Page 7 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Reese

The Copper Cat is packed tonight, bass thumping through the floorboards as I squeeze between bodies toward the bar. I'm off-duty, wearing a green dress that Clara insisted "makes your eyes look like emeralds" and heels that already have me questioning my life choices.

I don't know why I'm here.

That's a lie. I know exactly why.

"Whiskey, neat," I tell the bartender, a guy with sleeve tattoos who nods without smiling.

This isn't my scene. The flashing lights, the press of strangers, the performative sexuality of it all. But tonight, I needed to not be Sheriff Ramsey. Just Reese. A woman in a green dress who might make terrible decisions.

I scan the room, telling myself I'm not looking for anyone specific. Another lie.

The whiskey burns pleasantly when it arrives. I take a bigger sip than necessary, letting the heat spread through my chest.

"I was hoping you'd come."

The voice slides over my skin like warm honey. I don't turn immediately, buying myself time to compose my face.

"Are you stalking me now?" I ask, finally looking at him.

Massimo is leaning against the bar beside me, wearing dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered. He smells like cedar and something spicy.

"You invited me, remember?" His eyes move over me appreciatively. "Though if I'd known about the dress, I would have arrived earlier."

"I didn't invite you specifically."

"No? 'There's a dance bar on Elm Street. Sometimes I go there.'" His impression of me is terrible, too breathy and high-pitched. "That wasn't an invitation?"

"It was information."

"Which I acted upon. Responsibly, I might add. No laws broken to get here."

Despite myself, I smile. "Congratulations on the bare minimum of adult behavior."

"I'll take it." He gestures to my drink. "Can I buy you another?"

"I've barely started this one."

"Then can I buy you a dance instead?"

The song changes to something slower, with a heavy beat that seems to vibrate directly into my bloodstream. Or maybe that's just the way he's looking at me, like I'm the only person in the room.

"I don't dance," I say.

"Everyone dances. Some just need the right partner." He holds out his hand. "One dance. Then I'll leave you alone if that's what you want."

I should say no. I should finish my drink and go home. I should remember that I'm the sheriff and he's a temporary resident who'll be gone when the season starts.

Instead, I take his hand.

He leads me to the dance floor, finding a space just big enough for us in the crowd. The moment his hand settles on my waist, I know I've made a mistake. Not because it feels wrong, but because it feels inevitable.

"I've been thinking about last night," he says, his mouth close to my ear to be heard over the music.

"It was just pizza in a jail cell."

"It was more than that." His hand slides slightly lower on my back, not inappropriate but definitely intimate. "You know it was."

I do know. That's the problem.

"Why did you run that red light today?" I ask.

"I told you." His eyes hold mine, serious despite the playful curve of his lips. "I wanted to see you again."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" He pulls me slightly closer as the beat intensifies. "Then why are you here tonight?"

"I come here sometimes."

"And I just happened to be here on the same night?"

"Apparently."

He laughs, and I feel it rumble through his chest where it's pressed against mine. "You're stubborn."

"You're presumptuous."

"Maybe." His thumb traces small circles on my lower back. "But I'm also right."

We move together, and it's annoyingly perfect. He leads without dominating, responding to my movements like we've danced together a hundred times. His hands stay respectful, but the heat in his eyes is anything but.

"One dance," I remind him as the song winds down.

"One dance," he agrees, but doesn't release me. "Unless you want more."

The song changes to something even slower, more sensual. His hand slides up my spine to rest between my shoulder blades.

"We shouldn't," I say, but my body betrays me, melting against his.

"Probably not," he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. "But I've been thinking about kissing you since I saw you through those cell bars."

I should step away. I should maintain boundaries. I should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

Instead, I look up at him, my resolve crumbling like sand castles at high tide.

"Just tonight," I whisper. "That's all."

His eyes darken. "Just tonight."

When his mouth meets mine, it's like coming home to a place I've never been. Gentle at first, almost questioning, then deeper as I respond. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

We break apart, breathless, foreheads touching.

"Want to show me your bedroom?" he asks.

"Yes."

Thank God Dad’s off on a fishing trip this week.

The drive to my house passes in charged silence, his hand resting on my thigh, thumb tracing maddening patterns against the fabric of my dress.

I've never brought anyone here—never wanted to merge those worlds.

But tonight feels different. Like rules were made to be broken, and I've been following them too long.

Once inside, with the door barely closed behind us, he presses me against it, mouth finding mine again with newfound urgency. His hands slide down my sides, pulling me closer as our bodies align.

"Bedroom?" he murmurs against my neck.

"Upstairs. First door on the right."

I start toward the stairs, but he catches me around the waist and lifts me into his arms. My surprised laugh warms the space between us, my cheek brushing his jaw.

"I've got you," he murmurs, taking the steps two at a time.

