Chapter 6
Margo
I know I should tell him this is my first time, but somehow, it’s like I can’t remember how to speak.
The tremor in my hand makes it impossible to open the top snap, but Bull solves that issue when he rolls onto his back and quickly removes his jeans, kicking off his boots in the process.
Instead of rolling back on top of me, he turns to his side and caresses my cheekbone with the back of his fingers.
It’s the little smile he has that finally helps me find my voice. “What are you thinking?”
“That Rage was right.” His words don’t make any sense to me, but I don’t question him again. “Why do you do that?”
“What?” I ask, trying to buy myself a second, still trying to piece together what he meant about rage and the follow-up question.
“Like earlier. You noticed that we got into a different truck, but you didn’t ask me about it.” His words don’t bring any great revelation. I was well aware that it wasn’t the same vehicle—which worked out better since I don’t think the state trooper would have walked away from the smell of lye.
He waits, watching me and while I do have a thousand questions for him, there’s no way of asking him without giving myself away.
That’s the funny thing about questions that most people don’t think about.
If I had asked about the lye, he would have been curious to know why I’m familiar with the smell.
And what was the point of asking? He obviously used the trip to Rapid City to switch vehicles with someone who needed lye, which tells me that they had a dead body, or two, that they didn’t feel comfortable driving up to the crematorium in Clear Creek.
There are to two truths staring me in the face right now and it doesn’t take me a second to decide which one to tackle.
This time, when I reach between Bull’s legs, my hand doesn’t shake.
While I enjoyed David’s ‘love bombing’ when he first started pursuing me, it’s Bull’s steady calm that is making me burn hot now.
I’m not misguided enough to think he’s a ‘good guy’, but I also don’t think he’d ever purposefully hurt me.
His velvety cock is pulsing and soon my heart is beating tempo with it as I stroke his length, I start to sit up, wanting to taste him—wanting to show him the only thing I actually know how to do, but he holds me down before shifting and opening my pants.
I wiggle enough so they’re halfway down my thighs by the time his body covers mine. Bull’s thick, veiny cock looks dark when he lays it along my abdomen, making me wonder just how much of it will fit inside of me.
A sigh escapes me when he draws back and begins to rub it up and down my slit.
“That’s it, baby, get me all nice and wet,” he groans, increasing the pressure on my clit as his shaft continues to rub against me, my hips rolling to meet him.
“Please,” I whimper. “I need you inside of me.”
He reaches backward, fishing a condom out of his back pocket and deftly rolls it over his dick.
With a single thrust, Bull drives into me; his eyes widening with surprise when he realizes the truth I couldn’t give voice to.
“You okay?” he asks, pausing to drop a kiss onto my lips.
I nod, reaching down to grab his hips and trying to pull him deeper, embarrassment and desire are swirling inside of me but my need for him outweighs everything.
One of his large hands grip my right thigh, trying to force it wider, but we’re both still half tangled in our jeans, so he uses his fingers to stretch my pussy and pushes further into me.
“Christ, woman,” he grunts out a few thrusts later, tracing my face with his finger again. “I’m trying to be gentle, but this pussy of yours isn’t making it easy.”
“Harder, Bull,” I demand, shaking my head side to side.
I’m so close that the light touch of his fingernail brushing along my clit sets me off.
“More. Harder.” I don’t even know what I’m saying when my words change from anything distinguishable to heavy moaning. It’s when I feel Bull’s hand fist in my hair and his lips pressed against mine, that I realize he’s coming with me.
Moments later, he’s rolled over, tugging me on top of him and it slowly occurs to me that my ass is sticking out and that I need to get cleaned up. When I try to pull back from him, he tightens his arm that’s around me.
“Stay.”
I wait, wondering if he’ll say anything else until I chance a glance up at him, looking to see if he had fallen asleep. Instead, his lips are spread apart in a surprisingly big smile.
“You gotta start telling me things, Go-Go,” he says and I blush, knowing that I should have warned him that it was my first time.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I tell him instead, and even though he makes a clicking noise with his mouth, his smile doesn’t fade.
“That door. Toss a towel out for me.”
When he releases me, I put my shirt back on and clumsily pull my pants up, just far enough so I can walk, but not so high that I get them dirty. Running a corner of a small towel under the faucet, I roll it up and toss it to where he’s still lying on the bed.
