by Shey Stahl
Anticipation for her next choice of words fills the space between us. She’s silent for a beat longer than I’d like. “I’m not fucking him,” she admits, leaning in. Our shoulders brush. “Or anyone else at the moment, Grayer Easton.”
Hmmm. She knows me. Interesting. I think I like that she knows who I am.
A bull rider is the human athlete in the man-versus-beast sport of bull riding. A bull rider must be eighteen years or older to obtain the membership required of each PBR competitor.
Grayer leans forward, twisting the volume on his radio. It’s entertaining and evokes a smile from both of us when the song playing happens to be Pistol Annies “I Feel a Sin Comin’ On.”
Grayer grins slowly, keeping the best of it at bay. He’s studying my every movement. “Are you going to punch my radio?”
I laugh softly, rolling my eyes. He’s perfection and I desperately need this. “No, I actually like Miranda Lambert. Your radio’s safe.” The sky rumbles around us. “Are you sure we’re not gonna be struck by lightning or something?”
His lips twitch. “Nah, we’re safe.”
Jesus, he’s so pretty!
Unsure what he wants from me, I let my eyes drift toward his. Eyes lit with anticipation, his chest is rising and falling a little faster, one hand on the steering wheel still holding the bottle, the other around the back of the seat giving me another invitation.
Sitting on my knees on the bench seat facing him, I let my hands wander up muscular legs to his gold buckle.
Our eyes meet in the low lighting, but he doesn’t say anything. Bringing the bottle to his lips, he takes a drink and then hands it to me. He’s definitely got something about him, something that makes my body buzz and my heart skip and race.
I take it, and bring it to my lips. Intently, he watches me, licking his lips slowly when I wrap my lips around the bottle. After a shot, I hand it back to him and move closer and straddle him on the bench seat. My heart beats like thousands of butterflies swirling around and I think maybe I should move. But then he surprises me and drops his hand to my waist. I have a mind to throw my arm up and ride him like a bull, just to see what his reaction would be, but I don’t.
I take the bottle again, taking another shot. “Hey.”
He holds his eyes steady on mine. The look in his eyes is intoxicating. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip as he takes the bottle. “Hey.” He smiles, like me on his lap is exactly what he had in mind when he asked if I wanted to get out of the rain. Taking another shot for himself, he eyes my necklace and the beads that hold memories, but he doesn’t ask about it. I can tell there’s a spark of interest in it though.
“You look like you’re up to trouble.” He closes his eyes, his words whispered against my skin. He traces his tongue down my neck to my collarbone, slipping a hand under my shirt to my breasts.
My lashes flutter, my vision withheld by the closing of my lids. I imagine my life is different, and in his arms, I can be anything. Behind closed lids, I can pretend this means more than what it does. I know who he is and this kind of thing probably happens to him daily.
“I think I am.” Maybe it’s because he defended me, I’m not sure, but it gives me the confidence I need to push forward. I bring my lips to meet his, and just before our lips touch, the look in his eyes changes. It’s wildfire, spreading through my veins, driving me into him. With heated cheeks and wild beats in my chest, we stare at one another.
He doesn’t speak at first, just runs his eyes over my face before drifting down to my chest, then lingering on my lips. “Are you going to let me kiss you?”
Yes!
I’m surprised he’s asking. Maybe he’s more country boy than I expected. Moving my wet hair to the side, he kisses down my neck, but not my lips. The tingles! I love neck kisses and very few men get them right. Grayer has them down. It’s tender but with the right amount of scrape from the scruff on his jaw.
“I wasn’t aware you wanted to,” I breathe, holding his head to my neck. I seriously never want him to stop.
Sadly, he does, a quick breath blown out against the curve of my neck, raw from his prickly jaw.
Drawing back, he blinks and watches me, like he’s trying to read my mind. God, he’s beautiful. The distinct curve of his lips, the high cheekbones, he could be a damn model. Hell, maybe he is. I don’t know much about him, other than him being a professional bull rider and I have a rule never to get involved with someone prettier than me. I think he’s the exception. “I think you are well aware of the fact that I want to kiss you, Maesyn.”
