Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4)

by Penny Reid

  But good and proper soon became naughty and dirty, and I grew dizzy with the feel of her.

  One minute she was frantically covering my face with kisses, and the next she was arching against me, her fingers working to unzip my coveralls while I’d already half unzipped hers.

  Essential madness, that’s what it was.

  My hands moved around to her back, then lower, cupping and kneading her backside. Holy Moses, she had a great ass. Just . . . fucking great. I wanted to tell her how great but instead all I could manage was a growl.

  I trusted the growl communicated my point.

  Her hands slipped under my T-shirt, lifting and then yanking it over my head. She shuddered as her fingers danced along my stomach and ribs, her mouth ravenous beneath mine. Shelly bit my lip, sucking it into her mouth and I groaned, fire in my veins, needing to touch her everywhere.

  Grabbing one of my wrists, she redirected my hand to her breast, pressing herself into my palm. Her breath hitched as I bent, giving her nipple the same treatment she’d given my lip, her nails digging into the back of my head, anchoring me to her.

  “Oh God, Beau . . .”

  Curious and turned on, I skimmed my fingers down her long torso, enjoying the silk of her skin, and into her panties—which I noted were also lacy. I parted her. Pulling down her bra straps, I recaptured the tip of her breast, swirling my tongue around the peak as I invaded her body with my finger.

  I could have told her how wet she was, how hot and slick and intoxicating she felt. Instead, I growled again. And again, it was just as effective as words.

  She gave me an answering moan, tilting her hips, her nails now scratching my back and sides.

  “Please, Beau,” she panted. “Please. Please.”

  I’ve always been a sucker for a woman asking nicely, and her plea was so sweet, ripe with raw vulnerability. I wanted to taste it, but I also wanted to tease, so I trailed wet kisses over her breast to her neck, sliding my lips and teeth along her jaw. I nipped at her bottom lip while I stroked her hotter.

  Shelly chased my mouth. I lifted my chin, not giving her what she wanted while giving her exactly what she needed. I added a second finger to my invasion and the skill of my thumb. She whimpered, her head falling back, her nails scoring my skin where her fingers dug into my sides, her eyes at half-mast.

  “Kiss me.” Shelly’s hands slid lower, into my boxers, moving with purpose. Her hands weren’t soft and small, tentative and teasing. They were strong and demanding. I was completely unprepared for how necessary her hands felt on my skin. How her touch, so uniquely her, drove me wild. A trail of searing heat, a rush and force of aching need both inebriated and sobered me, reminding me that we were still moving too fast, too soon.

  Although I believed her when she’d apologized, I couldn’t count on her. Not yet. I wanted this woman. I wanted her body—desperately—but not until I had her trust and respect first.

  “Shelly, honey—” I turned my hips, angling out of her reach.

  “Let me touch you, please.” Her eyes were hazy and her breath was coming short. Even so, she rolled her pelvis, riding my fingers and looking so damn beautiful and sexy I had to hold my breath against the shards of painful longing threatening to eclipse my self-control.

  “Not yet.” My voice emerged rough, gravelly as my gaze greedily memorized and stored every detail: the high flush on her cheeks, her parted lips, the rapid thrum of her pulse, the soft sway of her luscious breasts, the sheen of perspiration coating her perfect skin.

  For a moment, all I could hear was the sound of her ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart between my ears. Her stare locked on mine, looking a little lost, a little surprised, and a lot mindless.

  Good—I couldn’t help think, some of my own thirst quenched by her submission—I hope this distracts her for a good, long while. I hope it’s all she can think about. I hope thoughts of this, of me, haunt her.

  “Beau,” she moaned, the sound helpless, panicked. “I think I’m coming. Fuck. I’m coming.”

  She tensed, her fingers digging into my shoulders for purchase, her eyes rolling back and closing, her body stiff as a bow as wild sounds of surrender stole past her lush lips. Her loss of control was stunningly erotic, all thoughts of restraint fled my mind, leaving only a fierce need and determination to be buried inside her the next time.

