Sex Toys Are for Sinners
LAINEY
I want to cry.
I want to scream.
Scratch all that. I want to run away and hide under a rock for the remainder of my earthly days.
Colton, that motherfucker, is grinning at me like the Cheshire cat as my vibrator continues to, well, do its freaking job.
I debated whether I should bring it with me to Hartsville. I can get myself off just fine the old-fashioned way, but my dry spell has really started to take its toll, and my vibrator is the only thing that hits the proverbial and literal spot these days.
So into my suitcase it went. The orgasms are better, and they happen quicker too. Dale told me my apartment would be above a barn, so I figured quicker orgasms equals fewer chances of someone hearing or walking in on me.
I wish I could wring past me’s neck. How stupid could you be? Why take dumb chances when sex toys are involved? You know better.
The buzzing sound is enormous in the silence that stretches between Colton and me. Thank God Dean is already in Colton’s truck. I grab for the suitcase, but he snatches it out of my reach.
“Give it back.”
His gray eyes twinkle in the growing darkness. “So Miss Perfect has some secrets, huh?”
“Secrets? Hardly.” I force out a laugh. “Also, you gotta quit with the terrible nicknames. Now give me the suitcase, Colton.”
“Thing’s got stamina.”
“It does belong to me.” Oh Christ. Why?
Why do I always rise to the occasion when I’m with this man?
He chuckles, a deep, somehow different sound than I’m used to from him, and then he tosses the suitcase into my trunk. “I’m not gonna touch that one.”
“Thank God, because it’s mine.” I reach up and slam the trunk shut. I can feel the sweat gathering under my arms and on my forehead. “I am an adult, you know. I’m allowed to…um…okay, never mind.”
Despite the fact that the trunk is now closed, the buzzing is still audible. So audible, in fact, that I wonder if it’s making the car vibrate too.
“Sounds big.” Colton casually tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. The ones that fit him like a glove.
I resist the urge to commit an act of physical violence against him. “Please, please don’t make a joke about you being bigger.”
“You think that’s a line I’d cross?” He cocks an eyebrow.
Cocks.
I need to get laid already.
“You cross every other line you encounter, so yes.” I round the car while frantically digging into my purse for the keys.
My Jetta is cute, but she’s vintage. I still need to insert an actual key into an actual ignition to start her.
I dig. And sweat. And dig.
My eyes sting. I’m embarrassed and tired and brimming with conflicting feelings about this cowboy with the shitty attitude but very cute son.
Colton is clearly a good dad. Patient. Interested.
Invested in teaching Dean important things like how to clean up from a meal and talk to adults.
But Colton’s also kind of an asshole, and that doesn’t seem to be changing anytime soon.
Oh God, no. I can’t cry now. I have to wait until I’m safely ensconced in my new apartment to sob out this epic sense of mortification.
And exhaustion. And…bewilderment over how wonderful the Wallaces are compared to my own family.
Dinner was so fun. And easy. I love how everybody pitched in, even Grumpy Pants here.
Of course Colton helped. He knows exactly what to do with those big, calloused hands of his.
I find the keys. But then I whip them out so quickly that I drop them in the gravel.
“Shit.” My voice sounds thin. I hope Colton doesn’t pick up on the fact that I’m about to burst into tears.
The only thing he picks up, though, are my keys. I don’t know how he moved so fast, but then he’s straightening. He’s cupping my hand in his and placing the keys gently in my palm.
“There’s no rushing when you’re on the ranch.” His gaze is crystal clear and…almost kind. The soft timbre of his voice raises goose bumps on my arms. “Ain’t got nothing but time out here, yeah? So take your time, Dallas.”
I swallow, hard, willing the melting sensation low in my core to disappear. He’s still holding my hand.
Why this (admittedly small) act of kindness?
Why now?
And why does my chest feel like it’s about to crumple? It’s true that the men I’ve encountered recently haven’t treated me all that great. But the bar for how guys treat girls shouldn’t be in hell.
A gesture as small as this one shouldn’t give me pause.
“I’m always in a rush to get away from you,” I manage, because I don’t quite know what to do with this nice version of Colton.
Another velvety chuckle. “Bad things happen when you’re rushing. Trust me.”
He’s probably talking about horses and cows and hay and other cowboy-adjacent stuff. But part of me wonders if there’s something hidden inside those words. Something deeper.
Or maybe something just hornier.
You’re the horny one, honey.
He drops my hand at the same moment as I pull away.
“I’m following you,” I manage.
“Stay close.”
