Gentry slaps his hand against the cabinet next to my head and bites down on my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. I groan and bring my hand around to the front of jeans, but before I have a chance to unbutton them, Gentry takes a sharp step back. It’s like a bucket of ice water has been dumped on us, and I have whiplash from the sudden shift.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, confusion clouding my mind.
Gentry’s fingers brush his lips, and he gazes down at them, like he’s looking for answers. “I have to go,” he grunts, taking another step back before spinning on his heel.
“What?” I huff and jump down from the counter. “Right now?”
He doesn’t bother answering me. He just leaves. And I’m left standing in this empty studio, with swollen lips and a stiff dick.
What the fuck just happened?
Sixteen
Gentry
It’s too damn loud in here.
Too loud, too crowded, and the drinks are overpriced.
I should be at home, relaxing in my recliner with a glass of bourbon that I don’t have to pay an absurd amount of money for, but that’s not the case. My nephew, August’s, birthday was earlier this week, and the boys decided to take him out tonight to celebrate at The Neon Buckle, this god-awful country bar that opened on Main last year. I’d say this place was our mayor’s shitty attempt at making Wolf Creek “hip” again, but who the hell knows.
What I do know is the pink and blue neon lights give me a headache, it reeks of spilled whiskey, cheap cologne, and sweat, and most of the people here look like they don’t know the first thing about being country or getting their hands dirty. Their hats are too clean, their trucks too, and they probably got hands as soft as a baby’s bottom.
I only came because August practically begged me to, and because my sons have made it a point to express their concernthat I never go do anythingfunthat doesn’t involve the ranch. And apparently with age, I’ve lost the ability to say no to them. So, here I am, at a bar on a Friday night, surrounded by people trying to forget who they are for a few hours. But it’ll be fine. In a couple of hours, I can go home and climb into bed.
I can make it that long. I can have a drink, maybe two, watch a bunch of strangers—or maybe even the fools I came with—make idiots of themselves on the dance floor or the mechanical bull, and ease my kids’ worries. I can do that for them.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
But it’s a little hard whenhe’shere, and for the life of me, I can’t seem to focus on anything else. Remington’s presence shines brighter than a Texas summer sun, and no matter how many times I tell myself to look away—lookanywhereother than him—I can’t. My gaze always finds its way back.
As far as I know, he hasn’t caught me staring at him yet, but that’s probably because he’s been playing pool with August, his boyfriend, Tripp, and Ash for the last half an hour. He’s occupied, and how I wish I could be too.
The navy-blue Wolf Creek Fire Department shirt he’s wearing clings to his biceps like it was painted on, and every time he leans over the pool table to take a shot, I can’t help but notice how round and plump his ass looks in those jeans. How fucking incredible it would feel to grip that ass while he straddled me.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I shouldn’t notice his ass or his muscles, and I certainly shouldn’t fantasize about him on top of me. Not only is he nineteen years younger, but he’s also my son’s best friend. It’s sick. And yet, that doesn’t stop the images from flashing through my mind, and it didn’t stop me from making out with him the other night at the studio.
My body heats at the memory of his lips on mine.
I wish I could say I walked out of there and forgot all about it, but that would be a bald-faced lie. I’ve thought about it every single day since. In fact, it’sallI can think of.
First thing in the morning, with my hand wrapped around my morning wood. In the pasture, surrounded by dozens of cattle, when I should be focused on my job. Standing in front of my kids. At night, when I’m all alone. In bed. Hell, I even dreamt about it last night.
Not tonight, though. I can’t let myself think about it tonight, when he’s here, andthey’rehere. I can’t.
Wrapping my hand tighter around the bourbon I’ve been nursing, I stare straight ahead. I watch as a woman teaches—or attempts to teach—a man who barely looks old enough to be in this bar to dance to the song booming through the speakers. It holds my attention for a while. But it’s like my body is drawn to him now. It knows he’s there, and it’s impossible to resist.
Do not look at him. Don’t you fucking do it. You’re a grown man, one with restraint and self-control.
But then Remington laughs—warm, low, and familiar—and my eyes slide over to him anyway. Like they have a mind of their own.
I think it’s worse here than if I were to run into him on the ranch. The noise, the press of bodies, the heat and sweat in the air. My brain keeps going back to the other night, to how quiet it was compared to this. How close he stood, and the way his hands slid over mine. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the magnetic pull that took over me and had me spinning around in my chair to face him. I can feel the kiss too. Steady, passionate. I’ve never been kissed like that. I can still taste his tongue in my mouth as he fed it to me, and how sure he was when he did it.
Taking a long pull from my drink, I tell myself it meant nothing.
Even if I did come in my pants like a teenage boy.
