Unbreakable (17 page)

It made him feel really shitty about bedding her on dirty sheets. “This is not the room I would ever have imagined you naked in.”

She stood facing him at the side of the bed, her quick fingers tugging his T-shirt from his jeans. “Have you imagined me naked?”

“Since you were fourteen years old,” he said, growing impatient and stripping off his shirt when she stopped to stare up at him.

“Perv. You thought about me that way back then?”

Should he be honest? “I thought about every girl with great tits that way back then.”

“I had great tits?”

“Then and now,” he said, forcing himself to go slow as he started at her throat to unbutton her blouse. “I have a thing for tits.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said, the words droll, the corner of her mouth trying to turn up.

“Probably hard to since I’ve got a thing for pussy, too.” He pushed her blouse from her shoulders, slipped his hands to her back to release the catch of her bra. He waited just a second, taking a breath, anticipating, before letting it go. The cups weren’t fancy—just a bit of ribbon, a bit of lace—but the flesh they bound in place…“Damn.”

“Thank you,” she said, trailing a finger from his breastbone to his belt buckle.

“No. Thank you.” He bent, took a nipple into his mouth, swirled his tongue around the tight pebble before moving to its twin. She tasted like cinnamon and sugar, like cream, like Faith. Like a big, fat gift he didn’t deserve, and that had him wrapping an arm around her and bringing her close. He didn’t want her coming to the same realization and changing her mind.

Especially after what had gone down between them a short time ago. He’d been angry. He’d wanted to strike out, to make her hurt. But the way he’d gone about it hadn’t been smart. Neither had it been effective. He’d stopped being angry as soon as he’d stepped through the ladies’ room door and seen her reflected expression.

None of what he’d been feeling mattered. He’d had to have her. She was mad and flushed and gorgeous, and where another
man might’ve shown better judgment, his cock had been too greedy to care. It was close to being as unthinking now, the smell of Faith’s skin making him fence-post hard.

One nipple caught with the edges of his teeth, he pinched the other, twisting it, pushing her to stop him because he didn’t think she was ready for all the things he wanted to do. But she didn’t stop him. She covered his hand with hers and pressed into him, holding him there, her breaths shallow, her heart beating with an insistent rush.

He replaced his teeth with his lips and sucked her, laughing against her flesh when she groaned, her other hand coming up to cup the back of his head. He wanted her out of her clothes. He wanted out of his. He wanted to slam his cock into her cunt until neither one of them had the strength left to think. All of that after having her earlier. After losing himself in her just days before.

It didn’t make any sense, this need he had to make his mark, to brand her as his, to own her. It didn’t make any sense, but he was hosed up in the truth of it, that she was getting to him, worming her way inside of him, prying out secrets he preferred to keep hidden…and those things just wouldn’t do. But this would do, this filling her with his cock and drowning in her body.

He let her go, reached for the zipper and button at her waistband, undoing both. She shimmied out of her skirt, and he dropped to one knee, burying his face between her legs and breathing her in along with the lingering scent of his cum. She smelled like the sea, rich and liquid, and he slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, tasting her salt, her sugar, tasting himself. Then he slipped into her folds, found her hole, and speared her.

The sounds she made were breathy and anxious, little whimpers and deeper, urgent pants. He loved that she was noisy. Loved that tight-as-a-one-lane-road Faith Mitchell was a girl who knew how to let go. Loved that he was the one making her sweat. Making her slick. Making her reach for the post of her bed to keep from falling.

He licked her, and pushed into her, and pulled out, and sucked on her clit, tugging hard, then using just the tip of his tongue to flick and to tease. Her knees buckled, and he caught her, braced her, crooked a finger deep inside of her and played her, rubbing her pillow-like G-spot while his tongue stroked her clit, circling, coiling.

She writhed against him, shuddered, and cried out his name. He stayed with her, gave her what she needed, and finished her, lapping her juices as they dripped, easing his finger from her pussy, his tongue sliding from the top of her mound up her belly to her navel, to her breastbone, and as he rose to stand, to the hollow of her throat, then her mouth.

