Chapter 16
Bunny
“Your books are a hot mess,” I defeatedly sigh as I lean back in the squeaky office chair.
“Then it looks like you have that in common,” Nolan jeers in return from where he’s leaning in the tiny, back-office doorway.
“It’s like you don’t enjoy getting your dick touched, Mutt.”
“It’s like I know how to touch it myself, Rabbit.” He gives his khaki work pants covered crotch a rough grip.
Not giggling is not possible.
Not encouraging his pigheaded bullshit is also not possible.
What can I say?
I like it.
I like that he’s undeniably gruff.
Almost unhealthily blunt.
Unapologetically comfortable with the man that he is.
And most importantly?
That he doesn’t ask me to be someone I’m not.
Other than a runner, of course.
But that’s not exactly something I can just give up or magically stop being, especially with my instincts raging war against one another. And it’s not an easy feat to get my brain to ceasefire. Both side’s sets of numbers hold merit.
Statistically speaking, flight – aka being on the constant move around the country – has led to me still being alive. Fleeing every time I swear I can feel that monster breathing in my direction has kept me from returning to his clutches, from needing to search my clothes for tracking devices, from having to worry if this bottle of water or that cup of tea has been laced with something to keep me sluggish and submissive and silent during the long days and even longer nights.
Flight works.
The question is for how much longer.
Is continuously hightailing it like I’m part of the Fast and Furious crew – damn Kipp for his obsession with those movies – really as sustainable as I make it out to be?
The data says no.
That each time I bolt, I significantly decrease my chance of living another year.
Six months.
Four days…
However, on the other side of the spreadsheet, staying put – or what the men who call me theirs refer to as fighting – has high value.
For one, I’m not alone anymore. And history has left behind many examples of how strength can be found in numbers. Right here, right now, Brad would not only be outmanned, he’d be outgunned and outwitted too.
This town isn’t one he owns.
These people don’t belong to him.
They belong to each other.
Their loyalty is to their small, close-knit population above everything else.
Kipp and Nolan are part of that population.
Community.
And since my stranded ass has been here, they’ve gone to extreme lengths to fuse me into their fold even if it isn’t always an entirely conscious effort.
Suzie insists on talking to me exclusively about quirks of dog breeds after I told her that Basenji’s don’t bark so much as make an air horn siren sound when alerting their owner to danger. I did leave out the deets about why I know that shit. Adding in my neighbor in Florida had a dog like that until it alerted me to Brad being outside my window too many nights didn’t seem like the best idea. She was so shook up by the bunny story, I couldn’t take away her reason for living by revealing what he did to Tonto.
Besides her, Wendy Jo adores that I’m always willing to be her pie guineapig anytime we swing by to pick up a late breakfast or dessert for the night, and Posie who we always pass by coming or going from The Dig Site goes out of her way to show me something new she found in the store that she thinks would match an item I’ve already got.
Not sure if she’s just anxious for a gal pal or using any excuse she can to be around Kipp.
Needless to say, fighting versus leaving has never looked so possible.
Plausible.
Felt so fucking real.
I don’t wanna lose that.
Them.
Tabbing out of their accounting program where I have so much more to still fix, I light heartedly begin, “Speaking of other people who don’t wanna touch you-”
“That’s not true.”
“-where is The Kid?” My mirth-filled gaze locks onto his. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping him? Isn’t that why you decided to stick around on this gray and cloudy Tuesday morning instead of pulling people out of the literal mud?”
“I’ll have you know I am helping.”
“Annoying me isn’t helping.”
“That’s not true, either.”
He’s thrown a sarcastic smirk that’s followed by me tucking away the pen I was using to write on my wrist into my messy bun beside my Mickey Mouse one.
“It’s lunch,” Nolan casually informs, hands finding their way to his pockets. “When we’re both in the shop, we take it together.”
“Yet I only see you.”
“That’s because he’s losing the wrap up convo battle to November.”
“It’s October.”
“John November.” He doesn’t bother hiding his crooked grin. “The local postman.”
“Does that make him more important than the mailman?”
“He is the mailman. But he prefers to be called a postman. Believes it holds more dignity.” The scrunching of my nose in silent objection gets a small chuckle. “Mind your elders, Rabbit.”
