Desert Angel (Family Justice Book 2) Page 35

  As she gingerly sat down, he continued talking at the same time that he pushed the robe fully open. When she was situated with her legs crossed and her hair a red halo about her naked shoulders he appreciated her abundant curves up close and personal—the way they were meant to be.

  “And second, skivvies? Is that really a word?”

  “It’s not?” she asked, instantly showing her puzzlement. “I thought it was military slang.”

  “Let me guess,” he drawled teasingly as he casually ran his fingers around the dusty pink areola of a perfect, erect nipple. “You Googled it?”

  He found the way her nose and cheeks pinked to be utterly charming.

  “It’s a teacher thing,” she mumbled. “Now, tell me how you know Angie’s back.”

  Alex laughed and flung his head back on the chair. “Oh, my god,” he groaned. “Is this how I’ll be with a daughter?”

  Meghan leaned down and quickly but quite soundly kissed him with a satisfied-sounding smack, then sat back and grinned. “I’m counting on it, Major,” she smirked.

  “Well, good to know because right now I feel a little bit like a fucking voyeur. I programmed the gate sensors to alert me by text when a vehicle entered. Not long after an arrival, Gus called to let me know he was finished in the barn and was on his way out. Said he saw Parker and my sister skulking about in the shadows.”

  “If they can’t make it work . . . I think it’d be almost tragic,” he continued after a long pause. “And I don’t think either of ’em would be truly happy.” He shrugged—like an afterthought and breathed deeply. “I know this is hard for you, babe.”

  Uncrossing her legs, she pulled in her knees and shimmied on his lap until she was curled against him, breasts pillowed on his chest, her face buried near his neck.

  “It’s not hard, Alex,” she murmured. “Life doesn’t stop for us when we need it to. There are seven billion souls on this planet, and they all come with their own shit and stuff. Our wedding is important to us, but that doesn’t mean everyone else’s life takes a backseat.”

  He ran a hand up and down the silky fabric on her back. “How did you get to be so understanding? Hmmm?”

  She hooted sharply. “Understanding? Ha! Give it a week and then you’ll be shaking your head and wondering how to survive me being hormonal.”

  “I think I’m fucked up in the head,” he murmured.

  Her face popped up on his shoulder and she stared at him, wide-eyed. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because, my wild Irish goddess, you’ve brought such happiness into my life that I just want to prance about tossing handfuls of fairy dust on everyone so they can be as happy was we are.”

  “See!” she barked playfully with a sharp swat on his chest. “You just admitted that you DO prance! Ahhahahahahaaaaa.”

  “In here!” Angie urged Parker, as she pushed open a heavy wood door. Instantly, sensory memories flooded her emotions.

  The smell of leather, wood, earth, and straw assailed her senses sending fireflies dancing in her stomach. This was a magical place—old and filled with memories gathered over time. Angie treasured that her DNA was part of those memories.

  Didn’t matter that she was an American girl-next-door—raised on ice cream and burgers on the grill. She was a Valleja-Marquez. Her people had lived on this land and been part of ten thousand sunsets and seasons. This very room had been used for well over a hundred years by vaqueros and patricians alike. Angie could feel the unique energy vibrating off the walls . . . like murmured passages of a story, her family’s history—whispered over time.

  Excited by the blatant masculinity of the room, she ran her hand along a long leather daybed with tufted arms rolled at each end accented with nail head trim. Her imagination running wild, Angie nearly nibbled her lip off as a burst of triple X-rated images involving the distinctive furniture stole her breath.

  “I love this place,” she told him softly. “Did you know I had my first job—right here? I was eleven that summer and had the time of my life.”

  “I remember it well.” He chuckled, surprising her.

  Turning quizzical eyes on him, she quipped, “Uh-huh. I’m sure you do.”

  “Seriously!” he barked.

  Dropping the salt container and pretzels onto a rustic wood slab large enough to have housed the Knights of the Round Table, she crossed her arms, made a doubting squint, and waited.