“Hmmm.” Raising my hand, my fingertips touch his bottom lip. “I don’t think I was aware of that.”
His blue eyes sparkle, a coy smile gracing his lips. He leans in. “Yes, you were.”
And at last his lips touch mine, and I jump a little. Our lips fuse, his hand reaching up to secure my face to his. His tongue glides along my bottom lip, and I open my mouth to accommodate. With his hand in my hair, he kisses me deeper, giving me his tongue.
Suddenly, my fingers are in his hair, knocking his hat aside as our tongues thrash against each other. He holds me against his chest, the rapid beating of his heart against my breasts. His hands move to my hips, his thumbs up under my shirt, caressing the exposed damp skin. His need is palpable, his anxiety, his passion, it’s all there for me to see and I want him. So bad.
A crack of thunder rocks through the sky. Grayer drags his face from mine, his lips moving to my neck, his erection digging into my center in the most delicious way. I have two prominent thoughts. One, he’s an amazing kisser. And two, the monster between his legs is begging to come out.
Reveling in the thrill of this man’s hands on me, I grind against him, just once. He’s so different than the boys around here, and I need more of him. I need more of the pleasure. With the guys I’ve been with, I give, but never receive. And I’ve certainly never reached orgasm with one. Never ever. Regrettably.
He kisses me, devouring my mouth with his, nipping at my lips. Cursing under his breath, he moves his mouth to my neck and gives me those kisses that make my entire body break out in goose bumps. They shiver through me like a cold chill, but the most delicious sensation centers between my legs. His hands work up my thighs, to my hips under my skirt where he angles my pelvis like a pro, guiding me back and forth in quick passes over his rock-hard cock. My breathing is all over the place, from harsh to heavy panting.
Grayer breaks away, just as breathless as me. His hand wedges between us, pushing my back against his steering wheel. My breath comes in shallow pants as he places a hand on my shoulders. When I’m arched away from him, his hand drops to the top of my breast, his left hand remaining on my hip.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, my face heating. I’m vulnerable. I can’t look at him. His thick hot length strains against his jeans and I drag my pelvis against it, over and over again. He groans softly and the vibration radiates between my legs. Cursing again, he claims my mouth, his right hand dropping to my hip. The sensation shoots straight to my clit, a fiery pleasure ripping through me. The ability to reach an orgasm with him certainly doesn’t take long with the friction of his jeans and the thin fabric of my panties the only barrier between us. Unable to catch my breath, I capture his bottom lip, whimpering and writhing above him but trying not to make too much noise as the most intense orgasm rushes through me. I hug him close, relishing in the warmth. For the first time in my life I had an orgasm at the hands of a man.
Gasping, I halt my movements, peering down at him, waiting for his reaction.
He lifts his face, his stare penetrating mine in the shadows of the cab, eyes blazing, but not from anger. Breathing heavy, he pants, “How old are you?” Kissing me once more, he pulls back, tracing my lower lip with his thumb as he awaits my answer. He keeps his eyes on mine, looking for secrets and lies.
Shit.
Avoiding the question, I return my hands to him, working on his buckle. The clanging brings our stares together on
ce again, sending my heart racing and my hands shaking. I don’t know why my hands are shaking—it’s not like I’m new at this. It’s far from my first time.
It’s a brief moment, the slightest pause and it looks as though he might stop me. I think he wants to, but he doesn’t. I smile, hoping I’m giving him permission for whatever he’s asking for.
“You want me to stop?” I ask. My cheeks flush, warmth spreading.
With a slow shake of his head, his right hand wraps in my hair, gentle but firm. His eyes come back and capture mine, and I’m weak at the desire within them. My heart gives a kick. He’s not going to stop me. He’s bringing me along for this ride. “You done this before?”
My stomach jumps at the sound of his voice. Is he asking if I’m a virgin? Turning my head, I nod. It’s better that he knows. Once I give him the answer, it could go either way.
I wait.
