Rough Rowdy Reckless (RRR #1)

by Kimball Lee

  He pulls out and I’m left gasping, wanting more, wanting him to come in my mouth and utterly shocked at such a thought. Holt claims my mouth in kiss so full of longing that I match his intensity, our tongues probing, delirious with the delicious taste of passion unleashed. I scoot back on the seat and lie down, pull him down with me, his eyes are wild but still questioning, he asks, “Here? Scarlet, in my fucking truck, you sure?”

  I nod and his eyes are on fire, his lips, the tips of his teeth scrape my hardened nipples, I arch and stifle a cry of pure pleasure. His hand searches the pocket of his jeans, a condom wrapper rips open and I raise my head to watch. It’s the most erotic and fascinating thing I’ve ever witnessed. He grips the broad base of his cock, rolls the condom down its length, murmurs a soft low growl and runs a palm across his balls. God, I’m panting, my need is overwhelming, he parts my thighs and ducks his head quickly licking my pussy fast and hard that so that a scream rips from my throat. Then he smiles and lifts my legs and I twine them around his waist, he balances above me, hands on the seat near my head as I stare into his shadowed eyes and guide him to my pussy.

  He’s still for an instant, then his hands slip under my ass, fingers digging into my flesh and lifting, his cock pushing just inside, stretching me open. It’s a too-full feeling, bordering on pain, that sets me on fire and I thrust my hips up, taking him deeper as his teeth graze my nipples, and he begins an agonizingly slow assault. His cock is like velvet-covered steel moving just in, just out, slowly, slowly, and his lips are everywhere at once, kissing, sucking, until I’m dripping wet, moaning and begging. I bite into his bicep, my nails claw his back as he begins to thrust harder, faster, his hand between us, thumb massaging my clit, rough and relentless, until I’m definitely screaming into the dark night as voices pass close by and I don’t give a damn who hears.

  I have never really been fucked, I know that now. I’m fully aware as he pumps into me, his big hands pulling and tugging until he has my body just where he wants it, humming and defenseless, wrecked in the best possible way. My pussy clenches around his cock as he buries himself so deeply I’m sure I’ll split apart. He’s hitting the very end of me, too, too deep, and so, sooo good, and we’re both coming and as he roars his release I am very, very certain that I have finally been fucked by a man and not a boy. We’re both breathing hard, chests heaving, trying to make sense of this fervid need, this fiery lust, the two of us out here in his truck, not just making out or making love—fucking like a couple of sex-starved teenagers.

  “You feel like a fucking dream and fuck I love the way you taste,” he says when we are halfway coherent. “I can’t wait to take my time on your hot little pussy. How the fuck are you so wet and so fucking tight! I want you squirming on my mouth, I want to make you come so Goddamn hard on my cock again and again, beauty, you up for that?” He says, and my body is so limp and shell-shocked I can’t even form the words to tell him how amazing I feel. How I’ve never had a man handle me like he did, that I’ve never come so hard that it rattled my bones and turned me inside out. “Scarlet, you okay?” he asks after he walks around the truck, climbs behind the wheel and starts the engine. He laughs quietly when I give him a drowsy smile and lean against his shoulder, my face buried in the heated crook of his neck. “Sorry about your… panties, here, I’ve got a box of Kleenex in the glove compartment, it’s all I have, didn’t expect to do this in the truck. Or you can use my shirt if you want, then we’ll take a nice, long shower when we get to the condo.”

  I straighten up and stretch like a satisfied cat, open the glove compartment and a coil of silvery-grey rope falls out. I pick it up and although I expect it to be course and stiff, it’s soft and pliable, like woven silk.

  “Fuck, I forgot all about that. Here,” He says, taking it from me and studying my face to see if I’m gonna freak out.

  I don’t say a word, just watch the mellow glow that settles in his beautiful eyes, and I have the distinct feeling there’s something special—sexual—about this particular piece of silken rope.

  “It’s not what you think, Scarlet. This is old but it’s… new, it’s been in here for two or three years, I’ve been meaning to throw it out. I’m about to buy a new truck and I suppose I thought I’d just hang onto it until then,” He says and while he talks he’s handling the rope like a lover, his big thumbs smoothing over the thick threads as he uncoils the length and then wraps it loosely around his hands. His cheeks redden and he rolls down the window and pitches it into the bed of the truck.

