by Kimball Lee
“For Christ’s sake, Caity, ‘her gentleman friend’? Our daughter isn’t a call-girl. Holt, get the girls to lunch on time, would you, please?” her father says with a twinkle in his eye and I see that everything Scarlet told me about him is true, he’s a good man who tolerates his prissy, uptight wife for the sake of keeping their family together.
*
“Where did you park?” Scarlet asks, a slight breeze lifts the filmy hem of her dress and her hands are busy trying to hold it down as we cross the tree-shaded campus to a small parking lot.
I press my hand to her back, instinctively letting it drift to her waist as I steer her toward the convertible with a big white bow on the hood.
“You bought a new car?” she says and it’s almost a whisper, her eyes turn up to me and they’re lightening from amber to honey again and my cock begins to throb.
“Wow, a red Jaguar convertible?” Holly says, “I had you pegged as black monster truck kind of guy.”
“You’d be right, but not today,” I say and click the door lock.
“This car is seriously gorgeous, it’s the new body style, right? The two-thousand-sixteen F-Type? What do you think, Scarlet, a man his size, can he even fit in this car?” Holly asks and she’s practically drooling.
“I fit just fine, and it’s hers,” I say, holding the driver-side door open for Scarlet.
“W-what? It’s mine?” Scarlet says and I swear to God when those amber eyes widen and dilate I want her naked, under me, screaming my name, ASAP! “You were there? At the hospital? You followed me to Atlanta?” She says ignoring the car, her hand flying up to twirl a strand of hair as she fits the pieces together in her mind. Her voice is dreamy and that’s when I’m certain, she feels what I feel, this need, yearning, the same unquenchable hunger.
I pull her against me and her dress swirls around us and I don’t give a damn about her sister or the car or the two months of agony as her hands clasp behind my neck and pull my lips to hers.
“I was worried about you,” I whisper against the sweet warmth of her succulent lips. “How upset you were when you left my ranch. I thought I should stay with the horse, or that maybe I’d be intruding with your family... but I couldn’t not follow you….”
“I wish I’d known… I was in the corridor with Corey giving him the okay to do an angioplasty on my dad, I have power of attorney over his medical affairs, he and my mother don’t really get along.”
“Can we go to lunch now or what?” Holly says tapping her foot and fanning herself with the program from the ceremony. “You two can make up and make out later, Mother will be impossible to deal with if we’re a minute late.
*
At the Argyle I hand the car keys to the valet and straighten my tie, although I’d like to rip the damn thing off and get some much needed air. Scarlet asked me to drive and I can tell she’s not sure about the car or me, her eyes have deepened to dark whiskey-brown and they are wary with indecision. Holly sat in the back seat and I could feel her watching as her little sister turned sideways in the seat to study me, trying to figure this out, but with her hand clasped firmly on my thigh. Now I’m so hot and bothered I feel like a kid counting the minutes until the prom ends and he gets his date to the closet Motel 6.
“I’m going to the powder room to freshen up,” Scarlet says when we spot her parents seated at a table with a view of the oak-studded expanse of lawn. “Order me a Tipsy Palmer and tell Mother not to get her granny-panties in a twist, I’m old enough to drink, and I’ll be right back.”
“You look windblown, Holly, your hair’s a mess. Where’s Scarlet?” Caity O’Neal asks, craning her thin neck to look for her younger daughter.
“My hair’s just fine, Mother, thank you for coating it with enough hairspray so that it basically looks exactly like your helmet-head-do,” Holly says, pushing the short, dark strands away from her face and giving her mother a bratty little ‘fuck you’ look.
“Have you ever had one of these? Iced tea and lemonade with a splash of bourbon, looks like you could use one Holt,” Chandler O’Neal says and for whatever reason, I know this man has my back.
“Daddy, you’re a mind reader! Scarlet specifically asked for a Tipsy Palmer, she’s gone to the restroom to make herself beautiful for the very generous Mr. Corrigan. Why don’t we order a round for the table?”
“Generous? In what way?” Caity asks, and I didn’t think she could raise her eyebrows any higher but she does as soon as Holly tells her about the Jaguar.
“I’m just gonna go check on Scarlet, excuse me, please,” I say, shedding my jacket and tie and not giving a damn about the club’s dress code.
