Kiss My Boots

  I sit back, drinking beer after beer, and watch her move like a wet dream brought to life. Her denim miniskirt wrapped tight around the ass that's only improved with time. Her flat stomach bare, belly ring winking every now and then when the light catches it just right. I haven't the slightest clue if the plaid material covering her chest is some fancy-as-fuck bra or an actual top, but the way it's showcasing her breasts has my cock pressing hard against my jeans in a matter of seconds.

  Soon, I mentally promise my throbbing cock.

  Soon, I vow to the ache in my chest.

  "Very fuckin' soon," I declare, mumbling the words low under my breath while I sit back, get comfortable, and enjoy the show.

  8

  QUINN

  "80s Mercedes" by Maren Morris

  - -

  I can't remember the last time I felt this alive.

  They're playing nothing but dance music tonight at the Dam Bar. Those country hits from almost a decade ago that make you want to shake your ass, toss your head back, and rebel yell to the moon. Well, maybe not go out yellin' at the moon. I might be drunk off my ass, but I'm not that drunk.

  I grab Leigh's hands and pull her in for a hug, laughing when she almost falls on her ass.

  "--looks so hot," she yells over the music.

  "Huh?"

  "Don't you think?"

  "What are you talkin' about?" I scream back, not understanding her.

  She looks over her shoulder, in the direction that I last saw my brothers standing, and I feel her body sag slightly. Giggling, I steady her only to end up with her head resting against my shoulder and a mouthful of pink wig hair. I sputter, pulling the strands out while she reaches up, one hand landing on the top of my head, and pets my wig so hard I feel like she might pull it right off my damn head.

  "Guess what," she whisper-yells in my ear.

  "Chicken butt?" I snicker, laughing at my own joke.

  She snorts, lifts her head, and smiles at me. Her dazed eyes aren't focusing on me all that well, but since I'm pretty sure I'm not holding two Leightons, I'm guessing mine aren't that clear either.

  "I'm gonna get him home and ride him like a pony."

  "Oh, gross, Leigh! That's my brother!"

  She snorts again. "He has a really nice penis. It's so pretty. Like, really, really pretty. I saw a mold thingie in a magazine Jana had. You reckon he'd let me do that to him? That way I could carry his pretty penis around with me everywhere I go."

  I push that disturbing image right outta my head and help support Leigh while walking back over to the table where we left Maverick and Clay a few hours ago.

  "She's ready to go," I announce, hoping my words aren't slurring as I attempt to thrust her into Maverick's arms, Leighton slumping against me as one hand reaches out to stroke Maverick's chest.

  "Pretty sure you told me earlier if I took her outta here, for any reason, before the bar closed you would take away my ability to have children. Let me tell ya, Hell-raiser, I'm not takin' any chances testin' how serious you mighta been," Maverick grumbles, taking a sip of his longneck, grabbing Leigh's hand when it gets down to his belt buckle, not letting her continue her journey.

  "If you play your cards right, I'm pretty sure she's willin' to start on that tonight, not that I cared to hear about it, but I did, so can you please get her home before she tells me again how pretty your penis is?"

  He chokes on the gulp of beer he was just swallowing. I can't see his eyes in the shadow his cowboy hat is casting over his face, but I feel an uncomfortable awareness when his scrutiny leaves me and settles on his fiancee.

  Gross.

  I feel like I'm in the middle of something I damn sure don't want to be in the middle of. Especially since Leigh won't let me go and still has her hand way too close to Maverick's crotch.

  I register that Davis, party of two, has somehow morphed into a party of one. "Hey, where's Clay?"

  "Huh?" Maverick mumbles, clearly not paying attention to me.

  I snap my fingers in front of his face. "Where. Is. Our. Brother?"

  "Had to head back home. Somethin' 'bout one of his new horses gettin' hurt."

  "Which one?"

  I wobble as Leigh's body gets heavier, almost taking both of us down, before I steady myself and her. How is she this drunk? We've been drinking the same amount and I can still stand on my own two feet.

  "Major," he answers, finally reaching out to take Leigh from my arms.

