by Reid, Penny
Moving on.
I reached for the small wrapped gift on the passenger seat and gathered a bracing breath, opening my door in one bold movement. I wouldn’t be intimidated by clowns. I’d just recovered from a freaking gunshot wound. I was a badass. I was TNT.
Eh, TNT might be a step too far. On a scale from water to azidoazide azide, I was TATP. Harder to handle than trinitrotoluene, but with an explosive power of about 80% of TNT.
Again, moving on.
The day was bittersweet already and it wasn’t even 4:00 PM. Last night, we’d celebrated Roscoe’s clean bill of health from the cardiologist, which meant he’d finished packing his things this morning while I’d been in Knoxville, meeting with the SAIC for East Tennessee.
I’d received my new assignment, which placed me firmly back in the FBI research lab. I left in a week. Professionally, I was ecstatic. Personally, I was feeling a little woe-is-me. Though I’d mentioned to Roscoe more than once how much I wanted to get back to my lab work, he hadn’t shared any of his hopes and dreams for his professional future in return.
I knew he’d given his notice at his old job, but he hadn’t mentioned what he planned to do next. His unemployment didn’t seem to give him much angst. As soon as he’d been allowed by his doctors two weeks ago, he’d started helping Drew with Park paperwork and volunteering at two animal shelters doing light vet work. As long as he was busy with animals, going to physical therapy, and having dinner with my family every night, he seemed content.
But what did he want? Out of life and work? What fulfilled him professionally? Where was his ambition? These were questions that needed answering and I planned to get him alone today—birthday party or not—to pump him for information.
Climbing the stairs to the big house, I lifted my hand to knock. Before I could, the big door was suddenly yanked open, revealing Shelly Sullivan.
Dressed as a clown.
Instead of my usually instinctive repulsion, the sight of the tall, willowy woman staring back at me, a smile painted on her typically unsmiling face, filled me with a spark of amazement, followed by amusement.
“I’m a happy clown,” she said, sounding as flat as a piece of paper.
Pressing my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh, I nodded. “Of course you are.”
“I am the only one who can juggle for an indefinite period of time.” She stood back, opening the door wider. “I think that is why they made me a happy clown.”
“Are there more clowns?” I asked with some alarm, quickly conducting a survey of the large living room for any additional clowns that might be lying in wait.
“Jenn is a sad clown, Sienna is the clumsy clown, and I think Ashley is a rodeo clown or a magician clown.”
Usually, I’d be horrified by the idea of four clowns running amok in my general vicinity, but I wasn’t.
I grinned. “I hope someone has captured this amazing moment on film.”
Shelly grunted, saying nothing, which only made me want to laugh. The dichotomy of her brusque and forthright personality paired with the perpetually manic and happy paint on her face was absolutely hilarious.
I was about to assure her she was doing a good thing and would be up for the aunt-of-the-year award when her nephew—the oldest of Sienna and Jethro’s children—ran into the room.
“Aunt Shelly!” Benjamin sprinted over to her, grabbing her by the hand, his gorgeous brown eyes, which were lined with thick black lashes, on his aunt’s face. “I have a new thing for you to juggle.”
Even with the face paint, her entire demeanor seemed to soften and she squatted in front of the five-year-old. “I’m not juggling alligators.”
He giggled. “No! Not alligators.”
“I’m not juggling chainsaws either,” she said, her own grin peeking out.
Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I turned to see another clown—the sad one, so presumably Jennifer—walking into the room from the kitchen, twisting a balloon animal that actually looked like an elephant.
Huh.
“Hey, Simone!” Her mouth grinned, but her face continued looking sad. It was eerie, but not as distressing as I usually found clowns to be. She came over to give me a hug, but stopped short and laughed, gesturing to her face. “Sorry, this paint comes right off. Better not risk getting it on your clothes. Come out back, that’s where everyone is. We got the grill going. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, starved.” I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“Come on, come on.” Benjamin tugged on Shelly’s hand, forcing her to stand up. “You can juggle this, I know you can.”
