Page 17 of Saving the Rain (Crimson Ridge #4)
It’s peaceful around the place, with the faintest hint of a breeze rustling through fall leaves yet to be shed. However, the seemingly idyllic country scene doesn’t do anything to soothe the tension still thrumming in my veins.
I hate that I haven’t been able to kick my strange affliction from earlier today. I fucking detest this unease that lingers and lurks, unwanted.
Maybe I should have just fucked that girl from the Hog on the weekend. Obviously, all this bottled-up angst is getting to me because I’m strung tighter than ever before, and even after a full day’s work on the ranch, I can’t seem to settle.
My apartment is gloomy as I step inside, shades of gray and inky black, lit only with the glow of moonlight flooding in through the windows.
I don’t even know if I can be fucked with getting the place warm since I’ll only be here to rest my head until dawn creeps over the horizon.
Flipping on a couple of lights, I ditch my jacket and boots, then hang my cap at the hook by the door.
While crossing to my bedroom, I’m already stripping out of my shirt, and the bunched flannel gets tossed to the floor as I reach the shower. It’s been a long-ass day of handling horses, and I’m ready to wash all the grime and restless thoughts the fuck away down the drain.
The shower takes a minute to heat, with wisps of steam slowly making themselves visible while I wait.
As I unbuckle my belt and set to work on my jeans, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
The black and gray scene of a wolf howling at a cold moon sits over my pec, surrounded by swirling cloud formations covering my collar bone and the front of my shoulder muscle—only I know how that ink conceals the divots embedded there from his cigarette burns .
The last ones he gave me before he realized he couldn’t fuck with me like that ever again.
Stepping out of my jeans, I move under the water, and my shoulders finally drop from being up around my ears nearly all goddamn day. Warmth rushes over my skin, trickling a serene, ease-filled line down my body, wetting my hair to plaster against the back of my neck.
With both hands, I scrub my face, discovering the lengthening stubble that I’ll have to trim sometime soon. Otherwise, I’ll wake up one day to discover a full mountain man beard going on.
Rivulets of water track over my stomach, and in the process of reaching for the soap dispenser, I look down and curse.
My goddamn dick is hardening and demanding attention.
Like it knows I’m on edge and needing one hell of a release to rid myself of all this pent-up tension I’ve been lugging around.
Christ. I don’t want to be giving into this, but at the same time, what other choice is there. I’ll probably poke my own eye out by the morning if I don’t take care of this situation right now.
I silently grit my teeth in disgust, refusing to give an inch of space to the acknowledgment that part of today’s mental strain—in fact, the vast majority of how tightly wound I’ve been since arriving in Crimson Ridge—has been due to a certain blond-haired, golden-boy idiot.
As I run the soap over my chest and stomach, it’s fucking inevitable that my palm is gonna keep sliding further south.
Slamming one hand against the wall, my chin drops, and right before my eyes, the length of me swells as if on cue.
My cock is full and hard, jutting out before I’ve even taken myself in hand.
And from the very moment I wrap my fist around the shaft, I feel a shudder of relief roll straight to my toes.
I squeeze roughly, tugging from root to tip, while my jaw clenches so forcibly I’m in danger of hearing a crack.
This is a fucking joke. I don’t need to be popping random boners and having sudden urges to jerk off, all because of a guy I can’t stand being around.
It makes no sense to me why this intense frustration is giving my dick a reason to be swollen and hard as stone.
Staring back at me, the world’s most inconvenient erection thickens beneath my fingers .
As I stroke myself, rapid and firm, I’m not in the mood to drag this out. Whatever bullshit hornyness is afflicting me, I’m of a one track mind, needing to deal with it as fast as possible.
My eyelids grow heavy as the intense pleasure builds low in my stomach.
That same heated, coiled feeling from earlier on, the sensation that hung around in that spot all day, roars to life.
Wholly unwanted. Completely unbidden. With each shuttle of my fist, pressure winds tighter at the base of my spine.
My stomach muscles bunch, and my balls tingle.
“ Fuck. You .” I grunt out loud. The words hissing, spitting into the stream of water.
And it’s the worst goddamn thing in the world, because I can’t stop the torrent coming at me fast and hard.
I can’t slow my strokes. With each tug and squeeze, the image grows more vivid.
Blue eyes flash, staring up at me. Flushed lips hang parted, obediently waiting.
A strong hand threads through short strands of hair as my cock sinks into that hot mouth, and I fucking groan .
It’s my hand holding tight to the figure on their knees for me.
It’s my tattoos and my fingers that curl to yank that blond hair until I hear the soft little masculine whimper of pleasure in response to my command.
They take every inch and moan with delight when I hold them there for me to use. Hips driving in and out, I fuck that willing mouth and it’s total bliss.
“ Unnghhh. Ffffuuck. ”
Cursing violently over and over, my dick erupts, shooting ribbons onto the shower wall, coating my fist in cum. The blinding force of my cock pulsing and kicking catches me by surprise. A throbbing, agonizing release that goes on longer than it has any goddamn right to.
I’m reduced to a panting mess, heart thundering against my ribcage.
And I fucking hate it.
I’m pissed as all hell at my stupid brain for getting off to those images, of mixing up memories of other guys with my present day reality.
There are any number of past hookups I could have fixated on.
Jesus, even a fistful of poker-straight red hair clenched in my grip and plush lips would’ve done just fine.
It wouldn’t require much imagination to know what that would have looked like if I’d taken her up on the offer to blow me in the back of my truck.
I don’t have any interest in figuring out how or why those details invaded my thoughts. I’ve been with blond haired and blue eyed dudes before. Sure, at some point, I’ve had a guy younger than me begging me to take his mouth. Someone somewhere would’ve had a catalog of similar features.
A random, jumbled memory. That’s all it was.
Nothing more.