13
(Garrett)
The town of Hotchkiss doesn’t offer much in the way of entertainment. No movie theater, no entertainment center, not even a bar that isn’t the Elks Lodge. This lack of anything to do is how we end up leaving True Grit and driving straight back to the farm.
That and the fact I’ve decided to make the most of whatever this is with Cara and her date dress, which means an empty house suits me fine.
After pulling into the driveway, I edge to a stop by the front door and put the truck in park, the engine at an idle to keep the heater running so Cara’s legs don’t freeze. The radio is humming in the background, tuned to a local station that’s currently playing a set of cheesy throwback love songs. Anticipation fills the rest of the cab, so much that I might have to crack a window if I don’t get a sign about what’s next here.
“Garrett?” Cara asks, her voice curious but faraway.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think Corey and Brooke are happy?”
Weird question, and not at all what I might have guessed would be a go-to topic right now. My face screws up. “I think so. Why?”
“I think so, too.” She blows out a breath. “My parents aren’t like that. I mean, they’re happy or content, or whatever, but what Corey and Brooke have seems so much better. Like they’re partners, so even if things get hard, they trust each other enough to shoulder it evenly. And they’re in love.”
I hold back a scoff. If only Cara knew that love isn’t enough when you’re talking about this way of life. I learned that from my mom, who once admitted she never stopped loving my dad. She just hated the life. Not only living with dirt in the house that never goes away and the dicey finances of running a farm, but the loneliness. All those long days, waiting up for a husband, only to have a farmer finally shuffle through the door, one who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—shut off that part of his brain for her, even for a few hours.
“It isn’t about loving each other.” My voice comes out harder than I intended, but I want her to hear the difference. “They both love the life. Falling for someone who gets that is what makes it work.”
Cara twists on the bench seat to face me. “You love the life, don’t you?”
“Yup. Probably have silt mixed in with my blood.”
“Then why aren’t you farming or ranching? Why are you working at the co-op? Everyone you’ve introduced me to thinks you’re amazing. A few have mentioned that you’re not doing what you should be—”
I flip on the dome light and the glare floods the cab. I catch a glimpse of her legs tucked up under her on the seat, causing her dress to ride up her thighs, but even that can’t distract me from what she’s trying to do.
Cara blinks a few times. “Ugh. Why’d you do that?”
“I wanted to see if you have your notebook out. Or your glasses on. Because it sure sounds like you’re trying to interview me.”
She shakes her head a little, her eyes ticking up toward the headliner.
“Or maybe I’m just trying to get to know you better. Through the fine art of conversation.”
“Then ask me what my favorite movie is, or what kind of music I like. Hell, ask what I want for my last meal.” I flick off the light. “Chicken-fried steak, by the way. Brown gravy, not white. Mashed potatoes with more brown gravy. Peach pie for dessert, made with Hotchkiss peaches.”
Cara sputters out a little huff. “Let me get this straight. You’ll drive me around to meet every other farmer in the county, let them all know I’m a decent person they should talk to, but if I ask you any questions, it’s a hard no?”
Is she nuts? Of course it’s a hard no. Giving Cara the lowdown on losing everything? Talking about how I never quite mustered the motivation to return to school but I can’t name why? How I have a nightmare sometimes that I’m going to die at the co-op?
Hard. No.
At the very least, I’m interested in the opportunity to move the rest of this night inside the house, and I don’t care how much women claim they want men to be vulnerable and shit, revealing all your failures and fuckups isn’t a turn-on to anyone. If I answer her honestly, I’ll get pity in return. And fuck that.
I take a deep breath. “Look, I like hanging out with you, and tonight’s been great. Let’s not screw it up. Besides, my story isn’t the one you want, City.”
Cara flips the light on as I did before. Her gaze is pinned to mine, not angry but determined, and I want to yank her across the bench seat and onto my lap because of it. She purses her glossy lips.
“How about this—you stop calling me City, and I’ll give up asking you about anything of significance. Deal?”
I rear my head back. “The City thing bugs you? I didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, I call Whitney ‘Johnny Appleseed.’ I call Braden, ‘asshole.’ And I don’t even mean that as a bad thing. You should have said something earlier. I wasn’t trying to be shitty.”
