Hand Me The Reins (Bachelor Auction Book 3)

by Vanessa Vale

  Why would I want a woman who probably had fake tits and fake orgasms when I’d come here with the most real woman I’d met in a while? Astrid didn’t try to get people to like her. She didn’t try to make herself beautiful. She just was. Maybe that was what drew me to her. No, it was definitely her perfect tits, but I was here because of her. Because I wanted to see her smile. I wanted to make her blush. I wanted to know what color her panties were. I wanted her to show me. I wouldn’t take. I wanted her to give. That meant I had to give too, which was fucking hard.

  It meant putting myself out there. Committing, even for a short time, which I didn’t do. Except with Astrid, I wanted to be there for her. I wanted to be the guy she looked for across the room. The one who she told her secrets. Who let me see how fucking dysfunctional her family was.

  Charles guided me toward the other men—Bunky and Eddie included—and I tossed back what was left of my whiskey. He slapped Bunky on the back. “Thomas, impressed you pulled yourself from the casino. Win that cash back yet?”

  Bunky blanched and took a big swig of his drink.

  “Bunky,” I said as greeting.

  Bunky tipped his chin, then bolted like a rabbit freed from a snare.

  I could breathe easier with him trying to avoid me.

  While this was forty-eight hours of insanity, that’s all it was. Astrid and I would part ways after the wedding reception. I’d drive her back to The Bend, kiss her cheek—maybe her mouth—and it would be Date Over. Astrid had the fake boyfriend she needed. I was the nice guy who helped out. Miss Turnbuckle would definitely keep me first in line for any great new book.

  The next time I did something like this, I’d ask the woman why she needed a fake date. I’d thought Astrid needed one simply to be a buffer for an ex. That she was shy and needed a wingman. But that was bullshit. She wasn’t really shy. Sure, a buffer had definitely been needed, but everyone here thought she was an ugly duckling. Maybe she’d been one, an awkward teenager. Who the hell wasn’t all pimply and weird at fourteen? Looking around, Astrid sure as fuck was a swan. If I was the only one who saw that, fine. We’d be out of here on Sunday.

  In the meantime, it was going to be a long night. But I had something to distract me. A reason not to say fuck it and storm out. To keep me from wondering who I should punch first. Something in a pretty shade of green who liked my smiles and melted from my kisses.

  10

  ASTRID

  After three hours at the club, we followed Amy and my mother back to the house. Thatcher drove the van since he was sober. I was not.

  Well, I wasn’t drunk either. I’d taken his advice and avoided the jello shots, but I’d certainly made a dent in the wine. But if there was a line for sobriety, the fact that I’d done karaoke with Amy and her maid of honor, Bea, proved I was just on the wrong side.

  I wasn’t sure if our rendition of I Will Survive was a reminder I’d get through the weekend. But I’d been constantly reminded I wasn’t doing it alone. I’d frequently looked for Thatcher. When I wasn’t looking for him, I wanted him. Because… yeah, he was gorgeous, and he was mine for the weekend.

  It was obvious the difference bringing him made on my fun. I’d been included. Amy forgot I was fat or a lowly baker. My mother must have recognized Thatcher was a better catch than Franklin Pierce. Whatever their reason… I hadn’t cared. I’d had fun.

  I’d actually had fun.

  Again, the wine had helped.

  Thatcher’s winks from across the room sure as shit made me feel wanted. Like I belonged to someone. That we were together. He made me feel wanted. Desirable.

  Sexy.

  “Astrid, dear. I’m sure Thatcher will want to stay in the guest room since your bed is so small,” Mother said, setting her purse and keys on the round table in the center of the entry. It was two stories, with marble on the floor and two staircases on the left and right that curved to the second floor central hallway in the middle. It was a little much, but I was used to it. I had no idea what Thatcher thought of my parents’ house. Mansion, really. But since Cutthroat was known for being the winter playground of the rich and famous, I didn’t think he was surprised.

  “It’s a queen,” I countered. “I gave up my childhood twin size in eleventh grade.”

