Chapter Seven
~ Floyd ~
I spent the better part of an hour prepping the house for a guest no one would ever know about. I vacuumed the runner twice, lined up the shoes in the entryway so the toes pointed in militant formation, and wiped down every horizontal surface in the living room, then did it again.
It was pointless, but I did it anyway.
Midnight wasn’t my hour. By midnight my body was programmed for three fingers of bourbon and the predictable ache of insomnia. Tonight, I’d skipped the bourbon and replaced the ache with something worse: expectation. My hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting.
I checked the lock on the front door three times, then the window. At 12:01, I checked the time on my phone, the oven, the wall clock, and the digital on the microwave, all in the span of sixty seconds. None of them matched.
Out front, the street was a deep black. Every house along the block was dark except for the McElroys two doors down, who left their porch light on year-round to warn away raccoons or Satan or, more likely, their own daughter’s boyfriends.
I killed my own porch lamp—don’t be an amateur—and watched the glass for any sign of headlights.
At 12:04, my phone buzzed. I checked it so fast I almost dropped it.
Here.
I exhaled. My palms were sweating.
The knock came exactly three seconds after, low and deliberate, a rhythm that made me think of Morse code. Or a confession. I opened the door on a crack, then all the way.
Ransom stood on the mat in a black henley and jeans, nothing else, hair still wet from the shower.
Water beaded on his jawline and made his neck look carved from marble.
His eyes were clear and focused, locked on me like I was the last thing standing between him and whatever he’d come for.
I expected sarcasm or a cutting joke, but all I got was silence.
He stepped inside, slow and sure, and pushed the door shut behind him. He didn’t even look at the house. All that intensity was for me alone.
I felt the urge to say something—anything—to regain footing, but I couldn’t. He was taller, broader, and, right now, hungrier. His hands flexed, restless at his sides, like he was deciding whether to shake me or hit me or just fuck me right there against the entryway wall.
“You good?” I managed, but my voice came out wrecked.
He ignored the question. “Been waiting all night.” His voice was lower than I remembered. “You gonna make me beg?”
It wasn’t a question. He moved in, closing the space, then set his palms on either side of my face and kissed me so hard my knees buckled. The world whited out. He tasted like toothpaste and iron and the first good thing I’d had all week.
I should have stopped him, should have shoved him back and told him to slow down, but I didn’t want to.
Not even a little. I let him take the lead, let his tongue push into my mouth and his hands bracket my jaw with enough force to make it ache.
His thumbs pressed into my beard, angling my face the way he wanted.
He pulled away just long enough to breathe. “Bedroom. Now.”
I didn’t argue. He could have told me to strip naked and crawl to the kitchen and I probably would have.
I led him down the hall, past the framed diplomas and the landscape photos Vivian hung just to remind me how good she was at being normal. With every step I was aware of him behind me—his breath on my neck, the heat from his chest, the sound of his boots on the runner.
Inside the bedroom, I flipped the lamp on low. He didn’t bother with the light. He took two steps, pressed me up against the door, and kissed me again, slower this time. More deliberate.
His hands ran down my arms, then up, fingers squeezing my biceps like he was cataloging the way I felt under his grip. His body pinned me, all muscle and confidence, and there was nothing left in my head, but the urge to be crushed by it.
I’d never been overpowered by anyone, not since the army. Even then, I’d made sure I could break any man who tried it. But Ransom wasn’t trying to humiliate or punish. He just wanted to own the moment. And, fuck, I wanted to give it to him.
He broke the kiss and bit down on my lower lip, then let go, smiling in a way that said he knew exactly what he was doing to me. “Still want to stop?” he asked, and for the first time I realized my hands were clutching his shirt so hard the knuckles had gone white.
“No,” I said, and meant it.
He put his mouth right to my ear. “Good.”
His hand found the small of my back, pulled me in tight. I could feel his cock, thick and hot through both our jeans, grinding up against my thigh. He wanted me to know it. The rawness of it nearly made me lose my footing.
He worked the buttons on my shirt, quick but not clumsy, then slid his hands under and ran his palms over my chest, tracing the line of muscle, the ridges of old scars. He found my nipple, pinched it once, and I swore I felt it in my toes.
“Never thought you’d let anyone do this to you, Sheriff,” he said, smirk clear in his voice.
