Big Bad John (Bigger in Texas Series) by R.G. Alexander Page A

hard he’d been against her the day after the funeral, in that rundown bunkhouse.
    She turned on the vibrator and whimpered as it thrummed against her swollen, sensitive clit, closing her eyes and recalling every detail. She’d spent the previous week with a knotted stomach, a heart full of regret and the knowledge that she’d never have the chance to apologize to her father. Never be able to show him that, even though the last few years away had been hard, she was determined to be a success. To make her leaving mean something.
    She’d been crying and walking aimlessly with her third bottle of beer in her hand, knowing the sun was down, knowing she should go back to the house. She’d found her way to the bunkhouse instead.
    When John had opened the door that night, shirtless and with his jeans unbuttoned, she hadn’t questioned propriety or her actions. She’d thrown herself into his arms and let her tears soak into the skin of his chest, loving the way he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her, to pull her inside and lean against the door as he rocked her. Gentled her.
    When he set her on the low bed and knelt between her legs, still rocking her, the embrace had changed. John had taken the half-empty bottle out of her hands and set it on the crate he used as a nightstand, staring at her through hooded eyes.
    All she could think of was how blue his eyes were. How strong he was. Regret and shame were replaced with need and hunger. The kind of hunger she hadn’t experienced in all her twenty-two years.
    She’d slipped the straps of her tank top over her shoulders and pushed it down until her full, heavy breasts were revealed to him, pleading silently for what she knew, in this moment, only he could give her.
    He’d gone so still she couldn’t tell if he was breathing, his gaze blue fire as he studied her hard, dark nipples. After a long moment without response, she shifted as if to cover herself, a blush staining her cheeks, but before she could, his hand lifted to cup one breast, his thumb scraping the tip of her nipple roughly, making her gasp.
    Neither one of them said a word, as if both were afraid of shattering the intimacy of the moment. The pure, raw lust of it. And then he bent his head, his mouth closing over her other nipple, tongue flicking the tip before he closed his eyes and groaned. They both shuddered at the sensation, and she slid her hands into his hair, arching her neck when he opened his mouth wider, sucking at her flesh as if he were starving. As if he would never get enough.
    When his mouth left her breast, she barely had time to moan her disapproval before he was kissing her lips, his tongue tangling with hers, exploring her. Claiming her.
    She tasted beer and spice, and lightning shot up her spine. Their first kiss. Any men she’d kissed before him disappeared. There was only John. Always John.
    His hands dropped to her thighs, pushing up the short, loose skirt she wore, and his fingers curled around her plain, white cotton panties, tugging them down until they were tight against her knees, stretched by the spread of her legs on either side of his body.
    He swore against her mouth, and her eyelids fluttered open when his lips left hers and his head lowered. He gripped her thighs and, lifting her with strong hands, ducked beneath her underwear and in between her bare thighs.
    “Have to,” he muttered. “Fuck, I have to.”
    Alone in her bedroom Trudy spread her bent legs, bracing her feet against the bed as she thrust her hips upward, the delicious hum of the vibrator satisfying as she pushed it inside as deep as it would go, lost in the memory. He’d made her come twice that night with his mouth, his hands always returning to her breasts. And when she’d thought she couldn’t take anymore, when she was close to her third and strongest climax, desperate for it—he’d moved away. Stood beside the bed and undone the remaining buttons on his jeans. She’d wanted that. Been waiting