Kiss My Boots (Coming Home #2)

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.