All Jacked Up (Rough Riders #8)(43)

“Have you ever noticed your tendency to slip into a Wyomin’ drawl is more pronounced whenever you’re nervous?”


Keely snorted. “You do not make me nervous. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.” She moved until she saw him leaning against his Beemer.


Jack kept his arms crossed over his chest. “I had brunch with my mom and brother. Evidently my mom ended up with a piece of Carolyn’s silver service. She was mortified and I volunteered to bring it back for her.”


She looked at Jack skeptically. There was an edge to him, an edge that automatically made her bristle.


If he was here just to return a piece of silverware, she’d eat her hat.


“Is your mother around?”


“No. She and Dad haven’t come back yet. If you leave it with me, I’ll be sure she gets it.”


He cocked his head. “What’s up with you acting so formal?”


“Jesus, Jack, make up your mind. First you accused me of reverting to a twang, now you’re claiming I’m acting formal?”


“I meant you’re acting awful formal for a woman who was on her knees with my dick in her mouth not five hours ago.”


A blush stole across her cheeks, which pissed her off. This was how he treated her after she opened herself up to him? Screw him. “How’s this for formal? Fuck. Off. You’re an *.” Keely pivoted and stomped up the porch steps.


Too bad she couldn’t provide him with a dramatic exit, slamming the door after she flounced into the house and locking it behind her. But her boots were filthy and she knew better than to track mud and horseshit across her mother’s floor. She sat on the edge of the boot bench.


“Would you let me—”


“Keep sayin’ crude shit like that to piss me off? Hell no. Go away.”


“Look. I came here to try and do something nice—”


“That comment was not nice by any stretch of the imagination.” She grunted as she yanked off her right boot. “I don’t know why I’m surprised we’re back to you only being nice to me when we’re in public.”


“Or you only being nice to me when we’re f*cking?” he taunted back.


That did it.


Goaded beyond control, Keely whipped her dirty boot at him. At least the man had good reflexes out of bed too and he was fast enough to duck.


Jack’s look of surprise was downright comical. And totally worth it. “What the hell was that for?”


“Because I gave you a chance to leave and you didn’t.”


“So whipping a boot at my head is supposed to be an incentive?”


“Yep.”


“You’re a f*cking riot, buttercup.” He flashed his teeth. “And guess what? It didn’t work.”


“I have another boot,” she warned.


“And lousy aim. You’re goddamn lucky—”


“I missed on purpose, Jack-off. And you’re goddamn lucky you’re not wearing a dirt halo and a dent in your fat head.” She hopped up and sought refuge in the house. Maybe her over-the-top behavior would convince the stupid, smarmy jerk to take off so she could calm down.


The porch door slammed again.


Or maybe not.


Keely took the shortcut from the back entryway to the kitchen. She scrubbed her hands in the sink and ignored Jack’s gaze burning a hole in her back. When she deigned to look at him, leaning indifferently in the doorjamb, she noticed he was tapping the metal serving utensil against his palm. Smack, smack, smack over and over.


“Go away, Jack.”


“No.” Smack, smack, smack.


“I cannot deal with you right now.”


“Tough. You brought this on yourself.” Smack, smack, smack.


“I’ll remind you you’re an uninvited guest in my parents’ house. I may not be able to throw you out of the apartment you own, but I can toss you out of here.”


“Try it.” Smack, smack, smack.


“Will you stop smacking that goddamn thing? It’s giving me a headache.”


“I’m just warming it up so the metal isn’t cold when I spank your bare ass with it.” Smack, smack, smack.


Keely couldn’t help it; she laughed. “Right.” She’d gone about six steps when the word, “Stop,” had the effect he’d intended. She stopped.


“Do not push your luck with me any more than you already have, Keely,” he warned. Smack, smack, smack.


Of all the freakin’ nerve. Keely spun around. Her stomach fluttered. She’d never seen that look in his eye—the taskmaster with a lesson to teach. “You’re serious.”


“Completely.” Smack, smack, smack.


“You really think I’m going to let you…hit me?”


“Not hit you. Spank you. Big difference. Losing your temper and throwing your boot at me proved you need to learn there are consequences for acting out against me.” Smack, smack, smack.


“No. Way. You are f*cking delusional.” The continual smack, smack, smack was wearing on her nerves. “I haven’t been spanked since I was about six years old.”