Cream of the Crop Page 18

  I chose the latter. And as I straddled the mike and gave it my eighties all, he grinned wide and wolf-whistled loud, clapping his hands right along with every other fool in that bar. When the song was over, and my voice was still ringing (shrieking) through the air, I dropped the mike, gave a little bow, and strutted offstage to the screams of the twenty or so applauding locals who happened to be there.

  “Glad I didn’t miss that,” he said as I made my way over to where he was standing by the bar. “That was some song.”

  “Journey brings out the best, what can I say?” I replied, my eyes appreciatively taking him in. He was easily the biggest guy in the place, but somehow he didn’t look intimidating to me anymore. Sure, he wasn’t quick to smile, and the scar over his right eyebrow made him look perma-dangerous. I wanted to lick that scar. “How was the farmers’ market? Did you sell out?”

  “We did.” He nodded, his eyes running over the length of my body. “What the hell are you wearing, Pinup?”

  “Like it?” I asked, giving him a little twirl. I was feeling a fifties retro vibe when I was getting ready tonight. Off-white skirt with large black polka dots, black turtleneck, wide red belt. The best part? Red stiletto platforms, with an ankle strap and a four-inch heel. When I twirled, the skirt did, too, and revealed one more retro accent.

  Garters holding up my thin silk stockings, clipped to a pair of high-waisted black silk panties. The garters he might have seen; the panties were for later.

  Based on how wide his eyes grew, and how he gripped the bar until white-knuckled, I’m guessing he saw the garters.

  “I just threw on a little something for a night out on the town.”

  “Out on the town, huh?” He shook his head a little, as though to clear it. “Not really sure that a night at Pat’s really counts as such.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” I replied, leaning across the bar and snatching an olive. “Some drinks, some friends, some killer music”—I lifted my chin toward the stage, where someone’s terrible version of “Son of a Preacher Man” was screeching out of the speakers. “I’d say it’s a great night out on the town.”

  “How about a great night out in my barn? Maybe even out on the hood of my truck?” Oscar whispered, running his fingers right where the garters were on my thighs.

  I choked a bit on my drink, and my heart leapt into my throat. He pressed on the garter, a small, infinitesimal amount of pressure that to anyone else would look innocent.

  But we knew better. His thumb was right over the clip that held the stocking up.

  He leaned over again, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I bet I could roll them down with my teeth. Lemme try, Natalie.”

  My knees buckled. Thankfully, his big hands were there to catch me.

  “Nat, you okay?” Roxie asked, laughing when my drink sloshed over the side of the glass.

  “Cheap date!” Leo hollered, waving over the waitress to order another round.

  “It’s uh . . . the shoes,” I lied, holding Oscar’s considerable biceps tightly. You know, for support.

  Never in my life had a pair of high heels made me wobble. But add the Oscar factor, and the fingers on garters, and I was lying through my teeth.

  I had a plan for tonight. I’d decided that if I saw him, I’d be in charge. Before the sex, after the sex, during the sex, I’d drive him wild with need—not the other way around. Yet with just a few words, he managed to make me weak in the knees and flushed in the cheeks. This guy did things to me.

  “You can’t talk to me like that here,” I whispered, brushing my hip against the front of his jeans. I had to regain the upper hand or I’d be naked in a bar in five seconds flat, with Oscar behind me.

  I could think of worse things to happen.

  He advanced. We were packed into the bar, too many people squeezed into too small a room, but it didn’t matter. He found the space, pinning me to the back of a chair behind me.

  “I can throw you down onto the bar if I want,” he promised. It was just that, too. If I pressed any further, the whole town would be getting an eyeful.

  “You wouldn’t dare. These are just for you.” I slid the hem of my skirt up enough to draw his eye down. “You wouldn’t want anyone else to see them, would you?”

  His nostrils flared and my favorite eyebrow raised.

  “Get a room!” someone called out, and the fog lifted. We were giving the bar a show, with part of my thigh exposed and Oscar’s giant hand gripping the fabric of my skirt.

