That’s when she’d known this wasn’t just sex. She could love this multifaceted man. Love him with everything she had. And she ached because she would have him for only a little while longer.
Over the next few days they’d gorged themselves, eager to experience every kinky fantasy.
One afternoon he’d shown her the carnal delights of sixtynine, with her head hanging off the edge of the bed and her legs in straddle splits. In that position he could shove his cock so far down her throat she couldn’t taste him when he came. Also in that particular position, he could burrow his lightning-fast tongue so deep into her pussy that she swore she felt the tip of it tickling her uterus.
Then there was the morning he tied her spread-eagle to his brass bed headboard and footboard, taking a full hour to pound into her ass, while he used vibrating objects on her clit. Who knew the stem portion of an old electric toothbrush, the backside of his electric shaver, and the mini massager he claimed he actually used for sore leg muscles could be turned into impromptu sex toys? He’d made her come five times.
Although she loved every kinky, fun, raunchy sexual scenario Bran suggested, or enforced, she equally loved hanging out with him after they put their clothes back on. He hadn’t balked when she’d cooked for him a few times. She’d watched him tie flies—funky ones, ugly ones, beautiful ones. He truly had a gift.
When she asked him about it, he clammed up. At her assurance that she didn’t consider him a dork, he relaxed and almost shyly shared that artistic part of himself. He’d even promised to take her fishing—after they laughed about him being such a jerk the first time they’d met at the fishing hole. His sheepish confession that his rude behavior was because she’d intimidated him came as such a sweet surprise from the always confident cattleman that she’d almost melted into a puddle right then and there.
His honesty allowed Harper to open up as well. Telling him her fears about never getting a chance to pursue her dream career. How being the responsible one in her family had made her feel and act much older than her twenty-four years. He didn’t offer advice. He just listened. Listened and held her, made love to her, treated her like she mattered.
From that point on, their relationship changed, evolving into something … more than either of them expected. But Harper wasn’t entirely convinced that the short-term nature of it didn’t inflate the significance of these feelings.
Or maybe she was just lying to herself so it’d be easier to bear the separation from Bran when she left.
They finished chores early the following Friday so Bran could attend an auction outside of Rawlins. When Harper confessed that she’d never been to an auction, he convinced her to come along. They loaded up the trailer and took off.
Thankfully this wasn’t a liquidation auction used to pay off a banker’s debt while the poor family stood around in misery, watching as their worldly possessions sold for pennies on the dollar. The descendants of this estate were eager to unload equipment and household goods, as well as the small acreage. Bran toyed with the idea of buying the land and holding it for Kyle, since it was close by and it was the type of place Kyle had been searching for. But Kyle’s curiosity was second only to his pride, and he would demand to know how Bran had scrounged up that kind of cash on such short notice. So Bran discarded the idea. At this point, admitting to his friends that he could write a check for the entire amount and it wouldn’t affect his financial situation at all would likely piss them off. After all the years of friendship, they’d think he didn’t trust them.
Isn’t that the truth? You don’t trust anyone?
No. Being a braggart was a worse sin than nondisclosure, in his opinion.
After he registered to bid, they walked along the tables piled with stuff. Junk, mostly. Some dishes and housewares, but Bran was distracted, searching for what he’d driven all this way for. Fishing supplies.
The catalog hadn’t given a detailed description of what was for sale beyond the generic wording “fishing items.” But Bran had done some research, and apparently the old man who’d died had spent his life tying flies. So Bran was highly curious about the supplies he’d collected over the years.
Harper wandered off and Bran hit the mother lode about two tables in. Bags and boxes of every supply imaginable. He slapped on his poker face and kept walking, stopping at the next table over to scour the boxes of Boys’ Life from the 1950s. Not that he gave a shit about crusty old magazines, but he wanted to keep an eye on other auction patrons who might be interested in the fishing supplies.
A few browsed. No one very closely. He focused on the auctioneer and the next set of items up for bid. A box of glassware, including antique perfume bottles.
Harper had a few of those scattered around her place. If he bid on that lot, in the guise of buying her a gift, it wouldn’t appear that he was waiting around to bid on the rare fly-tying supplies.
The goal at auctions was to hide your interest in the items you wanted to buy. If you didn’t, some bastards would bid against you and drive the price higher just because they could.
He wandered to the auction stand. Not a big crowd, which could be a bad thing. Knowing the order of the auction meant some people didn’t show up until right before their coveted item went up on the auction block.
The bidding started low and stayed low. The entire thing lasted around two minutes. For twenty-five bucks he picked up the entire box of Depression-era glassware.
Bran bid on a scythe and lost. He waited a couple of items and bid on an ugly coffee table and lost.
Since he hadn’t seen Harper for a while, he went looking for her. He froze, watching her leave the concession wagon with an ice cream cone. A vanilla cone.
Was she trying to make a point?
He’d toned down the kink the last couple of days, preferring to take her to his bed and make love to her body to body, face to face. Having sex with her multiple times a day in the past month had allowed him to build his stamina—now he could fuck her for an hour, wringing at least three orgasms from her before finding his own release.