  “I have an elephant’s memory,” he drawled with something barely this side of a leer. “Not only do I remember that summer, I also remember that you wore your hair in pigtails and had a pair of bright pink work gloves that your granddad gave you.”

  She gasped. Her pink gloves! Oh! She remembered them. Her abuelo had presented them to her that first day when he introduced her formally to the other stable hands. How wonderful to think that Parker remembered something so meaningful that had in all honesty been lost in the shadows of her memory.

  Hoisting her bottom onto the big wooden table, she gestured him over and motioned for him to turn around. Reaching into his back pockets, she slowly extracted the two shot glasses, making no effort whatsoever to hide her appreciation of his ass.

  Lifting his elbow, the plastic container he carried dropped with a thud onto the table.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  Beaming, she wagged her eyebrows, declaring, “Limes!” as she peeled back the lid of the bowl. “Crack open that Cuervo and make a toast.”

  While he started setting up their drinks, Angie looked around the room. Several antique saddles were displayed and all along an entire section of wall, tack hung. Everywhere she looked, there was gleaming silver, burnished brass, wood, and leather.

  Leaning back on a hand, she crossed her legs and watched him pour the shots. My goodness, this table is big, she mused. Why, she could stretch out, her arms wide and still have plenty of room.

  Suddenly, the table and just about every other object and piece of furniture in the room became part of some vividly erotic scenarios that had her clearing her throat and sitting up straight. Oh, my.

  That padded sawhorse looking apparatus over in the corner? She could think of several interesting ways to put that odd piece of equipment to very good use. So too the array of leather crops in a short barrel by the door.

  “Okay, Angel,” he quipped. “One tequila shot as requested.”

  Thinking she could drown out the lascivious thoughts crowding her mind with alcohol was downright stupid, but that was what she did.

  “How’s this go?” she said aloud. “I don’t remember. Oh, wait. Yes, I do. It’s lick, salt, shot, and then lime. Right?”

  She looked at Parker for reassurance and found him nodding as he licked a spot on the hand in which he held a lime wedge. Pouring a stream of salt onto the wet skin, he wagged his eyebrows at her, said, “Salud,” put his lips onto the pile of salt, then tossed back the shot and immediately stuck the lime his mouth.

  Shaking his head with a deep growl, he slammed the empty shot glass down on the table.

  “Okay, baby,” he taunted. “Show me how the big girls do it.”

  Did he? Oh, no he didn’t! Well, she’d show him. Grabbing her glass, she held it up in silent salute and challenged him with mocking eyes.

  Mimicking his technique, she licked, making sure to do so slowly with a hushed moan as her tongue laved her skin before sprinkling the salt. Holding a slice of lime, she blew out her breath, licked the salt, downed the shot in one gulp, and then put the lime wedge into her mouth as she bit down to release the fragrant juices.

  “Mmmmm,” she moaned. And then the alcohol burn marked a trail from her lips, down her throat and into her belly where the heat spread. “Holy fuck!” she hollered, surprised that she wasn’t breathing actual fire.

  Parker chuckled and smacked her on the back. “Not as smooth as Dad’s Don Julio but tasty nonetheless.”

  Angie sputtered and laughed. “Oh, my god. I think my eyes are watering.”

  “Tequ
ila is good for the soul,” he joked. “Ready for another?” he asked. “It’s best to go balls out and knock ’em back pretty quickly,” he stated emphatically. “That way you can’t pussy out too early.”

  “Did you just accuse me of being a pussy?” she choked out with mock outrage.

  He looked at her. First, with laughter, and then, with something else. A challenge maybe.

  “WANNA TRY SOMETHING DIFFERENT?”

  One shot and she was already starting to float. And now he wanted to . . . try something different? Sure! Why the hell not.

  She looked at him expectantly and found herself biting back a groan of raw female appreciation when he abruptly whipped his t-shirt over his head and threw it aside. Goddamn, but his chest was a work of art. Smooth. Muscled. Broad.

  He poured two more shots, grabbed a hunk of lime and smiled wickedly at her.

  Taking two fingers, he held them to her mouth and drawled huskily, “Lick.”