“Only because I have to.”
He smirks, and my heart tips over. “You don’t gotta like me to trust me. Word to the wise.”
Then he turns and heads for his truck.
It’s not okay, wondering what Colton and Dean talk about as we bump our way across the ranch.
It’s not okay to keep looking at Colton’s massive side mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face.
It’s definitely not okay to use my ill-behaved vibrator while thinking about Colton later that night.
But that’s exactly what I do.
Twice.
Word to the wise, you’re playing a dangerous game here.
I hate myself in the morning.
Mostly because I wake up thinking about how hard I came as I fantasized about my kinda-sorta-but-not-really boss/foreman/nemesis kissing my mouth, my thighs, my clit. The way his scruff would scrape my skin raw—the gentle way he’d say my name as I came on his tongue—
“Nope.” I throw off the covers, then laugh when I realize I’m quoting Colton.
Nope, nope, nope. That’s basically all he said last night.
What an asshole.
An angry, sometimes gentle, deliciously handsome asshole. Who just so happens to be a great dad, because his son is an absolute delight to hang out with.
Also. Colton saw—heard—my vibrator. And he was actually kinda nice about it when he could’ve been a real dick.
A renewed sense of shame sweeps through me.
I attempt to talk myself off the ledge. Everybody masturbates. You’re allowed to have orgasms.
But then it hits me that Colton probably only helped calm me down because he had a momentary lapse of consciousness hearing my, ahem, toy do its thing.
He’ll come to his senses. I have no doubt I’m in for some off-color innuendo whenever I see him next. Which hopefully will be never.
It’s dark outside the apartment’s steel windows. I set my alarm extra early today because I have a task list about a mile long.
I need to get some real work done today. I’ve been sketching out lots of ideas over the past couple weeks, and I want to do a little more research before I finalize the options for logo designs I’ll present down the road.
I also need to land on a new name for the ranch. I keep coming back to Ulysses and Uma. They’re clearly legendary characters. The founders of a dynasty that has prospered in a way that’d make any couple proud.
I also need to work on my cover letter. Come up with some ideas for what my next move will be. Do I pivot to marketing firms? Seek out some kind of start-up situation? Am I open to moving outside Texas if I wanted to consider, say, tech or fashion?
I’m not sure how I feel about moving. I’ve spent my entire life in the Lone Star State. While I’d love to experience something new, I know I’ll miss my family and my friends. And the food. And the glorious winters.
Speaking of my family, I have to call Mom. We haven’t talked since I arrived on the ranch. We’ve texted here and there, but we keep missing each other’s calls.
This is a long time for us not to catch up.
I need to throw a load of laundry into the brand-new washer I discovered behind a door in the kitchen. Get in some exercise too…
Ugh.
I throw on a sweatshirt and slippers and pad out to the kitchen. The Wallaces’ home was lovely. Cozy and comfortable and modest, just like Dale and Paige.
I think that’s why I was so surprised when I walked into this apartment last night.
It’s sexy, with soaring ceilings and walls paneled in light oak.
Huge windows overlook nearby pastures, and the kitchen and bathroom have clearly been renovated recently.
They shine with luxe brass finishes and plenty of marble.
In short, the apartment is a modern stunner with a decidedly rustic twist. I squealed when I first saw it last night, and I squeal again when I see an electric kettle on the counter. Beside it is a box of Earl Grey tea.
Colton Wallace may be a dick, but his parents are the kindest, most thoughtful hosts ever.
A ham and pimento cheese quiche awaits me in the fridge, complete with a note from Paige. I gushed over her homemade pimento cheese the other day, so she must’ve whipped me up something for this week’s breakfasts with that in mind.
My throat closes in. At my parents’ house, I feel like I’m always taking care of everyone else, including my mom. It’s really nice to be the one taken care of for a change.
I devour a huge wedge of quiche and sip my hot tea in peace at the café table in the kitchen.
Funny that I feel like I need to earn my keep at home, while at the Wallace Ranch—where I’m literally an employee—I don’t feel like I need to earn anything at all.
Hospitality, kindness, help—it’s all given freely.
My stomach knots in frustration. I love my parents, and I really do wish them well. But so much of our dynamic is fucked up. If I’m being honest, I’m enjoying being so far away from it all.
The mystery that is Colton notwithstanding.
My phone rings, shattering the silence. I glance at the screen and see that it’s Mom.
Speak of the devil.
Not like my mother is the devil by any means. But I was enjoying my absurdly delicious breakfast, and I always like to finish my tea before I start the day.