His mouth went dry as her lips enclosed the swirled creamy curlicue in the cone and sucked. Then she licked along one side, turned the cone, and licked again. Another couple of swipes with her hot little tongue and her lips were coated with the sticky whiteness.
Jesus. His cock jerked, trying to get out of his pants.
Harper took enjoyment of her ice cream cone to a whole other plane. When she lapped around the base with the flat of her tongue and then jammed the stubby ice cream entirely into her mouth, keeping her lips stretched around the cone as she sucked, he almost came. Right then.
The woman had no idea she was torturing him.
But she would.
As soon as she finished her treat and wiped her mouth, Bran approached her. She smiled. “Hey. I wondered what happened to you.”
“I bought these. I need to put them in the trailer.”
Just as he expected, she fell into step beside him. “See anything else you want?”
Hell, yeah.
Bran dug out his keys and unlocked the trailer doors. He gestured for her to go in first and he followed a beat later, closing the doors behind them.
“Holy cow, it’s dark in here.”
He set the box on the floor and clicked on the flashlight hanging from a rope on the ceiling.
“Oh. That’s better. What are we—”
Bran’s mouth cut off her question. He kissed her hungrily, her mouth cold and sweet from the ice cream. He broke the kiss and said, “On your knees, Harper.”
She blinked at him with confusion. “What?”
“I saw you licking that vanilla ice cream cone and it got me so fuckin’ hard I can’t see straight. Since you caused the problem, you get to be the solution. Now. On your knees.” He undid his belt, pushed his zipper down and yanked at his clothing until his jeans and boxers were around the tops of his boots. He spread his legs as wide as his jeans allowed.
Wordlessly, Ha
rper slid down the wall until she was on her knees.
Without preamble, Bran fisted his cock in his right hand and painted her lips with the wet tip. “You’ve got me so worked up this ain’t gonna be slow and easy.”
She opened her mouth to speak and Bran shoved his cock fully inside.
When she gagged he waited until the reflex passed.
“Put your hands on me, ’cause you’ll need something to hold on to.”
As soon as her cool fingers gripped his hips, he braced his forearm on the wall and curled his left hand around the right side of her face, holding her head in place against the wall.
He rocked into her mouth, over and over. Wetness, heat, darkness, suction. So goddamn good. His responses were primal grunts and groans as he fucked that hot, sassy mouth like he owned it.
He thrust into her so deeply he felt the bite of her teeth at the base of his cock. That familiar static charge began at the top of his head and zipped down his spine to his groin, pulling his sac up. He was done. His shaft contracted, sending out a wave of ecstasy with every surge of seed.
Harper didn’t move beyond sucking and swallowing. But she couldn’t, since he’d pinned her head against the wall.
Bran was easing out, fully intending to return the favor by burying his mouth between her thighs, when he heard the blare of the auction speaker.
“Now up. Lot number twenty-seven.”
“Goddammit! That’s the lot I’ve been waiting for.” He jerked his jeans up so fast he almost caught the tip of his cock in the zipper. He tucked his shirt in and buckled his belt as he strode to the doors.
Not cool to leave her on her knees without so much as a good-bye.
Shit. Yeah. He was one classy guy. Bran looked at her. “I’ll be right back. Umm. Thanks.” He made sure to shut the door behind him but not lock it.
Bidding for the fishing supplies was changed to lot number twenty-nine, but Bran was paranoid that he’d miss it, so he stuck close to the auction block. His cell phone buzzed and he ignored it. By the time they’d started the bidding on lot number twenty-nine, he’d forgotten about his unread text message. He won the lot, but paid plenty—to the tune of twelve hundred bucks. Struggling to carry the three boxes to the trailer, he set them on the ground and opened the doors. No sign of Harper.
Did you really expect her to be here waiting for you in the dark? Especially after the rude way you used her and left her?
Scowling, he dragged the boxes inside. He started to wander around, then figured it’d be easier just to call her. His finger skated across the screen and he noticed he had a text message. From Harper.
Harper? She never texted him. He touched the icon and the message appeared.
Ran into Alice & she offered me an early ride home. Need 2 talk 2 Bailey 2-nite. C U ltr.
He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t that.
Chapter Fifteen
With all the hours Harper spent with Bran, and Bailey’s school schedule, she and Bailey hadn’t spoken in person for over a week. But Harper had a sneaking suspicion Bailey was avoiding her for some reason. Tricking her sister seemed childish, but it was her only option to get Bailey to talk to her.
The front door opened. Harper knew Bailey couldn’t see her lounging in the chair in the living room, since she’d turned off all the lights. She didn’t want to scare her either, but again, no choice. She said, “Bailey.”
The girl screamed like a horror movie queen.
Harper clicked on the table lamp. “Sorry.”
“What the fuck are you doing, lurking in the damn dark, Harper?”
“Waiting for you.”
“Holy crap. I thought you forgot to pay the electric bill.”