  Swiping her tongue across his skin, she managed to fight a whimper when he then wet the spot where his neck met shoulder with her saliva and quickly dropped a big pinch of salt on top.

  In a voice that sounded gruff and demanding, he commanded her to, “Lick,” as he tilted his head to the side to give her room.

  In a trance, she leaned into him and laved the flat of her tongue on the salt, pausing to suckle at the spot . . . I mean, after all, she DID want to get all the salt, right?

  Now, the truth was she would have happily kept on just like that, her mouth on his skin, sucking, but him pushing the shot glass into her hand reminded Angie what she was supposed to be doing.

  Quickly huffing out a deep breath, she knocked back the second shot and before hyperventilating from the burn, destroyed the lime wedge while she swung her head back and forth. “Fuck!” she yelped again as the alcohol tore a hole through her core.

  Through watery eyes, she found him grinning broadly as once again, he patted her on the back to help her catch a breath.

  Oh, my dear sweet lord! she thought. Maybe this stuff should be illegal.

  Murmuring silkily, he said, “My turn.” Eyeing her from head to toe, he kind of smirked then shook his head. “You’re all covered up,” he objected with a disgruntled bark.

  Angie giggled. Yeah. Tequila was the shit.

  “Sorry,” she confessed with a pouty frown intended to get a smile—which it did along with an eye roll and a head shake that acknowledged he knew how easy she had it when it came to charming the shit out of him. Winning!

  “I didn’t want my ass hanging out in front of your folks.”

  She wasn’t sure but when she said ass, it might have sounded more like ash. He didn’t react, so either he didn’t notice or he wasn’t listening to her anyway.

  Now, where were they? What had they been talking about?

  Angie saw his eyes flare. Oooh. Likey! What made him do that?

  “I’d like to bite your ass and then lick a tequila shot off the dip in your back.”

  Oh. That was why he flared.

  “All covered up. Remember?” she said, pointing at her head-to-toe outfit.

  “Lay back,” he commanded.

  “Uh. What?”

  The skin on her neck prickled when he fixed her with a meaningful look and said roughly, “My turn. And since I can’t have your ass, your stomach will have to do. Now lay the fuck back.”

  She didn’t know why she laughed, but the dark scowl on his face and the way he was sizing her up hit her as hilarious.

  Giggling wildly, she scooted back until her legs weren’t dangling and teased him, chirping away, singing, “Ooooh, look at you! So big and bad. Dommy, dom, dom, dom! Knock, knock. Who’s there? Can’t have your ass,” she mimicked him growling then fell back laughing until she was, as he asked, on her back.

  “Ready, Mister Dommy, sir. Sir Dom-your-great. Sirdom. Sirdom,” she grumbled mischievously as she nodded to him with a drunken salute.

  He stood over her where she lay sprawled on the big table. Remembering her earlier thought that she could probably spread out and still have plenty of rooms got her flinging both arms wide. He didn’t say anything so Angie picked up her head and looked at him. He was just standing there—staring at her. The whole thing suddenly felt very virgin sacrificey.

  “I like this,” he said. Waving his hand for emphasis, he indicated her laid out before him. “Works for me.” He chuckled deeply.

  He reached for the buttons on her blouse, just beneath her breasts and started undoing them, pulling the tails from her skirt until he could fold both sides back and expose several inches of her stomach.

  Nothing showed. Not her bra and not even her belly button. Sensual modesty. Just enough skin to titillate without being vulgar.

  Sliding onto the table, he rested on one hip and turned toward her, giving him complete access to her body. Angie shivered.

  This time, instead of asking her to lick his fingers, he inserted them into her mouth. Briefly shocked—probably the tequila slowing down her responses—she recovered and swirled her tongue around his fingers, sucking on them. His eyes devoured, watching every expression and reading her responses.

  When he wiped the saliva from his fingers onto her stomach, her skin quivered with anticipation.

  A quick pinch of salt and then he leaned over her and his mouth was on her stomach. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. His breath was hot, his lips soft, and his tongue . . . wet and slow against her skin.