The Argyle was once a fine Southern mansion built as the main residence of a pre-Civil War horse farm, now it’s a super snobby ‘members and guests only’ venue, and I know it well. I’ve been to countless events here with the McCauley brothers. Their dad, Wes, and my dad, Tom, grew up together, best friends who were dirt-poor cowboys moving herds of cattle from ranch to ranch, barely making enough money to survive. They were a dying breed of true cowboys, never in one place for long, living in tents or bunk houses, so skilled on a cutting-horse they often slept in the saddle. Until they were lucky enough to snag jobs on the famous Corazon Perdido and Wes McCauley caught the attention of the ranch owner, Jon Walker Campbell the third. Jon Campbell had one ‘spinster’ daughter, Meredith, his only child and sole heir. When Meredith refused to choose a husband, her father forced her to marry Wes, the illiterate cowboy who was ‘big, brawny, good looking, and good with horses’—prime breeding stock for producing sons to ensure that the Campbell bloodline would grow and prosper. The Argyle in the exclusive Alamo Heights enclave of San Antonio was the place Wes liked to hang out with his rough-and-ready sidekick Tom Corrigan and flaunt his newly minted wealth and society status.
I take the stairs two at a time and tap my knuckles on the door of the powder room, I’m so fucking ready to plant my face and my cock between Scarlet’s thighs I can hardly think straight.
“I’ll be done in a minute,” Scarlet calls out and her voice is as shaky as I feel.
“Unlock the door, Scarlet,” is all I have to say and the door swings open and she grabs the front of my shirt and drags me inside and this is happening right now, right here!
“I’ve fucking missed you, beauty!” I growl against her lips as I lift her perfect curvy little ass onto the sink counter.
“Show me,” she says, groaning low and hungry. “Show me how much.”
I push the dress straps off her shoulders and the skirt up around her hips and her hands are on my clothes, my skin, everywhere at once. She’s gasping as she rubs the thick length of my cock through my pants, untucking my shirt, scratching up my stomach to my chest, pulling my lips down to her naked tits. Fuck! She didn’t wear a bra to her college graduation, this girl is wild, she feels like silk, and smells like a fucking dream, and I know I’ll never get enough of her. An image forms in my mind of that anemic looking ex with his milk-pale hands on her body and it makes me want to hurt his presumptuous ass, he couldn’t handle this girl—MY girl!—on his best day.
My lips are on her pretty pink nipples, sucking hard as she stifles a groan and my hands spread her legs and rip the tiny excuse for panties away. She moans against my skin, saying my name over and over, her tongue licking, lashing my neck, hot and soft and urgent. My fingers slide over the shocking-sweet folds of her pussy and she spreads her knees wider, bucking up into my touch, moaning, begging, as I thrust a finger inside her. She leans back, hands braced behind her on the counter as I kiss her, barely stopping to let her breathe, she jerks against the rough assault of my fingers on her tender skin, and then she arches her hips higher, wanting more, needing the slide of calloused fingers over and inside her, my lips sucking at hers, as she murmurs those fucking erotic little sounds.
She tears away from my mouth, her eyes fall closed and she bites my shoulder to stifle her cries. My thumb circles her clit, hard and fast, we don’t have time t
o be slow, I thrust a second finger into her shockingly tight, wet, scorching pussy and curl them, pumping in and out, and she’s soaking my finger and pulsing, clenching hard as she comes. Tears spill down her cheeks, and she hisses out an endless string of Ahhhhhh, Holt, Holt, Holt!
I need her to love this, crave it, crave me, and what I do to her. She needs to remember the sex, how it is between us, everything we did that week, how fucking good we are together, how we’re still not finished. “Look at me,” I say. Her eyelids flutter, eyes meeting mine, and her mouth forms this pouty little O, her legs are shaking as she wraps them around my waist, heels digging into my ass, pulling me in closer as she fucking loses it and explodes against my hand.
She slumps back against the mirrored wall, her eyelids fall closed against her flushed cheeks, her breath as labored as mine. My cock is so fucking stiff it’s painful and I want to unzip my pants and fucking rub all over this, her pussy is pink and swollen, glistening, so fucking inviting, and I have to force my eyes and my thoughts away from the beautiful sight of it, and her.
