Chapter 9 Tally
TALLY
Rust kicks off his muddy boots in the hallway. I do the same and seeing the size difference does something unholy to me.
My clit pulses as I face the truth I feverishly ignored while we tossed the body in the swamp and burned the drifter’s backpack:
I’m still attracted to my gorgeous ex-husband.
It’s not like I’m desperate or never around attractive guys. Quite the opposite. Lots of women would consider the male country stars I’ve worked with to be swoon-worthy. But most of these men haven’t seen a day of hard labor in their lives. They’re fake.
Rust is real.
He’s all rough working palms, honest smiles, and a healthy tan from fishing in the sun. And there’s something irresistible about how smoothly he handled this insane corpse situation.
He took control. He fixed my mess, calm and confidently. If this ever gets out, he’s gonna go to prison as my accomplice, but he still helped me. No questions asked, no hesitation.
He’s the type of man who can take care of a woman in the ‘flowers and candlelight dinner’ kinda way—and the ‘bury the body and help to hide the evidence’ kinda way.
Honestly, I can’t tell which one is sexier.
I think they call that a competence kink.
His looks are a bonus at this point. Speaking of which, his ass looks incredible in these dirty jeans. I spent the whole hike behind him to get a real good impression.
For a moment, temptation wins over my waning self-control.
I reach out. In the same breath, Rust turns around. He takes in my position, hunched over with my hand stretched out like a lobster claw, ready to pinch at perfect ass height.
I want to sink into the floor from embarrassment.
He chuckles, turning his back to me and patting himself on the rear. “Go on. That juicy piece of prime beef is all yours.”
“I was doing a yoga stretch, you fucking pervert!” I intend to sound outraged at the correct accusation. Really though, I’m just mad I got caught. And I don’t even do yoga!
To emphasize my point, I make claw motions with my hands. “It’s called the… the… ‘downward-facing lobster.’ My personal trainer says it’s great for your uh—shoulders! I got tense on the hike.”
“All y’all fancy folks with personal trainers. Guess I wouldn’t know a thing about that.” Rust shrugs, but that smug grin stays. “You wanna have a shower first?”
Thank fuck he dropped it and I don’t have to make up more idiotic poses. The only other I could come up with is the ‘cockroach that got hit by bugspray’ and I’m not keen to writhe around on the floor with my arms and legs flopping.
I hang my bag and my Stetson on the coat rack and pull out my phone. “You go ahead. I’ll grab another cup of coffee while I check for messages from Rex.”
At the mention of my manager that anger flares in Rust’s eyes. In a flash, it’s gone again. I oughta ask him what the fuck is going on, but this doesn’t seem like the right time to push the topic.
He walks up the creaking stairs. “Help yourself. What’s mine is yours.”
When I turn on my phone, I’m assaulted by dozens of missed calls. Rex is out of his mind with rage. That knowledge makes my stomach churn, but another part of me coils in satisfaction.
I like that he’s pissed and there ain’t a thing he can do about it. He got no idea where I am.
I make a face at my phone and bury it in my purse before I scurry into the kitchen to pour myself another coffee. Ignoring Rex is a lot easier when he’s just a notification bubble on a screen and my hunky ex-husband acts as a distraction.
We’re adults and my attraction to Rust shouldn’t be a big deal, but it feels like one.
Since the split, I forbid myself from thinking of him when I had sex or took care of myself with my favorite battery-powered lover. At the beginning, that was near impossible because he was my first. As the years passed, I trained myself well, fantasizing about men who only vaguely resembled him.
Now I can’t stop wondering what Rust hides under his clothes. It feels almost taboo.
But he made it clear that he enjoys me lusting after him. And for some hare-brained reason I can’t make sense of, he still thinks of me as his wife.
I silently repeat the word into my coffee.
Wife.
The letters taste like warm honey on my tongue, sweet and gentle. But there’s a bitter aftertaste, too. The taste of grief and what could’ve been. What should’ve been.
The sound of running water has me looking up at the ceiling.
With the corpse problem solved, I’m left to ponder less urgent issues. Mostly, why Rust acts like nothing bad happened between us and he didn’t break my heart so horribly it made me swear off serious relationships forever.
It seems we have the second bit in common.
A guy like him would have no trouble finding another wife to make a home with. He’s the blue-collar boyfriend every woman dreams of. Dependable, tall, rugged, and so strong, he carries dead bodies like a sack of feathers.
But he’s still single.
I chew on my lip, imagining him upstairs in the shower with suds dripping over his broad shoulders, trailing his biceps. I picture tiny rivers running across his chest, following the lines of his abs.
Like hypnotized, I put my cup down on the counter and walk out of the kitchen, toward the stairs. From muscle memory, I avoid the creaking steps. I’m not sure what I’m gonna do when I get upstairs. I don’t even know why I’m still in this house.
A low groan reaches my ears. “Tally…”
I freeze, one foot in the air.
Oh my God, he sounded in pain. Did he slip in the shower?
I take the last two steps at once and turn left at the landing, dashing for the bathroom. The door stands open a crack and my face flushes as I stop with my fingers on the handle.
I didn’t hear a crash, but he sounded off. What if he needs help?
I gather my courage and push the door open a bit further. Steamy air hits my face, smelling like pines and smoke. I spot Rust’s clothes in a pile on the floor… and a glimpse of him in the large mirror above the sink.
My pulse skips.
Oh, fuck. He’s not injured. He’s not in pain.
My ex-husband is touching himself while saying my name.
Rust’s large hand is wrapped around his thick, veiny shaft, stroking languidly. The tip of his impressive dick is engorged and reddened with lust.
I remember him being big. But this big?
My nipples tighten as I watch him fuck his own fist, the muscles in his forearm bunching with each twisting movement. His thumb swirls over his cockhead and he screws his eyes shut in pleasure.
This really ain’t the boy I loved and lost. But something about the line of his shoulders is still familiar. How thick foam catches on a patch of dark chest hair reminds me of the first time I laid my hand on his heart. A trickle slides down his stomach, following a thin happy trail.
Look away! I shout internally.
But I don’t.
I should avert my eyes.
But I can’t.
Fantasizing about my ex-husband’s juicy ass within the privacy of my own thoughts is one thing. It’s still inappropriate, but it ain’t hurting a soul.
What I’m doing right now is borderline criminal, though. Restraining order worthy. It’s also indescribably hot.
My panties grow damp as I give myself a mental countdown. On three, I’ll close the door and walk away like a good girl. This was a misunderstanding.
One.
Two.
Thr–
“Fuck, Tally… your pussy feels even better than I remember…” Rust moans and my brain short-circuits.