Killian (West Bend Saints 4)

hands underneath my dress and pulls me across his chest. “On my face,” he orders.

I try to protest, but he doesn’t let me, his response even more insistent as he guides me to straddle him, still trembling from my orgasm. My black dress bunches up around my waist in little piles of silk.

I'm self-conscious. What the hell am I doing, sitting on this man’s face in the middle of my living room? But once he pulls me down against him, his tongue pressing against my clit and licking me mercilessly, I begin to lose my inhibitions. Slowly, as he fucks me with his tongue, I start to ride him, losing myself in the waves of pleasure that wash over me.

When he has me on the edge, consumed by need and pleasure, he pulls me away from his face. I hear myself whimper, like I’m somewhere outside of my body, and it doesn’t sound like me. I'm not this girl, the one who whimpers, but this man has me whining, moaning, and ready to beg for him.

He laughs at my insistence when I pull frantically at the fabric of his shirt, trying to tug it over his head. But once I run my palms over his chest, flick my tongue over his nipples, he's not laughing anymore. Then he's the one moaning and grabbing handfuls of my hair, pulling my mouth to his, tongue against tongue, my lip in his teeth, kissing me like he can’t get enough.

On his feet, he strips off the rest of his clothing and rolls on a condom while I watch him appreciatively. Luke is one of those men who should be required to wear as little clothing as possible. He’s long and lean, a mass of rippling muscles that carry constant tension, the outcome of the need to be always-ready as a smoke jumper, or simply something about his constitution that makes him ever-ready to run. I’m not sure which it is.

But he's the kind of man who breaks your heart.

That’s the thought I have, the nagging doubt in my head, when Luke pulls me down onto his lap, the head of his cock pressed against me. I slide onto him effortlessly, slick with wetness, and any insecurity I have about Luke is erased in one swift movement.

I ride him, my forehead pressed against his, his hands in my hair and pulling at the roots, gripping it like he’s trying to pull me as close as possible into him but just can’t. When I’m not kissing him, I’m looking at him, riding him with steady rhythm until everything is a blur, a haze of sex and lust. Inside me, he's quickly swollen to the point that I think he’s going to burst, and the sensation makes me want to explode.

He whispers to me as I ride him, telling me how soft and sweet and tight and wet my pussy is, and so help me, I can barely hang on as he tells me the dirty things he wants to do to me. “I can’t get enough of this tight pussy. You know exactly what to do to me.”

I moan his name, over and over, barely audible, my lips close to his, until he’s doing the same.

“Autumn, Autumn, Autumn,” he whispers. “This pussy – all of this – is mine.”

If I thought the last time it happened was a random incident, I was wrong. He says it, and it sets me off again, unexpected, and I’m crying out my orgasm, trying to stay quiet.

“Shit, Autumn, you’re going to make me come,” he whispers. And then he does, my orgasm triggering his, his hands on my hips, pressing me against him again and again as he fills me up.

I collapse against him, my face in his neck, barely able to catch my breath, and we sit like that for what seems like forever until we’ve recovered. When he looks up at me, he takes my face into his hands. “I knew baking that cheesecake was a great fucking idea,” he whispers.

It’s true what they say about younger men, I think, watching him walk around the kitchen, whistling as he brews coffee and makes bacon and eggs. And pancakes – just because you must be starving, he told me. And I am starving, after last night’s marathon sex session. Luke is insatiable.

And I’m insatiable with him, I think, looking at his ass in his jeans as he walks over to the kitchen and pours milk into a sippy cup, then hands it to Olivia in her highchair. She reaches for it, but both hands are filled with strips of bacon, and Luke laughs. “You love bacon,” he says, setting the cup on the highchair tray. “I knew you weren’t so bad.”

“Thank you for getting that.” I’m startled out of my daydream, realizing I’d left the sippy cup and lid on the counter and forgotten to refill it.

Sex might be robbing my brain of brain cells.

“Greta will be here any second,” I say, suddenly realizing what time it is.

Luke turns around, leaning against the kitchen counter and holding out a cup of coffee in one hand as he brings the other to his lips. Those glorious lips, the ones that spent last night exploring every inch of my body until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. “It is that time,” he agrees, calm about the whole thing.

I take the cup, the knock on the door startling me despite the fact that we’re standing here talking about it. I’m not ready to be outed, to have what's between Luke and I become public knowledge in this town. Even if I think my nanny is discreet, I don’t know it for sure, and –

I open the door, mid-thought.

“Morning,” she says, her eyes flicking over my face. “You look good. Like you got some sun yesterday.”