  She looked me over. Ah. Even in my wine fog, I understood.

  And I’d thought for a few hours that my family would be normal instead of petty. Stupid me.

  “Don’t worry, Patricia, we don’t need a big bed.” Thatcher wrapped his arm around my waist, pulled me close. “I like Astrid close. Real close.”

  As the evening wore on, my desire to be truly together with him grew. I liked him. He was nice. Friendly. He hadn’t run off for the Manning Ranch when I’d been in the ladies room.

  He was here.

  And when I said my desire to be truly together with him grew, I also meant more than just in the same room. I wanted to be with him. I desired him. The looks, the winks, the smiles… it was all foreplay.

  It had started with the kiss. I hadn’t wanted it to stop, but I wasn’t into exhibitionism. But as we drove through the dark night, I thought of his mouth on mine. The way he’d held me. Tipped me back. Licked into me. One of his hands had been on the back of my head, the other cupping my ass.

  He knew how big my ass was. And I knew how big his dick was. I hadn’t held it, but I’d felt that hard length between us. Not just earlier, but in his office the weekend before.

  I wanted him. I wanted that fling Mary had mentioned.

  Especially now that he’d just alluded to sharing a bed with me to my mother. Her mouth hung open… again, by his response.

  “Right, sweets?” he asked, running a thumb over my lower lip, his pale eyes watching the motion.

  I blinked, then licked the tip of his thumb. “Thatcher’s staying with me.”

  Since I was watching him, I saw the way his eyes flared with heat. Darkened.

  “Goodnight, Mother. Amy,” I said, taking Thatcher’s hand and leading him upstairs.

  As we ascended, I heard Amy’s voice. “How does she get to spend the night with a guy and I can’t be with Michael tonight?”

  “Because your dress is white for a reason. Hers is gray.”

  Thatcher squeezed my fingers at the insinuation. I wasn’t a virgin and Mother thought Amy was.

  I went down the corridor and pulled Thatcher into my room, then shut the door behind us.

  He glanced around, took in the pale blue walls, the cream carpet. During the day, the windows overlooked Cutthroat Mountain, but he only had eyes for me.

  “No boy band posters?”

  “My mother redecorated when I went to college. The walls used to be green and yes, there were boy band posters. I’m not telling you which.”

  Going over to the bed, he took off his hat, tossed it aside and winked. “It’d be weird to sleep in here with you with Justin Timberlake eyeing us.” He bounced up and down.

  The bed squeaked. He did it again. And again.

  “What are you doing?”

  “If your mother thinks you’re a hymen-free hussy, then she might as well hear a show.”

  I burst out laughing.

  He put his finger to his lips and grinned. “Shh.”

  I heard the clack of high heels out, then silence. Amy’s room and the master suite were further down the hall. They could definitely hear. And wonder, although the sound made it pretty obvious.

  Oh. My. God.

  I walked over to Thatcher, stood between his parted knees as he continued to bounce up and down. “You don’t care what they think?” I asked. “They barely know you and this isn’t the best impression.”

  “They think what they want no matter what we do,” he replied, his voice tipped low.

  That was so true. They judged everyone regardless of the truth or wanting to know it.

  “As for a good impression—” he continued with a wink, “—they’ll think I’ve got great stamina in the sack. If you moan a lit
tle, they’ll also think I’m very skilled.”

  “You are crazy,” I whispered back, trying not to smile.

  But I wanted Thatcher. I wanted to really make the bed squeak. I wanted his hands on me. His mouth.

  Maybe it was the wine. Maybe I was crazy. Hell, maybe I was more myself than I’d ever been. But Thatcher was sitting so close he could lean forward and suck my nipple into his mouth. Six feet plus of ginger hotness. I wanted to run my fingers through that red hair, feel the rasp of his whiskers against my palm. Hell, against the insides of my thighs.

  I didn’t think, only acted.

  “I… I have dirty thoughts about you,” I said as I undid the thin belt at my waist, let it fall to the floor.