“Is it a couch? Because I can’t juggle couches either,” she teased, reaching out to tickle his side.
Benjamin laughed at her, holding his stomach. “No, it’s not a couch!”
“Aunt Shelly is so silly.” Jenn put the elephant on Benjamin’s head and I was amazed to see the balloon animal was also a hat.
Okay, that was cool. I was seriously impressed. And I kind of wanted a balloon animal hat of my own.
. . . I wonder if she can make cheetahs?
“Quick,” Benjamin was saying, pulling frantically on Shelly’s hand. “Come juggle it before it’s too late.”
“You got me, what do you want me to juggle?” She fit her fingers in his hand properly and allowed him to lead her towards the back door.
But then he said, “Uncle Cletus’s sausage,” and her feet stopped.
Both her real eyebrows and her painted on ones jumped and she turned to face Jennifer, who was gaping, wide-eyed.
“Did Uncle Cletus put you up to this?” Jenn asked, her voice full of both irritation and mirth.
“He made a bet with Uncle Beau that Aunt Shelly couldn’t juggle his sausage,” Benjamin said, as though he was offended on behalf of his Aunt Shelly’s juggling skills.
Jennifer and Shelly exchanged a look, with Shelly’s real face looking exasperated and Jennifer’s real face fighting laughter.
“You go tell Uncle Cletus that Aunt Shelly has no desire to handle his raw meat,” Jennifer instructed. “And then tell him I’ll be out later to twist it into balloon animals if he doesn’t start behaving himself.”
Benjamin’s eyes widened, but he nodded and darted out of the room, his instructions clear.
As soon as he was gone, Jennifer and I busted out laughing while Shelly shook her head. “I don’t know why I was surprised,” she said flatly. “I knew we were in trouble as soon as I saw the grill.”
“What’s this about Cletus’s sausage?” I asked, glancing between the two women.
Shelly and Jenn shared another look—sad clown to happy clown—and Jenn turned a small grin on me. “Let’s go outside and find Roscoe.”
* * *
“Having a good time?” Roscoe whispered in my ear, startling me a little as his arms came around me from the back.
I grinned, tipping my head back on his chest and peering up at him. “Actually, I am. More fun than I’d ever had at a kid’s birthday party, that’s for sure.”
The Winston women opened my eyes to the value of clowns, a feat I’d considered impossible. Jenn’s balloon animals were impressive, Shelly’s juggling was outstanding, and Ashley’s pantomiming and magician skills—especially the tricks she played on her brothers, like pulling a sausage out of Cletus’s ear—were first class. But Sienna had us all in stitches with her ability to fall down.
I didn’t usually enjoy slapstick humor, but there was no denying Sienna Diaz-Winston was a slapstick genius.
Roscoe grinned, giving me a soft kiss and squeezing me lightly with a cautious hug. I sighed, leaning against him, but was also careful not to give him too much of my weight. This caused him to lower a hand to my stomach and press me backwards more firmly.
“Stop being so careful with me,” he said, whispering against my neck.
Smiling ruefully, I gazed at the horizon, at the sight of the summer sun against the cloudless sky, descending into the emerald forests of
the Smokies. Its last beams stretched along the wildflower field as day turned to dusk, and the witching hour dawned.
Exhaling an exasperated laugh, I caressed the back of his hand on my stomach. “Okay, fine. I’ll stop being careful with you if you stop being careful with me.”
His arms loosened a tad—so the opposite of what I wanted—and he leaned to the side, studying me. I loved his touch, but I’d been a tad frustrated by his gentleness. I couldn’t wait until we stopped being so careful with each other. But I supposed, after so many weeks, caution had become a habit.
We stared at each other for a minute, his soulful eyes examining every inch of my face, growing from warm to hot to scorching. He released me.
Sliding his hand down my arm to tangle our fingers together, he tugged. “Come with me.”
I allowed myself to be pulled, a flutter of excitement and anticipation in my stomach. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to wrestle.” His legs—much longer than mine—were eating up the ground as we walked around the side of the house, forcing me to jog to keep up.