“Well, all I hear is you pointing out the obvious: that I’m a rich girl from the city who couldn’t find her way out of a tractor seat. I already know that. I have the mud-stained jeans to prove it. But if you’re unwilling to have an actual conversation with me, then you don’t get to give me one of your little nicknames.”
My jaw drops open, slack because I don’t know what to say. A few dying fish–like noises come out, but that’s it. Cara turns her head and stares out the windshield. Great. I’m so not getting that dress up where I’d like it tonight.
What’s worse is that I might have hurt her. Every time I used the name, which I thought was cute, I cut her down a little. Unintentional or not, it doesn’t matter. I did. If there was a way to go back to the first moment I said it and erase it all, I would.
We sit quietly, the silence making it worse, mocking until I can’t stand it and end up asking the lamest question possible, hoping to make it stop.
“What are you thinking about?”
Cara blinks, doesn’t turn her head, but continues staring ahead. “I’m making a pros-and-cons list in my head so I can decide something.”
“Decide what?”
Her head swings my way. “Decide if my plan to seduce you is worth it. If I crawled across this seat and sat right next to you, like I planned, if that would lead to something. Like sex.”
Only the wild hum of wanting her saves me from chuckling at the idea she was going to “seduce” me, or the way she sounded annoyed when blurting out the words “like sex.”
But that’s trumped, too, by the way she’s inspired something else: the sudden realization that I’m tired of pretending I don’t want more than I already have. Because right now I want her. And for so long I’ve avoided or skirted past anything that might be a risk, telling myself over and over that my job, my life, all of it, is good enough. I’ve played nice and easy and content for too long, and I want something more now.
And I’m fucking exhausted from trying to keep my hands to myself when it comes to the woman sitting only a few feet away, who just announced she had a plan for tonight that involved sex. I want that so damn much, I’m bound to say the wrong thing a hundred more times tonight. Blame all the days that led up to tonight, plus my inability to think straight when I’m too close to her Creamsicle-ness.
I give my head a shake. I want her, and I hope she still wants me, so it’s time to fix this shit.
“If you sat right here?” I point to the space right next to me. She nods. “Probably nothing.”
Her face falls. She starts to fumble around for the door handle, clearly ready to wrench open the truck door and bail. I catch her before she does, taking her one hand in mine. Cara freezes.
“But let’s say you did something else.” I trace the pad of my thumb across the inside of her wrist. “Like crawled over here, threw those pretty legs over mine, and set that cute ass right on my lap.”
Her breath hitches and my heartbeat kicks up, from a heavy thump to a wild hammering I can feel everywhere.
“If you did that?” I pause for a few beats and wait for her look at me, finding her wide-eyed in the right way.
“Then I’d know we both want the same thing.”
Cara holds fast for a moment, like she’s finishing up whatever internal debate she needs to, then she’s headed my way, pausing only long enough to assess the amount of space between my chest and the steering wheel—as if there were any possibility she wouldn’t fit. She’s up on her knees and taking too damn long for my now-threadbare patience to handle, so I set my hands on her waist and haul her where she belongs. The faint sound of Cara’s nervous exhales and the sound of my blood rushing southward is all I can hear when she starts to lower her body slowly. I keep my grip loose at her waist, holding back the urge to yank her down.
When she settles herself, I shift to center her weight where I want it, even if it feels as torturous as it does good. Cara takes a deep breath, urging her hips forward, then back again. My dick responds, and when she repeats the same rotation again, I groan to bite back the words rolling around in my head. Awareness flares in her eyes.
Yes, I want to tell her, that is my half-hard cock pressed to the heat of your pussy. Go ahead and rub all you like. Work it however you need to. I’ll be ready when you are.
But Cara drops her hips and keeps them still instead of continuing to work her body against mine. She lifts her hands and eases her index fingers over my brows. My eyes fall closed. Her fingers continue downward, tracing the edges of my cheekbones, then my jawline, coming to stop before allowing her thumbs to graze my lips.
“I know I said I’d drop it, but I have one more question, Garrett. Then we can get on with this.”
I let out a grunt that I hope makes it clear how getting on with this is my top priority right now, enough that I’d probably answer any question she asks. Hell, if she wanted to, I know Cara Cavanaugh could crack me open like an overripe cantaloupe. One good whack and I’d spill everything.