“No,” I say, walking down the hallway with her. “No sun. Um, just so you know, there’s someone –“

“Mornin’.” Luke speaks before I can issue a warning, and I glare at him while he grins with impunity, unabashed and unashamed. I think he's actually enjoying this.

“Good morning.” To her credit, Greta doesn't lose her professional demeanor. At least, not until she turns around, her back to Luke, and gives me a thumbs-up gesture hidden in front of her stomach.

My cheeks warm up immediately, and I know I must be flushed bright red, but Greta is already turned around and making small talk with Luke, who is content to sit and sip his coffee at the kitchen table like he does this all the time.

Shit, maybe he does do this all the time, actually.

Maybe he’s just like Edward.

The thoughts pop into my head, and I can’t quite shake them, even when Luke kisses me in the doorway as he’s leaving. “I have to go and work,” he whispers, his lips brushing my cheek. “The boss really gets on my case if I’m slacking.”

“I hear she’s a real ballbuster,” I say, my voice soft.

“She has expectations,” he whispers, a finger trailing down the front of my cleavage. He peeks behind me down the hallway, but Olivia and Greta are in the living room, their voices a soft murmur. Luke cups my breast and I start to swat him away, but not before my nipple immediately hardens to his touch underneath the fabric of my bra. “I’m looking forward to meeting them.”

Before I can say anything, he’s out the door. I watch him walk across the lawn, whistling as he goes, carefree and casual, to check on the last of the harvest in the orchard.

26

Luke

“Where the hell have you been?” Silas asks.

I roll my eyes as I get out of the truck, Lucy scrambling out after me and running to greet Silas like they’re long-lost buddies. “Stop trying to be my mother, Silas."

Silas sits on the lawn chair outside the camper, not bothering to get up. “Anyone ever tell you to check your damn phone?”

I reach for my phone in my back pocket, but realize I’ve probably thrown it somewhere in the truck, or else left it at Autumn’s place. That thing used to be glued to me like a damn extra limb or something, my electronic little black book.

Except recently. I keep misplacing it, letting the battery run out because I forget about it. I’ve been spending all my time at the orchard lately.

I've had no need to call anyone else.

So, I’ve been purposely avoiding my brothers and this whole shit situation with my family, taking a little bit of happiness where I can get it. I refuse to feel a damn bit of guilt for that.

“Can’t find it,” I say, my voice terse. Silas is just a big reminder of what the hell else I need to think about right now other than Autumn. And that, I don’t fucking like.

>

Silas snorts. “What, did you leave it in some chick’s room?”

“Hilarious, Silas. What’s going on?”

“Something’s come up.”

I exhale heavily. “Yeah, well, what if I don’t want to be involved in it?” I move up the step past him and open the camper door.

“What the hell are you talking about? You're already involved in it," Silas says. “You’re the one who was behind it from the beginning. You were right about mom’s death. Now you’re, what, over the whole thing? You just want to let fucking Jed and the mayor get away with that shit? The murder, and conning people in this town?”

“Don’t guilt trip me, Silas,” I warn him, my jaw clenched as I flick on the light switch. Shit, how long has it been since I’ve been back in the camper? A week? Two? Lucy and I have been holed up at Autumn's place and I didn't want to leave. When I stand here looking at the camper, it's more depressing than I thought it would be.

“You need to air this place out, man.” Silas looks around. “Are you living here or what?”

I shrug. I don’t want to let my brother in on what’s happening with me and Autumn. Right now, it’s still private, between me and her. More or less. And I want to keep it that way for as long as I can. “I’ve been around,” I say, aware that I sound like I’m hedging. “You know.”

Silas laughs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He doesn’t say it out loud, but implies with his tone that he thinks I’m out chasing tail.

Irritation surges through me. I clench my hands into fists at my side. “Whatever.”

Silas’ eyes widen and he looks me over. “Oh shit,” he says. “You haven’t been around. You’re with someone. Oh my God. There’s a girl. There's a fucking girl.”

I shake my head. “Leave it be, Silas.”

“Shit, there is,” he says. “Holy fucking shit.”

“What’s come up?” I ask, deliberately changing the subject.

Silas clears his throat, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. “So, I met someone.”

“Silas, if you came over here to cry about some girl, I’m going to punch you in the nut sack,” I say. “I need a beer if you’re going to talk about your feelings.”

Silas and I do not have the kind of relationship where we talk about our feelings.

“Screw you, asshole,” he says. “But I’ll take a beer. Thanks for your motherfucking hospitality.”

I crack open two beers and walk back outside with Silas. “This better not be some lame love story.”