“Wrestle?” I asked, biting my bottom lip at the thought, eagerness and worry battling for dominance within me.
Pausing just for a moment to open the door to the carriage house, Roscoe pulled me inside and down the hall, stopping before we’d reached the end of it and pressing me against the wall, capturing my mouth in a hungry kiss.
My body’s response was immediate, heat pooling low in my belly, making a puddle of my insides as shocks and sparks of sensual awareness teased beneath my skin.
But then, he broke the kiss, and raised his hand to stop me before I could follow. His gaze darted over me, moving from my neck to my chest, stomach, hips, thighs. The hand he held out turned, as though he wanted a handshake, and I glanced between him and it, confused.
“Uh . . .”
“Thumb war,” he said, his voice rough. “Whoever wins gets to decide what we do, and how we do it.”
I slid my palm against his, our fingers curling together as we assumed the position. “You know I’m a championship thumb wrestler.”
The side of his mouth hitched. “Yeah. But I’ve memorized all your moves.”
He didn’t know all my moves.
Giving him my Dirty Harry squint, I pressed my lips together and gave a single nod for the battle to commence.
“One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war—”
Two things happened at once. His thumb came up, going to the left instead of the right, about to subdue my much smaller thumb while I stepped forward and pressed my free hand against the front of his pants and rubbed.
He sucked in a startled breath, but—to my amazement—didn’t lose his concentration on our war, but he did huff a frustrated sounding laugh as I continued to stroke him while battling his other hand.
“You fight dirty,” he said, losing his advantage as I worked both my hands.
“You’re lucky I didn’t flash a boob,” I said, moving in for a final strike.
“I wouldn’t say that makes me lucky.” Roscoe’s voice like gravel, he surprised me by navigating out of my trap, faking right, coming back left and pressing my thumb down in victory.
“Shit,” I said, wrinkling my nose at my loss.
But, to be honest, I wasn’t disappointed. I was thrilled.
My hand dropped from the front of his pants and he caught it, putting it back in place. I lifted my eyes to his, surprised.
Roscoe’s gaze had darkened and the force of his ardor made my heart skip a beat. It also made my mouth go dry and my brain go a little stupid.
“Where were we?” he whispered gruffly, his free hand coming to my tank top and pulling down the strap of both my shirt and bra. His mouth lowered to my shoulder and he bit me, soothing the sting away with his tongue.
Suddenly, he was everywhere. His hands everywhere. His mouth everywhere. He’d won the war and now it seemed he was ready to collect the spoils.
Still in the hallway, my shirt was whipped off, my pants and sandals were next, my bra and undies quickly followed as he feasted on my flesh, grabbing and caressing, greedy and insatiable.
My hand continued to give him strokes over his jeans, because I could do nothing else. Every time I tried to remove an article of his clothing, he subdued the attempt, catching my wrist and bringing it around to my back where he’d released it to grab a handful of my backside.
Eventually though, he allowed me to unbuckle his belt, unbutton and unzip his pants, and reach my hand inside his shorts. We both gasped as my palm came in contact with the silky heat of his erection. A shiver of anticipation racing down my spine, I pressed my legs together, feeling empty and needy.
Roscoe’s lips dipped to my neck, his short beard tickling the sensitive skin as he whispered, “I miss you. I miss you so fucking much. You’re all I think about.” He tongued my earlobe, sending an aching shock wave through my entire body as his hand massaged and plucked my breast. He pinched and tugged at my nipple, roughly, expertly, and my knees grew weak as his hand slid lower, the rough calluses of his palm delicious friction on my stomach and abdomen, his fingers moving to separate me.
Using one jean clad knee, he pushed my legs open and invaded me, my head falling back to the wall as he leaned away, his eyes ravenous for my reaction. “I want to watch you come, just like this, and then I want to taste you.”
I shuddered, my body all coiling heat and twisting knots. I gripped his shoulders to hang on, my hips rocking against his hand. Roscoe glanced down, watching his fingers move inside me, and he cursed, his eyes blinking but never closing.
