Patchwhore

by Kim Jones

  He raises a brow and grins. “So I should double my bet?”

  “I’m not the one dancing.” I nod my head in Cook’s direction. “You need to worry about if your boy up there is any good. He’s the one with something to prove.”

  “What about two-steppin’? You any good at that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Again, I’m from Georgia. Again … I’m not the one dancing. You think he’s got a chance?”

  Ronnie just shrugs. “I guess we’ll see.”

  “Hey,” I start, the lightbulb going off in my head. “Are they two-stepping? Do you want me to be his partner?”

  He throws his head back on a laugh at my twisted-up face, then tugs a strand of my hair. “You catch on quick.”

  I stare at him in disbelief as Cook approaches—crooking his finger at me. “Come on, gorgeous,” he says, smiling like we’ve already won. “Let’s see if those boots are just for show.”

  “Slimy bastards,” I mumble, grinning like crazy. I shoot Ronnie a look over my shoulder. “If we lose, it’s his fault.”

  Ronnie’s eyes move to Cook—sparkling with pride and confidence. “He won’t lose. He doesn’t know how.”

  I’m Not Your Prospect

  I’m on edge. Palms sweaty, I pull my hand from Cook’s to wipe it on my shorts. He smirks down at me, his demeanor cool and calm. I give him a nervous smile. I don’t want to disappoint him. I don’t want Ronnie to lose his money. I wish I had time for about five more shots.

  Cook leads us to a corner away from everyone else who is clustered together in the middle of the dance floor. “Why are we way over here?” I ask, anxiously fidgeting with the strings on my cutoffs.

  “Because we’re gonna dance around them.”

  “What?” I squeak, my heartrate speeding. “I-I only know square two-step. Two to one corner … two to the other corner … two—” He places a finger over my lips shushing me.

  “Can you spin?” I nod. “Stay loose?” I nod again. “Hold my hand?” I put my hand in his. “Then you’ll be fine.”

  “What if—”

  “You’ll. Be. Fine. You look beautiful. You smell delicious. And I’m going to fuck you while you’re on your knees, wearing nothing but those boots tonight. So let’s get this shit over with. Because if I win, I get the rest of the night off.” He winks at me.

  I just stand here, mouth open like an idiot and mutter, “Oh. Uh. Okay.”

  “Relax.” He grips my hip possessively. My body immediately relaxes into him. “Good girl.” Son of a bitch.

  “Round one!” the emcee announces. “Who likes tequila?” The crowd roars. “Who likes it when tequila makes her clothes fall off?” Everyone cheers louder as Joe Nichols’ Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off begins to play. Cook raises a brow.

  “Fitting, don’t you think?” I have a snarky come back, but we’re moving before I can say it.

  He leads us around the dancefloor—pushing my body in the direction he wants me to move. It only takes a few steps for me to follow his fluid movements. Even though I’m moving backward, completely unaware of where I’m going, I trust that he’s leading me in the right direction.

  We turn. Twist. Our strides in sync with one another. He spins me. Twirls me. That big body of his floating smoothly across the floor. He’s graceful. Every motion confident and precise. I feel light as a feather. He feels like steel under my touch. He’s relaxed but focused. Every time he spins me I laugh. And it’s the only time he smiles.

  As the song comes to an end, he twirls me once more, then kisses my hand. When the emcee asks the crowd to give it up for the Devil’s Renegades Prospect, he steps back and extends his hand—giving all the praise to me. I beam like an idiot.

  Two couples are voted out and we move on to round two. I bounce on my heels as we wait for the song. Cook is just as composed as always. He gives Ronnie, who appears to be as excited as me, a cool nod. But when he drops his eyes to mine, they’re heated.

  “You’re fuckin’ killing me in those shorts.”

  My smile is so big, the corner of my eyes crinkle. “I thought you liked my boots.”

  “I like it all,” he growls—that beastly stare causing my breath to hitch.

  “Let me ask you somethin’, man.” The emcee comes to stand next to us, propping his arm on Cook’s shoulder as he speaks into the microphone. “Is she country?” Catcalls ring out among the crowd. “Cause Jason Aldean says she’s country.” The song starts and the emcee steps away. Then we’re dancing.