  Thatcher stopped moving and started watching. He wasn’t saying no. He wasn’t saying anything at all. Except his eyes held the heat and desire that made me bold.

  I grabbed the hem of my dress, lifted it up an inch at a time, then worked it over my head and tossed it aside. I wasn’t going to get up in the morning and have my mother look at me as if I was going to hell without doing any of the things that were going to get me there.

  I wanted orgasms and Thatcher was going to give them to me. And he was just catching on to that fact.

  11

  THATCHER

  Holy shit. Astrid in green satin bra and panties, and only bra and panties, was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. Screw a Montana summer storm. Forget my finished barn house. Who cared about my bar on a crowded summer night? I imagined her prettier than a sunset in Cozumel.

  I was in big trouble here. My dick wanted out of my jeans and in her. Now.

  All the blood was traveling from my brain south and I was running out of time to talk and make sense.

  My fingers itched to reach out and grab, cup, stroke, and caress.

  “Sweets, what are you doing?”

  The bold smile on her face slipped and so did her confidence right along with it.

  Fuck.

  “I… thought—”

  “You’ve had a lot of wine.”

  She nodded and tried to step back. That was when I hooked a hand about her waist and kept her from moving away. Her skin was silky soft and warm. We had to talk fast.

  “I’m not drunk. I know what I’m doing,” she countered.

  “What are you doing?”

  She sighed and her shoulders drooped. “I thought I was being seductive, but I can see I’ve done a horrible job. I’m sorry. I must have gotten the wrong idea.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t for a second doubt yourself. You sure as shit are seductive.” I proved this by sliding my hand around and cupping her ass. The one cheek didn’t fit in my palm and it was lush, squeezable and definitely spankable.

  “Then why did you question me? I mean, most guys would be balls deep by now.”

  If she only knew. I was separated from most guys by the slimmest of margins.

  “I’m not fucking you if you might have any kinds of second thoughts in the morning because of too much wine.”

  “You own a bar,” she countered.

  I couldn’t help it. I grabbed her other ass cheek with my free hand. Oh yeah. Perfection. Soft skin, slick satin.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you can probably tell if someone’s too drunk to think clearly. I’m not saying I should be driving a car, but I’m not that impaired.”

  “True.”

  “And what gives you the right to question my mind about what I want? If I want you, if I want to ride your dick like a cowgirl at a rodeo, then you should have a say about your consent, not mine.”

  Shit. She had a point. I was just like her family, questioning her mind. She wasn’t stupid. And she wasn’t drunk. That I could tell. If she had a buzz going, and her dress on the floor had definitely given her some liquid courage, that was okay.

  It was me who was stalling. I wanted Astrid. Too much. My dick was wondering why it wasn’t balls deep like she’d mentioned. But my head was involved. Obviously, since we were talking and not fucking.

  That meant I cared a little too much. If she was just a random woman from the bar who I fucked in my office, then I wouldn’t have thought twice.

  This was Astrid. In emerald satin.

  Not only was I going to get fucked, but I was truly fucked as well, because this fake boyfriend shit was not going as planned. But my dick was waiting. And so was Astrid.

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “You want to ride my dick like a cowgirl at a rodeo?”

  She had the boots on to prove it.

  She blushed, bit her lip and nodded.

  “Then you will. Got any other fantasies?”

  She pushed her glasses up. “I think one’s all I’m brave enough to share tonight.”

  My fingers curled into the top of her panties and slowly slid them down her hips. I held her eyes as I spoke. “I’ve got a few. But ladies first.”

  Her hands stopped mine. “My fantasy has you naked.”

  I grinned up at her. “Yes, ma’am.” I lifted my hands from her so she could step back to give me room to rise and strip.

  As I should have done all along, I stopped thinking and got busy. I was down to my boxers when I thought again.

  Shit.

  “I don’t have protection. We can play, but riding my dick’s out.”

  Her eyes were on my body, not my face. I should have felt objectified, but it was tit for tat. Or tit for dick.

