Rough Rowdy Reckless (RRR #1)

by Kimball Lee

  “Yeah, my claim to fame,” he says still holding my hand and ignoring everyone else.

  “So Holt, you only know one syllable words?” Penn asks, she’s buzzed and loves a god natured round of agitating and stirring the proverbial pot.

  “Right,” Holt says his eyes only leaving mine to focus on my lips.

  “You’re okay with that, don’t feel the need to expand your vocabulary?” Penn says and I know it’s because I haven’t said a word so she and Gigi are wondering if I’m having an insta-love moment.

  “Nope. Well, I know bullshit and horseshit. You like those?” Holt asks and he pulls me close as if we’re going to dance right here if my friends won’t shut up.

  “Not especially, they’re kind of gross, although I have been known to use them under duress,” Penn says and Gigi tips a shot glass to her lips and nods in agreement before her gaze falls back to his crotch.

  “There’s no pleasing you, huh? It’s either too big or too small, you’re never satisfied?” He says and somehow I know the question is meant for me.

  “You’re big,” I say, finding my voice, my eyes scanning those mile-wide shoulders and drifting down to the outline of his cock in his worn jeans before I can stop myself.

  “Yep,” he says, smiling, amused, like he’s well aware of exactly what girls want and need from him, things that don’t involve words. “So, what’s your deal, beauty? Sick of safe, polite trust-fund boys who turn their noses up at anyone who isn’t privy to an exorbitantly expensive non-state-funded institution of higher education?”

  “Good use of words, and yes, she definitely is,” Gigi says smiling happily as if I’ve hit the jackpot in the man-for-the-week department and again I’m at a loss for words.

  “You got that right, she’s sooo over her pip-squeak, brainiac ex-boyfriend. She needs a real man to show her the ropes, and I’m thinking you’re right up her alley,” Penn echoes and widens her eyes urging me to say something, anything.

  “Can’t say as I blame her, it’s plain to see she can have any man she wants with the snap of her fingers,” Holt says, and his eyes twinkle as he inches closer, he certainly found some part of Penn’s little speech to his liking, and whatever is going on behind his eyes has my heart doing that somersault thing again. “But, maybe she’s looking to push her boundaries, get unruly with a man she can walk away from afterwards with no regrets. She wants her first big adventure and who can blame her, go big or go home, right?”

  “Holt this is Scarlet, aka Little Red Riding Hood, she has the look doesn’t she? An inescapable innocent-meets-sexy-as-fuck vibe going on?” Walker butts in, he’s beginning to slur and there’s a mean, I’m-feeling-left-out, edge to his words.

  “Not a nice thing to say,” Holt says, his eyes fix on Walker and now they’re dark forest-green and menacing.

  “Sorry ‘bout that Miss Scarlet and I’m not just saying that because brawny Mr. Corrigan might kick my ass into next week. It was rude and uncalled for, think I’ll catch a ride home or crash at my brother’s place. Night all,” He says tossing a hundred dollar bill on the counter and disappearing in the direction of the entrance.

  “Would you like to dance?” Holt asks again.

  “In here?” I say stupidly, and my voice sounds weak and strange.

  “Or in the street, if you like, but I think here is good,” he says and when me he pulls me away from my friends and against his body and I fall into him, he catches me and I feel weightless, like silk.

  Holt Corrigan, that’s his name, strong, mysterious, and just soooo… right.

  “This works,” I say and we’re pushed even closer by the pack of drunks milling around us.

  He seems alright with it, that we’re basically crushed together in the rowdy, cramped bar. I certainly am. He’s still holding my hand and he lifts it slightly and slides a long, muscled arm around my waist like we really have any hope of dancing in the middle of the hippies, freaks, and hipsters. His free hand rests on the bare skin of my hip, my nipples tighten as heat shoots through me and I can tell he feels it too. He begins to move slowly, taking me with him, his sheer size and bulk forcing the crowd to open and step back.

  As tall as I am, he’s a lot taller. I lift up on my toes so that my cheek rests against his hard, sculpted shoulder. His arm tightens around me and I can feel the roped muscles of his forearm press into the small of my back. My face turns up instinctively, my lips brush the beating pulse-point in his neck and I inhale deeply. Damn! He smells like heaven wrapped up in six-feet-four-or-five-inches of rock solid, hot, insanely handsome Texas male. He smiles down at me and it’s an unexpectedly adorable little-boy grin, and that’s it—I am in insta-love or whatever you want to call it, I’m done for, I’m his.

