Beard Science(58)

It felt so good.

So good.

So. Good.

SO. GOOD.

My body shuddered again and I widened my legs, my hips rolling instinctively. He moaned, like I was delicious, like he’d been starving for me. His hands wrapped around my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of my thighs.

Then his eyes lifted to mine.

“Oh God,” I breathed. The force of his gaze was both sobering and intoxicating, and potent with knowledge. Knowledge of me, of my body, of my taste. He watched me, drinking in this secret sight of me.

He watched me while his mouth was on my body.

He watched me as he did sinful things with his tongue and lips.

The hunger in his eyes as his possessive gaze moved over my breasts and neck and mouth sent a sudden spiral of need and greed straight to where he devoured me. Suddenly I was coming in a powerful pulsing, quaking, and piercing release.

I threw my head back, the force of the tremors too unwieldy and strong. I existed only as a feeling. He held me in place, lapping and savoring, as though my mindlessness fed a need in him.

He held me still until it hurt—wonderfully, tremendously, spectacularly—and then he slipped his fingers inside me and I came again, crying out sharply with desperation and thoughtlessness. I couldn’t stay upright. I couldn’t hold my own weight under the force of my climax, so I fell backward.

His hands were suddenly there, he was suddenly there, standing and pulling me forward into his arms. He lifted me from the counter and I was limp in his arms, spent. A force field of warmth and satisfaction encased me, made me boneless. I snuggled my forehead against his neck and gripped his shirt weakly.

“The couch,” I sighed. “Let’s go lie on the couch.”

He squeezed me, and turned. He glanced to the left, then the right, hesitating. “Where is this couch?”

I chuckled lightly, then nipped his neck. “In the back.”

Is that my voice? Good Lord. I sound sexy.

It was deeper than usual, which I liked it. I liked how I sounded after Cletus unwrapped me. I liked how I felt. I liked my body in a new way that made me feel powerful and knowledgeable.

And I now understood why some people were “indiscriminant bakers.” Everything about the act felt good and right and necessary. Or maybe it was being with Cletus that was good and right and necessary.

On our way to the couch, Cletus retrieved my coat from the floor in an impressive display of flexibility and strength. Upon arriving in the back room, he kissed me on the forehead.

“I have to set you down so I can put this jacket on the couch.” He sounded like releasing me was something only to be done out of necessity or under duress. “Can you stand?”

I nodded and he tipped me to the side until my feet hit the ground. Quickly, he removed the back pillows, spread out my coat, then his, leaving the sofa mostly covered. Then he guided me to my side and moved to join me.

“Wait,” I stopped him, kneeling on the cushions and gripping the edge of his shirt. “Take this off.”

He frowned, hesitating. “Jenn—”

“Just your shirt. I miss your skin.”

His expression cleared as his eyes heated and he removed his white cotton tee. I resumed my reclining position and he joined me, pulling my body halfway on top of his. I kissed his shoulder and sighed.

“As I was saying, I missed you.” I ran my hand up and down his chest, threading my fingers through the sparse hair. I loved the hair on his chest and I loved the ridges of his muscles. I loved how different our bodies were, the texture and feel of him. “When can we do that again?”

He chuckled, his hands caressing my body like he was greedy for the feel of my skin. “Ten minutes?”

We both laughed and I rested my elbow on him, my chin in my palm. “So do I get to give you a blow job now?”

He tensed and his eyes narrowed on me. “Not yet.”

“Why?”

His gaze moved to my back, where his fingertips trailed light lines between my shoulder blades. “I’m shy.”

I laughed again, and so did he. A good, rumbly laugh. A mischievous laugh. I loved it.

“You are not shy.”

Cletus shrugged, still not meeting my eyes, his grin becoming something else, and said, “I’ve never done that.”

My lips parted in surprise. “You’ve never had a blow job? No one has ever done that to you?”

He shook his head, his lips pulled to one side in a wry smile. “There’s a lot of teeth in a mouth.”

“So, you’ve never trusted anyone enough to do it,” I guessed.

