by Meghan March
Oh. My. God.
Boone’s touch disappears, and the next thing I hear is the sound of him rustling around in the nightstand. When he comes back, a cold drizzle of liquid hits the spot in question.
“Just a little lube.”
Before my brain has the chance to form any questions, Boone lifts my hips and strums my clit for a beat before driving inside my pussy, filling me with a single thrust.
I scream out something that sounds like a mishmash of his name and fuck and oh my God, but the sound is lost to the slapping of his hips against mine as he pounds into me.
“Touch yourself. I want those fingers on your clit. Mine are about to be busy somewhere else.”
I do as he says because, duh, I like multiple orgasms, and the combination of pressure on my clit and Boone’s cock inside me is a surefire way to achieve them. As soon as I move my hand, he presses against my ass with the pad of what I assume is his thumb, and my nerve endings go wild.
Pressure. Pressure. Pressure.
And then dark, dirty pleasure.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” My entire vocabulary has shrunk to this one phrase because I can’t seem to recall any other words.
My cries grow louder as he begins to fuck my ass with his finger in time with his thrusts into my pussy.
Soon my whispers turn to keening wails and then screams. My inner muscles clench as I throw my head back and forth. The orgasm barrels down on me, smashing through every obstacle.
“Oh my God!”
Blood thunders in my ears as my entire body convulses. I fall forward, but Boone is relentless. He reaches around and slaps his hand over my clit as he continues to power inside, until I’m a sobbing, shaking mess.
He climaxes with a roar and finally stills.
“Sweet fucking Christ.” He presses his lips to my shoulder blade. “You almost gave me a goddamned heart attack.”
From the furious hammering against my rib cage, he’s not the only one. “Likewise.”
“Come on.”
“What? No. I can’t—”
Boone pulls out of me, no doubt with a mess, but he lifts me into his arms too quickly for me to do anything about it.
Without turning the lights on, he gets us to the shower and flips on the water with one hand. When the steam is billowing, he carries me inside and sets me on my feet. The water washes over me in warm streams, and I don’t have to move a muscle because Boone washes my body with a soft cloth, taking care to make sure he doesn’t miss an inch.
When he finishes, he speaks into the darkness. “This is happening, Ripley. You and me. I won’t give you up.”
I press both palms to his hard chest and allow myself to speak the truth. “I’m not ready to give you up either.”
Boone whispers something that sounds like thank God, and cups my face before taking my lips.
18
Boone
I wake to an empty bed.
My first thought is Fuck, she bolted. I scared her off. I didn’t go easy on her last night, physically or otherwise. But the sheets beside me aren’t cold. They still hold the heat of Ripley’s body. She hasn’t gone far.
I remember the last time I woke up to an empty bed, and what happened next. I could handle a repeat of donuts and the kitchen table.
When I roll out from under the covers, my feet hit the floor and I cross to the dresser for a pair of shorts.
My first instinct is wrong, and I find the kitchen empty. Soft singing is coming from the living room, and it draws me forward. Ripley refills Esteban’s food tray, but she turns and goes quiet when she hears me behind her.
“I’m guessing that bird’s been getting one hell of a show for years now if you sing to him regularly,” I say.
“Superstar,” Esteban says, and Ripley laughs.
“For the record, he’s talking about you, not me.” She nods down at the shirt she’s wearing, one of my T-shirts that fits her like a dress. “Hope you don’t mind that I borrowed it.”
“Sugar, you can borrow whatever you need. You don’t have to ask.” I glance at the clock. “You always get up at the crack of dawn, even after you’ve worked late?”
She nods. “It’s a habit. I used to have to get up and make Pop breakfast, and then I’d go back to bed for a couple hours. I guess I just got into the routine, so now I make myself some breakfast and then sleep until noon. Well, sometimes, anyway.”
The thought of how hard she worked for her old man without any thanks makes me want to kick his ass, but that’s not going to help me erase the frown on her face.
“Then how about I make you some breakfast this morning, and we go back to bed and work it off.”
I’m not sure what I expect from her, but the big grin I get is better than anything I could imagine.
“I think I’ll take you up on that.”
Two Denver omelets and a double side of bacon for each of us later, Ripley eyes me with new respect. “How did you learn to cook like that?”
“Ma wanted to make sure her sons could look after themselves in the kitchen. I’m pretty sure she didn’t want us to fall for the first woman who could keep us fed, because she knows we’ve got big appetites.”
Ripley laughs. “She sounds like an amazing woman.”
“She is. Both she and my dad believed in teaching us the value in hard work, so I perfected my omelet-making skills in the kitchen of Country Critter for two summers in high school.”
“Country Critter? Sounds . . . interesting. Where exactly did you grow up?”
“East Tennessee. Not too far outside Knoxville. Had the Smoky Mountains in my backyard. God’s country.” When I think about that view and watching the fog rise off the mountains in the morning, I miss it. I’m due for a trip home.
“Do your folks still live there?” Ripley asks.