  “I’m assuming that’s not for horses or livestock? You… like to tie things up? Girls?” I ask, my voice is calmer than it should be as I find the box of Kleenex and staunch the warm flow of our fluids between my legs. The truth is I’m turned-on by the way he looked when he held the rope. I wonder what it would feel like against my bare skin, how fucking erotic it would be to let him possess me, to give up all control to those skilled hands, his unbelievably big, warm body branding my skin, turning me just so, any way he wants, his cock pounding into me, ruining my body for any other, lesser man….

  “Scarlet, you don’t know me from Adam,” he says and his deep voice is rough and jagged. “But you’ve met my friends, and Penn’s father knows who I am, I built a pool-house for Gus at his place on Mount Bonnell. What I’m saying is I’m not a pervert or a predator, there was a girl I dated a few years back and she was into… she liked rope-play. Yeah, it’s kinda kinky, and who the fuck knows why I kept that piece of rope. It’s never been used, it was just something I bought later, after she and I went our separate ways. We weren’t in love it was just sex and you don’t need to hear all this, but I like you and maybe we’ll want to do more than just… fuck. Maybe we’ll want to continue to know each other after your spring-fling, so I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about me.”

  “Rope-play, you mean bondage? Pain and leather straps…?”

  “No, no pain. Bondage for pleasure, controlled pleasure for both parties. That’s it, don’t give it another thought, seriously, that shit happened a long fucking time ago. Now, we’re at a definite crossroads here, do you wanna go back inside with your friends or do you wanna finish what we started. ‘Cause I promise you this, beauty, we’ve barely scratched the surface, and your body was made for me and for rip-roaring sex.”

  “Let’s go to the condo,” I say, and then I lean over and whisper against his ear, “And don’t get rid of the rope, I think we’re gonna need it.”

  PART THREE

  Gigi…

  Maybe there’s a special god for love and desire. If so, he or she is certainly smiling on me this week. I step out of the bathtub, smooth lotion onto my freshly-shaved legs, brush my teeth, make sure my hair looks adequately messy-but-beautiful, and add a touch of Benetint to my cheeks and lips before I climb back into Jon-Wylder’s bed. Sometimes I hate that I’m like my mother when it comes to vanity, and I guess I should be grateful to her for my looks and my trust fund, but thank goodness that’s all I got from her.

  My mother, Wendy Walsh, former cast member of Filthy Rich in Tinseltown, and now the star of Wendy In Wonderland, nearly ruined my faith in love and men forever. She’s gone through nine husbands and one brief-and-regrettable same-sex relationship in the course of my twenty-two years on the planet. When I was ten she gave me a picture of my father but I know it’s not really him, she probably had one of the maids buy it at a flea market or maybe she stole from her roommate in prep-school. Wendy isn’t good about telling the truth, and honestly, she probably has no idea which one of her assorted lovers did the deed that resulted in my birth.

  It has taken years for me to get past her brainwashing drivel about how men are nothing but ‘weak self-absorbed pond scum’ and relationships should be avoided at all cost. My mother has ruined so many parts of my psyche that I’ve literally lost count. Wendy is a celebrated beauty—Miss California, Mrs. California, Miss Who Gives A Fuck (Okay, I made that one up)—and I look enough like her to be her clone. But
never once has she acknowledged the fact or spoken one uncritical word to me. I was voted Most Beautiful for four years in a row at Beverly Hills High School, and each and every time she would say something like, “My goodness, can’t they see any of your flaws? They’re just so obvious, Gigi, hopefully you’ll grow out of this awkward stage before you’re past your prime.”

  No matter how hard I try, I cannot get her cold-as-ice, disapproving voice out of my head. So I play the part for Scarlet and Penn, act like I date nonstop when I’m really sitting alone at Starbucks indulging in my caffeine and online shopping addiction, and finding a glimmer of joy in maxing-out Wendy’s credit cards. Boys at school, men I meet at social gatherings, they like to ogle my face and body and ask me for a date, sometimes I accept but I always find a reason to back out at the last minute. Wendy really did a number on me and maybe none of those men were strong enough or smart enough to see that I was Rapunzel locked in her lonely tower. Jon-Wylder was and is. He rescued me, for this week anyway, and even if we only last for a while, he’s broken through the barriers I built around my body and heart. His attention and adoration, his insistence that my body is a temple and I am his goddess, has quieted that nagging voice inside me and allowed me to set those demons aside, for now at least.

