The Wrangler (The Yacht Club #2)

Chapter 14

Fourteen

SJ

I press back and up with my arms into downward dog, letting the sunshine warm my back. An echo of an ache lingers between my thighs. Alex is back to his early morning-late night routine. And I miss him. The ache isn’t real, it’s been too long for my muscles to still be strained. The ache is a manifestation of missing him. I keep moving through my routine as the sun moves lower in the sky. As I finish in mountain pose, I sense eyes on me. The windows reflect the sunset, so I can’t tell where it’s coming from. But I know who it must be. He’s nowhere to be found after I roll up my mat and head inside. His avoidance, or absence, or whatever is keeping him hidden is making me crazy.

I take a shower and try to write, but my mind won’t focus. My characters won’t come together. It’s impossible to write a romance when the characters won’t even come into the same room. With that realization, a plan forms. It’s not time yet, couple more hours and then I can flip the page on this story. I distract myself with more videos of lovers with ropes, but I don’t get myself off. The pressure builds until finally I’m ready.

Darkness fills the hallway, everyone long since retired to their respective rooms. I dart to Alex’s room on my tiptoes. His door is unlocked. Did he expect me? Hope I would sneak in. I slip inside before the light from his bathroom can spill into the hall. With my back pressed against the close door, I flip the lock. He comes out fresh from a shower, towel on his head rubbing his short hair dry. The moment he becomes aware of me, he halts. “Watcha’ doing, little rabbit?”

“Miss you. Can’t sleep.”

His cock responds, twitching and lengthening.

My straps on my simple cotton nightgown easily shift down my arms as I pull the fabric free of my body.

“Fuck.” It’s a whisper, a prayer, and a curse all rolled into one. And the word slithers between my thighs bringing heat and priming me for exactly what he can give me.

I raise my arms up, cross my wrists, and step wide. “Yes, please.”

He’s on his knees, face buried in my core before I can move again. He grips my knee, lifting my leg over his shoulder. When he follows up with my other leg, I’m completely at his mercy. His tongue dances through my folds, and my body electrifies with need. Every nerve primed to react to him. Somehow he lifts me, and I drop my hands to his shoulders, his tongue deep in my folds. He doesn’t stop until he drops me on the bed.

“You’re mine, little rabbit.”

I nod and quickly follow with “Yes.” I don’t want to be chastised for not using words when there are so much better uses for his mouth than scolding me.

He moves me where he wants and resumes giving me the best oral sex I’ve ever had, holding my thighs wide apart. Sucking my clit, scissoring his fingers inside, stretching me. There’s nowhere to hide from him. I don’t want to. If I could be this completely open to him I would. My brain clouds with pleasure. I’m shaking, flutters from my insides ride over my entire body. With a gasp, the waves roll over me and I’m lost. His mouth is on mine, swallowing my moans. I suck his tongue the way he sucked me. He lifts my back from the bed so he can wrap me in his embrace, holding me tight, bracing on his forearms. His legs squeeze mine together. I can’t move, only feel him. His hard length pressed along my stomach, my breasts pressed to his chest, and his lips making love to mine. He doesn’t need ropes to capture me. But I need, “More.” The word spoken agains his lips, more breath than vocalization.

He lifts his head. His eyes are smoldering and dark in the dim light. He’s every bit of trouble I’ve always been attracted to. I shiver with the irrational, inadvisable craving for him.

“Don’t move.” His gaze bores into me. I go completely lax in his hold.

“Okay.” I swallow the edgy taste of risk that being with him after what I’ve been told brings. I can’t help it. I can’t fully believe it. I can’t wait for him to be inside me again.

He’s off the bed, in the bathroom, reappearing in seconds while rolling on a condom. “Good, little rabbit.”

His praise washes over me as soothing as a warm bath, as warm as a fire, as delicious as a fine meal. Again he rearranges my limbs the way he wants them. My ass is resting on his bent knees where he crawled up on the mattress. My thighs cradle his hips and his cock kisses my entrance.

“Please, Alex.” If he doesn’t press inside me now, I’m going to lose my mind.

With a subtle shift, his cock breaches me ever so slightly. Even with my orgasm and his preparation with his fingers, the press is an invasion, a conquering, a sweet hint of what’s to come. Does he want me to beg? I will. I’m ready to cry for him to fuck me. To get deep inside where he was for an entire weekend, where he’s been absent for far too many days. Deeper. So slowly he presses inside, drawing parts of my body toward him like I’m a puppet on his strings. I dig my toes into the mattress, seeking him, inviting him, silently pleading for all of him. His fingers dig into my hips, controlling me. I surrender and he takes me over. His cock so deep, his balls are on my ass.

We both pant a few breaths. I search for the peace that will keep me from falling over the edge too quickly. I waited so long to be back here. Denied myself what I most needed. Him. He folds forward, plants a kiss on my lips. “I’m going to fuck you now. Deep and hard until you want to scream. Until you come all over my cock. Until I fucking explode inside you.”

I clench my pelvis muscles, teasing him the way his words tease me. He nips the hard bead of my breast and then proceeds to do exactly as he promised. Never releasing my hips, he pounds in and out of me, no mercy. No retreat. Exactly what I hoped for when I snuck in his room.

