Page 8 of Love and Forgiveness (Rough & Ready Country #6)

Warning bells go off in my head. I need to stop this.

We’re just a few signatures away from divorce.

But these thoughts feel distant, faint as his ravenous lips, moist tongue, and rough afternoon stubble tease the sensitive part of my neck, sending thrills of lust up and down my body.

He knows every spot intimately, and my skin awakens to his familiar touch.

“Wolfe,” I moan involuntarily, threading my fingers through his buzzed brown hair.

He squeezes my neck lightly, his thumb resting on the pulse point.

Tracing the back of his hand lightly down my neck and chest to the front of my shirt, he unleashes a thousand shivers of desire, culminating beneath the knuckles that graze my pebbled nipples.

His lips finish the work, incinerating the flesh of my neck and upper chest, and he buries his head in my cleavage.

Logic tells me to stop him. But my desperate hips encourage him, thrusting against his legs, begging for more. Mindlessly, I push my chest up towards him, hungry to feel him work dark magic with his tongue, lips, and teeth.

I’m moments away from inviting him back to my place, though I know the results will be disastrous. But I’d have to leave the kids at his dad’s house longer. I don’t want to have that conversation again.

He moans primally, deep in his throat. Grabbing my hand, he covers his stiff rod with it.

I knead into his steely girth with abandon, knowing nothing else will satisfy the painful throb centered at the top of my legs.

Even though this temptation will undo the life I’ve worked so hard to build over the last few months, the consequences seem distant.

Finally, his mouth captures mine, and I involuntarily sigh into his kiss, inviting his tongue to claim me.

He takes me savagely, like a desert-bound man, two weeks without water and finally at the well.

The suggestive thrusts of his possessive tongue leave me breathless, and I long to feel those sensations in other parts of my body.

He has to know it as I melt into his lips, actively mating my tongue with his.

He seizes the mound between my legs, escalating the painful throb as his fingers rub my clit through the fabric of my skirt and panties, and his breath gets darker, deeper.

I grind into him, still cupping his hardness in my hand until I feel my pussy powerfully clenching and releasing, waves of desire shaking me.

I stifle a cry, rocking into his hand as I come, and he growls.

Wolfe’s dick grinds into my hand, and he breathes more like a beast than a man.

I beg, “Please, Wolfe, please.” I don’t even know what I’m asking for.

My head floats far away as he thrusts his hips into my hand forcefully, convulsing against me and letting out a frantic groan.

After a long pause, he mutters in low tones, “Fuck.”

His mouth leaves my neck, and he gravely stares at me before stepping back. I have to lean against the Toyota or lose my balance. My breath comes in lusty pants as he says in a voice thick and grim, “Look what a mess we’ve made. You’re going to have to cover that up.” He points to my neck.

Turning on his heel, he heads towards his black dually.

My eyes follow the taper of his back down to his waist, and I admire his tight ass longer than I should.

To think I know what every inch of that gorgeous body looks like beneath his clothes.

I know the way his flesh feels pressed against me, too.

I can’t catch my breath, my entire body trembling at the thought of what happened and what could happen if he wasn’t walking away—

Clearing his throat, he calls over his shoulder, “Quit staring at my ass, Hops. You’ve got to pick up our babies.”

Shit! On top of everything else, he’s caught me drooling over him. I’ve got to be the worst ex-wife in the world. Well, almost-ex-wife.

I don’t know if there’s a female equivalent of blue balls, but if so, I’m it.

Even after the release moments ago, my girl parts are already tightening back up, conspiring against me as I think about the way his hips powerfully thrust into my hand, coming as I touched him through his pants.

I want to melt into the ground, mortified. But I want to melt into him even more.

I cover my face with both hands only to discover the smell of his musky cum on my palm.

The familiar odor sends my pussy into full throb mode again.

Yep, the worst ex-wife ever put on this green Earth.

I hear his truck door slam shut, and I look up.

The streetlamp gives off enough light for me to see him point at his neck through the back window as he looks at me, eyebrow raised, through the rearview mirror.

Yes, I’ve got the message. I’ve let him brazenly mark me in the middle of my work’s darkened parking lot like a hormone-driven teenager.

Not a good look for a woman claiming to be a happy-go-lucky single gal.

In the 4Runner, I grip the steering wheel tightly, taking deep breaths and trying to calm myself.

After regaining a modicum of control over my shaking, desirous flesh, I pull down the sun visor above me, turning my head to the side.

Sure enough, there’s a large strawberry stain on my neck at the pulse point.

Dammit! I frantically think about where I’ve stashed a scarf, a bandana, or some other scrap of cloth to cover up his love bite. After all, I still have to head to the ranch to pick up the kids from Wolfe’s dad, brother, and sister-in-law. I have nothing that’ll work.

I almost call Wolfe, ordering him to get them for me. But considering he’s walking around with a load in his shorts, he’s in an even worse position.

Instead, I drive back to my house, making the walk of shame to my porch, thanks to my nosy neighbor, Sheila Murphy.

She’s wearing a caftan, and her white hair is in a turban as she approaches me, holding her annoying little chihuahua, Squirt.

Squirt barks and snarls at me like he always does, even though we’ve lived here for four months.

By the lights from the streetlamps and our porches, Sheila’s eyes immediately fixate on the dark spot on my neck.

Dammit! Recrimination floods her face, and her eyebrows rise.

I can’t wait to hear what the rumor mill will say about it come Monday morning.

This has got to be one of my least favorite aspects of small-town living.

In Seattle, where I grew up, you could have an eyeball hanging out, and nobody looked at you twice.

Personally, I couldn’t care less what others think of me. But being a museum director kind of makes me a staple of the community. A staple who apparently likes to dry hump her soon-to-be-ex-husband in poorly-lit parking lots while letting him suck her neck raw.

“Yes, it’s a hickey,” I reply unceremoniously. “But at least it’s from Wolfe, so you don’t have too much to talk about.”

Her eyes are in her hairline now as she sputters. I laugh at her hypocritical reaction, knowing she’ll milk this story for everything it’s worth when she gets inside and starts ringing her friends. “But I thought you two—”

I shake my head, and she points towards my left hand where my marriage bands should be. “No, we’re not back together,” I sigh. “Just torturing each other.”

“Oh my!” she says breathlessly as I wave, excusing myself to go inside and retrieve a turtleneck and a dry pair of panties.