His expression offers me nothing, so I continue. His buckle catches my eye. It’s gold and has a bull rider on it with words I can’t make out given my blurry state. I think I drank a little too much.
I reach for it again. He doesn’t stop me this time. When I have his belt and his zipper undone, my fingers work toward the edges of his black boxers. His stomach pulls in, a trip in his breathing. My gaze catches his, still no emotion is offered for me, only that fire-lit intensity. He squints a little, his head tipped to one side but still, no words.
Just as I get one hand inside his boxers and on his hard length, his hands are on mine, stopping me. “How old are you?” he asks again, looking for the truth, the blue stones capturing me inside their spark.
“Eighteen.” It’s a lie, but I’m close enough. What’s a few days?
“You lyin’ to me?” His brow arches, his slow southern drawl so sexy.
I debate for the briefest of moments. Something tells me I should tell him the truth. But what’s a couple days’ lie?
I smile. “No,” I say immediately, trying to ease his worries. I’d never tell anyone I was with him, and I think that’s why he’s asking.
Part of me thinks he knows I’m lying, but I don’t think the whiskey in him cares enough to make him stop me. He gives up whatever he’s struggling with and helps me out by pushing his jeans and boxers down around his ankles and then leans back against the seat. He tips his hat up slightly, but not enough that I can see his eyes, just shadows. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be looking at him anyway. I’ll be busy.
My hands run over him, he’s hard, bigger than I expected by looking at his height, and I’m not all that sure I can get him in my mouth without gagging. I palm his cock, gripping it. He squirms, his legs straightening. “You don’t have to. . . .” His voice trails off, giving me an out.
“I want to.” It’s probably the first time I’ve ever wanted to do anything to a guy.
When my lips touch the head, he’s quiet, but his leg tenses under my hands again.
There’s a thump. His head hits the window when I go all the way down, my lips at the base of him and then sliding back up slowly. I twist my head to the left to get a peek at him. His head is bent forward now, the tiny flickers of orange and red from the fading bonfire give me what I’m looking for. His hooded eyes lock on me and judging by his expression, he’s enjoying what I’m doing.
Leaning forward, he keeps me where I’m at and sets down the bottle on the floorboard of his truck, his hands returning to my hair. He’s all heavy breathing and white-knuckle gripping, barely able to stay still until he’s shaking and pushing my head down harder. I let him. It’s sexy and I’m giving him what he wants. He doesn’t say anything. Not a damn word.
I like it when guys don’t say anything during sex. I don’t need that shit where they’re talking and telling me how sweet my mouth is or how wet my pussy is for them. I don’t want to hear any of that. I want that heart pounding connection between two people. And until now, I haven’t experienced it.
I prefer this right here. I’m not here to talk. I’m here for pleasure, his and mine.
Grayer doesn’t last long, maybe five minutes, stopping me once, trying to make it last I assume, and then pushes my head back down. It’s just enough that I know he doesn’t want this to end.
When he comes, he says nothing and my only indication is his legs tensing, the muscles flexing under my palms and the soft groan that leaves his parted lips. Angling my face, I watch him, his body hunched forward as he cradles my head in his lap, eyes closed and brow contorted in pleasure. When his cock pulses in my mouth, he makes a throaty noise that’s erotic as hell. I let him come in my mouth, and I kind of like that he didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.
When I know he’s finished, I sit up and lick my lips. I give him one more look. He’s still semi-hard, his jeans around his ankles. I reach for my hat and replace it on my head. He rights his clothing while I do the same. My skirt’s a little wrinkled and the knotted front of my tank top had somehow come undone.
He stares at me, like he’s waiting for my reaction. I smile. That’s my reaction. I’m never one for conversation afterward and he doesn’t seem to like it either. I find comfort in the similarity between the two of us. I’m rooted in the moment with him, unable to move away. I can see it now, his discipline, the undeniable need to be the one in control of his intentions.
Just as I turn away, long calloused fingers wrap around my wrist, gentle but firm. “Thanks.”
I smile and twist the door handle without another word.
