Page 8 of All You Want
Tami’s proposed hotel is across Sandman’s Creek from the respectable side of town where the police station, post office, general store, and diner are located. The police station used to be the saloon, but when the town expanded full of miners, the Sixty Miners Saloon was established next to the Bee Sting Bordello where the women wearing “gold belts” rolled gold out of the miners’ pockets.
Hangman’s Bridge is the shortest route between the two sides, but instead of cutting across it, I go south, parallel to the creek and wind through the curving road beneath the towering trees.
I’m not ready to face the woman whose warmth is draped against my back, and for the moment, I can let my spirits run free like the wind whipping through my hair. Out here on these backroads, I’m no longer the sheriff. I don’t have to be the do-gooder, the guy in control, and the authority of the law.
I’m a wild man, and I’m free.
The lush woman’s arms tighten around me when I lean into a curve around the river’s bend. I let the gravel swish before gunning the engine of the powerful bike out of the curve to let it go full throttle on the straightaway.
I feel the intake of her breath and the tension of her rapid heartbeat. Her beehive hair has fallen down, and her long blond hair must be streaming like a shimmering river of gold. I’m betting her cheeks are pink with windburn, and her skirts are flying up her thighs.
She’s quiet, for once, and it makes me feel even bigger—like she’s in awe of me.
Sure, she flirts with everyone, and she dates no one—at least no one in town. All bets are off with those city boys she went to college with, although I can’t picture our mountain princess with any of those latte-sipping soy boys with no hair on their soft chests.
My jaw tightens at how easily she got that flash mob going, including the dandy Evan Graves with the tiny patch of fuzz below his lower lip, double diamond earrings, and a shaved head pale as Casper’s.
I swerve my bike and brake, turning into the parking lot at a trailhead leading into the Tahoe National Forest.
Flipping down the kickstand, I turn off the bike and let the sounds of the forest seep into my veins. The river slides peacefully below us, and the steady chirps of night bugs keep time with my swishing pulse. Moonlight filters through the canopy of pines, firs, and cedars, and the pathway under our feet is spongy with fallen leaves.
I’m holding the woman’s hand, grasping her like a bird inside my paw, gentle and precious, firm, but not too hard. Out here, I don’t have to hide who I am.
Although, I can never be sure the many eyes in the forest aren’t watching. Hopefully friendly eyes, or at least protective eyes.
The woman walks close to me, and it feels so natural and right. We step through an archway of bushes and branches, trailing with vines, and emerge into an enclosed cathedral-like circle of tall, straight trees. The night sky is only visible by craning our faces upward.
A shiver vibrates through the woman’s bounteous body as she raises her smooth, pale face and glances up at the quarter moon. The bluish light bathes her with an otherworldly glow, and her sapphire-colored eyes shine with the reflected orbs. The pink lips open, and her tongue flickers on the edges. She’s more beautiful than the goddesses and fairies my brother Scott dreams about, and unlike the creatures he chases in the woods, the ones he can never find, this fair-haired maiden is solid and hot, real flesh and blood.
My hand cups her blushing cheek, and out here, in the primeval wilderness, I’m the only man to her womanhood.
Her arms encircle my neck. Her lips part, and her eyes glaze over, inviting the same way she does in my most private and wettest dreams.
I’ve waited all my life for this forbidden fruit, and I’m risking everything of hers to take it. But the energy thrumming through our bodies, the tension and heightened sensation of her riding against my back, and the yearning of my suppressed desire crash through my vaunted self-control.
The kiss is explosive.
Hungry.
Grasping.
Our mouths join, lock and key, a perfect fit.
Our lips meld together, alternately pursing and relaxing. Our tongues, loosened from their moorings, explore and dip, tasting and consuming. It’s sweet; it’s wet; it’s hot, and it’s dangerously delicious.
The pent-up friction between us combusts, flowering full bloom, and before I know it, our hands are busy sneaking underneath clothing. Her palms are flat against my chest and shoulders, moving down my torso, and my palms and fingers are filled with the pendulous globes of her breasts.
We stagger and lean against a thick tree trunk, barely coming up for air. I breathe in her short, hot moans, and she takes in the grinding of my thick boner against her fleshy hips.
But the night is too cold, and the pine needles too prickly, and I have to end this charade before it goes too far. I gird up my strength, even as I keep kissing her, not wanting to ever let go.
Yet, I have to. I promised to leave her be. I can’t let her know what I’d be tempted to do. I am, after all, the man to uphold the law.
“Todd,” she whispers when she feels me drawing back. “Don’t stop. This. Is. Us. This is what I’ve always wanted.”
Her words break the spell, and I step away from her abruptly—all my senses back intact. “This can’t go further, and you can’t let anyone know this happened.”
“Why?” The blue orbs of her eyes flash like the fury of a gas jet.
