Boot Scootin' Booty Call

Boot Scootin’ Booty Call

by Lila Munro

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This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic, adult language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable which might include: male/male sexual practices, multiple partner sexual practices, strong BDSM themes and elements, erotic elements and fetish play. This e-book is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/Fetish titles without the guidance of an experience practitioner. Neither Rebel Ink Press LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

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This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental. Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored by or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.

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Cover Artist: Carl J. Franklin

Editor: Sheri Knotts

First Edition

©2011, Rebel Ink Press

www.rebelinkpress.com

Kayla Daniels slammed the front door behind her, leaned back against it in a ruffled heap and let go of an enormous sigh. She thought Friday night would never roll around. With her four children safe and secure at their grandparents’ house for the evening, she was free. And God knew a free night out couldn’t have come at a better time. Kayla was bone weary from working, taking care of a house full of youngsters and studying on the side to become a registered nurse. Right now, however, she was the one in need of urgent care. And she knew just where to find the treatment for her ailment.

Tossing her purse in the nearest chair in the family room, she went to the kitchen and pulled a cold bottle of Michelob out of the refrigerator. The frosty brew sent up a whispered hiss when she popped the top off and it skipped along the counter top where it landed near the coffee pot. After taking a healthy swallow, Kayla made her way down the hallway littered with toys, backpacks, and a few stray socks. She smiled and reminded herself that someday she would have that merry maid she’d always dreamed of.

“Oh, and by the way, Fairy Godmother,” Kayla said, looking up as if one would fall from the sky at any moment. “I’ll take a side of pool boy and butler to go with that. A gardener wouldn’t hurt anything, either,” Kayla added, frowning at the poor, wilted ivy that sat on a plant stand in front of a window at the end of the hallway.

Slipping through the door to her room, she stopped beside her bed and turned on the radio. Blake Shelton’s voice wafted out of the speaker and she danced her way into the adjoining bathroom. As the music washed over her, soothing away the stresses of the week, Kayla reached in the shower and started the water. While the icy stream heated, she set her beer down near the sink, toed out of her Eastlands and stripped out of the jeans and uniform shirt she wore at the construction office. She fingered the emblem on the collar and pondered what it would be like not to go there every morning anymore after she graduated from nursing school. But it was a good job. Kayla knew that. The benefits were excellent and there was no doubt the construction company definitely paid the bills, but she needed something of her own. Something she’d accomplished by herself. And by summer she'd see that dream fulfilled.

With little regard for the hamper, Kayla tossed the shirt to the side and shimmied out of her bra and panties then pulled her socks off with her heels, something her mother had hated when she was growing up. Mama said it stretched them out beyond reckoning, although Kayla couldn’t tell the difference. She looked at her body critically in the mirror. Her breasts were average size and that she didn’t mind. However, she did sometimes cringe at the way they sagged a bit now and how she was striped with stretch marks from nurturing her babies. Although it bothered her, Kayla often heard that she was beautiful and how the marks were signs that she’d fed a child, given of herself, and that it was just plain sexy. Maybe so, but she’d like to see any man give that much of himself and not complain and whine occasionally. She twisted side to side a few times looking at her stomach and thighs wondering if that ab cruncher she’d purchased from QVC was doing a bit of good and if that thigh toner contraption hadn’t just been a rip off. Maybe not totally, she thought, running her fingertips over the side of her leg noticing some definition finally appearing.

With fog overtaking the mirror, Kayla retreated to the comfort of a hot shower.

As she worked fruity smelling lather through her long blond hair, she sang along with Miranda smiling at her reference to a tattoo. Kayla’s daddy didn’t like her tattoo either but never stopped loving her after she came home at age eighteen sporting a pink John Deere tractor on her hip. Now Kayla’s boyfriend? That was a different story. He loved it.

In fact, he’d been the one to pay for it and the one to hold her hand while the burly man in Zeke’s inked her. God, was she really that young once? Now here she was four kids, a car payment and a mortgage later. Kayla hadn’t lost her lust for fun though.

When the water started to run cool, Kayla shut off the shower and stepped out into the bank of steam billowing around the bathroom. After squeezing the water out of her hair, she wrapped a towel around her middle and secured it just above her breasts.

