Page 24 of Driving Whiskey Wild
Last night Tinkerbell had been a whiny mess of love when Bullet had gotten home, and he’d taken her for a long walk around his property while he’d talked with Bones on the phone. “Tink is as much a part of my life as you are. She’s not going anywhere.”
“That’s no answer.”
Bullet laughed. Leave it to his younger brother to push him into a corner. But this was a corner Bullet was ready for. “Well, she doesn’t know it yet, but I plan to bring Fin home with me this afternoon to get to know Tink. I figure she’s not terrified of dogs, since she could sit in the truck and sing herself silly with Tink in the backseat. She’s scared, and if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s ease into something that scares you.”
“Good luck with that. Maybe you can go to joint therapy—you for your flashbacks and nightmares and Finlay for her fear of dogs.”
“Fuck you,” Bullet said with a smile. “If we’re going, then so are you.”
“For…?”
“Needing to go out of town to find a woman to fuck.” While Bullet had a host of women he could call day or night and never cared who knew it—until now—Bones was discreet with his extracurricular activities. As a well-respected oncologist, Bullet knew he had to be, but that didn’t stop him from giving his brother shit.
“Asshole.”
“Fuckhead.” Bullet glanced at the house again and saw Finlay walking through the living room. “I gotta run, bro. Love you.”
“Love you, too, B. And for what it’s worth, I really liked Finlay when I met her at the wedding, and Mom said the guys at the bar were crazy about her. Don’t fuck her over.”
“Jesus…”
“Just giving you shit. She said they couldn’t stop talking about how personable and upbeat she was—and about her cookies. I’m happy for you, bro. I’m heading out for a run.”
On his way up to the porch, Bullet caught another glimpse of Finlay through the living room window, causing a strange fluttery sensation in his chest. He froze, fearing the accident had opened a vortex that lumped Finlay into some sort of trigger. He drew in a deep breath as she set the vase of flowers he’d given her the night before on the end table. She turned, and their eyes caught, turning that flutter into brain-numbing desire. A wide smile lifted her cheeks, and she hurried toward the door, her short green dress whisking around her thighs. She wore a pair of tan lace-up ankle boots that did amazing things to her gorgeous legs. Damn, her smile and those legs would be the death of him.
The door flew open, and a gust of cinnamon seeped into his senses. His gut seized as he remembered what she’d said about cooking when she was upset. But her eyes danced with delight, and like the sun had finally come out, his whole world brightened.
“Hi,” she said joyfully.
“Hey there, lollipop.” He stepped forward as she went up on her toes, greeting him with an enthusiastic press of her lips.
She tasted like cinnamon and sugar and a whole lot of happiness, shattering any lingering worries he might have had about her turning tail and running scared. He wanted to forget their visit to the hospital, carry her into the bedroom, and spend the day worshipping her naked body.
As their lips parted, he said, “I might have to come over every morning.” He kissed her again, deeper this time, slow and sensual, until she exhaled one of those dreamy sighs he loved.
“Damn, I missed you.” When he realized what he’d said, he rose to his full height, startled by the revelation.
“I missed you, too,” she admitted with a shy smile. “But you were stuck in my head. I dreamed about you all night long.”
That made his insides all warm and mushy. “Naked, I hope.”
“No!” Her cheeks flushed. “Maybe.”
“Good.” He leaned closer and spoke directly into her ear. “Just be sure you dream big enough.”
“Bullet!” she whispered. “I think you like embarrassing me.”
“I think I’m going to like breaking you of that embarrassment even more.” She visibly shivered, and he handed her the flowers. “For you, beautiful.”
“More flowers? They’re gorgeous, thank you. Are these from your garden, too?”
“Mm-hm.”
“You’ll make your garden bare if you keep bringing me flowers from it.”
“I’m not worried.” He had more gardens than he could ever deplete. Gardening had been a form of therapy when he’d first returned home, plagued with severe PTSD.
He followed her into the kitchen, where she’d set a table for two, complete with fancy cloth napkins, wineglasses filled with ice water, and a pitcher of orange juice, and was glad to see the anxiousness of last night was gone. “Expecting company?”
“Only you,” she said with a quick tap on his chest. She leaned on the counter and went up on her toes to grab a vase from a top shelf in a cabinet, and he retrieved it for her.
His body brushed against hers, and the Finlay radar detector in his pants awoke with the alarm. Finlay inhaled, just faint enough to kick up his heart rate.