  I vaguely remember the stallion that Maverick is talking about, but I haven't spent much time in the stables lately, so I'm not sure which Thoroughbred he means. Clay has been busy building up his baby-making horses the last year, expanded the breeding end of the Davis ranch like he's wanted to for a while now. The only time I pay any attention to the things he's working on is when I go to take my horse, Daisy, out for a ride.

  "He okay?" I ask, not sure who I'm asking about, the horse or Clay--my big, stoic brother loves those animals like they were his own babies.

  "Will be, I'm sure. Clay probably didn't even have to leave, but you know how much of a control freak he is. He was out the door practically the second he saw Drew's name on his phone."

  The instant he finishes talking, Leigh pounces and grabs his neck to pull his head down. Thankfully Maverick's hat shields enough that I'm not forced to watch them make out in the middle of the bar. I roll my eyes when she bounces slightly, asking without words for my brother to pick her up, something he does instantly. Well, I guess she was done waiting for her man to pay attention to her.

  "As much as I hate to point this out, you might want to put your big mitt over her crotch or this whole room is about to know what kind of panties are coverin' up her cooter," I halfway joke. I wouldn't bother, normally, but the embarrassing shit she does when she's drunk is only funny when she's aware of it. Her skirt isn't as short as mine is, but if she keeps dry-humpin' my brother it's not going to keep her covered for long. Time to get them out of here before all horny hell breaks loose.

  "You two go. I'll be fine here," I yell toward the top of his head, holding my amusement in when his hand indeed goes to her ass. Generally, neither one of my brothers would ever leave me here alone, regardless of the fact that we grew up in this town and probably know every person that's in here. But with Leigh workin' her female magic on him, I know Maverick's mind is only on one thing--showin' his woman how much he loves her. Maverick waves and half-drags, half-carries a giggling Leigh out the door and into the night.

  "Well, Lenore, it looks like Loretta just can't handle us anymore," I say to myself, twisting a piece of my wig's bright purple curls around my finger. Leigh might not have staying power anymore, but I damn well do. I didn't realize how much I needed this night out until we were laughing our asses off in the middle of our dancing marathon. Not willing to lose the buzz I'm ridin' high on, I rock back on the heels of my purple cowboy boots and swing myself around, back to the dance floor. I've just started swaying my hips again to the music when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. Pulling it out, I smile when I see Maverick's text letting me know he told Randy, the bouncer, to keep an eye on me.

  Good old Maverick.

  I continue to drink and dance around the floor. No one pays me any mind, the girl in the purple wig swaying to the beat all by herself. I feel eyes on me, though. I ignore them, as always, but the burn of them just grows, and it only makes me move a little more seductively to the music. I can't even remember the last time I had a good drunken one-night stand, which means it's been way too long. I stopped having them almost subconsciously when I found out the truth about my mother. Once I discovered what a whore she had been, every time I felt the urge to raise my skirt for a man, I felt equal measures irrational guilt and shame--the apple not falling far from the tree, and all that. I know it isn't the same, but I honestly didn't even feel the pull to enjoy some meaningless mutual, mindless pleasure until just now. I think tonight is the night.

  I'm not proud to admit this, even if it's just to my
self, but I have to be drunk to enjoy sex. I tried sober fucking a few times, and each time ended in disaster. All I could see was the rugged, youthful face of the only person I've ever had bring me to completion. I had to shut down my mind instantly when it happened, and it just ended up being one long rutting session for the man that ended when I had enough and clenched my inner muscles so hard that he had no choice but to finally be done. Even if I wasn't the master of fakin' it, that shit got old real quick, and now I find it's better to drink myself so stupid that I lose the ability to care that I'll never feel that pleasure again.

  Maybe I should take Jana up on that sex-toy shit. Lord knows it would be nice to know I'm not permanently broken.

  I make a mental note to talk to her about it on Monday when I take my normal pie break at the PieHole. In the meantime, I head to the bar for another drink and let my mind drift away on the dizzy rapids of a beer-filled river.

  - -

  Good God, it's bright.