Once I’m cleaned up and washing my hands, I chance a glance in the mirror. Well, this’ll be a story worth telling when I’m in a nursing home.
I smile, thinking of the old game Dad and I would play after Mom left us. Back then, I was almost terrified of being less than perfect.
I’m sure some part of myself undoubtedly thought Dad would abandon me also.
It took him some time and patience, but one of our themes was Stories to Tell When We’re Seniors.
I’m sure he did several other things, it’s just that game of exchanging silly or crazy stories became a way for us to talk and me to know, that he didn’t care if I messed up.
The fact that it’s later than I told Granddad to expect me crosses my mind and I reach for my phone, frowning when I see that he never read my text message nor left me a voicemail.
Bull knocks on the door before cracking it open. “You alright?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I just realized my granddad never got back to me and that’s not like him. Would you mind running me home?”
Bull scratches the side of his face as he studies me, his eyes suddenly wary. Without another word, he tosses the towel onto the sink and turns on his heel. I slowly follow him, waiting silently as he puts his boots on.
Exhaling, I glance down at my phone again, wondering if I should risk waking Granddad up by calling the house. The roads still aren’t great, but at least today’s sun and slightly warmer temps helped clear them a bit.
Bull holds the door open for me, locking it behind us as I head downstairs, that’s when I decide to call the house.
When Granddad doesn’t pick up, I double time it to the SUV, really starting to get worried.
“You weren’t just looking for an excuse to leave, were you?” Bull asks me after starting up the vehicle and immediately hitting the seat warmers.
“No. He checks in a lot or minimally clicks ‘thumbs up’ if I text him,” I answer, trying to stop my leg from bouncing up and down.
“If I stop pouting, will you promise you’ll stay with me another night?”
I try, but it’s impossible to keep a straight face when he takes a shot at himself.
“Lucky for you, you’re cute, even when you’re pouting,” I answer, reaching out to tap him on the nose.
Thankfully, Bull keeps our conversation light for the remaining miles and it’s not long before he pulls up behind Granddad’s old Bronco that’s parked in the garage. The thing is, he never leaves the garage door open, and it is tonight.
I’m out of Bull’s SUV the moment he stops and I look back, surprised to hear him following me.
My heart is beating so erratically that I don’t waste time debating his presence, I head into the unlocked door that leads to the kitchen, via the mudroom, then pause, smiling when I hear the TV on.
The landline is next to Granddad’s bed, and he doesn’t always keep his cell phone with him, so that’s why he didn’t pick up, I try to tell myself.
“Oh, my God, you had me so worried,” I say, walking around his recliner. In my relief, it didn’t occur to me that he always turns on the lights as soon as it gets dark outside and even with the glow from the television, it’s well past that time.
A squelching sound has me looking down at my feet when Bull hits the three light switches near the entrance to the kitchen and that’s when I open my mouth to scream, except it’s like I’ve been muted.
I know Bull’s saying something, but I can’t register anything as images from earlier this year collide with what I’m seeing now.
Suddenly, I’m over Bull’s shoulder, with a final view of my grandfather’s now misshapen head and a bloodied bronze statue he kept on the mantel, lying on the floor behind his chair.
“Yeah, it’s definitely Tucker. You’re going to want your best crime scene people out here,” Bull’s voice is calm as he talks to someone.
He’s seated me on the island in the kitchen and is motioning at me to stay still.
“Look, the room was dark, and his granddaughter walked into the blood. I had to pick her up, but I don’t think I stepped into it… Okay…yeah, hold on. Margo, babe?”
He waits until my eyes focus on his before he continues. “I’ve got the county sheriff on the phone, he wants us to wrap up your boots. Where can I find plastic wrap or clean bags?”
Without thinking, I start to jump down to get the gallon bags from the pantry, but he easily holds me in place.
“Tell me. He doesn’t want you to…” Instead of finishing his sentence, Bull waves his hand in the direction of my boots and that’s when I look down, seeing bright crimson shade around the edges of my well broken-in gray boots.
“Pantry,” I gasp out and point to the door beyond the fridge as my tears start to fall. I close my eyes, picturing the neatly laid out shelves in the small room. “Ziploc bags are on the left, third shelf from the bottom.”
“Don’t move, okay? Are you with me?” he softly asks me, holding his cell against his cut to muffle it.