His eyes cut to mine and his fingers stilled. Cletus stared at me for a long moment, pointedly not answering, then cleared his throat.

“I’d like to come over tomorrow again, if you’re around after work.”

“That’s sounds good. Come by every day this week if you want.”

I decided to let him change the subject, but secretly I was planning my attack. One day soon, I was going to seduce him. Now I just needed to figure out how to go about seducing a man. Maybe my pen pals had some ideas.

“I can’t,” he sighed, but his eyes twinkled. “I have Jethro’s bachelor party on Thursday and I’m responsible for the entertainment.”

“Entertainment?”

“Yes. Remember I told you about my stripper friend, George? The retired Navy SEAL? He’s the entertainment.” Cletus wagged his eyebrows.

I gaped at him, not sure whether or not he was serious. Seeing he was, I burst out laughing.

“They have no idea.” He chuckled evilly. Truly, it was an evil chuckle, full of malicious intent and wicked anticipation.

“Too bad you didn’t tell me earlier, I could have made a cake for him to jump out of.”

“No, no. He’s going to repel from the ceiling. Ropes are part of his routine.”

“Well, good luck with that.” I wiped my tears of hilarity away with the back of my hands. “Tell me about your day. How was work?”

Cletus lifted his head and blinked, like I’d said something surprising.

“What?” I placed my chin on the back of my hand and stared down at him. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head slightly. “Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t remember the last time someone asked me about my day, not since my momma died.”

“Oh.” I frowned, because this struck me as sad. My family wasn’t perfect, but we always asked about each others’ days. Granted, I knew there were some parts of my day that my parents didn’t want to hear about, but they still asked. I was surprised the Winstons didn’t do the same. “Doesn’t your family ask?”

His lips curved into a rueful smile. “No. They know better.”

“Know better? They know better than to ask about your day?”

“Yep. I typically end up saying something they don’t want to hear.”

“That’s true with everybody. My parents never want to listen to me talk about my pen pals or my garden. Or my essential oils. Or teaching the scouts.” I frowned. Mostly they liked hearing about new recipes. “Or any other non-baking hobbies and activities.”

“My brothers don’t want to hear about my plans and activities. At all.”

“I know you have all these sinister irons in the fire, but every day can’t be that bad.”

“It is. They are.”

“Okay, so what kinds of daily plans and activities? What don’t they want to hear?”

“Like . . .” He thought for a moment, his eyes moving to where his hand was rubbing circles on my back. “Like about how I’d like to give Jackson James leprosy.”

I wrinkled my nose at this, scrunching my face to show my disbelief. “You do not want to give Jackson James leprosy.”

“I do. And if you see him scratching around the collar it’s because I blackmailed someone into putting itching powder in his dry-cleaned shirts.”

I was about to laugh and call Cletus on his silliness, but something about the way he was looking at me, as though he were bracing for a reprimand, gave me pause.

He stared at me. I stared at him. My mouth fell open.

He’s serious.

“Cletus Winston. You did not.”

“I did. And I don’t regret it.” His tone was flat and insolent.

“Why on earth would you do it? That’s just mean.”

“Jackson James has been harassing me and my brothers—specifically Duane and Beau—for years. He pulls us over for no reason, causes delays, and so forth. He’s a little shit and I’m tired of it.”

I studied him, saw that he believed he was in the right.

Are you surprised? Didn’t you already know he’s vengeful? Didn’t he tell you himself?

“See? That’s why people don’t ask me about my day.” His hand drifted lower on my back, caressing my bottom possessively.

“Why don’t you report him? Go to the station and file a complaint?”

Cletus gave me a grumpy side-eye. “I’m not a rat.”

I barked a disbelieving laugh. “So you’ll blackmail someone into putting itching powder into his shirts, but you won’t work through proper channels to resolve the issue, because you don’t want to tattle. Do I have that right?”

“It’s more complicated than that. But yes, that’s the gist of it.” His grumpy expression persisted. “I like deciding how to deal with those people who insist on being assholes.”