Caleb & Madison
Madison
By the time the bonfire starts winding down, my feet hurt, my hair smells like sugar and smoke, and the “Hot Cocoa & Cookie Booth” sign is hanging at a slightly defeated angle.
In other words: success.
“Ma’am,” a familiar voice drawls from behind me. “I’m gonna have to issue you a citation.”
I don’t even have to turn around. “For what, Sheriff Burton?”
“For distracting me by looking good enough to eat.”
I laugh, wiping flour from my hands before spinning to face him. My husband is staring straight at my ass. He looks unfairly good in uniform—badge gleaming under the string lights, Stetson tilted low, smile just shy of sinful. “Don’t you have actual criminals to harass?”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You telling me cookie theft isn’t a serious offense?”
“Are you stealing my cookies?”
He leans in, runs his nose up my throat.
I lean into him because when it comes to this man, I am helpless.
“Trouble, I’m the only one allowed to touch your cookies.” He swipes one from the counter, bites it, and hums appreciatively. “Oatmeal chocolate chip with a hint of cinnamon. You trying to seduce the whole damn town?”
“Just one lawman.”
His eyes darken. “Mission accomplished.”
Before I can sass back, a teenager runs past, laughing and yelling, “Sheriff! Someone put a Santa hat on your patrol truck!”
Caleb sighs. “Johnny.”
“Probably,” I say. “But you can’t arrest him. He’s family.”
“I could make an exception.”
“You won’t.”
He leans in, stealing another cookie and a kiss that tastes like sugar and mischief. “You know me too well.”
“I should. I married you.”
“Best decision you ever made.”
A hush falls over the crowd then—the kind that ripples outward when something big is about to happen. Quinn steps up to the microphone, announcing the final event of the night: the lighting of the farm’s biggest tree.
Caleb and I slip out from behind the booth, finding a spot at the edge of the crowd. The whole place glows—bonfire crackling, music fading, kids bundled in hats too big for their heads. The tree towers over it all, wrapped in miles of lights.
When it flickers to life, gold and white bursting across the branches, the crowd gasps.
“Wow,” I breathe.
Caleb slides his arm around my waist. “Not bad.”
I elbow him lightly. “Understatement of the year.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “You did good, Trouble. This whole thing. You and the others.”
“We did good,” I correct softly. “The Crawfords and the Burtons. All of us. We make a pretty good team.”
A handful of hours later and we’re done for the night and finally home.
Every light out, every Crawford gone, every goat accounted for. I’ve already showered and am snuggled into our bed, wearing one of Caleb’s old t-shirts. It drives him crazy when I wear his clothes.
There it is—Rory’s text, complete with a blurry photo of my husband looking way too comfortable on that step stool at the cocoa station, surrounded by hysterical siblings. The caption reads:
POSEIDON’S SHERIFF: COMING TO A STAGE NEAR YOU.
I snort laugh. Then the bedroom door opens and Caleb steps in, freshly showered, hair damp, towel wrapped around his waist. A droplet of water slides down his perfect chest and disappears into his treasure trail. My mouth waters.
“Something funny, darlin’?” he asks, voice low and lazy as molasses.
I tilt the phone toward him. “You’ve officially gone viral. Rory’s already threatening to make t-shirts.”
He groans, rubbing the back of his neck. “Remind me why I let y’all talk me into family business ventures? Every time we gather, my dignity takes another hit.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, tossing my phone aside and stretching out on the bed. “You seemed to handle yourself just fine tonight.” I bite down on my lip. “Does it bother you that everyone knows now?”
“No. I’m not ashamed of what I did. It was a legitimate job, and it taught me some good moves.” He does a little pelvic thrust movement.
“Are you offering me a show? Because you’ve clearly got experience entertaining a crowd.”
“Mm.” His grin turns wicked. “Crowd work’s easy. It’s private shows that take skill.”
“Well then,” I purr, leaning up on my elbows, “looks like you’ve got an audience of one. But I can guarantee that I’m your biggest fan.”
He laughs, low and deep, shaking his head. “You’re something else, Trouble, you know that?”
“Want me to put on some music for you?” I grab my phone and click the screen, and The Weather Girls, “It’s Raining Men” comes out of my speaker.
That makes him laugh.
Good gravy, he’s handsome when he smiles.
But it gets him moving. He crosses the room slow—deliberate—his bare feet whispering over the rug until he’s standing at the foot of the bed, all smirk and seduction.
“You want a show, huh?” he asks.
“I want to know what the college girls in Austin were paying for.”
He chuckles. “Normally, I would have started with more clothes on than a towel.”
“You can take it off. I don’t mind,” I say.
“Patience, my love. I need to wiggle my assets a bit more before showing you the goods.”
I abandon my phone and move to the end of the bed, sitting closer to where he’s gyrating. He really is quite good at it.
The next few moments are equal parts ridiculous and hot as sin—Caleb, the serious, stoic sheriff, giving me a slow, teasing reenactment of his long-retired “college hustle.” The music is low, and his movements are definitely doing their job. I am ready to devour him.
He stops at the foot of the bed, leans forward, and braces his hands on either side of me and murmurs, “You satisfied, darlin’?”
“Not yet. I do have one question, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Is that a nightstick in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
He looks down at the way his erection is tenting his towel. “Definitely happy to see you. You know how sexy you look wearing my shirts.”
I fall to the floor in front of him, glancing up at his handsome face while I tug on the towel. The white terry cloth falls to the floor behind him.
I wrap my hand around his hard length, and he hisses through his teeth.
“Madison,” he groans my name.
I lean forward and suck his tip into my mouth.
“Goddamn it, woman.”
I hum around his length as I get to work. I love the earthy scent of him here, the weight of his cock against my tongue. He slides his fingers into my hair, not guiding, just anchoring.
“Did watching me dance turn you on? Make your pussy wet?”
I nod and slide my tongue against his frenulum, knowing how sensitive it is.
“You keep doing that, and you’re going to make me come down your pretty throat. Is that what you want?”
I nod again, sucking hard and hollowing my cheeks.
“Oh fuck, Madison, that’s so good. I’m so close.”
I feel like I’m close too, and I haven’t even touched myself. So I take the opportunity to slide my hand into my panties. My pussy is soaked.
“Are you going to make yourself come with me?” he asks.
I hum against him, sucking hard, while rubbing at my clit. It doesn’t take me long to get myself there, and when my orgasm washes over me, my husband comes. I drink him down as my own pleasure subsides.
Caleb pulls me to standing and holds me against him. “I think I’m going to need to clean up the mess you made in your panties. With my tongue.”
“I will present no arguments to that.”
“That might have been the greatest blow job of all time.”
“You’ve got serious dance moves. It made me thirsty for you.” I loop my arms around his neck and smile up at him. “Maybe you missed your calling.”
He kisses me, slow and thorough. “Nah,” he whispers against my lips. “Loving you is my only calling.”
***
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