He kissed her, sharing her flavor and scent, his tongue, his joy at making her come, his own desire. And then he let her go, tugged off his boots, and stripped out of his shorts and his jeans. Scooping Faith into his arms, he crawled onto the bed, rolling them to the middle of the mattress and covering her, pinning her, his thighs in line with hers and pressing down.

“You taste good. You smell good. You feel so damn good.”

“There’s a whole lot more good in me, but you’re going to have to let me move to prove it to you.”

“You have nothing to prove to me, woman,” he said, threading his fingers into her hair, holding her head still, moving his mouth to her jaw, her throat, returning to her ear, healing the tiny bruises he left with soothing touches of his tongue. “I
am
sorry, you know, about earlier. In the saloon—” was all he got out before her fingers came up and stopped him.

“Shh,” she said, rubbing a thumb over his top lip, moving it to the lower and tugging down. “Let’s not talk about that. Let’s forget about that. Let’s pretend it never happened.”

He would never forget, and he would never pretend. If she didn’t want to talk about it, fine, but something told him her denial was less about what he’d done to her than the fact that she’d let him. Let him, instead of walking out and leaving him alone in the restroom before things got out of hand.

But he let it go because he didn’t have it in him to keep up with a conversation anyway. His cock was full and tight, and he raised his hips just enough to prod his way between her legs. She wiggled and closed around him, tugging on him with the muscles of her thighs.

He sucked in a hissing breath, kissed her fingers, then dropped his forehead to her pillow, turned his face toward hers and growled into her ear. “I’m going to fuck you,” he said, and her nipples pebbled, her thighs trembled, her fingers dug grooves in his shoulders. “I’m going to fuck you hard.”

“Yes,” she said. “Please,” she begged. “That’s what I want,” she told him, pulling her legs from beneath his, drawing her knees along his sides, opening for him, shifting her hips to better align their bodies. Making it easy for him. Making him want her even more than he already did. “I want you.”

God, what it did to him, hearing that from her, being wanted by her. He took his time pushing into her, drawing out the slow, steady thrust as long as he could, wanting it to last forever, the sensation of filling her, of possessing her, of being lost in her.

Once he hit bottom, he stopped, and she let out a contented sigh. It blew along his cheek, his ear, soft and warm and comforting,
when he wasn’t here for comfort or contentment. Being with her, being inside her…

It was eating him up, getting in his way. But here he was because nothing in his life had ever given him this same sense of being himself. And even when she called him on it, she didn’t try to change who he was. How could he not enjoy her?

She pumped him with her pussy’s muscles and he grinned, loving her impatience. He lifted his hips, pulling back until only the head of his cock remained wrapped inside her, and then he withdrew that last little bit, leaving her with only his tip.

Beneath him, she squirmed and bucked up, reaching for him, her hands clawing their way down his back, her heels pushing against his ass, eager, insistent. Greedy. He laughed, the sound wicked and dark in her sweet southern bedroom. The contrast of good and evil, pure and base, had his hard cock growing harder, his balls drawing taut.

He wanted what she wanted and so he gave it to her in long, rhythmic thrusts, putting himself into her, giving himself up to her, taking away every bit of her that made him feel good. She was wet, scented like sun and surf and sweetness, and he buried his face in her neck and let his cock have its way, stroking, fucking, sliding deep.

Her pussy lapped him up, sucked him in, milked him and gripped him and held him when he hung at her entrance, waiting until he couldn’t wait anymore then thrusting until his muscles quivered and his cum gathered to blow.

At that he started all over again, delaying his orgasm while she climbed toward hers, the soles of her feet rubbing up and down his calves as she, too, slowed.

He growled into her ear, “What’re you doing?”

She laughed, a sound just as wicked as his, but even more so
for its softness, its innocence. Evil, evil wench. “Same thing you are. Having fun.”

Yeah. At his expense, because he wasn’t going to be able to hold on much longer. “We can do this again, you know.”

“I plan to,” she said, and pushed her lower body up against his, pulling him back down by his cock. “Several times.”

“That so,” he said, rolling just enough to the side to slip one hand between them, finding her clit and working it. She used the same space he’d created to join him, showing him what she liked before ringing her fingers around the base of his cock.

