Chapter 8
Choices
Oliver
I shouldn’t have crossed that line with her.
But she just keeps prodding me over it.
And then she sends me a book that barrels past every boundary I thought existed.
She was forced to choose between the crude pirate captain and the cruel governor. Either meant a sorrowful life of hardship.
One, a beast of a man, rough and vile, built of broad shoulders and narrow hips. The other a rat-faced sadist who made no secret of the litany of women he’s broken behind him, or the scars they carry after his touch.
Yet as the vows leave her lips, she regrets the surly sailor as he hoists her bodily onto his back, a relic of cavemen, not gentlemen.
“How dare you!” she scoffs, beating his taut muscles helplessly.
“I’ll dare anything I like, wife,” he mutters.
It is in the dim light of his chambers that his true bearing is revealed.
A sharp knife severs the laces of her bodice as she begs him to stop.
His thick fingers tear the petticoat from her hips while he captures her clawing fingers in his mighty palm as he—
Jesus.
This is RQ’s favorite? One where the woman is forced?
It goes against everything I’ve ever been taught, or knew.
TheBigO: I’m on the boat. Is this the wildest book, or the one with your secret?
RacingQueen: Both.
I was afraid she was going to say that.
TheBigO: So you want to be taken?
RacingQueen: Only with someone I trust.
My palm runs over my face. Doesn’t that go against everything my mother told me?
That’s the reason I didn’t have sex with Paige for over a year before our divorce. She was clear about not wanting it.
And now this mystery woman is throwing everything I know into a tailspin.
Someone she trusts. So she’d know there’ll be a safety net.
RacingQueen: But now you see why it’s a secret.
TheBigO: Well, it’s safe with me.
RacingQueen: I know. Everything you like is the good guy winning. I think it says a lot about you. That’s what I need, a good guy who won’t take no for an answer.
My thoughts are in turmoil reading her last message.
How?
That’s never been me. The idea of pinning someone down as they whimper and beg me to stop isn’t appealing.
TheBigO: Then where’s the line? How far is too far?
RacingQueen: Keep reading. When she means it, he knows.
TheBigO: Oh, like a safeword.
I’ve never in my life needed to have one of those involved in the bedroom.
The longer I read, the harder my dick gets thinking of holding her down and ravaging her while her body rebels, crying out in reluctant ecstasy.
Forcing her to come as she tries to fight me, knowing it’s what she wants.
Fuck, what is RQ doing to me?
Holy shit. Roped to a bench?
TheBigO: This whole tie-down bit part of it?
RacingQueen: That’s so damn hot.
TheBigO: You’re killing me.
RacingQueen: I’m opening your eyes.
TheBigO: There’s not many women like you.
RacingQueen: So?
Would I be able to tell just by looking at her?
Does she run around in black leather and a spiked collar? Dark eyeliner and a pierced lip?
Maybe she’s the tan cardigan with thick glasses and a mousy bowl cut?
Either way, my cock is leaking in my jeans.
Every time I talk to her, I have more questions than answers.
I’m pretty sure I’m older than her, yet I’m the mild one.
TheBigO: It’s not a bad thing, just makes you…special.
RacingQueen: And picky.
TheBigO: That’s smart. I have a feeling that the wrong person would take advantage of you.
RacingQueen: Hence the singleness slowly crushing me into spinster hell.
That has me laughing. Tossing down my phone, I glance over to my half-packed duffel bag.
I really should be getting ready for my trip. Brent is going to be here tomorrow to pick up the horses since I have to be down at the permit office in the morning.
It’ll be nice to get away and just chase calves around a pen for a few days.
Hell, I might have to find my way down to one of the western bars in Pendleton to see if I can find someone to keep me warm in my camper while I’m there.
All this talking and reading about sex is fueling a need in me I’ve been trying to keep tamped down.
If only I knew where RQ was.
Nah. She’s going through a rough patch, so this might just be her way of blowing off steam.
Who knows, she might have twenty other people she chats with, giving them each a different story.
For some reason, it doesn’t feel like that though.
But I also don’t want the illusion to end.
Face to face gets messy. Expectations would be crushed.
I ain’t in bad shape for nearly hitting the halfway mark in my thirties, but I don’t have the six pack I had in high school anymore.
Certainly no match for some girl barely out of college.
With a long sigh, I manage to keep myself from going back to her texts so I can finish getting my clothes folded.
But it doesn’t stop me from thinking about her.
How long can we dance like this while still trying not to share personal information?
When the notification dings, I drop my shirt to the floor to scramble for the screen.
Like a damn dog with a bell.
RacingQueen: I have a horrible problem.
TheBigO: Yea? How can I help?
RacingQueen: It’s a big one.
TheBigO: Tell me.
RacingQueen: I want to think about you while I get off. If I send you just a body shot (no faces), will you send me one back?
Oh shit.