Fill Her Up (Daly Way Series, Book Three) (2 page)

“Since your parents aren’t expecting you, you can see them later.”

“What?” she exclaimed.

“You’re coming with me.”

Pulling her from the chair, he yanked her close to his body. Immediately, her sweet curves pressed to him like a pliant mold, learning his planes.

“Let me go,” she demanded.

“Later.”

He coerced her across the room to the door, finding it rather ironic that she fought to get away when all she’d wanted before was to get out the door.

“Jamie,” he called as he left. “There’s something wrong with Verity’s car. It needs a full check. You might need to take it apart for a deep down inspection.”

“Don’t listen to him!”

Patrick clapped his hand over her mouth.

“Keys are in the ignition. Verity definitely needs a valve cleaning. You should get it up in the air.”

“I see,” Jamie replied, his hand to the side of his face as he regarded them. Though he’d found the woman of his dreams who loved him scars and all, he wasn’t yet fully confident with his looks. “Nice to see you again, Verity. I’ll get your car fixed up.”

She screeched behind Patrick’s hand, but he was already turning them toward the door. Immediately, once outside, he slung her up over his shoulder and marched for his house.

“Let me down! Patrick, God damn it! You can’t do this. Put me down.” She smacked at him and kicked her feet until he fastened an iron-like arm around her legs. He wasn’t letting her down until he was good and ready. Her fists pummeled his back. Giving up on convincing him, she screamed. “Help! Help me!”

To his amusement, a few of the cowboys from the outlying ranches were just exiting
Leena’s Diner
as he crossed the street. They knew him—everyone in Daly knew him—and instead of rushing to Verity’s aid, they stood in the middle of the street hooting and hollering at Patrick’s outrageous caveman tactics, which he had to admit was way outside his usual laidback norm, but Verity had always pushed him.

Chapter Two

Slung over Patrick’s back, Verity shrieked and fought to get free. It wasn’t that she wasn’t attracted to him—she was and far more than she wanted to admit to him—but if she let him start something with her, she wasn’t sure she could end it. It had taken far too much work and will to get past Patrick and Sim and Daly. She didn’t want to be a military wife, stuck at home while her men went out to fight wars. Even with the two of them now settled in Daly, she didn’t want to be stuck in Patrick’s house being a housewife. There was nothing wrong with that, but she wanted more.

And the male assholes of this town wouldn’t listen. Five of them—
five!
—were standing in the street just cheering as if a freaking parade was passing by and tossing out hundred dollar bills. This was what she meant. This was how denigrated the women of Daly were. They had no rights. They belonged to their men. Sex and babies. She hadn’t been wrong in what she’d told Patrick. He’d just misconstrued it. The deep shadow of his eastern facing house enveloped them as he marched onto the porch. Evening was fast approaching, and thunderclouds in the west hid the sun. There’d be more than one storm tonight, but the question was which would leave the most damage.

“Patrick…please…” she pleaded quietly. Her energy drained from her, and she knew she wouldn’t easily leave this battle. She damned the arousal he sent through her body. It would only grow worse when Sim joined the fray.

“Please what, honey? I think you might be leaving a little wet spot on my shoulder,” he told her, caressing her ass through her linen pants. “I can smell your heat.”

“I did not!” she protested, hoping to God that she hadn’t. Hell, the humiliation. Her body had always betrayed her with him. And he knew her well since they’d been lovers from when she was sixteen until she’d run at nearly eighteen. She’d known if she reached her eighteenth birthday in Daly, she’d never escape.

If not for her parents—most specifically for her father, Doc Thompson, the vet in these parts—she never would have come home. No! Not home. Just Daly. She never would have come to Daly.

“You sure about that?” his hand tightened on her, and she looked to see if anyone had seen. The whole place looked barren, and even those cowboys had taken off. It was probably because of the thunderstorms rolling in. Already, streaks of lightning forked across the leaden clouds while thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. Thankfully, the rain hadn’t started falling yet. Wouldn’t that be a lovely addition to this nightmare—her own personal wet T-shirt contest.

Desperately, she searched the area for help. The sidewalks lining both sides of the street and bordering the side-by-side storefronts were deserted and pristine, not giving a hint of the prurient spirit of this place. The whole scene looked as small-town and wholesome as a Rockwell painting. She knew the steamy undercurrent that made up this place’s lifeblood.

She hadn’t expected this when she’d driven into Daly. Hell, she’d expected Patrick was still off running around the world in his pretty Navy uniform. When he’d come home on a brief leave after basic training, he’d been all buff and handsome in his class A’s. He’d spent a lot of time with her… Her tummy fluttered at the memory. And in her.

Her parents hadn’t approved, and they also hadn’t mentioned he’d come back to Daly. She hadn’t asked.

“Put me down,” she demanded as soon as they set foot inside.

“Your wish is my command, princess,” he said but immediately manacled his fingers around her wrist.

“Yeah, right,” she muttered, tugging her arm and pushing at his fingers.

“Well, some of your wishes. When you’re telling me the truth about what you want.”

She slapped his arm. “I
want
you to let me go.”

“See there you go. We both know that’s not true.” He glanced at her chest. “It’s really not that chilly.”

Her eyes went wide, and she slung her free arm over her traitorous nipples. “Bastard,” she muttered.

“You know very well my parents were married,” he laughed. “Now then, I need to get cleaned up.”

“Fine. I’ll stay here.”

“Sure you will. Maybe for the thirty seconds it takes me to get in the bathroom.”

She made a disbelieving sound. “And why should I stay?”

Patrick was silent for a moment, his dark green eyes solemn as he probed her gaze. “For the same reason you should have stayed before.”

Without a word, he opened the drawer in the side table between two wingchairs in his bi-level living room. He scooped out something then pulled her over to the iron railing between the upper and lower portions of living space. The sunken area featured a fireplace, a large thick rug and a huge sectional.