“I want you to do me from behind,” she said, and he thought of her ass in the air, his cock slickly coated and sliding deep, his balls slamming against her, and groaned.

“I want to do you from behind,” he said, and the images of her mouth and hands coming at him that way turned his groan into something feral.

He was done. So fucking done. He reared back and thrust forward with all he had in him, driving into her as his balls gripped hard and his cum readied. And then she bit his neck, licked the spot with the flat of her tongue, blew over the damage, and said, “Ride me hard.”

Pumping. Driving. Banging. He did it all, his cock hitting bottom, her pussy swollen with her arousal. It felt like she was giving him head. He thought of her tongue flicking against him, her fingers squeezing him, her lips sucking at the gathering of nerves, and he came, spilling into her with furious bursts that seemed never to end.

The sensation was crazy wild and ripped from his core, and it was all he could do to stay conscious. He felt her contractions as she followed him, as she shuddered beneath him, as she turned her head to the side and cried out with her mouth at his biceps and bit him.

Once she’d calmed, he pulled away and settled in behind her, his arm across her midsection, and his legs tangled with hers. He held her to him as her heartbeat slowed and her breathing calmed, and he tried not to think what he would do if he woke in the morning to find her gone.

“G
RAB YOUR THINGS
,” Casper said, walking into the kitchen the next evening to find Clay ready to open a can of microwavable soup.

“Oh. It’s you. Late again,” the boy said, popping the pull top as if Casper hadn’t spoken at all.

Yes, he was a shit for not getting back here yesterday. He’d spent longer than he’d thought working on the holding pen, then on his way back here he got distracted by Faith and her offer to pay for his house. He’d ended the day wrapped up in her body and lost the rest of his mind, only to wake long past sunrise, cursing, his truck screaming as he floored it all the way to the ranch.

He was a shit, but that didn’t keep him from being shittier to cover it up. “You keep telling me you’re okay on your own. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Good. Now grab your things. I’m taking you and Kevin to the ranch.”

Clay’s eyes went wide, though Casper couldn’t tell if with fear or excitement. “Now?”

“Yep.” He reached over, gave a reassuring slap to Clay’s shoulder, only just stopping himself from ruffling the boy’s hair. He set the top back on the soup and put the can in the fridge. “Right in time for dinner. Lucky for you, it’s Boone’s night to cook, not mine.”

“Who’s Boone?” Clay called back as he loped up the stairs to the room he’d claimed as his own. Kevin followed him up. Kevin followed him down.

Casper waited for the both of them before answering, realizing he hadn’t said much of anything to the boy about who he was now, what he did. The broken-down ranch where he did it. The boys he did it with who had saved his young life. “Boone Mitchell. One of my partners in the Dalton Ranch. We have a third, Dax Campbell, but he’s pretty much moved out of the ranch house.”

Clay slung his backpack over his shoulder. “So there’s room for me?”

“There’d be room for you even if Dax was still there. It’s not the size of this one, but it’s a pretty big house.” And in a little bit better shape, though not by much.

“Where’s he live?”

“Over on Willowbrook Avenue with his lady, Arwen.” Casper headed for the back door. “She owns the Hellcat Saloon.”

“The, uh, Hellcat Saloon?”

“Yeah.” The look on the boy’s face spelled out the word
guilt.
Casper thought back to the takeout containers he’d found here when he’d found Clay. “I’m guessing you’ve eaten from there.”

“A couple of times,” the boy said, nodding, walking out onto the porch. “Good food.”

“I’ll take you there sometime,” Casper said, digging his keys from his pocket. Sometime when the boy showing his face in public wouldn’t bring down the law. “You can order from the menu. Then you can leave a really big tip for Arwen to make up for whatever you stole from her.”

“I didn’t take anything from the kitchen. I swear.” Guilt in all caps. “But I did take a couple bottles of Coke from the back porch. And water.”

“Like I said. A
really
big tip.”

“Am I supposed to tell her what it’s for?” Clay asked, falling into step, Kevin beside him, as Casper made for the street.

“You don’t have to. Just make sure it gets into her hands and one of the kittens doesn’t pick it up.”