  “Morning,” Jon-Wylder says, rolling onto his back when I slip in next to him and he pulls me on top of his sleep-warmed body. “You smell good babe. Mmm, you never cool down do you, sweet girl?”

  I straddle him, my hand on his morning-stiff cock, guiding it to my entrance so that he bucks up into me at the same time I lean forward and press my lips to his luscious mouth. This is the way sex should be, constantly surprising and perpetually orgasmic and just so fucking fantastic. I’m swollen and sore from five days and nights of boisterously rowdy sex, but it doesn’t matter, I needs this. I ignore the ache, take him in, and when he is deep, deep inside me, he gazes up in wonder, his wide, hazel eyes are heavy-lidded and drowsy, his delectable lips curved into a satisfied smile. His fingers with their guitar-strumming callouses play my clit like I’m his favorite musical instrument, smooth and gentle, then harder, until I’m humming around his cock. My hair falls across his smooth, bronzed chest as I clench around him. I can’t get enough of this overly-full feeling, like I’ve never been filled so completely, and then it hits me, hard and fast, out of nowhere, and our eyes meet before I throw my head back and teeter on the edge of ecstasy.

  “Good girl, that’s it babe, wait for me Gigi. Wait. I’m so fucking close. Come on babe, don’t you fucking finish without me!”

  He loves to bring me to the brink and talk me down from the ledge as he holds my hips hard against him. His cock is fucking miraculous, it curves just the right way and hits my elusive G-spot, stretching me, pumping, pounding, and I can’t wait, can’t hold back and he knows it, and he fucking loves it that he makes me this wild. I meet his eyes again as I’m squirming and quivering, crying out as his cock and his fingers work their magic. His eyes crinkle at the edges and he laughs until it hits him too, then he groans and bucks up hard, one hand digs into my waist, holding me down, forcing me to ride the wave, ride him, and we’re there together, quaking, seizing, and crashing past the edge of reason.

  “You are the most beautiful girl in the world, you know that?” Jon-Wylder says when I tumble off his body and lay panting beside him. His long, tanned arm drags me close and my fingers trace the distinct ridges on his taut abs. There’s not an ounce of fat on his body, he’s lean and muscled, veins stand out on his biceps and forearms, he’s tall and ripped and… what can I say, he’s a definite candidate for People magazine’s Sexiest Man of the Year.

  “You’re basking in afterglow,” I say and kiss his pretty mouth, everything about him is pretty, huge hazel eyes, sun-streaked brown hair that hangs nearly to his shoulders, a mouth that I can’t even describe or I’ll have to roll over and let him fuck me again. A pretty-boy on the verge of becoming a beautiful man—acutely masculine and beyond sexy. He’ll be overwhelmingly handsome one day, but for now, he’s young, only twenty-five, two years younger than his friends, Holt and Traeger, and he’s scrrrrumptious!

  “You okay this morning?” He asks earnestly, brushing his messy-silky hair from his eyes, and I have to giggle remembering the things he’s done to my body, all the places we’ve had sex, the half dozen times we were nearly caught in the act, and the one time we were.

  “Yeah, I’m perfect. Just thinking about that poor horny jerk at Stubb’s when we were watching Taylor Swift perform. I felt so sorry for him, he looked like he was going to have a coronary in the middle of the dance floor,” I say and Jon-Wylder howls with laughter and hops out of bed to go “take a leak.”

  “Can you blame the dumb bastard?” he calls to me from the bathroom. “We were packed in there like sardines and the only thing you could hear over the roar of the crowd was you making those fucking hot, loud moans when you were squirming and bucking against my hand. Fuck! That was the best, Taylor Swift belting out her song, your sweet little ass pressed against my cock, my hand under your tiny excuse for a dress, you fucking losing it all over my fingers. It was brilliant, babe, almost as good as when you followed me to the dressing room after my show and got down on your knees….”

  “Jon-Wylder, get your ass out of bed!” The voice is deep and not happy and followed by pounding on the bedroom door just before it flies open.