  And there was definitely going to be a next time.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  Maybe now.

  Fire in my lungs, I pulled her away from the door and held her, surrounding her, wrapping her in a firm embrace. She was still shaking with aftershocks and snuggled close, and then even closer, like she wanted to fuse our bodies together, or merge them into one.

  We stood like that for a long time, but not long enough for the want in me to temper.

  Do I have a condom?

  She’s probably on birth control.

  Uh, disease?

  . . . she seems clean.

  Against the door? In the supply room?

  Hell. Yes. And then maybe in the backseat of her car after.

  For now, I tasted her on my arousal-soaked fingers, and it was nearly my undoing. I barely held back another growl as I fought with wanting to collapse onto my knees and devour her.

  Why don’t I? I need to devour her so badly. Just one more taste.

  I exhaled a short laugh, pushing these crazy thoughts and accompanying flashes of carnality from my mind even as baser desires began to bargain and plead, desperate to make use of her body. I was made foolish by the craving and promise of so much hedonistic gratification.

  Needing to immediately silence the dissent, I asked myself sharply, What would Darrell Winston do?

  Swallowing tightly, clenching my jaw and releasing a sobering breath, I had my answer.

  Meanwhile, Shelly had stirred. And she was touching me. Trailing the pads of her fingers along my stomach, ribs, chest, and shoulders, as though on an expedition to learn every inch of me.

  “Your mother named you well,” she said, her voice made hoarse from her earlier abandoned cries. “Every single part of you is beautiful.”

  I placed a kiss against her temple, wishing I could hold her properly, in a bed, on a couch, in a big comfy chair. Anywhere soft enough to lay and be still.

  She shifted, her palm covering my heart. “Do you . . .”

  “What?”

  “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

  I huffed a stunned laugh, holding her by the shoulders and separating us enough for me to see her face. She lifted her chin, her eyes landing on mine, looking hard and bracing. Like she was struggling to erect that ice sheet between us. Like she regretted asking the question because she wasn’t certain how I would answer.

  “Shelly.” I caressed her cheek, tenderly angling her jaw so I could press my lips to hers, and then whispered against her mouth, “You must know how beautiful people find you. Everyone thinks you are unequivocally stunning.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking. I don’t care about people. I’m asking what you think, about me.” Her fingers curled into the skin of my chest, like she wanted to reach inside and take a piece of my heart. “Do you think I’m beautiful? Or that I could be?” She whispered this time.

  I could have responded in so many ways, all of them painfully true.

  You are so beautiful, when I look at you I hurt.

  I dream of you every night.

  You’re all I think about.

  You give new and glorious meaning to the word exquisite.

  I can’t wait to know every part of you by heart.

  But instead, caution and a measure of good sense had me answering with the most tepid of responses.

  “Yes.” I kissed her nose. “I think you are beautiful.” And I think beautiful is a gross understatement.

  A hesitant smile tugged her mouth to one side.

  “I’m trying, I’m really trying,” she said, like it was a confession, adding just before kissing me, “And you make
it easier.”

  18

  “The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong.”

  ― C.G. Jung

  * * *

  *Beau*

  I kept a close eye on Shelly for the rest of the day and the next. If our encounter in the supply closet had overwhelmed her, I saw no sign of it. She was as she’d always been—cool, focused, aloof.

  Except when our eyes met.

  She’d blush and I’d give her a small smile. Then she would look away, looking like she was fighting a smile of her own.

  Nevertheless, throughout Tuesday, I was distracted and tense, waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, for the unexpected emergency, for something to get in our way and spoil our plans. Again.

  Surprisingly, nothing did.

  We left the shop at 7:00 PM and arrived at Daisy’s Nut House just after 7:15. Now that we’d finally made it, I relaxed.