“You said your story isn’t the one I want, and I think you’re right. For the article, anyway. But for my own curiosity? You’re wrong.” My eyes flip open to find Cara’s half-hooded gaze fixed on the play between her thumbs and my lips. “You don’t want to talk about it tonight? That’s fine. But maybe another night?”
I blink once, calculating how I can answer in a way that means we don’t stop what’s happening, but also doesn’t promise more than I’m willing to give. Her thumb tugs down my lower lip, slowly and softly.
“Maybe.” I answer hoarsely.
Cara whispers a thank-you, her lips close enough to mine to mean we don’t say anything after that. We start in, lips crashing together, tongues teasing between moans. Her hands find my chest, rubbing her way down over every inch, until she lands them over my jeans and I jut my hips up, half intentionally and half instinctually. I wrap my arms low around her waist to keep her close, but she pulls back. Her eyes lock on mine as she starts to untangle my arms from around her.
She widens the spread of her thighs, settling when she’s comfortable. When her hands touch the hem of her dress, my breath starts to come in labored bursts, my nostrils flaring with each one. Cara slowly drags her dress higher, until the material is bunched up and I can see the smooth fair skin of her thighs, the tight draw of her flesh, where she looks soft despite all the muscle tone I know is there. Hands twitching, I try to determine if this is enough of an invitation. If she can tell exactly how badly I want this. She must know, because she takes my hands in hers and lays them to the bare skin of her thighs. I barely manage a grunt before tightening my grip.
“Tell me what you want,” I bite out.
As an answer, Cara flexes her thighs and starts to grind her body in the tiniest, hottest cock-tease of a move I’ve ever experienced. She gives up a whimper and yanks up her dress again, balling up the fabric in her hands and holding the fisted-up material against her hips. She starts to rock harder, desperate sounds coming from her mouth while she does. I draw my hands up high enough that my thumbs meet the edge of her panties.
“Is this what you want? My fingers here, pressed to your pussy?”
Cara digs her teeth into her lower lip and nods.
I move one thumb inward, taking two passes over the slip of what feels like a tiny and expensive excuse for panties. Slipping under the edge, I let out a low groan at my discovery there.
Slick. Warm. Soft.
Did I mention slick? Worth saying it twice—shit, twelve times—given how wet Cara is already. I grit my teeth and order myself to just do this for now. Finger her until I’m positive she wants more, then a little longer to be sure. And to do whatever it takes to keep from ripping my jeans open and yanking her onto my cock.
But Cara doesn’t seem to think much of my self-imposed slow build, because after a few circles of my thumb to her clit, she’s moaning louder, like she can’t wait it out much longer. And while I know I need to temper me, if she needs more I’m not going to deny her. I use my other hand to pull her panties over and replace my thumb with the flat of two fingers, her sweet heat coating them in an instant.
Screw it. From her every sound and movement, I know I’m jumping the trigger here, but at least not with my dick, so I go ahead and slip my middle finger inside. I curl and crook a bit, nothing but the tip gently working the spot I know will help her find the edge. The moan Cara lets out is low and long, and when I add another finger, she doesn’t hold back. She starts to ride my hand, hot and deep so my fingers can provide what she needs, and I take a cue from how she’s moving, start to thrust my fingers in short pulses to match the pitch of her body. When her head drops back, I give a little more. When her mouth falls open, I give even more. When her brow furrows up and it looks like she’s holding her breath, I give her everything.
“Cara.” Her name comes out so roughly, it sounds like a command, and even though I’d never tell her to come, because demanding that would probably have the exact opposite effect, that’s what I’m thinking. That I want her to give it up to me. Right now. I say her name again, the same rough tone, the same demand buried behind it.
She goes off like nothing I’ve ever heard, or felt, or experienced. A hundred times hotter and tighter, and when the best of it starts to taper, she tips forward to rest against me. She releases the balled-up material of her dress and sets her now-free hands to the back of the seat on either side of my head. Having her this way, drained and still letting out satisfied soft moans, feels so natural and right, I slip my fingers out slowly from inside her, intent on wrapping her up tight in my arms.
But she starts to languidly move her body around, curving her back and hips in satisfied catlike motions. My cock’s enjoying the show—a lot. Unfortunately, Cara’s moves have a little too much gusto and, tiny build or not, the distance between her and my steering wheel is only so wide. And what’s in the center of the steering wheel? The horn.