  He turned, seeking out the jackass who just poked the bear. When they made eye contact, the guy took one look at him and bolted for the door. Oscar made a move like he was going to go after him but I pulled at his belt. Not that it would hold him in place if he really wanted to kick the guy’s ass, but the little effort made me feel better.

  “Let it go,” I said.

  He grunted. Such an Oscar thing to do, but the sound of it nearly gutted me. He ran hot all the time and it was something that I was drawn to.

  “Caveman,” I murmured, running my hands over his shoulders, feeling the muscles bunching beneath his shirt.

  Slowly, he turned, and practically growled, “I need a beer.”

  “Make that two.” I smiled, pulled him down to me, and kissed him.

  It was supposed to be quick, but something snapped when our lips touched. He pushed while I pulled, and we crashed somewhere in the middle.

  The catcalls and whistling egged us on and then his lip was between my teeth.

  “I’m done here,” he barked, pulling out his wallet. He threw money onto the table and grabbed me around the waist, lifting me off my feet and damn near right out of my come-fuck-me heels. I glanced back over my caveman’s shoulder to a bar full of people applauding and Roxie cheering louder than anyone.

  I could only giggle in the most excited way, clapping my own hands along with the town.

  I had a feeling the heels were about to earn their name . . .

  The cool air blew against my overheated skin when we walked out of the bar. I half expected Oscar to press me up against the side of the building, but he didn’t, keeping a strong grasp on my waist as I hovered a foot above the gravel, his long strides eating up the lot with determination.

  He didn’t even speak on the way to the truck. He held open the door for me to crawl inside but was mindful not to brush against me.

  Did I bend over too far when climbing in? Of course.

  Still nothing. It was like a barrier went up the second we left the bar. Oscar got moody sometimes; it was part of his charm in my eyes.

  He closed the door, moving with purpose around to his side. I slid my skirt up my thighs to give him a full view of the garters when he climbed in, and after he started the truck he peeled out and raced down Main Street.

  Still . . . nothing.

  I wasn’t misreading the situation. I could see the prominent outline of his dick in his jeans. He was totally hard but not making a move.

  Leaning over, I pushed the armrest back and slid across to the middle of the seat, close enough to feel the heat coming off him in waves. I took his hand, held it, and waited. Interlocking our fingers, I moved his hand to my knee and then slowly slid it up to my thigh while spreading my legs slightly in the dark cab.

  It was what I was feeling, and what I knew he was feeling. The little sparky static from the hosiery, the goose bumps covering my leg, the shiver I got when he finally hit the garter.

  “You know, there’s something I can’t stop thinking about,” I said, spreading my legs farther.

  “What’s that?” he asked, his voice strained, his hand on my thigh growing hot.

  I flattened my hands on the hem of my skirt and slid it up slowly. Oscar’s jaw ticked in the moonlight.

  “Us fucking in your truck. Pretty sure you mentioned that.”

  When we s
lowed to a halt at the stoplight, I plucked the garter clip between my fingers and pulled it up. His eyes slid to the little black fastener and watched as I released it with an audible snap against my skin.

  My hips bucked from the zip of pain. Oscar released a grunt that came from the back of his throat. It was thrilling to watch his knuckles turn white from strain. The hand that stayed on my thigh was clenched in a fist as if he were deliberately trying to not touch me the way we both knew he wanted to.

  “Mmm, Oscar, what are you thinking?” I asked, running my hands down my chest before unhooking my belt and sliding the hem of the turtleneck up over my breasts and exposing my bra.

  His hand flew to the steering wheel, and he held on so tight that I swear I heard the plastic crack beneath his palms.

  I twisted in the seat so my head was leaning against the passenger door, lifting my feet up onto his lap and parting my knees. When I inched the skirt up higher he got a great view of my new panties and exactly what the garters were for.