At the bedroom door, he sets me down slowly, like he's reluctant to let go. I take a step back, but he follows, closing the distance until my back grazes the bed. His heat surrounds me, his eyes dark with intent.

My pulse jumps. He notices—of course he does—and smiles like it’s a secret we’re sharing.

The zipper of my dress slides down slow under his fingers. The fabric falls away, pooling at my heels. He steps back, eyes roaming with the kind of focus that makes me feel stripped even where I’m still covered.

“You think this body is just yours,” he murmurs, circling me, fingertips grazing my bare shoulder. “But, bella… this is a masterpiece. You should see the way it looks through my eyes. Like heaven, here on earth.”

The way he says it isn’t flattery. It’s reverence.

I reach for his shirt, but he catches my wrists, holding them lightly in front of me. “Not yet. You Americans…” His gaze flicks up to mine, heat burning behind it. “…you rush to the center. Straight to the clit. Straight to the win. But I? I make the whole body ache for it.”

He lets my hands go and touches me like he’s reading braille from my collarbone down.

His palms skim the swell of my breasts without covering my nipples, then drift to my ribs, my waist, my hips.

Every time I think he’s going to go lower, he changes direction—stroking the inside of my arm, the curve of my neck, the back of my thigh.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I breathe, already warm and restless under his touch.

“Si,” he says softly. “I want you to beg for the place I haven’t touched yet.”

My bra is gone before I register his hands moving.

He doesn’t take my nipples into his mouth—he circles them with his thumbs, watching them tighten, then drags his lips down my sternum in slow, deliberate passes that make me arch into him.

He kisses the underside of each breast like he’s sealing a promise there, then moves lower, skimming over my stomach, dipping just low enough to make me shiver.

He kneels, hooking his fingers in my panties, sliding them down inch by inch, his eyes never leaving mine.

When I’m bare, he doesn’t go straight for what’s throbbing.

He kisses the inside of my knee, then higher.

A gentle nip on the inside of my thigh. His hands stroke up the outside, down the back, keeping me open but untouched where I’m desperate for it.

Every nerve feels tuned to him.

“Massimo…” It’s part plea, part warning.

His mouth curves. “Not yet, bella. I want your pussy to be jealous of the rest of you.”

I laugh, breathless, but it catches when he presses a kiss just above the place I want him most. Then another, lower. His breath fans hot against me, but he keeps his mouth moving everywhere else—the dip of my hip bone, the top of my thigh, even a slow kiss to the crease where my leg meets my body.

By the time his lips finally close over my clit, it’s like lightning—sharp, sweet, and overwhelming. I gasp, fingers in his hair, hips pushing toward him.

Now he doesn’t hold back. His tongue works me with perfect rhythm, one hand splayed over my stomach to keep me steady while the other slides between my folds, stroking me from the inside until I’m trembling.

The orgasm hits like a wave breaking, and he doesn’t stop until I’m shuddering against him, thighs tight around his shoulders.

When I finally slump back, he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a man satisfied with his work.

“Now,” he says, voice low, “you’re ready for the rest.”

He’s already reaching into his wallet for a foil packet. He tears it open without breaking eye contact, rolls the condom on, and then he’s pushing me gently back onto the bed.

I fall onto the mattress, thighs open, and he’s there between them, sliding the blunt head of his cock through my slick folds. He teases, gliding over my clit without settling in, again and again, until I’m swearing under my breath.

“Massimo—”

“I like my name on your tongue,” he says, and then he’s pressing in.

The stretch is obscene, delicious. My body grips him, resisting and yielding all at once, and he goes slow enough for me to feel every inch.

Once he’s fully seated, he stays there for a moment, letting me adjust, his hand sliding up to cup the side of my neck. Then he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that hit something inside me I didn’t know I had.

The bed creaks. My nails dig into his shoulders. He watches my face the whole time, like every twitch and gasp is part of the art he’s making.

“You feel…” His words catch on a groan as I tighten around him. “…so damn perfect.”

It builds fast after that—the rhythm snapping from slow to urgent, the heat pooling low in my belly until I can’t hold it back. He pushes me over the edge with a sharp, deep thrust, and I break apart under him, crying out.

He follows me, hips stuttering, groaning into my mouth as he comes, the tension in his body breaking apart all at once.

We collapse together, breath ragged, bodies tangled. His skin is hot and damp against mine, his pulse hammering under my palm.

After a moment, he rolls to the side but keeps an arm hooked around my waist, pulling me back against him like he’s not ready to let go just yet.

After, as we lie tangled in my sheets, his fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.

"So," he says, voice low in the darkness. "Just tonight?"

I should say yes. Should maintain the boundary I set. Should remember all the reasons he's temporary and I'm permanent.

"Just tonight," I confirm, even as something in my chest rebels against the words.

His arm tightens around me, just slightly. "Then we should make the most of it."

As his mouth finds mine again, I push away the nagging thought that "just tonight" already feels like a lie we're both telling ourselves.