“We need to join your family, let me wash up,” I say and her eyes fly open as I lift her and set her down onto shaky legs. “You okay there, beauty, can you stand on your own? We gotta do this, look at me Scarlet,” I say and slide my fingers across my lips and then suck the heart-shattering taste of her from them, it’s sooooo sweet and good, and pure torture not to fuck her here and now. “I’m gonna eat that perfect pussy of yours and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk for days, you understand?”
Her eyes sparkle like fresh honey and all she can do is nod as I turn on the faucet, move her in front of me, wrap my arms around her from behind, my cock pressed against her ass, and wash our hands together under the warm flow of water.
“I don’t like to wash your smell and taste off, beauty, I like you on me, and I love me inside of you, but we gotta be good for now. I don’t know if you want me anymore, but your body does, and I plan to take care of that good and slow, you okay with that?”
“Y-yes,” she squeaks out and I laugh because Scarlet is rarely at a loss for words, but I understand, the sex, our bodies together, we’re intense, and she’s about to find out just exactly how intense sex can be.
“I want you to keep the car, no arguments, alright?”
“I can’t keep it, it’s too much,” she says and I back up, dry my hands on a linen towel and watch her watch me in the mirror. Her eyes can’t stay focused on mine, they drift down to the outline of my erection and she licks her lips. A shot of pure adrenaline pours into my veins and I feel my cock jerk and I want to forget those people waiting at the table, it would be so easy just to bend her over the sink and pound into her, I probably wouldn’t last two minutes, I’m so keyed up. “Hey, look at my face, beauty. You want my cock?”
She nods eagerly and steps forward, her hand grasping me through the thin fabric of my pants. It takes every ounce of will power I can muster to wrap my fingers around her wrist and move her hand away.
“You’ll get it in a little while, but tell me you want it, and that you’ll keep the car, and tell me we’re not over each other.”
“I want your cock. I’ll keep the car. I am so not over you,” she says and her voice and body are trembling as she looks in my eyes, straightens her dress, picks up the remnants of her panties, and starts to toss them in the pristine little trash can.
“Good girl, let’s go have lunch, I have a proposition for you,” I say, taking the panties from her, I hold them to my nose for half a second and my cock twitches again, fucking bliss and agony, then I stuff them in my pocket. “You have another pair of panties in your purse?”
“Nope.”
“Fuck, let’s eat and get out of here fast.”
*
Scarlet…
I love my dad like crazy but I can’t focus on anything he’s saying to me after what just went down with Holt in the powder room. Holt is here, he came to my graduation, bought me car—a Jaguar convertible, no less!—best of all, his eyes and body language speak volumes about how this thing between us is far from over. And OMG he looks like a scrumptious, hunky dream in a suit and tie! He’s Clark Kent, Superman in disguise, and I’m definitely toast, ready to forgive and forget, get on my knees and worship his body, his beauty, his effortless skills at making me come faster than the speed of light. I’m his hopeless fan-girl and not one bit ashamed of it because he’s the kind of man you don’t let slip away. Obviously he feels the same way or he wouldn’t be here looking like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months, handing me the keys to a seventy-thousand dollar car, and ready and willing to face my parents, or more to the point, my highly annoying mother.
I should be pissed off at him because I’ve been an emotional zombie since the last time I saw him, when it seemed that a horse was more important to him than being supportive in my time of need. Turns out he was there for me and he thought I was down for a do-over with my ex. Of course he could have asked if that was really the case instead of sending a curt text inquiring about my dad’s health and a little thumbs-up when I texted that all was well. I just told myself that Holt and I were supposed to be a one week fuck-and-run, even though it felt more like an actual hit-and-run when it ended so abruptly. So why waste time holding a grudge when all I’ve wanted for the last two months—fifty six days, practically to the minute!—is to have him kissing, touching, pushing, pounding me, period. I’m not holding anything against him, except for my body, that is. I’m plastering every inch of myself against him ASAP! I’ve gone through hell wondering how it went so wrong between us, convinced that I’d gotten in way over my head, and for him I was nothing more than an easy piece of ass. But that isn’t the case and glory hallelujah, because Holt Corrigan is worth the wait and the pain, and as ‘fairytale’ as it sounds—just like it did from the very beginning, my heart knows he’s the one.
