’Cause, Sienna, you’re not quiet when you come—not th
at I’m complaining. I’m not. Not at all. I love everything about making you feel good.”

  She huffed. “Are you telling me you haven’t been—haven’t been . . . se avienta el mañanero because you require complete privacy?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Literally translated, it’s throwing the morning one, you know—getting it on in the morning.”

  That made me grin, because we were definitely going to be throwing the morning one with frequency; hopefully sooner rather than later. I’d have to learn the Spanish words and whisper it in her ear to wake her up.

  Tucking that thought away, I quickly responded, “I don’t require complete privacy.” But then I thought more about her question and had to amend my answer. “I don’t require it. But I want it.”

  She chuckled. It sounded frustrated. “You’re going to have to explain yourself.”

  I tightened my arms around her and tangled our legs together. “For right now, especially for right now, I want what happens between us to be between us. I know that pretty soon things are going to change. I know I’m going to have to share you with all the dirty list makers. But for now, I have you to myself. What we’re building is between just us, and that’s important. I’m not ready to share, not yet.”

  She was quiet, like she was thinking on my words. I didn’t push. Instead I rubbed her back, slipped my fingers under her shirt. I was after her skin.

  Abruptly, she caught my hands on their way to her breast. “This whole time, you’ve been stalling? Because you wanted complete privacy?”

  “Just for now.” I tried moving my hand again, but she had a firm hold on me. I could easily break it. I didn’t. Instead, I waited.

  “I thought . . .”

  When she didn’t continue, I shifted away so I could see her face. Her eyes were searching for mine and she brought her fingers to my cheek like she was touching me in lieu of seeing me.

  Now she’d released my hand, I continued my upward progress until I cupped her through her bra, loving the generous weight and yielding suppleness of her breast. I began pulling down the cup, planning to take her nipple between my teeth. I moved my knee to the junction of her thighs and my mouth watered in anticipation.

  “What did you think?” I whispered.

  “I thought, since you’re trying to wait until marriage, you didn’t want to do anything with me.”

  “What?” My single word arrived sharper than I’d intended. I saw we had some things that needed discussing. “No, no, no. God, no. All I think about is you, doing things to you. And trying to figure out how to do those things away from prying eyes and ears.”

  Her lips flattened. She didn’t look convinced.

  I pressed a quick kiss to her sweet lips. “Sienna, this afternoon, did Susie tell you to take a nap?”

  She hesitated for a minute before admitting, “Yes.”

  “And Dave?”

  “Yes.”

  “I asked them to do that. I have hot chocolate and champagne in the truck. And tequila. I put the sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows in the cab on Monday. I’ve been counting down the days, putting all the pieces in motion. Getting you alone, out here and awake, this has been in the works since early last week. I’m desperate for you.” I kissed her again, pulling down the cup of her bra and sliding my palm over her perfectly shaped breast.

  Fuck. She felt so fucking good. Heaven in my hands.

  I wanted her. Right now.

  I wanted her little, panting, hitching breaths and her loud, abandoned moans. And now I knew she was a happy screamer, I wanted her screams, too.

  “Wait.” She twisted her mouth from mine and caught my hand again. “Wait, stop.”

  I stopped, but groaned my dissatisfaction. “What? What is it?”

  “I don’t want you to go down on me.” Her words were breathless but I heard conviction in her tone.

  “Why?” I asked through gritted teeth, because I did want it. As much as I’d needed her mouth on me before, I needed my mouth on her sweet body. Needed the taste of her. Needed it.

  “Because I didn’t give you a blow job because I wanted reciprocation. I did it because I need you to-to-to accept my affection. I have feelings for you—deep, important, overwhelming feelings—and I have to be able to show you how I feel.”

  “Fine. Done. You can show me while I taste you.” I moved to kiss her again, shifting my thigh between her legs.

  “Jethro, stop. You’re not listening to me.” Her grip on my roaming hands tightened and I growled my frustration.

  My patience was at an end.

  I couldn’t be this close without taking some part of her for myself, so I pulled my hands and body away. I rolled onto my back, shoving my palms into my eye sockets. My heart galloped. Blood pounded between my ears and rushed with needful intent to my dick.

  “Let me know when you’re calm enough to talk,” she said, her tone even. Completely fucking reasonable.