I’m completely lost when he pulls out and flips me over. A mewl of protest squeaks out before I lose my breath as he plunges back inside. He’s so deep he’s in my throat, or he would be if that was even possible. Hard. Fast. Deep. Over and over again, he gives me everything. I press my mouth to the pillow and muffle the sounds of my body coming apart. He clamps his hands tighter to my hips, up on his knees, back arched, he juts his come into the condom and part of me wishes he was releasing his cum, coating my walls. Crazy. The man makes me absolutely insane with need and poor judgement. He’s my drug of choice and probably just as bad for me as any drug could be. Or maybe I’m the toxic one. I can’t figure it out as he leaves my body, disappears into the bathroom, only to reappear and wrap me in his arms.

“Sleep, little rabbit.”

And I do. For a few hours before I free myself and return to my room. He probably woke up, but he didn’t stop me. I guess that says everything, more than words could.

The next morning, he’s gone before daylight hits the mountain top. His avoidance saddens me, even though I asked for distance and reinforced my request by leaving his room. Do I deserve to feel anything except shame?

I return to my writing routine but resist writing any conflict between my hero and heroine despite nearly every advice article telling me conflict is the key to fiction. One of the books on plotting romance insists that there is a third act breakup. I don’t want to break my characters up. I barely got them together. They finally like each other, they have nothing to fight about. Maybe I can use some external force like a tornado or terrorist attack to rip them apart. Something outside their control that won’t make them be terrible to each other. Because I’m being terrible to Alex and it sours my stomach and keeps me from sleeping, knowing I’m supposed to be getting dirt on him to help my uncle take him down. And knowing I’m letting my uncle down because I just can’t do it.

Maybe my real life story needs what my fiction required. Research. I pick up my phone, walk out to the patio so no one in the inn will overhear my conversation, and call my cousin, Alyss.

The line rings twice and then the odd accent of west Texas and refined Charleston combined is calling out my name. “Sarah Jane. How are you, cousin?”

“I’m good. In Colorado for a bit of a working vacation. How are you?” We haven’t talked in months, maybe even a year. Just posting to social media and liking and commenting on each other’s posts. So distant but kind of connected. “How are those babies?”

“They aren’t babies anymore. Liam starts kindergarten this fall.”

Alyss married a doctor six or seven years ago. She asked me to be her maid of honor, but I didn’t have any money and didn’t want her future husband’s charity. I had more pride then. I ask her more questions about her family and how she’s doing being a stay at home mom. She seems happy.

“So I’m writing a book. A romance.”

The pause before her response makes me a little nervous. “Really? Romance?”

I force a tiny laugh. “Yeah, a sexy story. But I was wondering if you could help me with it.”

“Me?” Is that suspicion in her tone. “I read cozy mysteries or parenting books.” She laughs nervously as if someone might be recording our conversation or watching over her shoulder.

“Do you remember that cowboy you dated in high school? The tall blond?”

She sucks in a breath. “Alex?”

“Yeah, Alex Craig ?”

“Why would you ask about him?”

Shit, it’s the right Alex. “Oh. I just thought you might be able to help me. I need some conflict in my story and I remember your dad was upset you were dating. Kind of pulled you two apart. Something about being caught in a barn?”

“That was the worst day of my life. I spent a lot of time getting over it. I love the life I have now. I love my husband. Talking about an old boyfriend— It’s just not something I can revisit. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” I’m not sure what else to say.

“Sarah Jane, I’m so sorry I have to run. The baby just woke up and he’s crying.”

“Of course, love you.”

“You too. We’ll talk soon.”

The call ends and I stare at the screen for a few minutes. I play the conversation over in my head, trying to figure out why Alyss would be so resistant if she’s really over Alex, unless it was really that painful. Unless Alex really hurt her. Amy appears in my path disrupting my circular thoughts.

“Do you have plans for lunch? I mean obviously writing, but would you have time to take a break?”

“Sure?” Amy seems overly excited about a sandwich. “Need help in the kitchen?”

She laughs. “No, I’m having lunch with Katherine in town. Gabe’s wife?” She shakes her head. “We meet occasionally and always end up talking about books and since you’re a writer, I thought…”

“I’d love to.” Because even though I’m not a real writer yet, I want to be. I’ve fallen in love with this book. And the urge to talk about it all the time is crazy strong. The call with Alyss was supposed to do double duty—talk about my book and Alex. Too bad she shut me down. “What time?”

“Leave in about an hour?”

“I’ll freshen up and meet you down here.” As I’m rushing up the stairs to my room, it occurs to me that I haven’t gone out with girlfriends in forever. After I moved to California to be a model, or really victim, I never reconnected with the few friends I had left after high school. I’d been so caught up in the dream of being successful with my looks, school or a career didn’t matter. Lunch with Amy and Katherine takes on new significance, an importance my closet is not supporting. The empty hangers clang when I smash my shirts to the side and flip through them again, one at a time. Nothing. I tip my chin and check my outfit. Solid blue, knit shirt that brings out my eyes and shows off my cleavage. Good enough. In the bathroom, I touch up my makeup and comb the ends of my hair. Not exactly famous author worthy, but I’m not famous, or an author so it doesn’t really matter.