  Some random guy on stage is picking a guitar and singing an old Willie and Waylon song, and the crowd gets quiet, settles down to listen.

  “It’s a good song, you should pay attention and just walk away from me,” He says and his hand releases mine and his knuckles trail across my bare belly and I don’t care about the words… or the warning. “Who are you, beauty?” he asks, his hands clamping tight on my hips, holding me so close, standing still in the middle of the room, head bent down, his eyes are shocking-green beneath the rim of the black hat.

  “Scarlet,” I whisper into his ear, and his hot, clean, earthy smell of his skin is forever embedded in my brain.

  “Listen,” he says as the music and the words drift out from the stage and settle over us.

  “Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys, don’t let ‘em pick guitars and drive them old trucks, let ‘em be doctors and lawyers and such. Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys, ‘coz they’ll never stay home and they’re always alone, even with someone they love.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say and he smiles, slow and disarming and his lips cover mine.

  This man, Holt, tastes like tequila and sin, and our mouths fit like we were made for each other, and it’s unquestionably the way a kiss should feel; Warm, soft, tender, deep, rough, wet… bliss. His cock is huge and diamond-hard against my thigh, my breasts are crushed into his chest, nipples aching for his touch, pulse pounding in my ears. I want him to lead me out of this run-down bar, crash into a wall in a dark alley, lift my skirt, push my panties aside, feel how wet I am, and fuck me—hard and deep and….

  “Scarlet let’s go!” Penn hisses and Holt and I tear our lips away from each other and stare down at her. “We’re outta here, your man-crush is right down the street, you are so gonna score tonight. Come on, hurry up!”

  “He is,” Gigi adds, jerking me away from ‘Mr. So-right-it’s-scary’. “We’ve had enough of this dive and all these freaks, we’re ditching both right now. C’mon, your dream lover awaits.”

  My best friends are determined to get out of the bar fast, they each grab one of my arms and lead me away. I’m walking backwards, watching Holt Corrigan recede into the distance, stunned into silence by the power of the one kiss we shared.

  “Come with me,” I say, hoping he heard me, wondering if my lips actually moved to form the words.

  He shakes his head, pulls off his hat and runs a hand through dark, tousled hair. His smile is gone and I hear his words as the door closes between us— “Not tonight, beauty. Wouldn’t want to mess up your date.”

  PART TWO

  Scarlet…

  The worst part of being me is my insomnia. I seldom get that nice, drowsy feeling and on the rare occasion that I do, it’s still hopeless. I have a prescription for sleeping pills but I fight their effects and then I sort of space out and either text a dozen long-lost friends in the middle of the night or eat three giant bags of potato chips without realizing it. The next morning I find the empty bags by my bed or scattered around the duplex and Penn usually rolls her eyes and says, “You’re lucky you have metabolism that burns calories like a jet engine, Scarlet, Ambien-aftermath is not conducive to a bikini body.”

  We didn’t find Jon Wyl
der at Hill’s Café, he’d been there and gone, a near miss and I couldn’t care less. The day of packing, driving, and semi-settling-in, combined with a few beers and tequila shots, and we are wrung out and tired. Back at the penthouse Gigi and Penn are already passed out cold in the master bedroom and I’m wide awake and kicking myself for walking out on Mr. Right. Why did I leave with my friends? I should’ve sent them on without me, it’s not like I’m dying to hear some almost-famous Texas country singer.

  I slip into my usual excuse for PJs—a cami and white men’s boxer briefs—the underwear were borrowed from my ex and never returned cuz they’re super comfy. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, pop a sleeping pill, pray that it’ll work, and wander out onto the deck. I lean against the iron railing and soak in the rich feel of the Texas night. The air is warm and thick, and the moon and a zillion stars are reflected on the surface of the lake. The pyramid-shaped Frost Bank Tower glows eerily under the inky sky and as I close my eyes and let myself bask in the moment I hear a low, rumbled intake of breath behind me.

