Engagement and Espionage (Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries #1)(7)

Jenn bent her head and placed a kiss on my knuckles.

Meanwhile, I needed . . . another minute.

What?

“What?” Equal measures of astonishment and lust drove away any of my remaining premeditated intentions, leaving me only with lust.

“I took them off in the car.” Her tongue licked the juncture between my index and middle fingers. “I know I’ve been working a lot and—oh!”

I backed her against the wall, tossing away her hands and clamoring for the hem of her skirt. Sliding my fingers up her legs as I lifted her dress, I groaned when I discovered no material at her hip or bottom. Since I already had a handful of her, I squeezed, resisting the urge to fall to my knees and take a bite of her perfect backside.

I’d wanted us to have privacy. I’d wanted to unwrap her. I’d wanted to take my time. I’d wanted conversation and kisses—many kisses—and a lot more light. Definitely more light.

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, I was already drunk with it. 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 frenzy. She moaned. Jenn’s nails scratched down my shirt, her fingers shaking as they found my belt, tugging and pulling frantically while I greedily nipped and licked and kissed her jaw and neck, stopping at the fabric covering her breast to place a wet, biting kiss at the center, feeling her bead and stiffen beneath my tongue, and continuing to work her slowly 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, spread her wide. My mouth watered.

But then her phone rang, and I froze.

Reba McEntire’s, “I’m a Survivor” chirped between us. That was her mother’s ringtone, the woman had programmed it into Jenn’s phone.

Squeaking, fumbling for the device, Jenn’s face was briefly illuminated by the small swath of light just before quickly rejecting the call.

“Don’t stop.” She reached for my belt again, this time completely undoing it, the button of my pants, and my zipper at world-record speed.

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, 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 through 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 Cletus, I need his help. Please.

Momma: ALL THE CHICKENS AND ROOSTERS ARE DEAD! PICK UP YOUR 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 head gears—you know, from that head to the one on my neck—and my gaze dropped to the wet patch on the front of her dress just visible in the swath of light. My erection throbbed.

So we’re . . . not having sex?

“Why? Why would they do it? And WHO?” She snatched 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 toward the direction of the hall. Meanwhile, it took me until her hand found the door handle to realize my zipper and belt were still undone.

“This is crazy.” She paused as I zipped up, her tone halting and distracted. “Poor Mr. Badcock. And those poor chickens.” A sound of 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.





“How’d they die?”

Jackson James glanced at me. “According to Mr. Badcock, cervical dislocation.”

“You mean they were strangled?” I asked. We stood shoulder to shoulder in Mr. Badcock’s living room, Officer Jimmy Dale in the kitchen, pouring himself coffee while Officer Fredrick Boone hunted for clues outside.

Jackson tilted his head back and forth. “More or less.”