Heather's Gift (Men of August 3)

“Same thing.” He scratched at his chin. “Just different words.”

Heather grinned, watching as he picked up a cue ball, then sent it spinning across the table into one of the slots.

“Cade seemed less than appreciative of the words then,” she said as she walked past the pool table, heading for one of the wide couches that faced it from the other side.

As she walked, she felt her long robe caressing her bare feet, and she knew Sam was watching her. She could feel his gaze on her, searing in its heat. She curled up on the couch before looking up at him with what she hoped was an innocent expression. It was spoiled by the flush blooming on her cheeks, though. There was no missing the tenting of those sweat p

ants. Sam was sporting a hard-on long enough to make her mouth water and her heart hammer in cunt-clenching arousal.

Sam cleared his throat, turning from her. “Cade doesn’t appreciate a lot of things,” he growled as he pushed the pool balls from the table as though it were his life’s mission.

He wasn’t nervous. She didn’t think she had ever seen Sam nervous, but he seemed hesitant around her now, as though in some way, she threatened him more than ever before.

“Is there anything I need to know from that meeting?” she finally asked him.

She watched his jaw bunch, the way his eyelids flickered as though he needed to shut out reality, to hide from the events around them.

“Same ole shit,” he finally shrugged. “The bastard wants me because his half brother was a depraved son of a bitch, and because he’s not much better. Marly’s damned near destroyed because Cade refuses to tell her what’s going on. Cade’s not talking to any of us because Marly’s tears rip his soul apart, at least what’s left of it. And here I stand.” He held his arms out as though in invitation. “Once again the reason why my brothers are being destroyed.”

She wanted to touch him, to hold him, but the look in his eye warned her that he would never allow it. The cold, hard core that worried them all was growing.

“Do you want me to leave, Sam?” she asked him softly as he raised his head to look at her. “Leave the ranch, and you?”

His hands were braced on the pool table, his shaggy hair falling over his forehead rakishly. His eyes were direct, his expression still and quiet.

“I want you to stay,” he said softly. “Too much. I’m the wrong person for you to be around, Heather. You should know that by now. The scars that bastard left on you should be enough to convince you of that.”

His eyes were a mixture of sadness and lust and brittle fury.

She tilted her head, watching him curiously.

“My pussy isn’t ugly anymore, Sam,” she told him in irritation. “You don’t have to act so strange with those little warnings.”

She still remembered the look on his face when he had stalked into her bedroom over a month ago, jerking up her gown, his face paling at the sight of the raw flesh of her cunt. The cuts had still been raw, not requiring stitches, but slow to heal, and extremely tender.

He frowned. “You act as though the sight of them is what bothered me,” he bit out, throwing the last ball across the table. “Dammit, Heather, he cut you. Cut you because of me. You should be terrified to be in the same house with me. Hell, all of them should be.”

Anger filled the area, the air thickening with tension, with rage.

“Why, Sam?” she asked him softly. “You weren’t the one that cut me.”

“He did it because of me.” He placed his hands on the table, gripping the edge until she could see his fingers pale with the strength he exerted. “He did it, Heather, because he thinks you matter to me. Do you understand that?”

Heather shrugged. The edge of violence that swirled in the air around him was begging to be deflected. Deflected or freed. She had a feeling if it was freed, then neither of them would come out of it unscathed.

“I think you’re just turned off by the scars now.” She shrugged. “What’s wrong, Sam, afraid someone else is wounded more than you in some way?”

It was a dangerous game she was playing, and Heather knew it. Sam’s sexuality was more intense, deeper, rougher than the other men, and the memories of that time always made it flare hotter. The memory of the one time Sam had allowed her close was brutally vivid. She still remembered his hands in her hair, pulling at the strands as he fucked her mouth with long, slow strokes of his thick cock.

The heavily veined, rough flesh of his cock had nearly bruised her lips. The scars were thicker than her own, requiring a rough touch to give him the sensation needed to orgasm. Her teeth had scraped him as he cried out, panting.

Oh yeah, Heather. Like that, baby. Just like that. God yes! He had nearly choked her as he sent his cock thrusting past her teeth and stroking her tongue as he exploded in her mouth. His semen had shot down her throat, salty, dark and male. Perhaps he would have returned the favor. Maybe he would have buried his still-hard flesh between her damp thighs if they hadn’t been so rudely interrupted then.

“Stop, Heather,” he growled.

“Stop what?” She frowned over at him, still lost in the memory of his touch, his taste.

“Stop remembering my cock in your mouth,” he bit out furiously. “It’s bad enough that I can’t forget myself.”