Silas takes a long sip of the beer, then points at me with the bottle. “You know, at some point, you’re going to settle down.”

At some point, I think, the beer washing down my throat. Before, I’d have responded with a hearty fuck you and when hell freezes over. But now…

“Thanks for that sage advice,” I say. “Can we cut the Oprah bullshit? Are you going to tell me your sappy-ass love story? Why are you telling this to me and not Elias?"

“Because he already knows,” Silas says. “He’s met her. And so have you, actually.”

“I’ve met her?” I ask. "What are you talking about?"

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not someone you’ve hooked up with. Which is actually pretty unbelievable, since you’ve banged pretty much every chick in the county at one point or another.”

“I'm glad to see that love hasn’t affected your stupid sense of humor,” I tell him. “So you came all the way down here to tell me about some girl you’re seeing?”

“No,” he says. “The girl thing is related. To the other stuff.”

The family stuff.

“So are you going to tell me who this chick is, or what?”

“Tempest.”

“Tempest?” I stare at him blankly, trying to rack my brain to put a face to the name, but failing. You’d think with a name like Tempest, I’d remember her, but I’m coming up short.

“Tempest Wilde,” he says, his brow wrinkled. “Killian was gone when it all happened, I think, but I’m pretty sure you were around then, still in high school. Her parents were grifters. She was only here one summer.”

“Her parents stole all that money from people,” I say. I still can’t place the girl, but then, I didn’t know her. Everyone in town knew about the family afterward, though, about what a no-good thieving bunch they were. Of course, everyone knew our family was no good, too. “I don’t remember her.”

Silas nods. “You have no reason to,” he says. “But anyway, that’s who I’m seeing – who I’m with. Fuck, that’s not what I mean. We’re not dating. We’re… together.”

“She’s your girlfriend?” I tease, unable to stifle a grin.

I expected a vehement fuck you in response, but Silas shrugs, and looks down at his feet. “No. Not just that. I’m going to marry her.”

Oh, hell. I can’t do anything to prevent the smile that comes across my face. “Shit. Congratulations! I feel like we shouldn’t be drinking beers. I think I have some scotch.”

Silas laughs, the sound light, something I’m not used to hearing from him. “Nah,” he says. “I don’t even know when we’re going to do it. Or how, or anything. It’s just, you know, in the future.”

“Well, I'm glad you finally found someone to put up with your bullshit,” I joke. Except a pang of jealousy hits me, and I realize that's crazy. Me, jealous of someone choosing the whole ball-and-chain thing?

“So am I,” Silas admits quietly. But there’s not a hint of sarcasm in it. He says it wistfully, and I’m glad for him. “Anyway, that’s not what I have to talk to you about. That’s just the background for it.”

He explains the whole thing. Tempest isn’t a regular girl. She’s a damn con artist who’s been scamming rich assholes – people who don’t deserve to live, much less have bathtubs full of cash – out of their money and giving it to people who deserve it. A Robin Hood thing.

“They were working in Vegas,” Silas explains. “All over, really. But Vegas, recently.”

“And that’s where you hooked up with her again,” I piece together.

Leave it to Silas to settle down, but not with a regular girl. He has to go and find a damn con artist.

“She’s not trying to scam me,” Silas says, as if he can read my mind. “She’s retired. Well, she’s going to retire.”

“One last job?” I ask, quoting every heist movie I’ve ever seen.

“Yeah, so about that…” Silas’ voice trails off.

“If you say, ‘I have a plan…’”

Silas grins. “It’s not my plan,” he says. “It’s theirs. But it’s a good one.”

27

Autumn

“You’re glowing,” June says. She pours the contents of a bowl—chunked up apples and cinnamon and sugar—into a pie crust.

“You made that crust yourself, didn’t you?” I ask, avoiding her comment. I’m lying on my stomach on the floor in June’s kitchen, tinkering with a racetrack of little Stan’s so he and Olivia can send their toy cars speeding around the track again and again.

“I did,” June says. “Which has zero to do with what I was just asking you, you know. I want the dirt.”

“I can’t give you the dirt.” I hand Olivia a car and watch her race it down the repaired track. I pull myself off the floor and onto a barstool at the island in the middle of June’s kitchen. “It’s not fit for little ears. I’ll dish later. Am I the only one around here who isn’t basically a chef?”

June points her wooden spoon at me. “I’ve offered to teach you, missy. And you know I’m dirt-deprived. You’d better make good on that promise. As soon as Cade gets here and can watch the little ones, I want to know all the gory details.”

“Not gory,” I say, laughing. “Juicy, but not gory.”