Pretty Shameless, page 15
part #2 of Deputy Laney Briggs Series
When his hand touched my calf, I died and went to heaven. My head flopped back on the mattress, and my legs effortlessly parted, making way for his clever fingers.
I’d made up my mind. There was no better way to waste a stressful morning than to ride a cowboy.
“I’m not up for any games this morning,” I said, squinting at him. He threw his head back and laughed; the sound was deep and infectious and caused the butterflies in my stomach to twist even tighter.
Gunner pulled off my ornery boot. “Sometimes you just need to let a man be in charge.” Then he shucked the other boot, working his fingers toward my already damp panties.
Oh, for the love of God. I tossed my arms above my head, sighing. “You feeling naughty, cowboy?” I asked, one brow arched. The corner of his mouth twitched up. Oh, yeah. This man of mine was definitely ready to take me around the block a time or two. Placing a hand at my neck, I slowly started to skim my fingers down between my breasts, taking a turn with each nipple by drawing them to hard pinpoints. His breath hitched. Hell, yeah I’d hit the nail on the head with that move. I pulled a nipple between my forefinger and thumb and rolled. “You wouldn’t want in on this action by chance?” I teased, twisting the nipple a little more.
I heard a deep, throaty growl, then the bed scooted across the wood floor. In an instant, his mouth was on my neck, nibbling and biting as his fingers worked hard to get the dang bra strap undone. His lips brushed just below my ear, and a delicious chill ran down the length of my spine. Man, Sunday had never looked so good. The kiss deepened, tongue for tongue stroke, and when I felt his knee nudge between my legs, pushing mine farther apart, I was ready to give the sexy Texas Ranger an early morning thrill ride. I couldn’t fathom another moment of not feeling him deep inside me.
Hooking my arms around his thick, strong neck, I pulled his deadly six-pack down on top of me, smiling. “Well, Gunner,” I batted my eyelashes at him. He stopped mid bra strip and locked that charmingly rugged country-boy face in on me again. A storm of deliciously bad images of Gunner riding me bareback while I screamed his name took over. He’d clued in the moment our eyes clicked into that old parking gaze. I was ready to have my hunky boyfriend show me how to live again. No more stress. Just pure erotic bliss.
I reached out and tugged at his hair. “How about we play by your rules today?” I asked, even though I knew he would’ve lost his mind to deny that request. Gunner had been pestering me to try that thingy in the shower again. I’d been putting him off. Not that I wasn’t convinced. Last time was amazing. It just took some work on my part. But now, as I peered into his dark, seductive brown eyes, I knew I’d give him his heart’s desire.
He moved in and nuzzled my bare shoulder. “I like it when you’re feisty.” His mouth grazed just below my chin. “Don’t worry, you won’t ever regret giving me full control, sweetheart.” And then, before I could utter a reply, he flipped me over flat on my stomach, with my nose pressed into the mattress. Yep, more than happy to hand over control. His hand pushed into the small of my back, demanding my full attention. I tilted my head back, gaining a view of washboard abs. He leaned a smidgen closer, his hot breath raking over my already sweaty flesh. “This morning, how about we perfect something you and I both enjoy.” His hot breath rushed over me like a waterfall. “I want your cute ass, Laney Briggs,” he murmured, his hand landing down hard and swift on my backside.
The bitter sting urged me on. Harder. I needed it harder.
“Shit!” I arched my ass higher. Desperation bottomed out in the pit of my stomach, and hell, I ached to feel the touch of his commanding hand on my backside again.
Not into disappointing, he smacked my ass again, sending a sharp pang of pleasure roaring through me. His big, coarse hand soothed my blistering flesh as he whispered all the indecent things he had in store for me this fine morning. “Your ass looks beautiful pink and marked with my hand.” And then he smacked again; the control in his voice slowly slipping away. “I want every single inch of you.” His teeth nipped my earlobe. “Every fucking damn inch, darling.” He touched a finger to my anus and pressure mounted as the tight ring expanded. My back bucked at the cool drip streaming between my butt cheeks. His finger pushed, prodding farther inside, as he swirled the cold jelly mixture.