Still barefoot, I pick my boots up from beside his truck where I’d kicked them off to dance in the rain. I don’t look back at his truck when I hear the faint rumblings of him pulling away, but I do smile again, the taste of him still on my lips. With my boots in hand, still smiling, I walk barefoot through the muddy field, enjoying the way it squishes against my feet. Tilting my head, I look up at the cloudless sky still sprinkled with a steady mist of rain. I like the rain. Even the sky cries sometimes.
I walk toward Haylee’s truck. She’s passed out in the bed, curled up against a dark-colored Carhart jacket I know is Tucker’s.
The clouds begin to shift, the rain seizing, and I lie next to her staring up at the stars in the sky lighting the night a little differently than I’ve seen in a while. If I squint, the stars look like diamonds, little glitters of hope. I think of Grayer and smile.
I don’t feel guilty. Not in the slightest. I am who I am. Say what you will. There’s no one here to judge me because they’ve all but given up.
I’m not their town princess anymore.
I’m not the preacher’s daughter.
I’m not a lover and I’m not a girl they’ll take home to mama.
I’m loud-laughing, fast-living, stubborn, too mean, too much of anything most can handle.
What I am is wild at heart, hazy-thinking, hell-raising sinning soul, and I wouldn’t have me any other way. You should never change yourself to fit the mold you think a boy wants you to be. You’ll change enough to be who you want to be. My Granny Vicki used to tell me to make pearls out of gravel and that’s exactly what I plan on doing.
I’d love to say I wouldn’t do anything drastic for my heart and pretend I don’t need love, but I’m a liar, and I think about the way Grayer defended me tonight. I’m caught between emotional and emotionless. I’m caught between loving the way he makes me feel and hating it.
The bull rope is what the bull rider grips throughout the ride. It is wrapped around the chest of the bull directly behind the animal's front legs. At the bottom of the rope hangs a metal bell designed to give the rope some weight so that it will fall off the bull as soon as the rider is bucked off or dismounts the animal.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I think of her long after she leaves. I can’t remember the last time that’s happened. I don’t like to admit this, but I’ve been with a lot of women, too many to even give you an accurate number. But then again, would it matter? I don’t think it does. Once you break double digits they all start taking
on names like “bitch from the bar” or “needy waitress at the restaurant.” None of them are memorable.
“I know who you are.”
I think about those words and what they meant. But even as I mull it over in my head, I can’t stop my next thought, is she really eighteen?
Fuck, Grayer. You know better than to mess with underage girls.
I watch her walk away, and regardless of what she just did for me, something about her seems untouched, undiscovered, but there’s no way in hell she’s a virgin. No woman who knows her way around a dick like she does is a virgin.
Rubbing my eyes, I shake my head, looking away from her. What the fuck was I thinking? What if she’s underage? I know better. It’s the whole reason why I left Ellensburg in the first place and the first night I’m back I go and make a mistake like this?
Nice. Should have let Reid come and take care of this bullshit or at least come with me. He wouldn’t have made a mistake like this, and more importantly, he wouldn’t have let me.
When she’s out of sight, I tuck the bottle of whiskey under my seat and pull out of the field. I call Britany on the way back to my dad’s old place to make sure Wyatt made it to bed okay and didn’t give her too much trouble. Remember when I said I had baggage? Well, that baggage is cute as fucking ever and nearly two. He comes with a baby mama who is probably my best friend and also engaged to my older brother. Believe me, I know how Jerry Springer it sounds.
I’ve known Britany for about four years. Met her two days after we moved to Decatur. We started out as friends, should have stayed just friends, but got drunk and slept together a couple times. Twice actually. And then we, mostly her, decided we were better off as friends because she discovered, as most women do, I’m pretty shitty boyfriend material. We were never actually dating though. A month later, she found out she was pregnant.
We talked, she talked, I listened, and decided to raise the baby together as friends. Being friends with me proves to be difficult for most and you’d think it’d be hard for a girl, but Britany’s a saint and the most loving person I’ve ever met in my life. Aside from my mother.