Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
“Don’t choose me. I’m not going anywhere. When you come home, this is where I’ll be, okay?” I can see the turmoil in her eyes, the way she’s trying to breathe through the pain and attempting to keep it together.
“Lane, I can’t ask for you to wait for me.” Her voice is muffled since her face is planted in my chest. My hands move to her lower back, sliding beneath the cotton fabric of her tank.
“And I can’t ask you to do the same thing either.” My hands travel up the sides of her spine, feeling the lack of clothing beneath the fabric. Goddamn, my cock should not be making its presence known at this time. I lost her hands on my shoulders when she decided to burrow into my chest. Now, her thumbs are hooked in the belt loops of my jeans, and the rest of her fingers are sliding up and down my lower abdomen.
“Make it go away. Make the pain go away. Please, Lane.” This won’t help her, not in the long run. It’s still gonna hurt like hell, but if this is the comfort she needs, well, I’m going to be the selfish ass and take what she’s giving to me so freely.
“You sure this is what you want?” Birdie’s head is tipped up, the redness in her eyes giving her away, yet she is holding it together.
“I’m sure.” I pull her shirt up, she lifts her arms, and I’m greeted with the sight of her bare tits, hard nipples, and pebbled flesh.
“That’s all I need to know.” I drop the shirt to the ground. She kicks off her boots, one after the other, and our hands work simultaneously on the button of my jeans. It’s not until I feel her hand wrap around my cock, slowly sliding up and down, moving at a slow and steady pace, that I know she’s not going to stop unless I make her. I move faster to remove my boots. There’s no fucking way she’s going to try and get me off when she hasn’t come at least twice.
“Lane, God. I need you.” I bend at the waist enough to grasp the back of her thighs, lift her off the ground, and carry her to the bed of my truck.
“You’re getting me, Birdie, all of me.” The tailgate is down, the back of her thighs meets the warm metal, and my hands work on her jean shorts as my mouth wraps around one of her berry-tipped nipples.
“Lane.” She arches her body up, begging for more. My hand skims down her abdomen, the tips of my fingers feeling her quiver. I suck harder, deeper, pulling on her nipple. My hand slides lower, cupping her smooth bare pussy, one finger dipping farther, feeling her wetness coating me. Goddamn, this woman is everything, and if this is my last taste of Birdie Robertson, I’m going to make it last. All fucking day.
1
LANE
Present Day
“Happy birthday!” I walk inside my parents’ house, unprepared for the celebration they’ve somehow managed to put together. After the day I’ve had, all I want is to go home, take a hot-as-fuck shower, drink a beer, and sleep the rest of the day away.
We’ve been moving cattle all week, rotating them to a different pasture. Of course, problems came along with it—more downed fencing, rotted poles, and then one of the guys who we just hired had an accident. None of us could predict that on his first day, Dale would slice the length of his forearm wide open. The fabric of his shirt did nothing to protect him when he let go of the barbwire too soon. After the nurse we have on the ranch took one look at his wound, she loaded him up in her car to head to the hospital. Dale ended up with thirty stitches and is out for the next week or so. This means we’ll be pulling double duty to get shit together, given we’re down a man. Happy fucking birthday to me.
“Thank you.” I plaster a smile on my face, one I’m sure is fake as fuck. This is as good as it’s gonna get. Honestly, if it weren’t for my dad laying it on thick about Mom making my favorite meal and dessert, I wouldn’t be here at all. So thick, he let me know exactly what she was making: jalapeño poppers with a few other appetizers, prime rib, twice-baked potatoes, and whatever vegetable she had on hand. As long as the vegetable Mom makes is smothered in garlic and butter, I’ll eat it. Then he followed up the schmoozing with another, adding brownies and vanilla ice cream to the mix. Mom knows I’m not a fan of cake or cupcakes. They’re too damn sweet, and the icing makes it ten times worse.