I wasn’t sure I had. But I wasn’t about to ask him to stop.
He pressed me back until the edge of the bed hit the back of my knees. With one hand, he shoved my shirt off my shoulders and onto the floor. He took a step back to look at me, his eyes dark and satisfied, like he’d found something rare and maybe a little dangerous.
Then he said, “Get on the bed.”
I did. I lay back, not bothering with the covers, and watched as he pulled his own shirt over his head. The sight of his tattoos—black and swirling over one bicep, crawling up the side of his ribs—made me swallow hard.
He was hard everywhere, not just his cock, which was straining against the fly of his jeans. His hands shook a little as he undid the button, then the zipper.
He climbed on top, straddling my hips, and went right for my neck with his mouth. He bit, sucked, marked me like he wanted everyone to know who I belonged to, even if no one would ever see. I let my hands roam over his back, digging into the muscle, pulling him down.
He kissed down my chest, stopping to mouth each nipple, licking and biting until I was writhing underneath him. I was so fucking hard I thought I’d tear through my own skin.
He undid my pants, yanked them off, then ran his hands up my thighs, spreading my legs apart with a firm, slow pressure. I felt exposed, vulnerable, but so fucking alive I couldn’t think straight.
He knelt between my legs, hands on my knees, eyes never leaving mine. He was waiting for something—a sign, a word, anything.
I gave him a nod, the only thing I could manage.
He grinned. “Good.”
The last thing I remembered before his mouth closed over the head of my cock was thinking that I would never get enough of this. Of him.
The rest was just sensation. His tongue, hot and wet, tracing the underside of my shaft. The way he took me deep, not flinching, just hungry for more. His hands gripping my hips so tight I knew there’d be marks tomorrow.
He worked me over with the precision of a man who’d practiced, who knew what he was doing and wanted to leave me a wreck.
He sucked, licked, teased, until my vision started to go blurry.
I wanted to hold back, but it was useless.
He knew just when to slow down, just when to squeeze at the base, just when to look up and catch my eyes before swallowing me whole.
I came so hard I saw stars. He didn’t stop, just swallowed, then licked me clean, letting his mouth linger until I was shivering from oversensitivity.
He crawled up the bed, wiped his mouth, and lay beside me, both of us panting. For a long time, neither of us said anything.
When my heart finally slowed, I rolled toward him, pressing my forehead to his shoulder. “You planned that,” I muttered.
He laughed, low and rough. “I’ve had plans for you for years.”
We lay there, not touching but close enough to feel each other’s heat. I listened to his breathing, the steady in and out, and for once I let my mind go blank.
I could have stayed like that forever.
But he wasn’t done with me yet.
My body felt like it had been thrown off a building and then caught midair, every nerve in freefall. Ransom lay on his side, the weight of his arm warm against my chest, but his eyes were wide open. Awake. Watching me.
He didn’t move for a full minute. Just let me sweat, let my heart slow, let me believe maybe this was the end of the experiment and we could both go back to pretending in the morning.
But I knew better. Every time I looked at him, he had that same goddamn expression—something between hunger and curiosity, like he was dissecting me with his gaze.
When he did move, it was all at once: he rolled up and straddled me again, pinning my wrists to the bed, his cock hard and shiny with precum. He held me like that, letting the weight of him press me into the mattress, and I felt the aftershocks in my muscles, the trembling in my thighs.
“You think I’m gonna let you tap out after one round?” he murmured, breath hot in my ear. “Not a chance.”
I swallowed, mouth dry. “I don’t recall asking for a rematch.”
He bit my jaw, just enough to leave a mark. “No, but you want one.”
I wanted to argue, but the truth was leaking out of every pore. My cock was already stirring again, pressed awkwardly between us. He felt it, too, and grinned, then ground down slow and mean until I couldn’t do anything but buck up and try not to groan.
He pinned my arms above my head with one hand—strong, calloused, inescapable.
The other hand mapped a slow trail down my sternum, then across my ribs, then back up to my chest. He used the pad of his thumb to circle my nipple, slow at first, then faster, until I was arching up into the touch without even thinking.
“You like that, don’t you, Sheriff?” he said, voice pure smoke. He put more pressure on the nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger until the sensation burned all the way down my spine.