  I turn and there he is, Mr. Very-Right-cowboy-hat-man, he’s asleep on a double-wide chaise lounge. His huge body is sprawled out and makes the expensive chaise look like a piece of doll-house furniture. He’s bare chested, the cowboy hat is nowhere in sight and his boots are kicked off, belt and shirt tossed aside. I’ve never ever seen shoulders like his on a living, breathing man. He’s shaped like those statues of Greek and Trojan warriors, ferocious and mighty. Not like pretty David waiting for Goliath with his slingshot slung haphazardly over one shoulder. This is Achilles or Hector, sword and shield laid aside, taking a rest and waiting for the next epic battle. And he is epic, not some strutting, flexing, wanna-be-super-hero, pumped-up, steroid-obsessed, gym-junkie.

  These muscles are surely honed by hours of lifting and hauling, and who can say what kind of constant manual labor he does outside under the high Texas sun. He’s all wide bronzed chest, narrow waist, bulging biceps, and ridges and planes I’m thinking of tracing with my fingers and my tongue. If Holt and my ex were to stand side by side it would be sad and comical, next to him, Corey would look like a cute and tidy little plastic Lego man.

  Holt obviously isn’t into city-slicker manscaping, this man and his body are the real thing and the stuff of dreams all wrapped up in one big mouthwatering package. He has a nice smattering of chest hair that looks infinitely touchable and a trail of soft-dark hair from his naval trailing down, down.… Heaven help me, do not let my hand touch him THERE, but I want to, oh yeah, I WANT to! Holt in the moonlight is a beautiful mystery, black hair with that irresistibly disheveled fresh-fucked look, wide eyes closed, long, thick lashes rest on chiseled cheek bones. A swath of dark stubble on his strong, square jawline makes me lean close and think about how it would feel against my skin, rough, dangerous, divine. The top button of his jeans is undone, waistband of black boxers peek out…

  “Nice view tonight, see anything you like?” he says, his voice is a low, sexy growl and I stumble back and fall flat on my ass, head swimming as the sleeping pill begins to kick in.

  He’s on his feet fast and at my side, kneeling down and then lifting me, and I can’t help myself, my arms circle his shoulders and my face burrows into his neck, that fragrant space I’ve already claimed as my own.

  “I…took something to help me sleep,” I whisper, my lips lingering on the hot vein that beats rhythmically just below the skin. “It never works but I think it is now… the pill… to help me sleep. I’m not just clumsy….”

  “Where’s your bed?” He asks gruffly, navigating the hallway in the condo with me in his arms. “Which room is yours?”

  “Whichever one’s empty, just not the master bedroom, my friends are asleep in there.”

  He ducks through a doorway and I tumble onto a bed as he leans down and pries my arms from around his neck. He switches on a bedside lamp, and again I witness the adorable smile that softens his serious features and makes me want to simultaneously reach for his ripped abs and his zipper. I can’t help but stare at the faded denim where the outline of his cock is clearly visible, and as he runs his palm over the enviable bulge I can tell that he’s trying to decide what he should do in this instance.

  “I’m too drunk and you’re too groggy for this,” Holt says, as he stands beside the bed and gazes down at me, brows knitted, a war raging behind his eyes. But his hands have a mind of their own, and he leans down and they glide along the inside of my thighs and push up to the edges of my underwear. His big thumbs reach under the cotton-knit fabric, skimming over the tender folds of my sex as I gasp and arch into his touch.

  “I know, but I need to….” I say, trying to stifle a groan as I stare into impossibly green eyes that are locked on mine, and when I do it’s like being hit by a thunderbolt or catching lightning in a bottle. Improbable as it sounds it happens just that quick, this bizarre force of nature that’s drawing us together, and I know I’ll never see in another man’s eyes what I see in his at this moment. Not only lust and surprise, but shock that whatever has just hit me like a ton of bricks, has taken hold of him, too.

  “Fuck, you are so sweet,” he whispers when he feels how wet I am, soaked from the sight and smell and nearness of him. His fingers linger on my sex for a moment longer, then he jerks his hands away as if the heat at my core is too hot to bear. His lips lower to mine, his eyes narrowed and intense, almost predatory, as he devours me in a scorching, hungry kiss.