  Either he’s trying to get the other competitors to quit, or he’s enjoying this as much as I am, but Cook steps it up this round. Spinning me. Turning us both. Our bodies moving faster across the floor—keeping perfect time with the rhythm of the song.

  He ends the round by dipping me so low my head comes dangerously close to the floor. I laugh—unable to feel anything but giddy. I don’t know if it’s the dance or him that has me so high. But I’m loving it. Ronnie is loving it. The crowd is loving it. Cook is … well he’s just being Cook. Humble and quiet.

  “How are you not sweaty or winded?” I pant, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. Eww…

  “I’ve been conserving my energy.”

  “For what?”

  “For something else.” His tone is clipped.

  I give him a knowing look—figuring his mind is in the gutter. “For when I’m balls deep inside you, baby.” I laugh at my terrible impression of him. But he’s not smiling. He’s focused on something behind me.

  “No.” His eyes are dark, but not in that hot sexy way. I mean, they’re still hot and sexy, but he looks … pissed. “For when I break that motherfucker’s legs.” My spine stiffens at his words. I try to turn my body so I can see who he’s talking about, but his grip tightens on me. “Don’t.”

  “Alright, Prospect,” Ronnie calls, oblivious to the rage building inside Cook. “One more round.” Cook nods, but Ronnie isn’t convinced. “Hey!” Both our heads jerk to where he’s now standing. “Fuck him. I gotta lot of money ridin’ on this. Don’t fuck it up.” Maybe he’s not oblivious…

  “Who is he talking about?” I ask, although something tells me it’s Jud. I swear I can feel his beady little eyes firing rockets at my back.

  “Nobody, gorgeous.” There’s not a trace of anger on Cook’s face when he stares down at me again. He’s smiling. Happy. The flames now dying embers in his eyes. “Let’s win this so we can get out of here.” He drags his gaze down my body. “I’m ready to feel those boots on my shoulders.” Dropping his head to my ear, he nips it. “While I’m balls deep inside you.”

  I miss the emcee’s announcement. I’m on my second turn before I even realize what song is playing—“Ticks” by Brad Paisley. I want Cook to check me for ticks. I’m ready to feel those boots on my shoulders. I’m ready to feel his shoulders under my boots. His hands under my clothes. My body under his body. Or vice versa. I’d happily ride him. Like a cowgirl.

  The song ends. I don’t want to let him go. He pulls away from me, but holds my hand as he shows me off to the crowd. They cheer. We won. Ronnie is collecting his money. Cook is thanking people. I’m breathless and it has nothing to do with the eighty million turns I just performed. It’s him. The one who is going to fuck me in my boots.

  “Girl you killed it!” Kat screams, wrapping me in her arms. Tearing me away from Cook’s hand. Good thing … I don’t think I could’ve let go on my own. “Shot. We need a shot.” I allow her to pull me to the bar. Cook shoots me his I’ll-see-you-soon-don’t-worry-you’re-still-getting-fucked smile as I’m dragged away.

  I’m congratulated by numerous people. Stopped by several who hug me. I don’t know any of them, but I graciously accept their embrace and kind words. By the time we finally get to the bar, I’m more than thankful for the chilled shots Kat made earlier.

  “Someone had faith in me.”

  She smiles. “Girl I knew the two of you would win. You looked good. Cook looked damn good.”

  “I k
now, right,” I snort, tossing back my second buttery nipple. You could drink these things for breakfast.

  “Having fun, Patchwhore?” Jud’s words and presence are enough to sour the sweet drink.

  “Woah. Take it down a notch, dude,” Kat says to Jud as he takes a seat in the empty stool beside me.

  I hold my hand up. “No it’s okay, Kat.” I give a seething Jud my best smile. “Actually I am.”

  He shakes his head in disgust. Looking at me like I’m trash. His gaze is so angry. So hateful. So menacing. He actually makes me feel like trash. “You’re a nasty, classless bitch, Carmen. And the worst fucking decision I ever made.”

  Ouch.

  That one hurt. And despite my attempt, I can’t hide my flinch. Jud’s words have cut me before. But this time, the wound is deep enough to bleed.

  “There a problem here?”