  She shook her head and picked up the gift bag she’d been given at the party. Dumping it onto the bed, I looked at the contents.

  “Bachelorette party favors,” she explained.

  Pink dildo still in packaging.

  Fur lined handcuffs.

  A long string of condoms.

  A small bottle of lube.

  A butt plug with a green gem on the base.

  I was catching on that Astrid liked green. And seeing that color sparkling between parted ass cheeks?

  Fuck. Me.

  I stared at the haul wide-eyed. And my dick got impossibly harder just thinking about using these things with Astrid. “Jesus, what the hell do ladies usually do at bachelorette parties?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been to one other and we went out to lunch and got pedicures. The favor bag had scented lotion, an eye mask, and cute flip flops in it. I assume the maid of honor, Bea, bought all this. Gag gift or maybe she wanted the stuff and needed the favor bag excuse to get the stuff for herself. Who knows?” She grabbed the condoms and they dangled from her fingers. “Will this do?”

  I snatched them, tossed the rest of the things back in the bag and set it on the side table. “Let’s find out.”

  Tugging down my boxers, my dick bounced free.

  “Shit,” she whispered.

  I looked to her. “What?”

  “That dick is not fake.”

  Gripping the base, I gave it one long pump. “Every eight inches is real, sweets.”

  Knowing I wasn’t going to have many brain cells left, I ripped off a condom from the strip and rolled it on. Then I climbed onto her bed, adjusted the pillow behind my head.

  All the while, she stood there and watched.

  “Your turn, sweets. I’ve got a thing for your tits. Show them to me.”

  She blushed, but in a good way. I hoped the way I was looking at her, the way my dick was pointing straight at the ceiling that she knew I was into her. So fucking into her.

  With a flick of her fingers at the front clasp, the bra parted and her tits bounced free.

  “Fucking gorgeous,” I said when she let the garment fall to the floor. “Panties off and get over here.”

  She shimmied her panties down her legs.

  “Leave the boots.”

  Yeah, I was being bossy as fuck, but if she wanted to ride my dick, then I wanted those cowgirl boots on as she did it.

  After she kicked her panties to the side, she stood back up, her tits swaying with the motion.

  Every inch of her was perfect. And that
pussy… a little patch of dark hair capped pink lips that glistened with her need. I could see her clit all hard and ready to play. I licked my lips, eager to get my mouth on her, but I could wait. Later.

  Now, I crooked my finger and she came over, crawled up and straddled me. I couldn’t resist reaching up and cupping her breasts. Her dark hair brushed the backs of my hands. “Thatcher,” she whispered, her head falling back. She was sensitive and I wondered if I could get her to come just like this. I could spend all night trying.

  “These… fuck, sweets. I’m obsessed with them. Lean forward. I’ve gotta get them in my mouth.”

  She leaned forward and one nipple hovered over my lips. I lifted my head, sucked the pink tip into my mouth.

  A moan slipped from her lips as I felt the tip harden against my tongue.

  Perfection. I alternated between the two full globes, ready to die a happy man.

  “God, that feels so good.”

  I let her go with a pop and she looked down at me. She flicked her hair back, then took her glasses off. I took them from her, reached out and set them on the side table beside the favor bag.

  “You wet for me?”

  I knew she was. I could feel it on my thighs.

  “So wet,” she whispered.

  “Rise up. Take me in you.”

  She lifted up, slowly lowered herself so I was positioned at her entrance. She gripped the base and I hissed, but watched her as she lowered down. One fucking slow inch at a time.

  “Fuck,” I growled, trying not to thrust up and fill her too fast.

  Slowly she sank down until she sat upon my thighs. Her inner walls rippled as she adjusted to me.

  I waited with my teeth gritted together. Finally, she blinked, set her hands on my chest.

  “Go for it, cowgirl,” I told her.

  She smiled then. Yeah, she fucking smiled. She was crammed full with my dick and she looked at me as if this was fun. Which it was, but with her hair covering part of her face and her tits sticking out and just… fuck.