  She didn’t apologize and I was glad. She had nothing to be sorry for.

  But, Christ almighty, I was shaking with how badly I needed to touch her. I was sweating with it. And that wasn’t her fault.

  Time. I needed time.

  And space.

  I pushed myself upright and edged to the tailgate, jumping down. In my peripheral vision I saw she’d also sat up and was trying to figure out what I was up to. Likely, to her eyes, I was a black mass against the dark field and sky.

  “Jethro?” She sounded uncertain. I didn’t like that.

  I cleared my throat and tried to mimic her earlier reasonable tone. “I need a drink. You want something? I have hot chocolate.”

  She hesitated before asking, “Do you think it’s still hot?”

  “Should be. It’s in my camping thermos.”

  “Then yes, please.”

  I walked to the driver’s side and opened the door while I considered taking off my shirt. I was still hot. I knew of a pond not far from here I could jump in. It wouldn’t be precisely cold at seventy or so degrees, but it might do the trick.

  I fished out the thermos and tequila, shut the doors, walked back to the tailgate, and poured her cup first. She’d crawled on her hands and knees to where I stood and I had to look away. Seeing her in that position inspired all kinds of frustrating thoughts. I set the mug just in front of her, pulled the cork from the bottle of Patron, and took a short drink.

  I needed to clear my head, not get drunk. The burn helped, sobered and slowed my frenzied pulse.

  “You’re drinking tequila?”

  I nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see me. “Yes. I’m drinking tequila.”

  She was quiet, like she was picking her words, then said, “You’re upset.”

  I tried the words on and they didn’t quite fit. “I’m not upset. I’m frustrated.”

  “Why are you frustrated?”

  A humorless laugh burst from my lips. “Because I’ve been planning this evening for weeks, and instead of me making you feel good, I get a Moonlight Sonata of a blow job and then I’m not allowed to touch you.”

  “And why do you want to touch me so badly?”

  I glared at her, seeing she was trying to subtly tell me something, or bring me to a specific conclusion. “You’re trying to lead me someplace, to some conclusion? Instead, why don’t you just come out and say it?”

  “Fine. I’ll just say it. You’re frustrated because you want to show me how much I mean to you, and I won’t allow it, correct?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” Another way might be, I’m obsessed with your body, with touching you and tasting you and bringing you pleasure, and yet you seem indifferent.

  “I know how you feel, because that’s how I’ve been feeling for weeks.”

  I stared at her, growing irritated all over again. But this was a new kind of irritated, like she was punishing me for not being a mind reader.

  “You’ve been frustrated for weeks?”

  “Yes.”

  “
You never said anything.”

  “I know. I should have. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, you should have said something. If you’ve been feeling frustrated, you should have told me.”

  “How could you not know?” she demanded, her words loud and irritable. “Did you really think I’d be happy with no physical intimacy?”

  “So you’re punishing me? Because I’m not all-knowing? You think I haven’t been frustrated too?” I lifted my voice to match her volume.

  “I’m not punishing you.” She reached for my hand and held it between both of hers, sending the now familiar spike of magic, of belonging and longing, racing up my arm. But now confusion and resentment muddied it.

  “Then what are you doing?” I ground out between clenched teeth, because I didn’t want to holler at her.

  “I want to talk about this before I lose my nerve, because I’ve been wanting to talk to you for weeks and I’ve been too afraid.”

  I blinked at her new confession, most of my furious resentment morphing into concern. My mouth went dry with it. She’d again surprised me.

  I choked out, “You’re afraid of me?”

  “No, no. I’m saying this wrong.” She huffed like she was frustrated with herself and quickly added, “I promise, if you still want to savor my papaya after we finish talking, then I will gladly strip naked and sit on your face. But first, we have to talk.”

  “Then talk. Tell me. And don’t be afraid of me.” I’m sure my request sounded like a plea because the thought of Sienna being scared of me settled like shards of glass in my stomach.

  “Okay.” She nodded once, gathered a deep breath, then said on a rush, “I want to be able to show you how I want you without worrying who is going to overhear or see us. I’m not talking about being an exhibitionist, but I can’t go another two weeks until you arrange for complete privacy. I don’t like being afraid that I’m pushing you further than you’re willing to go. So before additional touching commences, I need you to know that I want you, all the time, but I don’t want to lose you. I guess I’m afraid of losing you.”