  “I want to do this, please, please,” I murmur against his mouth, my hands frantically moving over his back and clutching his biceps as I lift against him, ravenous and shameless with need. “It’s okay, even if I don’t remember a thing tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, that’s not good, beauty, I want you to remember me,” he says and I swear to God I could come just from the sound of his voice when he calls me ‘beauty’ and the wild-animal gleam in those emerald eyes. “You don’t do this all the time, we should wait ‘til you’re more coherent.”

  “Yes I do,” I lie, trying to wrestle out of my tight cami.

  He shakes his head and jerks my top back in place, moves those big, magic hands away from my skin and I want them back NOW. “You’re a bad liar, now scoot over, we’re gonna sleep ‘til I sober up and you’re fully awake.”

  “Sleep? I’m an insomniac! There’s no way I can sleep now, not with you in the same room. My body doesn’t downshift that fast.…”

  “Shhh,” he says, climbing into bed and flipping me over so that my back is to him, then dragging my body hard against his. The man doesn’t know the meaning of gentle, he’s rough, his hands are calloused, his cock is hard as steel and pressing into my ass through the fabric of his jeans. I want those jeans OFF, I want to feel every burning-hot, smooth-hard inch of him on me, in me….

  “You’re not going to take off your jeans?” I ask, attempting to turn and face him but he holds me in place with one monstrously strong arm.

  “Nope, not tonight, now close your eyes and sleep,” he says and I start to protest, to tell him he’s bossy as hell. But he feels so good and his heat wraps around me, mixing with my own, and when I stop fighting it and drift off to sleep he feels like the place where I belong.

  *

  When I wake he’s gone and I groan and press my face into his pillow. It smells of him—Holt—clean, solid, manly. I run my hand over the indention his body has made in the bed and the sheets are cool. There’s a sharp ping in my heart, why didn’t he wake me in the night, why did he leave without saying goodbye? I check the clock and see that it’s past noon, so of course he’s gone, don’t cowboys always get up at dawn to tend herds of cattle, or sheep, or armadillos? I force myself up and go into the bathroom, my suitcase is on the floor, evidence that Penn or Gigi has checked on me. I brush my teeth, wrangle my hair into a ponytail, and slide into a pair of loose, raggedy boy-friend jeans. I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder if I look different now than I did before I met him—the man who I intend to share my bed and
any other flat surface with for the rest of the week, God willing. My nipples harden under the skimpy cami as I picture the intensity of his gaze, the perfect pressure of his tongue against mine, his big, rough fingers gliding over my….

  “Finally!” Penn says, she’s leaning against the bathroom door, sipping a Bloody Mary with a sly smile tugging at her lips and one pale eyebrow raised. “We almost called 911, thought maybe you were fucked to death. Yeah, yeah, we saw the hulk leaving your room this morning, details please, intimate details.”

  “There’s nothing to tell, sadly,” I say and she can see that I’m basically telling the truth. “Strangely, I found him sleeping in a chaise on the deck, but I’d already taken a sleeping pill and he said we should wait.”

  “How chivalrous, damn! Well, a cup of Verona is brewing in the Keurig machine just for you, unless you’d rather have one of these,” she says, taking another sip of her drink before offering it to me.

  “Coffee’s good, waking up with the sexiest man in Austin missing from my bed is bad,” I say and pull a T-shirt on and follow her into the kitchen.

  “Hmm, well Miss Scarlet, today is another day. Chances are good he’ll be back tonight, meanwhile come on out to the deck, you aren’t going to believe who lives on the other side of the plastic wall.”

  I collect my cup of coffee and follow Penn outside where half a dozen people are swilling Bloody Mary’s and partying. Walker McCauley is kicked back in the wide chaise lounge where Holt was sleeping just a few hours ago, and two tiny red-heads with ginormous boobs are cuddled up on either side of him. They’re attractive in a rubbery-blow-up-doll sort of way, giggling and rubbing their scantily clad bodies all over him. He doesn’t look happy or the least bit interested, and as my eyes adjust to the noonday light I spot the problem—Gigi.

  It’s blatantly obvious that the part of Gigi’s brain that controls her libido has settled on an extremely pleasing object of sexual stimuli. In other words, the hot-and-hunky-pretty-boy she’s glued to is destined to be her sex-toy-replacement for the night, if not the week. From the look of things, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already had one or more rowdy romps in the hay. You can barely see a sliver of sunlight between their bodies, they’re perving all over each other in the sight of God and the Lone Star State Capitol.