  Cook’s voice is like stitches. His presence my pain relief. He soothes me instantly—making Jud’s brutal attack about as effective as a puppy licking me in the face. Cook wields just that much damn power over my emotions. He has the ability to make me forget bad shit. Think about only good shit. Deliciously stimulating, sexy, seductive, panty melting good shit.

  Body tight. Muscles flexing. Jaw clenched. Eyes full of evil. He’s leveling Jud with a look that has everyone around us tensing in anticipation. I want him to fuck me with that look. It’d likely kill me, but it’d be so worth it.

  “I asked you if there was a problem,” he repeats, his anger unmistakable. I’m going to fuck him so hard tonight.

  “No problem.” Jud glares at me, no doubt blaming me for Cook’s interference. Hell I didn’t ask him to intervene. But I can’t deny that I’m glad he did. “I was just congratulating her on the big win.” He smiles at Cook. “Good job to you too … Prospect.”

  Something shifts in the room. The air seems charged. People breathe a little shallower. I don’t know what happened, but there’s something about the way Jud addressed Cook that doesn’t feel right.

  Cook is smiling, but it’s not his happy smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks, Jud. I appreciate that.”

  Jud smirks, shoots me one last ugly look, then gets up from his stool. Then everything happens so fast, I’d have missed it if I didn’t have front row seats.

  Jud’s legs are kicked out from under him. His ass lands in the stool and his back is pressed hard against the bar. Cook’s hand is at his throat—his fingers squeezing hard enough to cause Jud’s face to redden.

  I stare at Cook open mouthed. I’ve never seen him so livid. Rage emanates from him. Thick veins bulge from his neck and the arm attached to Jud’s throat. He looks … scary. Creepy clown, girl from The Ring, Texas Chainsaw Massacre scary. And when he speaks, a chill runs up my spine.

  “I’m not your fuckin’ Prospect.”

  He didn’t roar. He didn’t yell. He just spoke. But the conviction in his words … if Jud didn’t know that Cook wasn’t his Prospect before, he knows now. So do I. And every other human in the greater Lake Charles area. That speech was like the thunder of God—giving even the nonbelievers faith.

  After allowing Jud a few more seconds to absorb his words, he releases him. Jud gasps and chokes. I want to take advantage of his vulnerable state and throat punch him. But Cook is watching me—gaze feral. I’m licking my lips. I’m promising all sorts of dirty things to him in my head. He just defended my honor. Well … Kinda. Whatever.

  He looks hungry again.

  Hungry for me. So I’ll let him indulge. Give him a taste of who he wants. Who he’s had. And who he can get any fucking time he wants.

  The classless bitch.

  The bad decision.

  Me.

  The Patchwhore.

  The Sleepover…

  I stand beside Cook, watching as the Eagles half carry, half drag Jud out the back door. Once he’s out of sight, Cook turns to leave. I silently follow him. But when Ronnie pulls Cook to the side, I step past them and continue to my car. I don’t wait for him to come out. I know he won’t be far behind me. Sure enough, I see his headlight in my rearview as I pull up to my apartment.

  As calmly as I can, I walk up the stairs. When I’m unlocking the door, I hear him on the first floor. I go to my room. Turn on the lamp. Sit on the bed. Two breaths later, he walks through my bedroom door—hanging his cut on the doorknob as he passes. Never slowing stride, he reaches behind him and pulls his T-shirt over his head.

  My eyes are graced with the greatness that is his chest. Skin stretched tight over ripped, corded muscles that appear to be flexed, though he’s completely at ease. He straddles my legs, giving my shoulder a gentle push until I fall back on the bed. Then his hands fist my shirt and pull—sending buttons flying across the room.

  I let in a deep breath causing my stomach to concave. He traces the outline of my ribs with a finger. “Do I scare you, Carmen?”

  I shake my head. “No.” Another deep, uneven breath. He circles my belly button with a feathered touch.

  “Do you know why I did what I did tonight?” His eyes move to my chest—watching the rise and fall of my breasts that threaten to spill out of my bra. It’s difficult for me to think with him looking at me like that. Talking to me in that low, dirty voice. But somehow I manage to speak.

  “Because he called you a Prospect,” I breathe, goosebumps breaking out across my flesh from his stare.

  “But do you know why it bothered me so much?” His knuckles brush the top of my breasts.