“You’re so fucking sexy.”
I gasped. Watching him watching me sent a spike of pleasure directly to my center, and my fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulders.
I was so close. So close. So close—
But then his hand was gone. I cried out, a jumble of sounds communicating my dismay were quickly silenced as he lifted me off my feet and carried me down the remainder of the hall, past the kitchen and into a bedroom.
Placing me on the edge of the bed, he stripped off his T-shirt, revealing an angry-looking scar traveling vertically down his chest. My heart lurched at the sight, dually mourning the loss of his unblemished skin and rejoicing in his will to live. That scar meant he was here now, we were together, and this was only the beginning.
Kicking off his shoes and jeans, he climbed over me, his eyes on my mouth. A spike of trepidation knocked me out of my sexy and sentimental brain fog, because—from all appearances—it looked like Roscoe was about to attempt missionary.
My heart didn’t have time to fall, however, because Roscoe’s hot, lean body settled over mine. And that felt good. So good. His erection nudged at my entrance, slick and sensitive thanks to his earlier handiwork, and I gasped at the sudden shock of sensation.
Instead of pushing into me, which was what I’d expected, Roscoe reached down and adjusted himself so that his cock slid against my center, rubbing himself against me with tortuously slow strokes that felt like heaven and madness.
“What—” I panted, my body overheated, unable to catch my breath. “What are you doing?”
His lips were at my neck and trailed biting kisses along my collarbone to my breast, holding himself above me as he rhythmically rocked with impressive skill and strength.
“Whatever I want,” he answered, swirling his tongue around my nipple, and I thought I would splinter in two.
Breath, skin, friction, heat. I felt suffocated in the best way, and yet empty where I needed him most. The best torture, the most essential agony.
“Please,” I begged, tilting my hips as much as I could. “Please, Roscoe.”
“Tell me you love me.” His voice was rough, almost stern. “Tell me.”
“I love you, I love you. Please.”
“You think about me, hmm?” He was right there, right there, poised, but not moving. “You think about this? About how much you want it?”
My skin was ripe with goose bumps, hot with need. I would have said anything, I wanted him so badly.
“Yes, yes. All the time. I think about you all the time.” The words were a struggle, a puff of air as I kneaded his body, urging him to fill me, take me.
He did. Slowly. So slowly. Earning him a moan and my glare.
Tangentially, I was surprised to find him glaring at me as well, his eyes wild, almost angry in their intensity.
“You’re teasing me,” I accused, breathless as he gave me another controlled, languorous stroke.
“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I go any faster, I’ll come.”
I laughed, and then moaned again, pressing my head back against the bed, my body arching even though I could barely move. His weight restrained me, but somehow felt essential, like his heaviness was the only thing keeping me from shattering.
Despite his claim, he began to move faster, one hand braced on the bed next to my head, the other moving to my hip, sliding up my side, over the pucker of my scar to my breast before coming to the bed as his balance wobbled.
He cursed, his body growing tense, his movements jerky, lacking in finesse. It was this lack of finesse, this predatory mindlessness that had me soaring, the twisting knots in my abdomen snapping, my heart racing to the edge as my hips pivoted and rocked, grinding against his invasion, my movements just as jerky and lacking in finesse.
Gasping for breath, I fell back as the last tremors made me shiver and shake. Roscoe had slowed, but he was still moving, still thrusting against me, as though endeavoring to pull every last spasm from my body, his eyes on mine, loving yet still wild.
Reaching for him, I pulled his full weight on top of me and sensed his arms resist. He was allowing me to hold him, but he still carried most of the burden.
I made a sound of protest. “Roscoe, come here, come lie on me.”
He shifted, bringing us both to our sides as he pulled me into his arms. I released a huff of impatience, but I allowed it, because that is what one does when faced with a Roscoe Winston who wishes to cuddle on his own terms. One huffs but allows it, and then one snuggles closer, trailing one’s fingertip along the ridges and lines of his glorious, sexy body.