Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(112)

I pressed my forehead against the cold wall, unable to resist touching her, slipping my middle finger into that hot, silky place.

Her breath hitched, her arms once again wrapping around my neck as her hips rolled forward into my hand. “Please, please.”

Damn, but I missed her. Her skin was heaven, her fragrance paradise, and I couldn’t get enough. I was breathing heavy, wanting her all around me, in my lungs. I couldn’t think. I just wanted.

I took her mouth with mine, no preamble or gentle invasion, but a full-fledged frenzy. She moaned, a sound I took as encouragement.

Jenn’s nails scratched down my shirt, her fingers shaking as they found my belt, tugging and pulling frantically while I nipped and licked and kissed her jaw and neck, stopping at her breast to place a wet, biting kiss at the center, all the while working her with my fingers.

Her hands faltered as I devoured her collarbone and neck, preparing to lower to my knees, lift her skirt completely, take a bite out of that ass, and then spread her wide for my tongue and mouth and pleasure.

But then, her phone rang; Reba McEntire’s, ‘I’m a Survivor;’ that was her mother’s ring tone. The woman had recently programmed it into Jenn’s phone.

She squeaked, fumbling for the device. Her face briefly illuminated just before quickly rejecting the call.

“Don’t stop.” She reached for my belt again, this time deftly undoing it, the button of my pants, and my zipper while I stoked her.

Her phone buzzed. Then it chimed. Then it buzzed and chimed two more times. Then it rang, again Reba.

Cursing, Jenn pulled the phone from her pocket and once again her face illuminated, murderous rage in her eyes. Her finger moved to the power-off button. She blinked, hesitating. Her eyes widened, her body stiffened, and she gasped.

“Cletus!”

Something about her tone, like she was horrified, and maybe a little afraid, cut though the heavy haze of lust inertia, and my hands stilled. Shaking myself, it took me a few moments to realize she was showing me the phone screen, and another few to bring the content of the text messages into focus.

Momma: Jennifer Anne Sylvester, pick up your phone. If you’re with that man of yours, I need his help too. Please.

Momma: ALL THE CHICKENS AND ROOSTERS ARE DEAD! PICK UP YUR DAMN PHONE!

Momma: I’m calling you in a second, pick up the phone. Mr. Badcock’s chickens are dead. All of them. I got here and he’s running around, deranged, yelling about his dead chickens! I called the police and they’re on their way. Please, please, please pick up the phone!





At some point, I must’ve taken the phone from Jenn and stepped away, because I glanced up upon reading the messages for the third time, finding the phone in my hand and Jenn fixing her skirt.

“This is nuts.” Her big eyes searched mine imploringly. “Who could have done this?”

I shook my head, having not yet managed to fully shift brain gears. My gaze dropped to the wet patch on the front of her dress, where I’d had my mouth seconds prior, and my erection throbbed.

So we’re . . . not having sex?

“Why? Why would they do it?” She took her phone back, her tone bewildered, distracted, and distraught.

She was distraught because of the dead chickens, like any normal person would be.

I was distraught also, but my distress had nothing to do with farm animals.

“We have to go.” Jenn grabbed my hand and began walking blindly toward the direction of the hall door. “This is crazy. Poor Mr. Badcock. And those poor chickens.” A sound of mournful distress escaped her throat. “This is terrible.”

It was terrible.

And I was going to hell.

Because all I could think was, Talk about a cock block.

-END SNEAK PEEK-

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