  Wanting her skin against mine, I reached for her hand as we walked into the restaurant. I’d been craving the feel of her, but hadn’t acted on the impulse during work hours. Our unexpected interlude inside the supply closet Monday morning notwithstanding, keeping a professional distance at work seemed like a good idea.

  What if things didn’t work out between us? The thought was unsettling, but I couldn’t discount the possibility. Shelly feeling uncomfortable on my account at her place of employment was just plain unacceptable.

  But now, away from work, now that I had her all to myself, I wanted to know everything about her. And I wanted to know she trusted me enough to tell me. That was my plan for tonight.

  Next week, assuming things continued going well, I’d touch on the future, on

  exclusivity and what I wanted.

  But not tonight.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, Beau. This is the just first date and she ain’t going anywhere.

  “Do they serve pancakes here?”

  I tugged her closer, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. “Yes. They have several kinds of pancakes.”

  “I’m going to order pancakes.” She looked determined, like I might try to talk her out of ordering pancakes.

  “You should.” Guiding her through the door, I paused for a second to search for Daisy.

  Unsurprisingly, she was nowhere to be seen. Daisy Payton had been one of my momma’s best friends and Daisy’s daddy owned the mill where Billy worked. The last name of Payton carried so much clout in Tennessee, Daisy’s husband Trevor had taken it when they married.

  But Daisy was an impressive businesswoman in her own right, having franchised Daisy’s Nut House some years ago.

  Spotting Beverly, one of the staff servers, I pointed toward a booth at the back and she nodded her head in understanding. It was smaller than the other tables, meant for two, and isolated. Its placement would allow us to have conversations without being overheard or easily spotted.

  Everyone in this town knew me and I was friendly with just about all of them. Though the crowd inside the diner was sparse, I guided Shelly to one side of the booth, releasing her hand, then took the seat facing away from the entrance and the rest of the restaurant for myself. I didn’t want our date to be interrupted by well-meaning neighbors.

  I picked up the menu, scanning its contents, even though I knew it by heart. “I’m probably going to get the hamburger, but I can’t decide if I want French fries or tater tots.”

  “Tater tots with a hamburger?”

  “Yeah. Have you ever tried them?”

  “Yes. I love them.”

  Of course she does, because she’s awesome.

  “Do you want to get some to share?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They don’t go with pancakes.”

  “Says who?”

  Shelly blinked once, and very slowly. “Are you serious?”

  “Serious as a gas engine full of diesel.”

  Her nose wrinkled, her eyes narrowed, and once again I was faced with an almost-smile. That was seven almost-smiles in one day. But who’s counting?

  “Hey, what can I get you?”

  Reluctantly, I glanced away from Shelly to our server. I had a small shock because instead of Beverly, it was Daisy’s daughter Simone.

  “Simone?”

  “Hey, Beauford. How’s it hanging?” She grinned at me, placing her hand on the back of the booth.

  “What are you doing here?” Not even thinking about it, I skootched out of the booth and gave the girl a big hug.

  She laughed, squeezing me back, then broke the embrace and shook her head at me. “You look exactly the same.”

  I noted her accent was diluted, she almost sounded like a Yankee. But that made sense based on where she’d gone to college—Washington, DC I remembered hearing. As I leaned away I took note, Simone did not look exactly the same.

  For one thing, her hair was different. Growing up, her momma had kept it in long strands of tight braids. But now she had it unbound, in a curly halo around her pretty face.

  Also, she no longer looked like a girl. She looked like a woman. And that thought had me wondering if Roscoe knew she was in town.

  “Simone, this is Shelly Sullivan, she works with us down at the shop. Shelly, this is Simone. Daisy’s daughter and a real pain in the ass.” I turned to Shelly, finding her watching us with interest.

  Simone hit my stomach with the back of her hand, drawing my attention just in time for me to spot her mock-aggravated look.

  “Nice to meet you, Shelly.” Simone gave Shelly a little wave and a full smile. “What did Beauford do to trick you into going out with him? Hide your keys?”