Leaving a trail of water droplets, she made her way back to the bedroom and into her closet. Anticipation of the evening she'd planned swelling in her chest, Kayla flipped through the hangars trying to make a decision. Jeans? No. It was spring and the weather was agreeable. The long camel brushed suede skirt with the sterling silver fringe woven belt? No. She wasn’t easily accessible without the tail of it being over her head. She laughed a bit at that image. Hello mini-skirt.

Kayla snatched the scrap of indigo denim off its hangar then grabbed a red, sleeveless button down shirt with black fringe on the bodice to go with it. She tossed the clothes on her bed and went back to the bathroom. After carefully applying just enough make-up to conceal the teeny crow’s feet that she’d recently discovered, Kayla gave her dark locks a bit of mousse, bent over at the waist and blew the mess out before it had a chance to go haywire on her. When she flipped back up, heavy curls fell around her nape and after a bit of arranging around her temples, she cursed it to stay in place and followed her threat up with a few squirts of hairspray. Her heart fluttered a bit at the sight of herself in the mirror.
Damn. I look pretty good for thirty-eight
.

Wondering who else would notice, she grabbed her beer and sucked down the last of it before she went to get dressed.

Kayla let the towel drop in a damp pile around her feet as she rummaged through her underwear drawer. Pulling up a matching set of black lacy garments, she pondered the possibilities for a moment. The bra would give her poor chest some support and give anyone looking a good peek over the top of her shirt and it had a front clasp—bonus. Panties? Who the hell needed panties? She poked the wisp of black lace back in the drawer and shoved it closed. With her come get me outfit on, Kayla stood in front of her full length mirror looking at her feet. Shoes. She’d just had a pedi so her open-toed sling backs would work. But did they send the message she wanted to convey?

Not really. Back in the closet on her knees, Kayla dug through the shoe pile in the very back trying not to mess her hair up in the process from crawling under all the hanging clothes. Patting and touching, she finally found what she was looking for. Bingo. The
come fuck me
boots. Kayla sat on the bed smiling as she pulled on one supple leather knee boot then the other, tugging the zippers from ankle to thigh. Once again she stood in front of the mirror and admired her handy-work. Hell yeah.
Come fuck me
it was.

After one last lipstick touch-up, Kayla grabbed a small black hand-bag with a long shoulder strap. She tossed in her license, her compact and a few bills and quarters for the jukebox. Kayla knew exactly where she was going. A little dive bar off the beaten path where the beer was cold and the men were hot. With the upmost care she backed her Dodge Charger out of the garage, cranked up the local country station and sped down the road.

Tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear, Kayla stopped just inside the door of the Don’t Drop Here allowing her eyes to adjust to the neon infused duskiness of the room. Every time she saw that bright orange and yellow sign with the flickering H she couldn’t help but laugh at it. People dropped here every weekend. Inside and out. The sun didn’t rise on a Saturday that didn’t find customers sprawled across pool tables, curled up in booths or asleep in their backseats in the parking lot.

Searching through the mist of smoke and dust from too many boots, Kayla looked for the one she always sought—the one that would fulfill her if only for this one night. Her black leather knee boots sent up a cadence as she crossed the old, salted wooden floor making her way through tables full of characters of all sorts. The Don't Drop was filled with the typical Friday night crowd—bikers with more tattoos than skin, barely of-age girls trying to take the bikers home, cowboys peering out from under wide brim Stetson’s, and the type she craved—a good old boy. The sort that wore a John Deere cap, sported worn toed work boots and boasted a farmer’s tan.

Her target was seated on a polished wooden stool at the end of the bar. He was tall, well over six feet, and had dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Kayla hung back a moment appreciating the sight of his arm muscles rippling as he raised his beer bottle to his lips. Those arms were strong from hours of masculine labor and she knew they'd feel so good holding her tightly. He was the one. Seductively, she strolled up to the empty seat beside him, backed over it with her legs open wide and slid around facing him. Her mini skirt rode up her thighs revealing a hint of what lay between. Kayla watched in heated delight as he turned his head slightly, pushed his farm and home cap back a bit and peered down at what she offered. That was the response she’d hoped for. The towering, blue-eyed man took a smoke from the crumpled pack setting beside his bottle, lit it up, then turned on the stool to face her. After taking a long drag, he placed his thumb on his temple and squinted at her.

“Do I know you, little girl?” He placed the cigarette between his lips and waited.

“Maybe. Do I know you?” She leaned into him, gently took the cigarette from his lips and took a drag. She placed her lips over his and slowly blew the smoke into his mouth, sharing what was his with him. “My name’s Kayla.”