“Fuck,” I wiggled my hips against the mattress, taking in the small intrusion. “Please, Gunner,” I said, urging him to completely take me.
His chin nuzzled into my neck, and his dick grazed the dip above my asshole while his finger moved in and out, making me clinch in spasms. “You want me to take your ass, Laney?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble in my ear. Then he pushed another finger into me, saying, “I need to hear you say the words.”
And the burn roared, crashing into a wave of needy cries and groans when he gradually yet demandingly thrust his finger another inch deeper.
“Damn.” I moaned, angling higher. “Take me. Fuck me, Gunner Wilson.”
“Yes, just like that,” he said, mouth so close I could taste the lingering scent of cinnamon on his lips. “Let me hear you scream again,” he whispered, the sound fierce and hot as hell.
Then his other hand landed on my ass—hard—just as his dick broke the tender ring of my anus. I went slack against the mattress, my legs sprawled wide. I was wet, plump, and heated, and the thought of Gunner pushing in and out of that forbidden backside territory drove my arousal on even more. His balls slapped my slick walls, zinging a blissful pain right up my spine as his hips gyrated with each pump and thrust.
“Goddamn you’re tight,” he said, almost sounding drunk as he withdrew to only circle back inside. “I need to know that you’re coming, too.” He reached between my thighs and cupped me. “Relax,” he said, breath ragged and clipped. He slipped a finger between my slick, swollen folds, placing added pressure on my clit with the pad of his thumb. Then he pinched.
“Holy fuck,” I cried out, hips sinking into the mattress, tears welling in my eyes, and legs trembling from the overwhelming desire thundering within me. “Please,” I heard myself beg. “I need to come. Now!”
He swept my hair aside and placed a kiss on my shoulder, whispering, “I love you more now than the first time I laid eyes on you.” Then he began to pick up the thrusting as his wickedly smooth fingers teased and toyed with my clit.
“Gunner.” The moan fell from my mouth as I felt the buildup of my release curling up at the base of my toes. “Please.”
Heated lips touched the nape of my neck. “Come for me, Laney.” His rough voice bled through my ears as his hand squeezed, his fingers stroked, and the heat between my thighs came barreling to a climatic halt.
And then I exploded, my orgasm crackling against every taut nerve like a live wire. As I slowly crashed from the pleasure high, the warmth of Gunner’s cock expanding inside me spurred the intense connection on. He clasped both hands firmly on my hips and pumped until he was just as limp as me and sandwiched by my side with an arm slung across my waist.
The low, murmur of the fan puttered, sucking up all the quiet in our small bedroom. A pair of feet lay entwined in mine. I shifted on the mattress, back pressed against his washboard abs. The moment was priceless. For years some of my favorite times were spent during lazy midmorning slumbers with Gunner Wilson in my bed. No our bed. This old farmhouse was as much his as it was mine.
A hand roamed down my backside, kneading and stroking my bare skin. I sighed and sank deeper into the mattress.
“Your bare skin feels so damn good,” Gunner said, placing a featherlight kiss on my exposed shoulder. “Very beautiful.” He danced nimble fingers past my elbow, leaving behind a trail of heat in their wake. Nose nuzzled in my sex-crazed hair, he inhaled deeply, asking on a moan, “Are you still ticklish, sweetheart?” He chuckled, mildly amused.
I faked shock and decided to amuse the playful man. “Don’t you dare, Gunner Wilson,” I teased and rolled over to face to him. “I have nothing to protect myself from those rotten hands of yours.” I looked at my naked ass and then back up at him.
“You mean like this?” He smiled, lightly flicking two fingers at my hip bone.
“Shit,” I giggled and swatted his hand. He strummed again. “You’re gonna make me pee, damn it.” I laughed. “Can’t you see I’ve been holding it since you strong-armed me into sex?”
That charming smile returned. “Strong-armed, you?” he questioned, eyebrows raised half an inch.
It was damn cute.
Tucking the sheet up under my chin, I snuggled in closer to him and rested my cheek on his shoulder. “Yep.” I winked, glancing up into his ruggedly handsome face. “Strong-armed.”