  He growled, and I felt the rumble of his chest right between my legs. I sat up enough to pull the sweater over my head before unclasping the front of the bra.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, and looked into the rearview mirror before giving the truck a hard turn to the left. “Hold on,” he said, dropping his hand once more on my thigh and sliding it on home.

  Finally.

  He didn’t even bother shutting off the ignition before he flung his door open and dropped out of the car. I barely had time to blink before he grabbed my ankle and pulled me unceremoniously to the edge of the car, my legs hanging out of the driver’s-side door, my head conking prettily on the steering wheel.

  He was unzipped in a flash, a condom rolled on before I could even rub my head. Oscar took my ankles and placed them on his shoulders, ballooning my skirt, then kissing his way down to my knees while he stroked himself.

  “Please,” I begged, pulling at my nipples beneath the bra cups.

  “Not yet,” he whispered between kisses.

  One finger ran from my belly button to my panties and back up, each time getting just close enough that I thought, Here we go! He was making me crazy, driving me wild, with the sheer insanity of what we were doing and where we were doing it.

  When I finally couldn’t take the teasing anymore, I reached down and slid my panties to the side, the chill sending a shock through my body.

  “That’s my girl,” he purred, taking the head of his cock and placing it just there. Just enough that my eyes rolled back in anticipation.

  There was something so dirty about all of this but I didn’t care. Here we were . . . somewhere. Lord knows who might come pulling up alongside. He couldn’t even take off my panties before he slipped inside and moaned into the darkness.

  He held them off to the side with one hand, the other holding my ankle near his lips, where he peppered kisses against it in time with his thrusts.

  Oscar wasn’t moving fast, but he wasn’t slow, either. His movements were measured. He was painstakingly taking his time and not just letting loose.

  “I could fuck you like this all night, Pinup,” he said, slapping my ass with his free hand.

  “Yes. Please,” I chanted in time with his thrusts, and something snapped in him. His hips slammed into me, the truck literally rocking while he fucked me.

  “Touch yourself,” he begged, reaching forward to pull my bra down, fully exposing me to him. “I love watching the way your body moves when I’m inside you.”

  Holding on to my boobs, I pinched my nipples. He liked to watch. I filed that away for later.

  “You like this?” I asked, biting my finger coyly.

  “I love this.” And he drove into me hard, hitting spots that were making me climb high, so high, wound tight and strung out.

  “Fuck, Oscar, that’s it!”

  He wasn’t sure and steady anymore. He was erratic, fired up and frantic to make me come. “You make . . . me . . . crazy,” I panted, loving the feeling of him losing control.

  Just as I was about to come, he slid both hands to the clasps on the garters and snapped them. “Give it to me.”

  I did. Jesus Christ I did, crying out his name on the side of the road, while he chased down his own orgasm, pumping deep inside of me, his own cries matching mine in the dark night.

  It was not lost on me that I’d added my own sounds to the country soundscape . . .

  Chapter 15

  After the scene in the truck, there was a similar scene in his bedroom, this time with the two of us ping-ponging off the walls as we each tried to gain the upper hand, ending up on his bed with first me on top, then him, then finally me once more, with him spinning me at the last minute so he could watch me ride him in reverse, the better to watch that great big ass bounce on my dick . . .

  Well, he had promised that would happen.

  And then we collapsed. I’ve never faulted a man for being deep into the z’s ninety seconds after really good sex, because I do that, too. All that beautiful tension, all that wonderful energy that’s trapped inside and then goes shooting out into the universe . . . it can be tiring.

  But when Oscar fell asleep after the second round, I was unable to sleep. This was becoming a problem.

  It was too quiet—so quiet you could literally hear a pin drop.

  I stayed in bed for a long time, listening to his deep, even breathing as he slept. I wrapped myself around him, seeking the comfort and warmth that often leads to a great night’s sleep. I nestled against his side, throwing a leg over and draping an arm, resting my head on his powerful chest.

  Didn’t work.