“I think you’d look good in a shock collar, Mutt.”
He lets his teeth sink into his bottom lip on a low grumble.
“You’re thinking about me in a collar now, aren’t you?”
“Collar, yes. Leash, no.”
Amusement tilts my grin at the same time I rise to my feet. “I’ll wear one if you do.”
“Fuck no.”
“Guess we’re on the same page then.”
Shooting him a wink as I pass by receives me the playful pop to the ass, I knew it would.
Pretty sure the two of them are the reason I’m suddenly so handsy.
I honestly can’t remember a time when I wanted to have and give one area so much attention.
Seriously.
No one in this relationship can bend over or stroll by too slow without someone else helping themselves to a handful.
In a sick and twisted way, it’s becoming our love language.
Except not love.
Because we’re not in love.
Because no one falls in love that fast even when all of their instincts are insisting, they already have.
That math just doesn’t math there.
And I would know.
I’m the one with a master’s degree in accounting.
During the crossing of the short distance from their small corner space to the counter where Kipp is anxiously trying to end a conversation with Mr. November, the tips of two of Nolan’s fingers, find mine to protectively curl around in an effort to wordlessly remind me that there’s never a moment I have to worry about being safe again.
Fuck, if it were only that simple.
God knows I want it to be.
Our arrival at Kipp’s side receives a small onceover that results in a sappy grin over the sight of us connected.
It’s nauseatingly adorable how much he likes seeing us together.
To my surprise, jealousy is nowhere to be found when he’s not included in a moment or gesture.
Maybe because we all have this three fuckateers mindset of one for all and all for one?
Maybe because he knows he can have either of us at the same snap of a finger no questions asked?
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because he knows our relationship with one another isn’t where that ugly emotion belongs.
Now, when we’re watching a movie and I make the mistake of mentioning how hot I think some actor is?
Well, that’s a whole other story.
Heaven forbid he’s tall, dark haired, and older.
I might as well just throw the flat screen off the balcony porch to never be used again at that point.
“I’m tellin’ you,” the brunette, late middle-aged man who has at least a good ten years on Nolan, wags his credit card in Kipp’s direction, “a storm’s a comin’.”
“You say that every time you see gray clouds for too long,” Kipp warmly argues. “You’ve been sayin’ the same shit since I was a kid.”
“You technically are still a kid,” Nolan needles with a smirk.
Kipp flashes him his middle finger, yet it doesn’t deter Mr. November from continuing, “The winds changed. It’s in the air.” He begins to tuck the rectangle object back into his wallet. “I’d know. I’m out in it every day.” His attention shifting completely downward precedes his warning. “Bloody gas stations…”
The painting of my name.
“…lost tourists…”
The braggy so-called bounty hunter.
“…and now a missing diner waitress a few towns over?”
Oh, fuck.
Another person got hurt?
Was it the woman who gave me directions?
Was it because she gave me directions?
Is this shit my fault?
Am I to blame for her disappearance too?!
Who am I kidding.
Of course I am.
I always am.
The number of lives taken over me is too high.
Too…surreal.
When will it all stop?
How do I make it stop!?
Seeing Mr. November slowly shake his head spreads a pool of dread in the pit of my stomach. “I’m tellin’ ya. Something ain’t right out there, and whatever it is?” He tucks his wallet back into his pocket and looks straight at me. “It’s headed right for us, Ms. Ripley.”
Vomit lurches up the back of my throat prompting Nolan’s grip to tighten while Kipp does his best to rush out the lingering customer. “Noted, November.” Shoving the vehicle key across the countertop is quickly done. “She’s out front ready to go. I’ll see you in about a month to rotate those tires.”
“Thanks, Kipp!” He shoots a friendly wave to the two of us afterward. “See you around, Nolan.” A kind chin tip is given in my direction. “Ma’am.”
Ma’am?!
Okay, first he basically insists I brought the anti-Christ to town and then he goes out of his way to make sure to acknowledge I’m not as young as one of the men I’m crazy about?!
Why?!
Why?! Why?! Why?!
What did I do to deserve his soothsayer rage?!
Why am I always the target of someone’s displeasure?!