  When he threw back his head for the shot, she watched his throat work as he swallowed then drifted her eyes down his bare torso imagining the tequila moving through his system. Through an expression blazing with desire, he looked into her eyes as his mouth made greedy sucking noises on the lime.

  She watched, fascinated, and involuntarily licked her lips. Mmmm. His lips probably tasted real good.

  Had she said that out loud? The look on his face and the fire in his eyes told her that, yep, she most definitely had.

  Tequila mouth. Speak first and then deal with whatever you said later.

  Parker grabbed hold of her chin and hovered over her for a second then swooped straight onto her mouth.

  She was right. He tasted divine. Salty. Sweet. Tangy. The flavor of the tequila clung to his lips and tongue, driving her wild with the beguiling aftertaste. Mmmmm. Maybe tequila was their drink. Angie was certainly enjoying the warmth creeping along her nerve endings, and though she was definitely a bit lit, she was far from drunk.

  After kissing her with a deliberately slow thoroughness that rendered her stupid, he eased back and feathered her hair away from her face. The way he was looking into Angie’s eyes made her quiver.

  “I didn’t treat you right before, Angel.” The deep roughness in his voice gave his words gravity. “Can you forgive me?”

  Acting on tequila time, which basically meant she had no damn idea how long it took her to reply, she put a hand on the powerfully big bicep that caged her in and sighed.

  Forgiveness wasn’t the issue. Or then again . . . maybe it was.

  When she said something, Angie was surprised by how small and uncertain she sounded. Parker did that to her. Made her feel vulnerable. Nothing and nobody else had ever made her feel this way.

  “I make it too easy for you.”

  “How?” he growled, his face a mask of confusion mixed with concern.

  Running appreciative fingers on the warm skin of his muscled arm, she attempted to shrug and looked away—unsure how to explain.

  “I don’t find any of this easy, Angelina,” he told her emphatically.

  Pfft. Did he really have no idea? How was that possible?

  “Yes, well . . . ,” she murmured self-consciously. “Truth is, I’ll always forgive you. No matter what you do—I can’t help myself.”

  She continued to stroke his arm while he silently considered what she said.

  “And you imagine this gives me some sort of . . . power? Advantage?”

  She could
hear him trying to make sense of her statement.

  Swinging her eyes to his, she thought, Well, it does . . . but didn’t say the words aloud.

  “It means,” she eventually told him quietly, “that you could hurt me. And I’d let you. That’s scary shit, Parker.”

  He was quick to respond to her bold statement.

  “I did not mean to hurt you. What I said that day was not meant for you to hear and my words, though chosen poorly, were an attempt to shield you from malicious gossip.”

  “I know that now,” she whispered. “But I did get hurt and knowing I’d forgive you anything—even tearing my heart out—is what kept us apart. I had to stay away from you just in order to stay sane. You do realize that, right?”

  He grimaced. “As you say, I know that now.”

  Her most secret inner thoughts and fears broke loose—thanks, Cuervo—and she blurted out one of the big ones before she could bite back by the words.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be enough for you.”

  “Shit,” he barked as he jerked upright, pulling her with him. “Sit up. Let’s get this out in the open and put it to rest so we can move on.”

  There they were, sitting on a huge wood table, having scooted to the edge, they sat side-by-side, their legs dangling toward the floor.

  “Okay look,” he bit out sharply. More sharply than should have been possible after a couple of healthy shots. Oh, sheesh. She’d hit a nerve.

  “We can fuck around and play word games till hell freezes over, which I admit can be fun, but let’s cut to the chase.”

  He eased off the table and moved to stand in front of her—so close his thighs almost rested against her knees. When he did, his big body blocked the light behind them and made him seem huge in her field of vision. Her mouth went dry.

  “When have I ever given you the impression that you’re not enough? And don’t give me that tired shit about what you overheard. Just show me one fucking time when . . .” He was yelling and clearly frustrated. Running a hand through his hair, he growled and looked at her with pleading eyes. “Dammit, Angel. What the fuck? I can’t defend myself against something I don’t understand.”