  I pull the covers over my head, trying to block out the harsh morning sun beating into my retinas. Everything hurts, from my tingling scalp all the way down to my toes, and I'm way too hungover to deal with the fireball in the sky this morning. I roll, trying to pull the thick blanket around me so that I can fully submerge myself in a cocoon of darkness, but I don't get far when I meet resistance.

  I tug, but the blankets don't budge.

  I tug harder, and still they don't obey.

  Giving them one last heave, I almost roll off the bed when they're ripped out of my grasp and my body is forced forward with the momentum of the yank I didn't get to complete.

  "What the hell?" I screech, blinking wildly when my eyes are assaulted by the devil rays once again before giving up and slamming my lids down in an effort to not hurl with the brightness.

  I'm instantly aware of my nudeness with the loss of the blankets' warmth, the air-conditioning bathing my skin with chilly air the second I lose purchase of them.

  "What the fuckin' hell?" I yelp, even louder, and wince when the sound hits my ears, still not able to open my eyes.

  That's when I hear the male groan to my right and every inch of my body goes rock hard. Slowly, I open my eyes, giving myself enough time to adjust to the harsh lighting, but also working up the courage to actually find out where I am.

  Jesus Jones, Quinn. You really went all whoreville last night, didn't you? You can't even remember leaving the Dam Bar, let alone going home with someone. God, I hope it's no one that I'll have to see daily.

  The first thing I see is the tan, hairy skin of a man's naked leg. Well, I'm guessing it's naked, but I can't really tell for sure, because the blanket that was on me only moments before is now covering most of the very male body next to me. If the muscular leg is anything to go by, at least I broke my celibacy streak with someone that takes care of his body. Even though he's sleeping I can tell there is no way the rest of that body will be soft if that's the kind of power that carries it.

  Not wanting to stick around and find out if I'm right, I start working my way out of the bed. I move inch by inch, holding my breath the whole time, until I'm standing next to the bed. Looking down, I see that I'm not as naked as I thought. My bright pink lace thong is still on, as is the matching bra that really doesn't do shit but look sexy, since I can see my nipples clear as day through the cups. Reaching down, I place my hand against my sex and I know the second I feel the lack of wetness that he was probably another one of those piston-hipped jerks that just keep powering through a girl's barely wet pussy. Unless he redressed me before going to sleep. Maybe he was a thoughtful one-nighter that didn't want to ruin my panties. Either way, I'm happy I don't have to do the walk of shame with wet panties.

  Ignoring the lump of a man on the bed, I glance around the room, looking for my clothes from last night, but give up when I see a shirt he must have discarded last night in a ball at the end of the bed. Pulling it on, I thank my lucky stars that the hem hits my thighs low enough that I feel like I can safely make an escape now and not risk taking any longer and waking the stranger while I search. As much as I love last night's outfit, I'm not going to stick around looking for it. I see my boots tossed in the corner and pull them on, wishing I had socks to put on first, but beggars can't be choosers.

  When I finish getting my boots on, I look at the bed, no longer able to ignore him anymore, and let out a relieved silent burst of air when I see his face completely covered. His hair, though, isn't and I can't say I've ever thought a man's hair was sexy until now. It's long, but in that attractive way that it looks like it needed a cut a month ago, but he keeps it that way on purpose. Seriously, there is nothing sexier than messy, intentional waves curling out from under a cowboy hat. It almost makes me wish I could remember what those strands felt like between my fingers. I bet it would be the perfect length to curl my fingers into and force his mouth between my legs until I was ready for him to stop.

  Holy shit.

  My body flushes when I realize the dry panties I was so proud of only seconds before are now wet with arousal. From his hair.

  I've got to get out of here.

  I creep to the door, pulling it open slowly, and cringe when it squeaks loudly, echoing in the silence around me.

  Come on, Quinn. I give it another slow pull, only to get the same results. Fuck. I'm never going to get out of here. A few more unsuccessful attempts later, I hear him.

  "Goin' somewhere?"

  The voice is thick with sleep and maybe a little bit of the same hangover fog I feel. There's no way someone has a voice that throaty and arousing naturally. It creates a slow warmth that begins to glide down my body, awaking a lascivious need deep inside of me. I'm shaking, but not with nerves. I'm literally quivering with desire, a feeling so unfamiliar after being gone for so long that I could cry.

