Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(40)
I’m going to stay.
Chapter Fourteen
Caleb
The sun blazes nosy and chiding through the window, reminding us there’s so much to do and fix outside these walls, but we ignore it, spending the afternoon as if it’s the dead of night—doing all manner of wicked and depraved things normally saved for hours of darkness.
After we clean up, Ben and I spend a long time between Ireland’s legs, jostling for space and the chance to lick at her sweet honey. And after she comes twice more, we once again cradle her between us and take her at the same time. This time, I’m the one fucking her tight, rear hole, and the grip of her is insane. And with the pressure from Ben’s cock inside her pussy and the added stimulation of feeling him stroke against me through her thin walls, it’s a miracle I last long enough to make sure she comes first. Somehow I manage it, lips thin and eyes shut, waiting until the last of her shudders die down before I open my eyes and let myself just look at her writhing between us. Those sweet slopes and tucks of her body. The way her curves yield softly to my form as I move against her. The way her body spills out of my hands as I fondle and squeeze at her.
She’s straight out of my wet dreams, out of every fantasy I’ve ever had—dark hair soft as silk and flowing like water over Ben’s arm. Blue eyes to rival the storm-cleansed sky outside. Perfectly formed lips that beg for my own.
And a body like those paintings in art class—with soft rolls and a round bottom and a plump little pussy that all but begs to be fucked and fucked thoroughly.
That’s all it takes, looking at her, and I come with a bellow and a bowing body, pumping my condom full of hot, slick seed. Ben watches me roar and tense through it, and then he takes Ireland’s mouth in a searing kiss as he follows me over the edge with a single quiet noise.
We’ve always used condoms with every woman we’ve been with, always, always, and a jolt of fresh blood hits my spent cock as I think about what it would be like to skip the condoms next time. To claim this beautiful woman from the inside out, to feel the slippery heat of Ben doing the same.
My cock gives another pulse, trying valiantly to rise to the occasion, and Ireland gives me a happy, if slightly rueful, smile.
“I need a break, cowboy,” she says, wincing a bit as we tug free of her body. “Another few minutes, at least.”
“We have all the time in the world,” Ben says. His brows draw together as he gazes down at her. “I hope.”
For a moment she doesn’t answer, simply searching Ben’s face and then mine as if trying to read our thoughts. Apparently satisfied by what she sees, she gives us a lazy nod, like a queen.
“All the time in the world.”
When late afternoon begins to crest into evening, we drive back to Holm. Ben needs to start making calls and contacting insurance companies about the tavern, and after making sure Mrs. Parry and Mrs. Harthcock are safe and settled, I’m anxious to get back to town to help in whatever way I can.
To our surprise, Ireland is just as eager to go. She changes into fresh clothes and slings her camera around her shoulder.
“What?” she asks, catching Ben and me looking at her.
“You don’t have to come,” I tell her gently. “It’s not your town, and anyway, I don’t know how much there will be to do—”
“There will be plenty to do, for one thing, and for another, while this may not be my home, it is yours. I’m not a totally heartless city girl; I want to help, and I can help, and I’m coming along too. So long as it won’t be hard on Ben.”
Ben crosses over to her and yanks her close. “I swear it won’t be,” he murmurs, training those intense, dark eyes on Ireland’s mouth. And then he gives her a kiss like he’s just come home from the war all over again.
Holm is flooded with people when we get there—police cars and pickup trucks crowd the debris-choked streets—but Ireland is right. Even with so many people here, there’s plenty to do. While Ben focuses on the tavern, Ireland and I spend the next five or six hours working to help shift rubble and sort through wreckage. We work deep into the humid dark, Greta sticking close and providing moral support by licking everyone’s hands and doing enough tail-wagging for an entire pack of dogs. And Ireland frequently pauses in order to snap pictures of the town at work righting itself.
I don’t know much about photography beyond taking pictures of used farm equipment to sell it on the internet, but even I can see her pictures are striking. An older woman crying in front of the flattened house where her sister died. Dirt-streaked faces gazing out at the sunset. Ben, head bowed in misery as he stands in the doorway of the tavern.
The pictures give me chills, and as we’re sitting around the kitchen table, each with a well-earned glass of bourbon as the night presses in through the windows, I ask her, “Why didn’t you become a photographer for real? Why go work for Drew?” I like Drew quite a lot, but that doesn’t mean Ireland isn’t wasted writing tweets for microbreweries or creating brand strategy for a sandwich chain. Pictures like these could be in newspapers, on the covers of magazines; she could be anywhere, with her pick of people wanting her pictures.
Ireland takes a long drink of bourbon and reaches out to idly finger a sunflower sitting in an old jelly jar on the table. I saw the bloom as we walked in, still fresh and healthy and sheltered from the storm by the porch stairs—knowing Ireland’s fascination with them, I made sure to come out and pick it for her while she got cleaned up. I’m glad I did, because watching her face soften as she studies the flower makes my chest puff out with pride. “I, uh, I turned down a photography scholarship in college,” she says eventually, eyes still on the flower. “And decided to stay local. Major in something more practical.”