  “He kissed me.”

  I pressed my lips together, giving myself a moment to inspect the table before glancing at Simone.

  Her mouth had dropped open, likely at Shelly’s candor, but then she laughed. “I like her.”

  I grinned at Simone and then at Shelly who was still inspecting us with curiosity. “Me too.”

  At that, Shelly’s almost smile became a true one and my heart skipped five beats, maybe more. Truth is, I lost count. I was momentarily stunned by the sight of her beaming up at me and missed half of what Simone said next.

  “. . . with the menu? Or do you know what you want?”

  “Pardon?” I asked, pulling my attention away from Shelly’s grin with great reluctance. Simone was giving me a sideways look.

  “I said, do you need a moment with the menu or do you know what you want?”

  “He wants a hamburger with cheddar cheese, tomato, lettuce, pickles, onions, but no mayo, and a side of tater tots. I’ll have the buttermilk pancakes, banana on the side—not sliced, not peeled—butter on the side, no powdered sugar,” Shelly answered for both of us, turning her soft smile to Simone.

  “Sure thing.” Simone had whipped out a notepad and wrote down our order. “Anything to drink?”

  “Water for me, no ice, no lemon. Strawberry shake with no whip, Beau?” Shelly looked to me.

  I examined her, this woman who ordered for me with such thorough knowledge of my preferences. “Yeah, strawberry shake.”

  “Sounds good, I’ll be back with your drinks.” Simone nodded once, turned on her heal, and left us.

  Staring at Shelly, I took my seat in the booth and waited expectantly. “Well?”

  “What?”

  “How did you know how I like my hamburgers?”

  “It’s what you always order from here.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  I glared at her in mock suspicion. “Are you planning to order for me every time we go out?”

  She shrugged, and it was the first time I’d seen her make such a careless gesture. “Only if I know what you want.”

  “You like ordering for people?”

  “No.”

  “So just me?”

  “Yes.” Her smile returned, smaller than before but just as genuine and stunning.

  I
t occurred to me in that moment, transfixed by her exquisite smile, that Shelly likely didn’t know how to be disingenuous. She may have hidden behind her defenses, but whenever I flat-out asked her a question she always answered with honesty—sometimes brutal, but always real.

  The thought brought me comfort, made me like her even more. I would never need to guess with this woman, not if I had the courage to ask.

  Honesty, what a novel idea.

  Shelly met my gaze, but I must’ve been staring for a while because eventually she shifted in her seat and cleared her throat, lifting her chin toward the diner counter. “She seems nice.”

  “Who? Simone?”

  Shelly nodded, rearranging the condiments so the salt was to the left of the pepper and the mustard and ketchup were perfectly aligned.

  I grinned, hoping she would return it. “Like I said, she’s a pain in the ass.”

  “What makes you say so?”

  “Growing up, Simone and Roscoe—my youngest brother, I don’t think you’ve met him yet—were best friends. She was always over at our house, and that’s how I know.”

  But something had happened their freshman or sophomore year of high school and they’d stopped talking. I’d missed having Simone around after their spat. She baked darn good cookies, with macadamia nuts and white chocolate. Plus she was smart, knew stuff and wasn’t stingy about sharing knowledge—unlike my brother Cletus.

  “Why was she a pain?”

  “Oh jeez, let me see.” I glanced at the ceiling, searching my memories. “She and Roscoe had this monopoly game going for years; they had to invent new currency that went up to millions of dollars and instead of hotels, they had industrial complexes. I think Roscoe learned this from Ashley, ’cause she had a game going with Jackson James for years. So, none of us could ever play Monopoly or touch the board, or else Simone would get us.”

  “Get you how?”

  “She replaced our toothpaste with caulk.”

  Shelly’s lips parted and her eyes went wide. “That sounds disgusting.”

  “It was.” I laughed, scratching my cheek. “One time she and Roscoe filled our—Duane’s and my—shoes with Vaseline.”