He caught my chin in his hand. “Well, I aim to please.” His smile pressed into mine as he claimed my mouth as his own. And that taste. Damn, it was like honey on my lips. On a bottom lip suck, and a gasp, he pulled back to stare deeply into my eyes. “I was thinking about Christmas.”
“And…” I gave him a questioning look.
Brushing his thumb along my chin, he smiled, saying, “Would you like to pick out some new kitchen appliances?”
Now I was shocked.
“Are you serious?” I scooted toward the headboard and sat up. “We don’t have that kind of money. And you’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you rack up credit-card debt for a kitchen I’d probably never use.”
He slung a leg out from underneath the bed sheets, glancing sidelong over his shoulder at me. “Just think about it, Laney,” he said, straightening to a stand. “We should get going before we piss your mother off anymore.”
He winked, then sauntered that bare, tight ass into the bathroom.
Chapter Fourteen
There’s no time for the weary or sexually satisfied, because an hour and one sore ass later, my parents’ neighborhood shot over the bend. It was the only housing development in town that came with sidewalks instead of ditches. The houses were slab foundations with a shotgun-style exterior. They’d been thrown up during the fifties when Pistol Rock had a promising bright future in oil. But that didn’t pan out, and the builders stopped halfway through house number thirteen.
The Yukon skidded to a stop in the street. I sat still, my ass suction-cupped to the seat. Gunner jumped out, rounded the front fender¸ and yanked my door open.
“Well, are you coming?” he asked, giving me that pretty-boy smile.
I was so looking forward to lunch. Maybe I’d be lucky enough to choke on a chicken bone. I swung my legs out of the cab and planted my boots on the ground. When I reached the front porch, Gunner was casually slouched back in my father’s rocking chair, whistling like all was right with the world. There was no doubt about it. Gunner Wilson was annoying. I shot him the stink eye and then rapped on the screen door. The sound of a kitchen chair screeching across the tile floor while my mother hacked up smoker’s phlegm and the scratching of the chain on the metal doorframe had my nerves in overdrive. They were noises I had come to associate with a feeling of dread, like the alarm clock in the morning waking me up for work, the silence in church before the preacher took the podium and began bumbling his way through his twenty-minute sermon, and the sucking and drilling sounds I could hear while sitting in the waiting room at the dentist. I braced myself like one would when going through heavy turbulence on an airliner, wondering how many more blows the plane could take before something gave. The door creaked open, and a set of French-manicured nails wrapped around the frame.
I watched in horror as my mother’s face peeked around the doorway. She had a tendency to overdo it with the makeup. I’d seen morticians who could wield a foundation brush more delicately. The rosy blush on her cheeks, rather than highlighting her cheekbones, accentuated the wrinkles she had accrued from years of cigarette smoking and scowling at others. She gave me a smile that would’ve made the devil himself take pause. I gave her a perky finger wave. The smile just grew tighter. Then those green eyes darted over to the rocker. Gunner was sulking, his hat slung low over his eyes, and staring off into oblivion. The poor man never saw it coming.
“You sorry son of a bitch,” my mother screeched and flicked her Marlboro at him.
The rocker jerked forward, and Gunner pushed his hat back on his forehead, awarding her with the same coldhearted glare. “Howdy, Ruth,” he deadpanned, trying to weasel his way into my mother’s heart with that puppy-dog smile. She wasn’t buying. So he turned it up a notch. “You know that apricot in your hair does wonders for your cheekbones.”
My mother’s eyes narrowed. Shit was going down. “Floyd, load the shotgun,” my mother hollered back inside the house. “There’s an intruder on our front porch.”
“Damn it, Mom,” I pleaded.
There’s nothing like the mention of a shotgun to get my guy all riled up.
Gunner shot to his boots, both hands jammed down his front pockets. “Now, Ruth.” His voice ran silky smooth. Even after all these years, he still hadn’t learned to not talk out his ass when it came to my mother. “Do you wanna tell us what’s troubling ya?”
My mother shook her head, and then slammed the door in both our faces.
Well, I should’ve seen it coming. I mean, if you stand out in the rain, don’t be surprised if you get wet.
“Come on, Mom. Open the door.”