  I sit up, dragging the sheet around me and Jon-Wylder walks back into the bedroom as naked as the day he was born.

  “Really Campbell?” he says and stands there with his arms crossed, dick hanging down his thigh, totally unconcerned that a tall man who looks exactly like him walks right in after kicking the door open.

  “Am I paying you to fuck, or what?” The man says.

  “Nope, I’m not charging you. Ever heard of knocking instead of charging in like a fucking raging bull? Son, you gotta get those anger management issues under control. If you haven’t noticed, we’re not out in the sticks, so how about you wait outside ‘til I put some clothes on? The fuck are you looking at anyway? My girlfriend is naked and I’ll thank you to take your eyes off her.”

  “Get dressed you asshole. Sorry miss, didn’t mean to disturb you. My little brother, on the other hand, is already disturbed. Hurry up, Jon-Wylder we’re going to lunch, your friend is welcome to join us,” he says and tips his cowboy hat as his eyes sweep over me before he leaves and slams the door behind him.

  His girlfriend? Whoa, when did that happen? I didn’t expect it, but I don’t dislike the sound of it!

  “That’s my brother, Campbell, king of the hill, big man on the ranch. But you probably figured that out,” Jon-Wylder says and pulls me to my feet, his lips brush my cheek, my neck, his tongue licks across my bare breast. “Get dressed, babe, I’m starving, how ‘bout you?”

  *

  An ancient looking Latino man is waiting for Campbell when we exit the elevator, Jon-Wylder greets him like a long lost relative and introduces him as Ponfi, short for Ponfilo. It’s obvious he’s there at Campbell’s beck-and-call as he nods and smiles, his black eyes darting between the brothers and never glancing in my direction for more than an instant.

  “I don’t eat beef,” I say when we follow Campbell down South Congress to Hopdoddy Burger Bar. He’s two or three inches taller than Jon-Wylder, with mile-long legs that stride fast and sure as if he doesn’t have a second to waste on city life.

  I’ve met the three McCauley brothers now, and even though the eldest and youngest look alike, they’re all so different that my head is spinning. There’s image-conscious Walker with his custom-cut suits and not a hair out of place, Jon-Wylder is super laid-back with unkempt, shoulder-length hair and ripped black jeans worn with vintage western shirts. Last but not least is ‘in-command’ Campbell wearing a starched white dress shirt tucked precisely into indigo-blue Wranglers that for some reason renders me incapable of rational thought.

  “Can you handle a black bean veggie burger? Ho
w about bison, that’s a whole different animal,” Campbell asks, snapping me out of my reverie, his eyes narrow dangerously as he holds the door for me and sweeps a muscled arm to usher us inside, everything about him screams ‘pissed off and impatient’.

  “I’ll just have a salad, don’t let my dietary needs worry you,” I say and his large, blue-green eyes flicker with interest as if he’s surprised that I have enough brain cells to form an opinion.

  Jon-Wylder smiles and pulls out a chair for me, Campbell takes off his hat, and they both wait until I’m comfortably seated before they even dare to sit down. You have to hand it to rich Texas men, they can be real bastards most of the time, but their Mamas’ made sure to teach them some fine manners. While they survey the chalk-board menu on the wall I sneak a good, close look at Campbell McCauley. He’s the kind of handsome that Jon-Wylder will be when he reaches thirty, hot and cool at the same time, so sexy it should be illegal, easy on the eyes, and devastating to the female heart.

  I’m wearing linen shorts with a silk tank-top and a pale blue cardigan that I know looks damn good with my blonde hair and blue eyes. I spent hours at the salon before this trip to have my hair painstakingly highlighted and it’s longer than usual since I invested a good deal of Wendy’s credit limit on the best all-natural hair extensions money can buy. Campbell orders for all of us, beer and burgers for the men, salad and a Cosmo for me, and Ponfi waits at the counter for our order, then sets our plates and drinks in front of us. Jon-Wylder insists that he sit down with us but he shakes his head and takes his food to a bar by the window. The brothers dig in to their burgers, argue about their family ranch, and both of them are shooting glances in my direction like they might take a bite of me, too. The worst part is—as crazy as I am about Jon-Wylder—I’m getting wet just from the thought of being sandwiched between these two look-alike brothers somewhere, anywhere, other than a restaurant.