“So you named your daughters for colors? Holly green and Scarlet red?” Holt asks my mother, and I’m sure he’s trying to get my family to look away from my flushed face, disheveled hair, and hands that can’t stop toying with the silverware.
“No, no,” Mother says, smoothing her fingers over her pearls as she lights up under his emerald gaze. “I was eighteen when we had Holly and only dreaming of becoming a novelist. I was in love with Truman Capote’s work so she was named for Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s—the novella, not the movie. By the time Scarlet was born I’d made a name for myself in historical romance and I was infatuated with Margaret Mitchel and her incomparable Gone With the Wind. I was determined to be original so I spelled her name differently than the character in the novel. It wasn’t until I received her official birth certificate in the mail that I realized that Scarlet O’Neal sounded almost the same as Scarlett O’Hara, silly me. Do you read, Holt? At all?”
“Yes ma’am, most nights. Not romance though, I’m afraid. Cormac McCarthy, Elmore Leonard, Larry McMurtry, mostly. Jim Harrison is my favorite.”
“Oh, how… surprising!” She says, and I roll my eyes and Holly shakes her head with disgust at the level of our mother’s shallowness.
“So where was Gigi today, I didn’t see her at graduation? You, Penn, and Gigi not together, that’s certainly odd,” Daddy says as he and Holt dig into their steaks. Holly and my mother scarf their grilled lamb chops, and I pick at my salmon.
“I already told you, Daddy,” I say, annoyed, but not at him—at the humming between my thighs, the damp, wrenching ache that won’t go away, my NEED for Holt to satisfy me soon and completely, and with more than his magic fingers. “The miraculously persuasive Gigi pulled some strings and took her finals a week ahead of schedule. Her mother wasn’t coming for the ceremony anyway, so she went to the Kentucky Derby with Jon-Wylder McCauley and his older brother. The horse won and I guess she’s still with them, she’s kind of been out of touch.”
Yeah, and Gigi assured me that Campbell never goes to the races, but he went this year, and the few te
xts I’ve gotten from her were hot enough to burn up my phone! I think but don’t say a word, that’s their affair, so to speak.
“I heard on the news about the McCauley’s horse winning,” my mother says, she’s interested in the conversation again since fame and dollar signs are involved. “What is that horse’s name, do you know, Holt?”
“Yes ma’am,” he says and my frigid-as-fuck mother blushes and smiles like Miss America when he aims that little-boy smile and slow, southern charm in her direction. She’s so two-faced, trashing him in favor of Corey every time we talked on the phone after Daddy was home from the hospital and I came back to San Antonio to finish my last semester.
“Pridey is what he’s called,” Holt goes on, he already understands that my mother is a gold-digger who doesn’t think he has anything to offer but his looks and a mouthwatering physique. “His registered name is Midnight’s Shining Pride. It was his sire, Pride of Midnight, who passed away the night Scarlet left…. When Mr. O’Neal was admitted to the hospital.”
“Call me Chandler, please,” Dad says, and I can see that he’s curious to see if Holt can handle Mom.
“You know more than just football, then? Did Scarlet tell you that Chandler ruined his chances to play pro ball way back when? What is it that you gave up a lucrative NFL career for, Holt, building things out of used wood?” My mother asks, greed overrides vanity and her words are sharp, my father leans in with his forearms on the table, staring her down.
“Do we need to rehash that tired tale, Caity? Let me just spit it out so Holt will get the gist of our marriage, excuse me—our ‘arrangement’. Holt, thanks to football I had a full ride to Georgia Tech but I blew out my knee in the final game of the first season. Caity and I married right out of high school and she was pregnant with Holly when they revoked my scholarship. We divorced for lack of money or love, I can’t recall which, they’re both the same in my wife’s opinion. Fifteen years later when we both had our acts together— I’d made my mark in investment banking, and Caity was a full blown cult figure in the world of pulp fiction—she agreed to remarry me so we could form a family unit for Holly. Nine months later my gift-from-above Scarlet was born, my daughters are my life, you see…. And the fairytale continues to unravel to this day,” he says, smiling bitterly and raising his glass to my scowling mother.