“Sure do. In the same house where I grew up. No matter how many times I’ve tried to buy them a new one, my dad won’t hear of it. He says it was good enough for him before, and it’ll be good enough until the day they put him in the ground.”
Ripley’s eyes go wide. “I can guarantee that’s not what Pop would’ve said if I were in your position. He’d be first in line holding out his hand, telling me that I owe him for all the sacrifices he made while I was growing up.”
Again, I want to knock her dad’s teeth out. It’s probably a good thing I’ve never met the man, because I have a feeling Ripley wouldn’t be pleased at the outcome. Instead, I change the subject back to my family, wishing she’d had what I did growing up.
“My brother lives a half mile from my folks. Ma watches his little boy while he and his wife work. They still have Sunday dinner together after church.” As I tell Ripley about my family, I realize how much I’ve missed them lately, and an idea hits me.
“It sounds like . . . it sounds like what you’d see in a movie. Idyllic.”
“It’s pretty damn perfect. But when I was eighteen, all I wanted to do was go to Nashville and make my mark. I wanted to be famous, tour the world and sing in front of thousands of fans in sold-out shows.”
“And you did it.” She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “You’re pretty incredible too.”
I shrug. “I got lucky. Right place, right time, right sound, and the right record exec. That’s how it happened, and if any one of those things had been different, I probably would’ve ended up moving home eventually and working with my dad and brother.”
“What did your parents think of you wanting to make it big? Leaving behind the small-town life?”
“They were awesome. Totally supportive. My folks have been to more of my shows than probably anyone else in the world. I owe them everything.”
Ripley’s hand tightens on my arm again. “They sound wonderful.”
An idea keeps rolling around in my head, but it’s not ready to be put into words quite yet. Instead, I stand and grab both our plates and take them to the sink to rinse.
“I can do that.”
“I’ll worry abou
Ripley’s cheeks turn pink. “Are we going to . . .”
The reason for the blush becomes clear. “Not yet. I’ve still got some work loosening up that sweet little asshole of yours.”
The blush darkens, and she spins around and disappears as Esteban squawks, “Get a room!”
19
Ripley
Oh. My. God. I feel like a broken record because I’ve said it so many times, but I can’t help it. Boone does things to my body I never knew were possible.
Round three in the books, my eyes drift closed. “I’m going to take a quick nap. Only a few minutes.”
He presses a kiss to my hair. “Take all the time you need, sugar.”
* * *
When I open my eyes the next morning, the sun is sneaking through the curtains, and I feel like I’ve just woken from a coma.
With my arms stretched above my head, I search the room but see no sign of Boone. There aren’t any sounds coming from the bathroom either. I grab my jeans from the floor and pull them on, along with another one of Boone’s T-shirts. I tie it in a knot at the side so it doesn’t hang down to my knees. He’s deceptively big. I don’t know what it is about him, but you don’t realize how massive he is until he’s right up on you. The ache between my legs is another sign of what else is massive.
Good God, if all those groupies knew what kind of equipment Boone is packing, he’d be even more overrun than he already is.
A flash of possessiveness streaks through me at the thought of anyone else knowing what I know.
He’s not yours, Ripley. Calm down.
Another part of me disputes that because he could be. All I have to do is say yes.
I shove those thoughts aside and make my way out of the bedroom to wander the house in search of Boone. The kitchen and living area are empty. I don’t see him on the back deck. His truck and his 442 are in the garage, so I know he has to be around somewhere.
Part of me doesn’t want to snoop in other places, but when I hear the muffled sound of a guitar drifting up the wide stairs leading into the basement, I follow it.
I make my way down the stairs and realize the basement is just as big as the first floor of the house, which is built into a big hill. Four sets of sliding glass doors run along the back, leading out to a terrace where he set up all the targets for me the other day.
The sound of the guitar grows slightly, but it’s still much quieter than I would expect as I make my way down a hall to peer through thick windows.
I finally find the source of the sound.
Holy shit. Boone has his own recording studio.
His back is to me, and the headphones he’d wear if he were recording are hooked on a stand.
This close, I can hear more of the sound coming through the mostly-soundproof walls, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard from him before.
He pauses and pulls a pencil from behind his ear. From the hunched set of his shoulders, I assume he’s writing lyrics down.
Something akin to awe sweeps over me when it sets in that he’s writing a song. Probably something that’s going to be played on a million radios and in dozens of stadiums.
Amazing. Seriously amazing. And that thought is followed by, This could be me someday.
Is that what I want?
I’ve barely had time to consider the question and what the consequences would be if I decided to take the leap.
Unlike Boone, I don’t have a family to leave behind and miss. What I said about Pop is absolutely true—if I ever made it big, or hell, even made it in a small way—he’d show up with his hand out, expecting to be repaid for everything he ever did for me.
Sadness and grief accompanies the vision playing through my head. Why couldn’t I have a normal family like Boone’s? Why did Pop have to drown in that bottle instead of smothering his only daughter with love? Why did someone have to kill my mama?
I’ll never be able to answer any of those questions.