“No. I figured you were avoiding me, so I chose a sneak attack. Liberty would be proud.”
“Awesome.” Bailey shifted from foot to foot, as if debating whether to make a break for it.
“Sit down. We need to talk.”
“Where’s Bran’s truck?”
“Around. You wouldn’t have come inside if you’d thought I was here. Have a seat.”
“I only came home for a second. I have to go—”
“Wrong.” Harper pointed at the couch. “Park it. Now.”
“Fine.” Bailey flopped down, arms crossed over her chest, a belligerent set to her mouth. “What’s so damn important?”
“First, I wondered if you wanted to have a graduation party here and invite your friends?”
A look of horror crossed Bailey’s face. “No fucking way.”
Was Bailey’s vehement denial due to the fact that most of her classmates attending the small private high school outside Rawlins had money? Was she embarrassed about living in a dumpy rental?
“Look, Sis, that’s sweet of you to offer. But most the kids I’m graduating with are total douche bags. I’d rather celebrate the fact I’ll never have to see any of their stupid faces again … without them.”
No party. Not that she was surprised. Check that off the to-do list. “Fine.”
“So that’s what was so damn important that you had to hide in the dark and scare the shit out of me? To talk about a freakin’ graduation party?”
“No. I want to know where you are on the college decision process. I recall a couple of the colleges have housing application deadlines soon, so you’re going to need to make a decision on where—”
“I said I’d handle it. Stop nagging me. Jeez, I’m under enough pressure with finals and all the other stuff. I don’t need you adding to it.”
“Tough. I’ll remind you that your decision affects me too. I’ll need to look for a job. And a place to live nearby.”
Bailey scowled. “Why don’t you just forget about me and figure out where you want to move?”
That jarred her. “What?”
“I’m eighteen. You don’t have to babysit me. You’re off the hook, Harper. You can do whatever you want with your life. Go anywhere. Don’t base your decision on where you want to live on mine.”
Annoyed by Bailey’s blasé attitude, Harper snapped. “What’s really going on, Bailey? You afraid your older sister will cramp your style at college? That I’ll be tagging along all the time, wearing my toga, screaming, ‘Where’s the frat party?’ ”
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe you should enroll in drama classes. You’ve got a knack for comedic timing.”
“Don’t be flip. This is serious.”
“I know. But as you’ve pointed out, this is my decision. You’ve got to let me make it.” Even if you don’t like it was implied.
An impasse. Big surprise.
After the day she’d had, she wasn’t in the mood to let her baby sister run roughshod over her. Harper stood. “Just when I think we’ve both escaped Mom’s influence … you’re acting exactly like her.” She walked briskly to her bedroom and slammed the door.
Mature, Harper.
She fell back on the bed and gazed at the ceiling. Trying to stay one step ahead to keep her stress level down was a losing battle. She couldn’t give their landlord notice until she knew they wouldn’t be living in their car.
Oh, really? Or is there another reason why you’ve been dragging your feet about finalizing your intent to move?
No. Being in limbo had nothing to do with Bran and everything to do with her sister.
Maybe the crack about Bailey acting like their mother had been unfair. But Harper had watched Dawn, the master manipulator, at work for years, and she recognized the signs. Putting Harper on the defensive was the first indication that Bailey was hiding something. But what?
The outer door slammed. Since her eighteenth birthday, Bailey had stopped telling Harper where she was going or who she was going with. Harper didn’t want to spend another night alone, dissecting the deteriorating situation with her sister. Nor did she want to brood about Bran Turner and that intense interlude in the trailer at the auction today.
Not that she had a clue what had caused his uncharacteristic behavior.<
br />
Wasn’t like she had anyone to talk to about relationship stuff, especially since what was going on between her and Bran wasn’t really a relationship, just sex. Liberty had a ton of experience with sex, but access to her was limited—plus her older, wiser sister wasn’t known for her warm fuzziness. Celia was on the road and winning. Like many athletes on a winning streak, Celia held on to certain superstitions. She started and ended each day the same way. Ate the same food. Listened to the same music. Talked to the same people. She even wore the same clothes until the streak ended. Since Harper hadn’t been on Celia’s daily call list when the streak started, even if Harper left a message, Celia wouldn’t return her call, in case that one change would jinx her winning streak.
So, yeah, maybe she was just a tad annoyed with everyone—friends, family, her lover. It was Friday night. Maybe it was time to make new friends. Drinking friends. Because all of a sudden, Harper was in the mood to drink.
She rifled through her closet. She chose a stretchy button-up Western shirt, swirled with patterns of gold, brown, and rust. She paired the dress shirt with a gold lace camisole and pulled on her slim-fitting Levi’s, threading a brown rhinestone belt through the belt loops, centering the modest rhinestone buckle between her hips. Needing further proof that she could still look like a girl, not a ranch hand, Harper fixed her hair to fall in loose curls around her shoulders. She applied enough makeup that it didn’t appear she was wearing any makeup at all. The final touch was slipping on her dancing boots just before she scooted out the door.
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