She dug in her heels. She wasn’t racing into his love pit. And that’s what it struck her as—a place to make love to a woman on the piled carpeting before the fire. He paused at the two steps leading down to the “pit” then pulled her wrist to the railing. When he opened his hand, she saw he’d retrieved a pair of handcuffs from the table. Her effort to escape renewed and redoubled, but he quickly had her shackled to the railing.

“Is this what you do now!” she demanded, rattling the cuff and looking for a release lever. These were the real deal and only a key would let her go. “You have to chain up women? Have you descended so low?”

“Watch it, Verity, or you’ll see just how far I will go. I’m going to clean up and I don’t want you running away.”

“Damn it, Patrick!”

He headed away down the hallway, ignoring her struggle and her swearing. When it became apparent that he didn’t intend to return—at least right away—she sank onto the step and stared into the empty fireplace. Her head rested against one iron upright.

He wouldn’t rape her, so she wasn’t scared of that. Though ten years had passed, she knew he’d never resort to that. He wouldn’t have to. Her body was making that clear…and he’d just managed to find the thing she’d often fantasized about when she’d been alone in her bed during college and veterinary school. Bondage. And damn it. He’d starred in too many of those dreams—him and Sim.

A door slammed in another part of the house and she heard water go on. There was nothing she could do but wait and tell her body to freaking calm down. She wasn’t engaging in sex with Patrick or Sim. She wasn’t getting embroiled in the mindless sensation again and forgetting that she had her real life waiting for her—it didn’t matter how he looked at her with the roguish smile that had always made her insides flutter.

His effect on her hadn’t lessened. His green eyes still devoured her. He was still mouth-watering. His wide shoulders, firm muscles, black hair and sparkling gaze all called to her. Today, he wore a white T-shirt stretched across his powerful muscles and she knew from feeling him against her as he’d effortlessly propelled her to his desire, that he did more working out than required for auto work. His shoulders were still impossibly wide and his torso tapered sharply into lean, narrow hips.

Somewhere along the line, he’d picked up a thorny, black-inked band that circled his left biceps and made her mouth water. Odd, since she didn’t usually go for tattoos, but then, everything about him made her salivate, from his build to his manner to his enticing male scent—oh…his scent. All male and pine and outdoors and clean, hardworking sweat—

Shit. She was in trouble.

* * * *

After Patrick finished washing his hands with the mechanic’s soap he kept on the bathroom vanity, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Sim Germaine, his best friend since childhood.

“Damn it, Patrick, you know I’m in the middle of an arms deal. What do you want?”

They shared the house, but Sim was a writer and he liked to work in solitude. Apparently, the house that was empty while Patrick worked wasn’t solitude enough. He preferred a small, one-room cabin out in BFE that he rented from one of the area’s ranchers.

Patrick laughed. “Better hope Big Brother isn’t tapping your phone. Save your manuscript, close your laptop and come home.”

“Why? I have a deadline.”

“Verity’s here.”

There was a long pause as Sim digested what he’d said. “Verity?
Our
Verity?”

“Yes. Do you know another one?” Patrick leaned his hip against the sink.

“What are you going to do?” Sim asked.

“Make her regret leaving Daly and us.”

Sim made a disbelieving sound. “I’m sure she’ll just go along with that. Huh,” he laughed. “Not the Verity I recall.”

“Just come home and stop being a dick,” Patrick growled.

“Hey, who’s interrupting whose work? And how exactly am I being a dick?”

“Fuck you.”

Sim paused before finally answering, “Thanks for the lovely offer.”

Patrick disconnected the call without responding and shoved his phone into his pants pocket. He wasn’t going to banter with Sim over supposed entendre
right now. This was serious, not a game.

His pulse revved as he imagined Verity between him and Sim. That was a game he’d readily go for. One of them would make her come while the other would lave her nipples until she writhed from the sensual torture. Their hands would run all over her, and only after she’d found release again would they claim her body with their cocks—one filling her pussy while the other took pleasure in her mouth…or maybe her ass.

His cock jumped, wanting to feel her sweet nectar again. He had to wait for Sim. They were in this together. She was theirs, not just his.

With a fortifying breath, he reached into the shower. He’d at least be clean when Sim got home.

* * * *

Verity straightened as she heard Patrick return to the living room, but she didn’t stand, choosing rather to rattle her wrist at him and glare.

“Let me go. C’mon, this isn’t funny…” Her words cut off as he crouched beside her and drew his thumb along her bottom lip. To her chagrin, warmth flooded through her, and she felt the folds of her pussy swell. Her breath caught in her chest, arrested as arousal slammed into her with the force of an NFL linebacker.

With eyes wide, she watched his head dip forward and knew she was powerless to stop him—not because he’d force her but because her body and soul wanted this so badly. It was only her head that insisted she hadn’t missed him at all, and even that voice was growing smaller and smaller.

His lips brushed over hers in the lightest of feathery, coaxing touches. He wanted her to fold then melt for him. Without thought, she parted her lips. There was nothing to do for it… She’d always given him this. Nostalgia and denied need warred, as she accepted his tongue and inhaled his fresh-from-the-shower scent. Irish Spring intertwined with the ever so faint smell of oil and rubber. It combined with the undeniable notes of rugged man. Every bit of him was so masculine goose bumps erupted on her skin.

Lost, she leaned into him and let him have her mouth.

Cinnamon… He still chewed cinnamon gum, and the taste of it lingered on his tongue as he stroked languidly along her own. Though urgency screamed through her veins, there was nothing urgent in his kiss—at least, not up front. She could feel the restrained power as he claimed her mouth, taking his time to explore and claim the recess. He was waiting. This was just the beginning.