Kipp slips his fingers over to mine prompting Nolan to let go to lock the door during their lunchbreak. “Baby…” His voice sweetly hums, dragging my stare away from where the ghost of future crimes to come is exiting and over to him. “You have nothing to worry about, okay? This is just what he does. November predicts the world’s ending every six weeks or so.”
“I blame the pastor’s wife,” Mutt announces post the click sound that indicates we’re secure inside. “That fire and brimstone shit kicking is just guilt being regurgitated.”
Confusion crinkles my forehead. “Guilt for what?”
“Let’s just say November’s been delivering a different type of package on Wednesday’s for at least a decade.”
My jaw plummets to the floor. “No…”
“Gotta be longer than that,” Kipp heartily chuckles. “I remember my mom talking about that shit when I was little.”
“You’re still little,” our partner swiftly reminds, “so that’s not really a good measure of time.”
“How about for lunch I show you just how little I’m not.” The devilish glint in his eye ignites an ache between my thighs. “Just how nice…” he momentarily pauses to remove his grease stained t-shirt over his head in one swift motion, “I grew up.”
Abs hard enough to break a tooth on pull low whimpers out of us both; however, it’s Mutt that manages to speak. “I was uh…thinkin’ about maybe grabbin’ us sandwiches from The Dig Site…but this,” his eyes follow the thin trail of hair leading from Kipp’s bellybutton to the top of his pants, “will be much better.”
Agreed.
I will happily be the ham in this sandwich.
“Take her to the hood, Sir,” The Kid firmly instructs, leaving no room for debate or questions or objections.
Not that we have any.
An unmistakable rumble shakes Nolan’s frame prior to him grabbing my hand.
Leading me around the counter.
Past the tools.
Right to the front of a luxury sedan.
“Be my good girl,” Kipp purrs as he prowls closer, “and lie on top of it.”
Resisting the order isn’t even considered.
“I wanna see her tits, Sir.”
Nolan instantly leans over my sprawled-out position and yanks the light pink long sleeve shirt I got from Clothes Valley yesterday upward, exposing the nude bra I’d previously thought wouldn’t be seen by anyone else.
It’s the one typically reserved for laundry day, which it is.
Them seeing it should fill me with embarrassment; however, it doesn’t.
Strange as it is…it feels like this isn’t the first time it’s happened in spite of the fact that it is.
It’s crazy how comfortable things are between us.
How comfortable they can be.
Will always be.
You know…if I let it.
If I let myself stay.
“I wanna see her nipples pointing at you.” A tiny pause is presented between declarations. “Me.”
Growls seep through gritted teeth in tandem with the fabric being ripped down to force them to spill over the material’s rim, dark centers pebbling to the point of pain underneath two hungry grazes.
“Such a good girl for me,” praises the man currently in control. “Show me how good, Sir.” Kipp steals a small lick of his own lips. “I wanna see how fucking ready she is.”
Animalistic grumbles echo throughout the garage making me wetter than I already am. Watching Nolan hook his fingers around the edges of my yoga pants is enough on its own to send shivers down my spine, yet the feeling of his digits scraping my hips, my thighs, my fucking calves as he savagely drags down the clothing is what causes my body to tremble.
Breath to become choppy.
“Shoes stay on, baby,” Kipp informs after Nolan discards my pants somewhere off to the side. “You’re gonna need the leverage.”
One whimper is all that manages to escape past my parted lips.
“Open her up for me,” our boyfriend commands, heated stare honed in on Nolan. “I wanna see all of her.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Kid,” is muttered in a husky tone prior to his warm hands roughly landing on top of my pussy. Soft strokes aren’t offered nor wanted in comparison to feeling the rough pads of his fingertips spreading around the juices, making sure to paint the edges of my lower lips like he’s a starving artist and this moment is his fucking masterpiece. Random splitting movements have faint bits of cool air hitting my clit causing it to swell, an action that gets both men salivating. Panting. “Fuck, you’re being such a dirty little slut.”
“Put me in her,” Kipp huffs, pulling our eyes over to where his dick is out, just waiting to be touched.
The lack of hesitation on Nolan’s part to wrap his entire fist around his best friend’s cock has me gasping for air, but it’s watching him use his other hand to grip the back of Kipp’s neck to yank him closer that cuts off the ability to breathe completely. Being stretched by his thick cock at the exact same moment his mouth is being stretched wide by Mutt’s threatens to have me coming undone on the first hard thrust.