Cara yelps when her back end bumps and the horn sounds, her squeal loud enough to compete with the horn’s decibels. I yank her forward and start in on a prayer while biting my tongue so hard it’s painful.
Please, God, make it so I don’t laugh. She’s hot and amazing and I want to fuck her so bad my dick might break off if I can’t get it out of my pants and inside her in the next three minutes. So please don’t let me laugh.
Cara shudders and drops her head to my neck, where she’s quaking under what I’m hoping is a mortified laugh and not tears. She lets out a pouty-sounding huff and I lose it, because she’s so fucking cute, I can’t stand it. I give a nudge of my shoulder to encourage her face up, but she refuses to follow.
“Cara, sweetheart.” I snort. “Come on, look at me.”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s not fair. Why can’t I be sexy? Not always, but if I could get ten whole minutes I’d thank the universe for the privilege.”
A sweep of sympathy rushes through me. She could bounce her ass to the horn in a rendition of a Justin Bieber song and I’d still think she’s beyond sexy. I smooth my hands down her back.
“You are sexy,” I whisper, then guide her hand to the place where the proof of that isn’t going away any time soon, even with the laughing.
“Put your hands on me, right here. Feel that?” She answers with a little hum of acknowledgment. “That’s for you. Because of you.”
She doesn’t move her head from the crook of my neck, but her curious fingers grip me through my jeans.
“Can we go inside? Probably safer that way; who knows what I could bump into next?” I let out a soft laugh, but it dies in my throat when she speaks again.
“And I want to see you. Touch. Taste.”
Her fingers start to tick upward, teasing at my belt. Fuck yes. Here we go, finally headed where I’ve wanted us to be, all damn night.
“Inside means you’ll have to crawl off.” I swat her thigh. Cara presses her knees to my sides with a dissatisfied murmur. A grin hits me at the sweet need in that sound.
“Got it. I can make this work. Grab your bag; we’ll need house keys unless you want this on the front porch.”
Cara dives for her purse, slinging it over her shoulder. I yank my keys from the ignition and toss them on the dash, then give her body a boost to mine. When Cara wraps her arms around my neck, I shove the truck door open and manage to get us both out so smoothly it’s like I’ve done this a hundred times with her in my arms. I give her another boost to cradle her properly.
“OK, now wrap those legs around me nice and tight.”
She does as instructed, and I almost regret asking, because the way she does—eager and urgent—means I’m in for one hell of a ride.
Then she starts to kiss me and it’s a good thing I still remember everything about this place, even in the dark. Where the walkway is, how there’s a stone about halfway to the door that’s been upturned by an overgrown tree root from the cottonwood in the yard. The motion-sensor porch light kicks on when we come close enough and I drop her down, Cara digging through her bag to gather the keys, but her hands are trembling, so I grab the keys from her. I’m so primed that if she drops them, or the door sticks and she falters, seconds’ delay might make doing this on the front porch a reality.
The door swings open a touch harder than I planned, which means it bounces back after hitting the adjacent wall. But Cara scampers in, darting around me and dodging the swinging door. She stops just inside, and then turns on her heel to face me. And, holy hell, the look on her face is everything I could ever ask for. Her chin tipped down, eyes bright and sparked with excitement, lips parted a fraction and a hint of impatience in the way her chest rises and falls with each breath.
I clear the threshold, kicking the door shut behind me. Stalking forward, I pull my coat off and cast it to the floor, then reach for her. My hands find her hips and I start walking, Cara shuffling backward in time.
Jesus, she’s so pretty. This delicate beauty that looks fragile one second and strong enough to take your breath away in the next. Such softness about her, but her body is taut almost everywhere. Arms and legs, the flat of her belly, the slope of her back downward. I catch a glimpse of her Pilates contraption and silently offer my undying gratitude to whoever invented that thing.
Cara bumps into the wall with a quiet thump. I grab her wrists in my hands, working them behind her so I can take both in one of mine, using the other to sweep a few stray pieces of her hair off her forehead. She wets her lips and I drive my hips forward with a shove, my cock settling against her core. Then I do it again.
“Fuck. Tell me you feel that, too.”
Cara lets out a gusting exhale. “You’ll need to be more specific.” A little soft laugh. “I’m feeling a lot of things at the moment.”
For demonstration’s purposes, I offer another round. Also, my dick likes it.