  A strange noise escapes my lips. Something between a moan and a growl of frustration. “Because you aren’t his fucking Prospect.” Those lips that I want on my face and nipples twitch.

  “But I am a Prospect. So how can I get away with doing that to a patch holder?”

  If this is a guessing game, I don’t want to play. If he wants me to know why, he should just tell me. Either way, he needs to get on with it so we can fuck. Boots on shoulders. Important shit.

  “Cook?”

  His eyes drag over my breasts, up my neck and finally to my face. “Yes, gorgeous?”

  “I don’t care. Prospect. Patch holder. You. J…”

  He silences me with a rough kiss. Bruising my lips as he claims me with his mouth. “Don’t say his name,” he growls, soothing his attack by licking my swollen lips. “Don’t say that motherfucker’s name.” Motherfucker who? I don’t know anything. Anyone. I’m molten beneath him. That kiss turned me into liquid fire.

  “Say my name.” The demand is given against my neck where those heated lips are trailing a wet path to my breasts.

  “Cook.” Mr. Delicious. Prospect. Founder of the Orgasm Giving Foundation.

  “So fuckin’ sexy,” he murmurs, his breath cooling my skin that’s damp from his mouth. Jerking down the cups of my bra, he releases my breasts before devouring one with his mouth—sucking hard then soothing with his tongue before moving to the next and doing the same.

  I writhe beneath him. My legs pinned. My nails in his back. Scarring his flawless skin. They move to fist in his hair as he slides down my body. Kissing and nibbling at my stomach while he makes quick work of my shorts.

  He pulls them down my legs, moving to kneel on the floor between them. Then my shorts are gone. Panties ripped. His face between my thighs. And finally … my boots are on his shoulders.

  He savagely eats me. Tongue and lips touching me everywhere. Hands knead my ass forcing me further into his face. I buck against him, riding his mouth hard.

  Hips are gyrating. Boots digging. Fingers tugging. Spiraling. Wandering. Tripping and fumbling in a crazy, offbeat pattern that is nothing compared to the synchronized dancing couple from earlier.

  “Ahhh…” I cry out in relief when his tongue flicks my clit with just the right amount of pressure. He works the spot hard, lashing the swollen nub over and over until I can’t breathe. My back arches. White light flashes behind my closed lids.

  I’m still coming. Still not breathing. Body still twitching when the wor
ld flips. Or maybe it’s just me who flips. I open my eyes. I’m on my knees. Ass in the air as I’m pulled free of my tattered shirt. With a snap of his fingers, my bra is stripped from me. The only thing I’m wearing is my boots. Fuck you … on your knees … nothing but your boots.

  He’s a man of his word. My legs are spread wider. He’s pushing inside me. I’m full of him. He’s gripping my hips. Kissing my spine. Telling me I taste sweet. Feel incredible. Tight. Wet. So soft. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

  My real-life book boyfriend.

  But the way he fucks me doesn’t compare to any hero in any book I’ve ever read. That’s all him—Cook. Tender and tough. Rough and gentle. Hard and soft. One extreme to another. The combination of all things I crave wrapped up and delivered with a pretty bow on top. Just. For. Me.

  “Carmen.”

  Yes.

  Carmen.

  He said my name.

  Growled it.

  He’s thrusting hard. His hands everywhere. I can feel his cock everywhere. The tips of his fingers bruise my hips. I want more. I tell him. He drives harder. Takes my breath. He’s fucking me like he hates me. I’ve never wanted to be hated more than I do in this moment. Hate me, Devil’s Renegade Prospect, Cook. Please, hate me.

  “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

  I mumble a few unintelligible words that are a mixture of “shut the hell up” and “thank you.”

  “Love fuckin’ you like this … sweet, little ass … wet, pretty pussy … them noises you make … you drive me crazy.”

  His filthy talk. Voracious drive. Unrelenting, shameless, unspoken demand to consume my mind and body. All of it is too much. It’s just too much feel good for one person. I’m going to come. It’s going to be earth shattering. The build alone has me sweating. Moaning. Quivering. Begging for something that will likely kill me.

  “Please … I can’t…”

  He delivers another hard thrust, as his fingers trail a delicate path down my spine. “Can’t what?” Can’t think when you talk in the sweet, yet gritty tone, fuck me like a savage and caress me like a rose.