Page 46 of Wrangled Up

Instead, he calmly strode to the motel. Inside his room, the maids had tidied the bed and even piled his discarded clothes on top of the cheap laminate dresser. He glared around the space, hating the lumpy wallpaper and the striped bedspread. He wanted his ranch, the smell of horses.

He wanted Claire.

“Fuck.” He ripped off his cowboy hat and threw it to the floor, then jammed his fingers through the long strands of his hair. Since Heather had died, everything in his life had been on a downward spiral.

Hell, even his ranch was jeopardized by his own family and the coal mining greed. And Christian and Claire were there, unaware of the trouble.

He snatched up his cell and jabbed a number to connect with Christian. Usually a touch of that button summoned the man to his house to play cocks, and even as the phone trilled in his ear, he grew hard.

It rang four times. Five. Went to voicemail.

“Dammit!” He tossed the phone to the bed hard enough to bounce.

His cock was aching, straining for release. In a violent motion, he ripped open his belt and popped the button and zipper of his jeans. He slid the mass partway down his hips before freeing his shaft.

The ridges pulsed in his hand. He lashed his sac to his body and started pumping his erection with his other hand. A quiver of sensation tore through him as he rolled the swollen head through his grip. Pressing open the tight slit that glistened with cream.

Imagining that it was Christian’s cock he stared at, he ran a finger between his balls, low, just as his friend love to see. A moan echoed in the room at the memory of him doing exactly this thing and watching Christian’s eyes roll back in his head.

Jerking his hips, Tucker slid his thick length through his palm, squeezing, releasing. Hot whips in his groin spurred him to move faster. A golden glow of ease was on the horizon, close but so far away.

Juices gathered on the tip as he stroked himself faster.More. More. Fuck, yes, Christian.

In a violent spasm, he came. He tightened his hold on the head, letting the pressure build. When he released it, a spurt shot into the air.

He hissed with pleasure, letting come flow over his fingers, down his shaft, to pool around his cupped balls.

Stars sparked behind his eyes, along with a vision of Christian’s cock in Claire’s sweet mouth.

No Heather within a country mile of this moment.

Guilt flooded his veins, replacing every ounce of ecstasy. With a growl, he snagged a handful of tissue from the box on the dresser and cleaned himself up. Then he hurled himself into the mattress, tears burning his throat.

Heather, Claire, Christian. All wrapped up in his mind and tied with a tough little string that was Jake Mickelson’s words.What if the best was you?

What if Claire really did need him and his staying away wasn’t actually going to help her in the long run, but carve more of her heart out?

She hid her pain behind smiles. When she talked about her father, she always wore a serene smile, but a burning in her eyes told more of the story.

Anger erupted in Tucker’s chest. Where did that son of a bitch Jake Mickelson get off talking to him about guilt and hurt? Every day he stayed away from his daughter planted one more seed of pain in her. Soon she’d sprout nothing but tangled vines of hurt, and they would obliterate the sunny disposition Tucker and so many others loved about her.

Rolling to his feet, Tucker looked for the wastepaper basket. He tossed the used tissue into it and went into the bathroom to clean up. He had a mind to go back to the bar and say his piece to that man.

In fact, that’s exactly what he’d do. Fighting for Claire right now seemed the only course.

By the time he strode across the parking lots, past the diner that boasted a special of the day sign for fresh cod—in a landlocked state—he was ready to do battle.

He shoved through the door of the bar, squinting at the dimness. It took a moment forhis eyes to adjust, but it only took seconds for him to find that Mickelson wasn’t here.

From behind the bar, Jones opened his mouth to say something, but Tucker spun and left before the words were uttered.

Outside the door, Tucker jabbed a few buttons on his phone and in minutes had a cashier’s check wired to Christian. If he couldn’t be there to help out on the ranch, the least he could do was ease the monetary strain. Christian probably wasn’t even working right now and Claire couldn’t bring home much on a waitress’s salary.

Across the parking lots again, back to the room, where he found that he’d missed a call from Christian.

With a harsh noise in his throat, Tucker cradled the phone. He stared at the display with Christian’s number, hollow-bellied and aching but without any ability to give it voice.

Chapter Seven

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