  I tried wrapping him around me, rolling to my side and dragging him with me, forcing the spoon of the century when his deadweight arm fell across me, and I tucked it around me, his powerful hips nuzzled against my bottom, cocooning me in Oscar . . . and reminding me of a position we’d yet to try but that I was dying to. That led to some rather colorful daydreams, but as far as sleep?

  Didn’t work.

  I kicked a leg out from under the quilt, then an arm, then finally rolled over again and hung my bum over the side—but nothing was working.

  Too. Fucking. Quiet!

  An hour later and I was propped up in the bed, Oscar snoring away next to me looking adorable and full of restorative z’s, and I was playing solitaire on my phone while catching up on my favorite celebrity Twitter feeds.

  An ad popped up for a new game involving sheep counting, and it gave me an idea. I quickly pulled up the app store, typed in sound machine, and there were literally hundreds of white-noise downloads, just waiting for me and Mr. Sandman.

  Let’s see, what have we got?

  Whispering Meadow? No.

  Twilight Sunset? Not.

  Rain on Tin Roof? Under the subset of Rain, also including Rain on Umbrella, Rain on Car, Rain on Vinyl Tent. Nope, not a one. But now I had to pee.

  After scurrying to the bathroom and back, I quickly dove back under the covers, and finally stumbled upon some appropriate sounds.

  Cityscape. Now we’re talking.

  You had your Restaurant Sounds, your Before the Theater Begins, Central Park Joggers, and the very intriguing New York City Streets.

  I downloaded it, settled back against the pillows, and listened with a satisfied grin as the sounds of cabs honking, doors shutting, trucks rumbling, people chatting, and far-off sirens wailed. I grinned as my city enveloped me in the country, and I finally laid my head gently down to sleep . . .

  Until Oscar sat straight up in bed, scrambling for the bat he kept next to his nightstand, and crashed to floor, bat held over his head and ready to do battle.

  I peered over the side to where he was just as he peered up over the bed, the two of us knocking skulls and further confusing him.

  “What the hell is that!” He rubbed his head, looking wil
dly around the room. “Is there an ambulance outside? And a . . . is that . . . it sounds like people clinking glasses?”

  “It’s New York City Streets—an app?” I answered, sitting cross-legged on his side of the bed, rubbing my own quickly forming goose egg. “You know, background noise for sleeping?”

  “Why would anyone need background noise to sleep?” he asked, still holding the bat.

  “Stand down, Oscar, it’s okay,” I soothed, tugging him back up onto the bed by his arm. “It’s too quiet; I needed something to listen to, to help me fall asleep.”

  “That’s ridiculous. How can anyone sleep through that racket?” He slumped back into bed, the bat hitting the floor. “How can a honking car help you fall asleep?”

  “It’s what I’m used to.” I yawned, tucking the covers up and around us, curling into his side. “Just close your eyes, you’ll get used to it in no time.”

  “I doubt that,” he huffed, and I could hear his eyes rolling. But he did take a moment to look at the way my naked breasts shone in the moonlight. “So, you’re sleepy, is that it?”

  I turned onto my side, facing away from him, and slid the covers down to expose my equally naked backside. “I could be persuaded to stay up a little bit longer, since you’re awake now.”

  Five seconds later I felt his hand slide up my thigh, toward my hip, then back down, smoothing it across my skin and along my bottom. Ten seconds later I felt his warm body curving against mine as I arched my back, smiling into my pillow.

  The sounds of my sighing and his groaning were mixed in with doors slamming, cabs honking, and glasses clinking.

  New York comes to the country.

  And in the country . . .

  “Tell me about this one.”

  “Slipped on a patch of ice one winter, went down on a rock, sliced my arm open.”

  “And this one?”

  “Gutting a walleye on a fishing trip when I was thirteen—the pocketknife slipped.”

  “And I’ve been dying to ask you about this one right here.” I swept my fingertip across his eyebrow, feeling the small white scar there.