“Yes…” begins leaving my lips in a whispered rapid succession, matching the timing of Nolan’s hand brushing against my clit due to it still being wedged comfortably in place.
“You’re sure the fuck not little,” Mutt grunts against his best friend’s mouth. “Break our woman with this shit.”
More moaning leaves me as I plant my feet flat on the hood to withstand the increasingly harsh hammering.
“Break our dirty fucking slut,”Nolan drops his grip from Kipp’s neck yet continues to stroke his cock into me, “and I’ll have the mess you make for lunch.”
Wetness and whimpers, whimpers and wetness flood from me, prompting the man buried deep inside to pump faster.
Mercilessly.
To grab me by two handfuls of hair and yank me into his rapid fucking, knocking the pens out of my bun onto the ground.
Like some sort of rabid beast, The Kid pounds into me, splitting me wider and wider and wider while Nolan uses the edge of his hand to ceaselessly rub my clit during every stroke he executes. The endless amount of pleasure from two points, from the two men who have become my two points, my two men, pulls scream on top of scream out of me, damaging my vocal cords to the same steady pace they’re destroying my pussy. Names freely fall each time my back bows into the frantic thrusting, and heavenly burning sensations shoot through my extended thighs down to my toes and back to my thighs again on every bounce.
A symphony of sloppy sounds floats into our ears filling them with salacious melodies of their mouths meshing and mingling.
Of Kipp’s balls and Nolan’s hand slapping into me as he maniacally drills.
Of screeches given in warning that I’m too close around snarls of need that too close isn’t close enough.
Too close abruptly becomes over climax’s edge during one last tempestuous pump.
Head spinning pulsations are met by scorching spurts that cease my ability to do anything other than open mouth gape in overload; however, the second the splashes stop, The Kid defiantly steps back.
Savagely grabs the nape of Nolan’s neck.
Smashes him face first into the mess and wickedly commands, “Clean your plate, Sir.”
The instant invasion of his thick tongue into my still throbbing pussy elicits a high-pitched scream, “Ohmygod!”
“That’s not god, baby,” Kipp deviously purrs while ruthlessly rubbing his best friend’s cheeks around in our cum, coating him in the thick, white mixture he claimed to be starving for. “That’s Sir.”
Additional quivers thump against Nolan’s tongue spurring him to stab deep.
“Be a good girl and call out his name.”
“Sir…” He recklessly fucks me harder with his wet stiff muscle to the same demonic pattern our partner just did. “Sir! Sir!”
“Make her cum again,” The Kid commands, fingers now gripping him by his hair to completely control his movements. “Make a new fucking mess.” He harshly yanks him back for them to momentarily meet gazes. “Make one for your cum dumpster to clean up next.” The savage snarl that hits my ears hitches my breath. “I promise to be a good filthy little fuck and lick it all up.”
His new choice of phrasing not only has my hips levitating to our partner’s open mouth but him ferociously wedging his tongue to the hilt while his other hand frantically works to free his cock. Having Nolan’s entire face slammed into my pussy and then haphazardly yanked away prior to being crashed into it again creates an almost unbearable amount of pleasure that has me hysterically humping his extended tongue, desperate to not miss a single swipe. Bliss unremittingly builds each moment he’s granted wordless permission for it to sink deeper and search and hunt for the previous orgasms remains. Haughty chortles fuse with naughty notes of Nolan’s voracious dick pumping, the pummeling of his curled fist being thoughtlessly mirrored by the pounding of his tongue until I’m yet again quivering uncontrollably on a window breaking scream. “Sir!”
Suddenly, his entire body launches upward, cock aimed directly at my clit. Searing surges spray all over my sensitive, swollen nub at the same time his head falls back to release a bestial bellow which only amplifies in intensity when The Kid unexpectedly braces his face on my lower stomach with his mouth wide open to fully welcome the salty, opaque reward. Rather than just continue to be a licentious bystander, I lift myself up onto my elbow.
Dip my middle finger into the pooling collection of cum.
Scoop it into Kipp’s mouth and airily insist, “Don’t waste a single drop, Kid. Show Sir what a good filthy little fuck you can really be…”