Page 77 of Eight Second Hearts

He presses me tighter against him with his hand on my back, and with fire and phantoms burning in his eyes, Tripp Savage presses his brutal lips against mine.

Chapter 45

Indie

Life is strange. One minute, you’re just trying to get the scoop on the Crimson Three.

The next. . . well, you’re fucking them.

That’s the brief thought that flashes through my mind as Tripp presses me tightly to him, his lips eagerly moving over mine. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me close so I can’t get away. I wrap my arms around him, holding him just as tightly, one of my hands coming up to run my nails through his hair. There’s a beep from the machine behind us, but I can’t bring myself to care about what it means. Tripp, though, he knows exactly what it is.

He grins against my lips and his other arm reaches around me, curling into the leather strap. “Hold on, cowgirl,” he says against my lips.

And suddenly, I know what the sound is, too.

I squeak and hold onto him tighter as the mechanical bull begins to move. It tilts forward, then back, and then starts to spin.

“It’s on auto pilot,” Tripp explains, laughter in his eyes the likes I’ve never seen. “Don’t worry. It’ll only last about eight seconds.”

Sure enough, eight long seconds pass us by as Tripp keeps us on the bull. He doesn’t stop kissing me despite the rough movements and the sudden direction changes. His muscles bunch around me, keeping me in place as the mechanical bull runs its course. Another beep sounds and he loosens his hold as the bull slows and stops.

“We’ve got a minute before it kicks on again,” he says, his hands immediately reaching for the edge of my shirt and dragging it over my head.

“Shouldn’t we get off?” I ask, my voice breathy.

He flashes a grin at me. “Now where would the fun in that be, scribbler?”

His fingers dance along my back, unhooking my bra before I realize what he’s doing. It loosens and I let it slide down my arms before shrugging it off completely and tossing it to the mat. He stares down at my body, at the scars that pepper my skin, but his eyes go to the large one on my arm. His fingers trace the puckered scar.

“This is a gunshot?” he asks, his eyes flicking up to mine.

I nod. “It is. Got that one in Iraq. I was lucky it was mostly a flesh wound and didn’t hit the bone.”

His fingers continue across my collarbone to a small sharp scar there. “This one?”

“Debris cut me from an IUD blast. I was okay, but my ears rang for a few days after,” I admit, reaching for his white t-shirt and tugging it up and over his head. He lets me, happy to oblige my desperate exploration as my fingers trail over his body. Just like me, he’s covered in scars. My fingers touch a small white line across his right pec. “What’s this?”

He glances down. “Beau cut me with a knife when we were kids. We didn’t know it was sharp enough to perform surgery. Pretty sure he panicked more than I did when I bled.”

I laugh. “That checks out. That man is as unhinged as they come, but if anyone he cares about is hurt. . .”

I let the words hang, mostly because we both know that he’d willingly go to war for anyone he holds close. Like the stray dog he calls himself, now that he’s found a home, he’ll die to protect it.

“What about—” A loud beep sounds in the room, and I sigh. “Here we go.”

Tripp grins and tugs me close again, wrapping his arms around me tightly. “Here we go,” he repeats, and the mechanical bull starts moving.

This time, I laugh as we move, letting the movements grind me against his arousal in his jeans. I know it must be painful to strain so hard against his zipper, so the moment the eight seconds are up, and we stop moving, my fingers go to his belt and the fastening of his jeans. His breath stutters out in a husky rasp as I free his cock and wrap my hand around it. I stroke it from base to tip, relishing the feel of him in my hand.

“I’ve dreamed about you doin’ this,” he groans, before his lips trace my neck, the bruises there, driving me insane. “About you taking me into your throat and?—”

I shove him back, forcing him to lean back against the end of the bull. His abs bunch at the positioning even as he stares at me in confusion. I slide my hips back to the front edge.

“What are you do. . . oh,” he groans as I lean forward and take him into my mouth. “Oh, fuck. Yeah, don’t stop that,” he encourages, his hand wrapping tightly in my hair to press me down so I can take him deeper. “Fuck,” he grunts out in a long stream of pleasure as I start to bob.

The sounds of him enjoying my lips on him, the feeling of him in my throat, has me slick with desire. I’m still wearing my jeans, still far too dressed in the four pairs of socks wrapping my feet. I need to get naked. I need to feel him against me.

His hand forces me down and I gag, forgetting for a moment to relax my throat muscles. He moans at the feel of it, but doesn’t let me up, not until tears prick my eyes. Finally, he eases back, letting me take a deep breath as I slide back to the tip.

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