“The way we fit together. Lined up in all the right places. It’ll be so easy—this, us. My cock comes out, I pull one of your legs up and across my arm, and I’ll be deep before you say ‘please.’ ”
Cara drops her head back to the wall and it thuds. Hard enough that I scan the features of her face for any sign it hurt, trying to determine if I need to rub the back of her head and soothe away the sting. Nothing. Instead, she pushes her hips forward and straight into mine.
“Do that. What you just said.” Her leg comes up, foot curling around my calf. “Plea—”
I’m nothing if not a man of my word. I cut her words off with a hard kiss, working my belt open at the same time. The button on my jeans slips free, and I all but tear down the zipper, using one hand to shove down my boxers. Freeing myself is a relief. Another kiss, more fumbling until I’m able to extract my wallet from a back pocket.
When I lean back to focus on ripping open the condom wrapper, I catch Cara’s gaze cutting downward, where my dick is up for whatever inspection she wants to perform—visual, oral, or tactile. Her eyes flare and she tries to fight back a little grin, but fails. Then her hands find me, both of them, those manicured fingers working in a near-perfect rhythm. My eyes fall shut and I freeze in place, my jaw dropping open on the loudest, most obscene groan that’s ever left my lungs. She strokes and tugs almost too gently for what I usually like, but for now that’s probably safer. Too much would make this condom beside the point.
“Garrett.” My name on her lips is a reminder of what’s happening here. I grab her hands and watch as they slip off my aching cock. A quick glance at her face, where I find her full-on smiling.
I grin back, then bait the hook. Because, lame or not, I’m just a guy who’s about to go on a vain cock-motivated fishing expedition for a compliment. “What are you smiling about?”
She sets her upper teeth to one edge of her bottom lip, with a little disbelieving shake of her head.
“I’m trying to figure out if you have any weaknesses, a defect of some sort. You’re funny and helpful, hot and smart. And when you bottle-feed a calf, I get jealous of the attention you’re giving her. Now this.” She darts her eyes to my cock, the one all but throwing its own ticker-tape parade to get her attention.“Is there anywhere you come up short? Anything you suck at?”
I roll the condom on and give myself a long stroke while I think.
“Bowling. I’m totally shitty at bowling.”
Cara laughs and everything about me swells, inside and out. I lean forward. “Ready?”
She nods and I yank up her leg, set her knee into the crook of my arm, and step forward. Her bent leg is pressed between her chest and mine, showing off exactly how flexible she is. Another thank-you to the Pilates gods, whoever they are.
Everything I thought about how we would fit is true. Cara tugs her panties over and I take a slow push forward, the head of my dick slipping in, and just that snaps my sanity. When Cara lets out a soft wailing sound, I’m there, all the way and so deep I can’t think straight enough to move. Then Cara’s hands reach around and skate down under my boxers, her nails digging in to prompt me.
After that, it’s just the two of us using each other in all the right ways. The greedy parts of her taking the demanding parts of me while our other limbs fight for purchase against each other. I move closer—because closer is better—and the angle changes. I’m driving deeper and harder, making sure to hit her sweet spot with every thrust. The lights go out in my brain when she tightens and pulses around me, over and over until her entire body starts to tremble and it feels safe to take mine. Pounding deep means the pressure barreling up from my spine when I come is so intense I have to flatten one hand to the wall for some stability. Cara’s mumbling obscenities and prayers—and I’m doing the same thing, but louder.
After a few moments the world starts to align itself again. My eyes dart around the room.
Holy shit. I just had sex in the house I grew up in. For the first time. While there was plenty of me and my right hand going on in my bedroom during my teenage years, this never happened. First time for everything, I guess, no matter how bizarre the circumstances.
Cara seems to read my mind. Either that or she sees how my gaze has gone twitchy about our surroundings. She sets one hand on my chest, nestled between our bodies, and I skirt my eyes back to hers.
“Is this weird for you? You look like you just saw a ghost or something.”
I give a jerky nod. “A little.”
Cara’s hand drops from my chest and I feel her trying to move away, so I let her leg down slowly. Her dress falls into place, exactly where I don’t think it belongs. She looks to the floor.
“I get it. You don’t have to stay.” Then she’s tipping her head down and tucking her hair behind her ears. I start to protest, but she waves it away. “It’s fine. Really.”
And just like that—with my goddam dick still half inside her—I’m dismissed.