“You didn’t have to go to this much trouble,” he said as he set the vase on the counter.
She picked up the vase but didn’t face him. “It was no trouble. You had a hard night last night, and we got so close, I wanted to make you something special.”
He sensed her arousal in the shakiness of her voice. She turned on the sink and he reached around her, keeping her close as he filled the vase with water and placed the flowers in it. Then he lowered his mouth to her neck and kissed her tenderly, but tenderly wasn’t enough, and he opened his mouth so he could taste her better. She shuddered against him, and he turned her in his arms.
“You’re my something special.” He brushed his lips over hers and said, “You’re all the breakfast I need.”
“Bullet,” came out breathless.
He tipped her chin up and took her in another passionate kiss. His hips ground against her belly, and he knew she could feel how hard he was. “I don’t want you to think I came over expecting this.”
“This is good,” she whispered.
“Christ, Fins. I can’t get enough of you.” He lifted her up onto the counter and wedged himself between her legs, devouring her mouth like a starving refugee.
She pushed her hands into his hair and guided his mouth to her neck again. Man, he loved that she wasn’t too shy to show him what she liked. He sealed his mouth over her warm skin, sinking his teeth in just enough to earn a sinful sound that sizzled through him. He pulled her to the edge of the counter, aligning her center with the steel spike in his jeans, and pulsed his hips against her.
“Oh gosh, Bullet,” she pleaded, and pushed on the back of his hips, keeping their bodies flush.
“If you keep saying my name like that, I’m not going to stop, baby.” He pushed his hands along her outer thighs and clutched her ass through her silky panties. “You feel so damn good.”
“Bullet, Bullet, Bullet,” she whispered greedily.
His mouth crashed over hers, rough and demanding. She arched against him and…
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Bullet snapped upright at the sharp sound, his eyes darting around the kitchen.
“It’s the oven timer,” Finlay said quickly. “The Wicked Sticky Buns are ready.”
An unstoppable guttural noise rumbled in his throat. He grabbed her ass and said, “Trust me, babe. I can get your buns wicked sticky real fast.”
Finlay giggled as she wiggled off the counter, landing on her toes before him as the alarm sounded again.
“Your kisses make other parts of me sticky, too,” she said quietly as she slipped an oven mitt over her hand and bent to remove a tray from the oven.
Like metal to magnet, he splayed a hand on the back of her thigh, gathered her hair over one shoulder, and kissed her neck again. “Christ, lollipop. You’re killing me.”
She took off the oven mitt, still facing away from him, and steeled herself against the counter with both hands, leaning back against him with a sigh. He moved his hands to the front of her thighs, his fingers creeping up between her legs. The scent of warm cinnamon assaulted him, and he caught a glimpse of the freshly washed bowls and measuring cups drying beside the sink, bringing rise to a spear of guilt. She’d gone to all this trouble to make him something special, and all he could think about was eating her for breakfast.
He made room for that organ in his chest to lead the way, kissed her cheek, and said, “What can I do to help?”
AFTER A BREAKFAST filled with enough heat and stolen kisses to catch Finlay’s Wicked Sticky Buns on fire—and a quick covert panty change, which Finlay assumed she’d be doing a lot of with Bullet around—they headed over to the hospital to see how the Beckleys were doing. Bullet hauled her across the bench seat in his truck so she was sitting beside him, and no part of her wanted to put space between them. She’d been honest about missing him in the few hours they were apart, and it had shocked her as much as it had thrilled her.
She’d been so wired last night after Bullet left, she’d packaged up all the desserts she’d made into pretty boxes, including a gift for Mrs. Beckley, and she’d finally fallen into bed around three thirty. She had no idea how she’d fallen asleep, because her mind had been reeling from everything they’d done and all that they’d revealed to each other, but somehow she had, and she’d slept like a rock. Her dreams had been nothing short of erotic. One second Bullet was perched above her, his thick shaft moving inside her, and in the next she was on her knees with his cock in her mouth. Finlay had been intimate with only four men in her life. Sex had always been missionary, and pleasurable enough. Until that last guy, after Aaron died, when she hadn’t enjoyed it at all. She’d had oral sex before, but it was more out of duty than desire, and she hadn’t gotten on her knees for any man. With Bullet, she didn’t just desire him in her dreams, but she craved him in the light of day, when she was wide-awake and he was miles away. Even more so when he had his mouth on her.