Boone swivels on his stool, guitar in hand, and his head jerks up when he sees me through the window. A smile stretches over his face, and it’s like the sun coming out from behind thick clouds to shine its warmth down on me.
When has anyone ever looked at me that way?
Never.
Boone slides off his stool and comes out of the studio. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”
“You could’ve woken me.”
Boone shifts the guitar out of the way and steps forward to steal a kiss. “Didn’t want to. You look like you’re owed a few solid nights of sleep. I’m sorry for leaving you to wake up alone. I got hit with a melody that wouldn’t quit, so I had to get it down before I lost it.”
“Your next number-one hit?” I ask, half joking.
One of Boone’s eyebrows goes up. “I guess we’ll see.”
What would it be like for that to even be a possibility? Do I really want to know?
“I’ve been doing some thinking, and I want to take you home.”
Jerked away from answering either question, I snap my gaze back to Boone with surprise, and a shaft of disappointment surprises me with its intensity. “Oh. Of course. I just need to get my stuff, and I’ll be ready. I can have Hope come get me if you’re too busy.”
A look of confusion crosses Boone’s face before it clears. He shakes his head. “No, not your home. Mine. My folks. I want you to meet them. See where I grew up.”
I catch my reflection in the glass windows of the recording studio, and I’m not sure my eyebrows could go any higher.
“What? Like . . . soon?” Meeting the parents is kind of a big freaking deal.
One corner of Boone’s mouth quirks up. “Yeah, like today.”
“Today? I can’t. I have to work tonight.”
“I took care of it.”
What did he just say? He couldn’t have possibly said what I think he just said.
“Excuse me?”
“I took care of it. I called Hope. She said you can have the weekend off.”
I take a deep breath, but my temper gets the best of me. How dare he?
“I don’t want the weekend off! I need to work. I need the money. That’s why I have a job. I can’t keep taking time off, because I’ll never save any money and get my own place. And weekend shifts are the biggest for tips.”
Boone shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’ll cover it. You won’t lose any money.”
My jaw drops open at the fact that he thinks I’d take a handout.
“I’m not taking your money. I work for mine, which is why I need to call Hope right now and tell her not to take me off the schedule.”
“Too late. She said someone else asked for extra shifts because she’s got a sick kid who needs surgery, so she said it worked out perfectly.”
He’s talking about Lenora, another part-time bartender at the White Horse, a single mom whose baby has been in and out of the hospital since she was born.
I suck in a deep breath, my temper still dangerously close to boiling over. If there’s one person I’ve met who needs money more than I do, it’s her. But still.
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. “Listen. You don’t get to run my life or make decisions for me. You don’t get to decide whether I do or don’t need the cash from working a weekend. You have no idea what it’s like to be me, and what it’s like to be worried about making enough money so you don’t have to eat PB&J for weeks at a time.”
The smile on Boone’s face fades and his expression goes dark. “You think I don’t know what it’s like not to know where your next meal is coming from? You think you’re the only one who has ever had to worry about making ends meet?”
“You just told me about your perfect parents and perfect childhood and perfect freaking life, so no. I don’t think you know what that’s like.”
Boone’s eyebrows dive into slashes between his eyes. “I lived in my car for six months—through the goddamned winter. Some nights I couldn’t sleep because my teeth would chatter so hard. If I didn’t pull in enough tips at the bar or find odd jobs, I didn’t eat the next day. I know what it’s like, Ripley, but I also didn’t have friends like you do. No one rolled out the welcome mat for me and told me to stay as long as I liked. No one helped me get a job or a break. You’re buried so deep in the struggle, you can’t see all the good you’ve got around you.”
“Because the struggle is all I know! I can’t rely on anyone but me. If I do and it falls through, then I’m even more screwed than I was before.”
“You think Hope is going to screw you over?”
“No, but—”
“You think I’m going to screw you over?”
“I don’t know—”
“Well, I do. And it’s not fucking happening, so just let me help you. I’ve already given your bird a home for as long as you need it. What else can I do to prove to you that I just want to help?”
“I don’t know.” This time, instead of sputtering in anger, I whisper it. “I don’t know how to do this.”
The fear of getting backhanded by life again blazes through me, and Boone curves a hand around my neck and meets my eyes. “Then I’ll show you. Give me a chance to prove myself. I’m not him. I’m not any of them.”
“You have to promise you’re not going to step in and cancel my shifts again. Ever. I’ve been running my own life for too long to let someone walk in and take over.”
“I’m not trying to take over. I just want to give you one weekend where you’re not trapped behind a bar. When’s the last time you actually did something fun?”
I’m silent for a few beats before I answer. “With you.”
Boone finally smiles again. “That was nothing. Just wait until you get the whole Thrasher clan.”
20
Ripley
My anxiety notches up with each mile that passes. We’re in Boone’s truck because he wasn’t sure how the weather was going to hold out and didn’t want to chance it in the 442. I stare out the window with my hands folded in my lap and take in the passing scenery. I’ve never been to this part of the state, so everything is new.
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