Chapter 10 Tally
TALLY
Hearing my name in his lust-drunk drawl again obliterates my ability to think clearly. Heat rushes through my veins, burning away every shred of decency I have left.
Damn, I don’t wanna be good anymore.
I want to be a bad girl.
I open my belt, pop the button of my jeans, tug down the zipper and push a hand into my soaked panties. My fingers slip on my slick flesh as I draw impatient circles over my swollen clit. Rust pumps his dick faster and I match the speed of his strokes.
I lose myself in the buzz of fire in my center. A moan falls from my lips and Rust’s eyes fly open, meeting mine in the mirror.
“You truly have no shame, Trouble.”
A red-hot blush assaults my cheeks and I yank my hand from my jeans like my pussy is lava. “That’s rich coming from the guy moaning his ex-wife’s name while he fucks his fist in the shower!”
Rust laughs and I realize he hasn’t stopped stroking himself. “Old habits die hard. Your name is still the only one I utter when I pretend I’m stretching your tight cunt with my cock.”
“You can’t—” I gasp for air. “You can’t just say things like that! We’re over. We’ve been over for more than a decade!”
“Are you tellin’ me to stop? If you really hate this so much, why were you touching yourself?”
I grit my teeth, feeling called out.
“Don’t be shy, Trouble. C’mere.”
The authority in his voice sends a shiver through me. I’ve never heard him sound like this before.
Rust raises his index and middle fingers, making a come-hither motion. I step into the bathroom like he’s tied a string around my waist, tugging me forward.
“That’s my good girl. Much better.”
Every word from his mouth is like a zap of lightning to my pussy.
He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and his eyes follow the curve of my body. My skin prickles like he’s undressing me with his gaze.
“Tell me the truth: did you touch that sweet cunt while you were watchin’ me?”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Yeah.”
“Show me what you did to yourself.”
Trembling with adrenaline, I slide my hand into my jeans and under my panties. I dip a finger into my entrance, rubbing the heel of my palm over my clit. With every shallow thrust, I’m rapidly approaching an orgasm.
Rust rumbles a chuckle. “I know that expression. You’re about to come.”
He remembers such an intimate detail about me?
Normally when I have sex, it feels like a performance, too. Always show my best side, make sure the light hits my body just right. Don’t be too loud. Or too quiet. Don’t demand too much. Don’t be too much.
But around Rust, the mask I wear for the world is transparent. He sees right through me. No, he sees me.
“Be honest,” I say breathlessly as I rub myself. “Are we making this weird?”
He laughs darkly. “Hate to break it to you, Trouble, but it doesn’t get any weirder than a morning hike to the swamp to toss in a corpse. I guess some folks would call it romantic.”
“How is that romantic?”
“Other couples have matching mugs. We have matching fingerprints on evidence. Now that’s real commitment and trust. Which leaves me with one question: what else do I have to do to get you in this shower with me so I can fuck your brains out?”
Covering up my crime is the most romantic thing a guy has ever done for me.
Forget flowers. Give me a man who’ll bury my dead bodies and invite me to have shower sex after.
“And I really don’t have to worry about a girlfriend coming home to surprise us?” I ask tentatively.
“I’m free as a bird. And I promise if you let me, I’m gonna be so fuckin’ good to you. I’ll make you come until those pretty, thick thighs shake and you’re a tremblin’ mess in my arms.”
My knees sag. Where does he get these banger lines? Is somebody feeding them to him through a waterproof headset?
His head tilts thoughtfully. “Do you expect me to ask if you got a boyfriend in the city?”
“No boyfriend. I actually gave up on dating long ago.”
He lets out a possessive growl that sends a shudder up my spine. “I won’t lie. If you allowed me to have my way with you, I wouldn’t give a damn if you had a man. I’d make you mine and fuck you so hard you’d walk bowlegged for a whole week.”
Holy—
I’m about to start fanning myself. No other guy has ever turned me on so much with just words.
“Strip for me,” Rust grits out.
Anxiety spears through me and it feels like the floor turns liquid.
I’m caught off balance by my sudden insecurity. It’s bright day and that means he’s gonna see everything. Every bump, dimple, stretch mark and bit of softness my body has to offer.
I’ve always been a bigger girl and I never wished I was smaller.
But in showbiz, people love to talk about a woman’s weight. It’s a favorite topic for the press and the costume designers Rex hires are constantly telling me that my outfits would look better a few sizes smaller.
Fuck them.
Frankly, I don’t give a damn what they say. I thought their words pearled off me like water off a duck’s back. But as I’m about to bare myself to the most painfully perfect man I’ve ever laid eyes on, I realize I’m not entirely bulletproof.
The last time Rust saw me naked was at twenty. Will he still like what he sees after twelve years apart?
I take a deep breath. Only one way to find out… and if he doesn’t appreciate me, he can go fuck himself, too. Literally.
My T-shirt goes first. Then my jeans and my socks. I free my heavy breasts from my bra and toss it on the heap of fabric. My fingers dance across my belly spilling over my panties. I hook them under the waistband, slipping out of the last piece of fabric.
Rust’s adoring eyes rake over my body as he strokes himself faster. “Fuck, you’ve only gotten more beautiful, Trouble.”
A ton of bricks lifts from my chest. Rust likes me as I am. He likes me how I like myself, too.
“Twirl for me, will ya?” he asks, tone thick with desire.
I do and he whistles. In a flash, he’s out of the shower and right in front of me, dripping wet. The soapy foam slides off his heaving chest, revealing a faded tattoo above his heart.
I let out a startled yelp.
It ain’t just any old tattoo. It spells ‘Tally’ with a little heart at the end of the letter ‘y’ and it looks like a more scribbled, unsteady version of my autograph signature.
Rust follows my gaze. With a chuckle, he takes my hand, pressing the tips of my shaking fingers to the spot where the ink marks his skin.
“Is that…?” I start, unable to finish the question.
“Your handwriting, yeah. From those autograph attempts you practiced in our songbook before our very first real gig in Nashville.”
I trace the lines. “This is an old tattoo.”
“Got it on the way back home after we separated. Guess all my cards are on the table now, huh? And you thought wearin’ our wedding ring was bold.”
I have a million questions. Why would he break up with me and then tattoo my name above his heart like an eternal mark of ownership?
“Would you rather go downstairs and talk about it? I can dry off,” he suggests gently.
No, I promised myself I wouldn’t ask. I promised myself it didn’t matter anymore and I don’t want to complicate things more than they already are.
My fingers caress the short hair on his chest. “Let’s not dredge up the past.”
“Then let me at least say this…” He leans his forehead against mine, drops of water trickling from his hair onto my face. “I was always proud to tell the world who stole my heart and that’s why I got the tattoo.”
My thoughts fade into smoke leaving only primal need behind, coiling around me like a serpent and swallowing me whole.
Our past be damned. Consequences be damned. I want this and I want him.
Fuck it.