  "Uh," I mumble, clearing the thick need from my voice with a cough. "Um, home. I was headin' home."

  "Not even plannin' on stickin' around to say good-bye? I know it's been awhile, but damn, Grease."

  Breath stills in my lungs. The arousal that had been building inside of me just moments before freezes instantly from shock, recognition hitting the very core of me. "No," I gasp, dropping my forehead to the door, closing my eyes tight, and clenching my hand around the doorknob.

  I hear him move, the blankets shifting before the bed makes a squeak as it loses the weight of his body.

  Fear holds me immobile.

  I'm not ready. I can't do this. Oh, God.

  I was supposed to be prepared by the time I had to face him again. I wouldn't look like the hot mess I'm sure I resemble. I know my wig isn't on anymore, but I can only imagine what my long hair looks like after a sweaty night dancing under it. My makeup isn't applied with a practiced hand of perfection, like I had hoped it would be the first time I saw him again. I wouldn't be shocked if I look like a drowned raccoon after sleeping with the amount of makeup I had on last night. My perfect smoky eye I spent thirty minutes working on probably looks more like I was the loser of a boxing match.

  "Been a long time, Quinn."

  "Not long enough," I mutter under my breath, but I know he hears me, because his dark chuckle hits my ears before shooting straight between my legs, waking that needy bitch down there right up.

  "Even drunk out of your mind, you're just as wild as I remembered," he whispers, closer.

  Before I have a chance to move, his body is pressed against my back, and I'm pushed against the door, causing it to close with a soft boom at the swiftness of his movements. He holds his hips back, not allowing that part of him to touch me, but I feel him--almost all of him--and there isn't a single part of his hard body against mine that I don't remember. He feels different--bigger--but familiar nonetheless.

  "You purred for me last night," he says against my ear, pulling my hair over my shoulder with one hand while the other hits my leg right under the hem of his shirt. "You purred so loud I came in my pants like a fuckin' young buck readin' his first dirty mag.
Christ, Quinn, you came alive, and that was before I even got you back here."

  I jerk in his hold, my spine snapping straight, and thrust my hips back to free myself. It doesn't work. His hand is at my thigh, and he's flexing and digging his fingertips into my flesh before relaxing his hold and slowly dragging it up, taking the shirt with it. Over my hip he goes, until he has his palm low on my torso, the shirt bunched around his arm. I bet I could sneeze and his fingers would be where my body wants them most. The pads of his fingertips caress my belly and I feel wetness pool between my legs moments before he uses his hold on me to pull me against his swollen erection.

  "You're not drunk anymore, Quinn," he rumbles against my back, the hot air of his breath fanning against the shell of my ear. "Wanna give me that purr again?"

  "In your fuckin' dreams," I respond instantly, proud of the hard edge in my voice.

  "You didn't say that last night," he urges.

  "I was drunk!" I yell, squirming against his deliciously hard body until he finally lets me go. "I was drunk and you took advantage of that, you stupid fuck!"

  I almost fall on my ass, but eventually I get free and finally come face-to-face with Tate Montgomery after nine long-as-hell years. He left a handsome boy and came back a devilishly hot man. His body, having always been in shape, is aged to perfection. His abs are a little more defined, his pecs even larger, and his arms that would--I'm sure--feel like steel bands when they were wrapped around you. My eyes travel up his neck, over the dark stubble on his chiseled jaw, until I see the pouty fullness of lips I used to dream of every night. I almost give up there, but I keep going until his light blue eyes are boring into mine, holding me captive and immobile. I vaguely register those mouthwatering wavy locks of his, but I'm powerless to do anything else but stare up at him--the boy turned man that I spent years mourning the loss of.

  Who knows how long we stare at each other, each searching with so many questions hanging in the air around us. It's almost . . . peaceful. Until he has to go and ruin it all.

  "I've missed you," he whispers. "And fuck, did it feel good to have you in my arms last night. Not sure how I stayed away this long now that I remember just how good you felt against my body."