“Not with Gunner standing out on my porch,” she yelled. “Damn it, Floyd. If you touch that lock, I’ll kick your balls so hard you’ll be singing soprano come Sunday.”
Okay, so my parents weren’t having the best day, either. Since we were all on the same page, I figured lunch might not be so bad after all.
“If it makes things better, I’m also mad at Gunner,” I hollered through the door.
The door squeaked open.
“Really?” my mother said.
I shot Gunner a play-along look.
“You bet your ass I am,” I said.
“Well, then you might as well come on in before the food gets any colder,” she said, waving us through the doorway. “Although I don’t think you’d understand something like that, Laney, seeing how most of what you eat either comes from underneath a heat lamp or microwave.”
“Glad to know I could bring the two of you girls closer,” Gunner said, winking at her as he walked on inside.
“Eat shit,” she mumbled once he was past her.
And that’s how lunch at my parents started that day.
My childhood home hadn’t changed much through the years. There were still plastic linings covering the couch cushions, outdated end tables, and fake crystal Tiffany lamps from the JC Penney’s catalog. Mother was a fanatic when it came to keeping every portrait of the family, including many that featured Gunner’s face front and center. My father had given Gunner a quick nod before stumbling back to his burgundy recliner. He eased himself into it and flipped the volume up on the rabbit-eared television, then poured another can of Miller High Life down his throat. I noticed the cooler next to his recliner was almost empty, so he would be getting up soon. My mother had strolled off to the kitchen to put the final touches on lunch, or maybe to burn off another cigarette. I didn’t care so long as she was in a different room. Today she had chosen to wear her lavender, heavily starched button-down shirt and a pair of white cabana shorts. They hung well below her bony knees and went nicely with her lime-green painted toenails.
Gunner strutted over to a table and picked up a picture frame, tilting it in his hand. “Nice to see I still hold a soft spot in the old bat’s eyes.”
I snatched it away. “Don’t go getting a big head. Mom has it out because my aunt Faye is in it.”
A smug smile creased his face, softening the dimples in his cheeks. He reached out and pinched my butt.
“Hey.” I swatted his hand away. “What the hell are you thinking?”
“I can’t help it. I’ve always had a big head.” He smiled, kissing me on the cheek. Gunner slid his hand into mine and squeezed. The corners of his mouth tugged up into a lopsided grin. “How about we test out the limits of a can of whipped cream after lunch?”
“Well, cowboy, if you mind your manners at the lunch table, then maybe I’ll let you get a little messy with dessert.”
He must have not seen that one coming, because he nearly dropped the picture he was holding.
“Dinner,” my mother squawked in her ear-piercing, window-shattering voice. She used to embarrass me so much when I was little and out playing in the neighborhood. I’d be up in a tree, sharing my secret boy crushes, or making mud pies in a backyard with my girlfriends, and out of nowhere we’d hear that shrill, unnatural, dying-cat voice shouting, “Laay-nee! Dinner!” throughout the neighborhood. My friends loved to give me a hard time by imitating her whenever and wherever they could. “Lay-nee! Bring me my cigarettes!” “Lay-nee! Is he your boyfriend?” “Lay-nee! Your daddy needs another beer!” They all knew me too well.
I took a seat next to Gunner. My mother angled herself across the table between us. It gave her the ability of keeping one eye on each of us. As always, my father was seated at the head of the table, one beer in his left hand, another waiting in the koozie just to the right of his steak knife. She had placed a feast from one end of the table to the other. It mostly comprised of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Now I’m about to say something nice about my mother here, which just doesn’t happen that often, but an offering of my mother’s fried chicken was a gift to not be taken lightly. It was a rare occasion that she went to the trouble of frying up some yard bird, but when she did, oh my heavens, it was good enough to make me weak at the knees.
My father cracked a beer can open and passed it down to Gunner. “Here you go, Son,” he said.
The sentiment hadn’t fallen upon deaf ears. We all sat there completely stunned that my father had actually volunteered a beer to another person.
“Thank you, Floyd,” Gunner said, taking it in his hand and sipping back on the can.
Needless to say, my father never offered me a beer. But my mother’s sweet tea was pretty good.
