Overruled

Presley Shaw was everything I’d pictured she’d be, from the sound of her voice and the photographs that fill Stanton’s apartment. Vivacious, sweet, with a mischievous shine in her eyes that reminds me of her father.

I continued to work after Stanton popped in to tell me he was driving her back to Jenny’s parents’. I was still drafting a brief as the sunlight outside faded and the orange fireball in the sky slipped lower on the horizon.

I put my laptop away only when Mrs. Shaw came to collect me for dinner. The table was set, with Marshall, Mary, and Carter Shaw Sr., Stanton’s dad, already seated—it seems family dinners are a consistent thing, with a regularly set time. Mr. Shaw is a tall, burly man with a handsome, weathered face and stoic disposition. The strong, silent type. He’s older than his wife by about ten years, I’d guess, but there’s a tenderness in the way he looks at her and a devotion in her voice that tells me theirs is a happy marriage.

I was the center of attention, answering questions about my family, about growing up in Chicago, and regaling them with stories of DC courtroom shenanigans. In between bites of delicious pot roast and potatoes, they told me tales about Stanton—high school football glories, an adolescent prank that almost burned the house down, and how he broke his leg when he was five jumping off the roof because he was sure his Superman Underoos would give him the power to fly.

A place at the table was set for Stanton—but his chair remained empty.

After dinner, back in his room, I call Brent to check in. Apparently Sherman is becoming quite accustomed to his new standard of living, and might not want to come back to me. Ever.

After a shower, I slip into a chocolate-colored nightgown, dry my hair, and open the window before lying on the bed, on top of the covers. It’s a cool night and the crisp air feels good on my skin. My eyes get heavier as I watch the window. Waiting to see headlights, the return of a certain black pickup.

No, not just waiting. It’s much worse than that.

I’m hoping.

•   •   •

Ding.

“Shit!”

Bang.

“Damn it!”

Smack.

“Son of a whore!”

I grab for the bedside lamp and shield my eyes when light explodes in the room. Stanton’s just inside the door—down on his hands and knees.

He looks up at me, baffled. “The floor tripped me.”

I go to him, helping him stand, his weight making us stumble toward the bed. With my face pressed against his collarbone, I smell earth and campfire, underneath the stronger, overwhelming scent of alcohol. Not unpleasant, but possibly powerful enough to get me drunk on the fumes alone.

“It’s a good thing I don’t have any candles burning—you’d burst into flames.”

Stanton laughs as I get him settled on the edge of the bed, his feet braced on the floor for stability. His hat is adorably askew¸ and his squinting, unfocused eyes look up at me through those dark lashes, drifting over my face. “Wow. You’re pretty.”

Oh boy. I can’t help but smile at his less than suave delivery.

“I’m sorry I left you alone for so long, Soph.”

I take a step back, shaking my head dismissively. “It’s okay. That’s why we’re here, right?” But there’s a slight stirring of irritation when I realize, “You drove like this?”

He just shrugs. “My truck knows the way.”

“That was stupid, Stanton.” I swallow hard. “Were you . . . with Jenny this whole time?”

His lips vibrate as he blows out a breath. “Nah, Jenn and her momma, Presley, and her sister went to get their dresses fitted. Wayne—Jenny’s father—took me out back to his hunting shed, to show me the buck he got last season mounted on the wall. We started drinkin’, talkin’ . . . mostly drinkin’.”

Raw emotion hits me square in the chest, like a Miley Cyrus swinging wrecking ball. And I’m momentarily speechless when I recognize it for what it is.

Relief.

Gut-wrenching relief—like the feel of cooling balm spread on a scathing burn. It starts in my chest and spreads out through my arms, down my legs, making my fingertips and toes tingle.

Holy shitballs. I didn’t realize how tight my muscles were strung, how much I hated the idea that Stanton had spent these hours with Jenny, until he told me he hadn’t.

What the hell is wrong with me?

When I glance at Stanton’s face, my misplaced emotion dissipates. Because he looks crushed. His shoulders are weighted, eyes downcast, his lips pulled low with mourning.

“I think it’s really over,” he whispers. “I stayed away too long and . . . I’ve lost her.” His voice rises. “Everyone’s so damn fine with it! Wayne, Jenn, Presley, even my own mother—they all think the idea of her gettin’ married is fantastic. Was I the only one who thought we were in it for the long haul? I was game, you know? For life.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, stepping forward between his legs, to hug him. His head rests against my breastbone, his breath warm against my chest. Those strong, gentle hands squeeze my waist, then encircle, resting on my lower back.

I put his hat on the bed beside him, running my fingers through his hair comfortingly. His voice is soft, barely audible—lost in the fabric of my nightgown—and my nipples go taut when he adds, “I’m just so fucking glad you’re here, Sofia.”

One of the perks of being close with a bunch of guys is knowing how they think, understanding the underlying meaning of the words they say.

I roll my eyes. “Of course you’re glad I’m here. You’ve been figuratively kicked in the balls. You’re ego’s bruised.”

And after a man’s crashed and burned, nothing soothes that wounded ego faster than climbing into a new, warm welcoming cockpit.

He lifts his head from my chest and gazes up at me looking adorably bleary eyed, yet sincere. “It’s not just that. I’m not only glad someone is here—I’m glad it’s you.”

Slowly, Stanton’s hands slide lower, cupping my ass, squeezing a muffled moan from my lungs. “Of course, if you want to kiss my bruised . . . ego . . . and make it better—I’m on board with that, too.”

He wiggles his eyebrows and I laugh. His thick hair is soft against my palms as I continue to push my fingers through it, thinking. Weighing my options.

I want him. I always want him. Why shouldn’t I have him? I thought keeping things platonic while I was here would help keep things straightforward. Compartmentalized.

But now, gazing down at that handsome face, those full, grinning lips . . . why shouldn’t I enjoy him while I have him? It’s not like I’m the other woman—Jenny turned him down.

His hands skim and knead, fingers searching, knowing my body so well. The rhythm I like, the secret touches that make me clench and gasp and want.

Why shouldn’t I reap the benefits of what she so stupidly threw away?

It’s only sex. Amazing, hot, physical release. I try to think of a reason I should say no.

And can’t come up with a single one.

I pick his hat up from the bed, placing it on my own head.

Ride ’em cowgirl.

He smirks. And my knees go weak.

“My hat looks good on you,” he drawls.

I stare at his mouth, then smile devilishly. “You know what else looks good on me?”

“What?”

I lean in, close enough to taste him. “You.”

He starts to chuckle, but the chuckle turns into a groan when I kiss him. A tongue-probing, lip-sucking kiss that says I mean business. Stanton’s hands rise, burying in my hair, caressing my face, fingertips brushing my neck. He pulls me closer, moving his mouth across and over mine. He means business, too.

A tender electricity surges between us, and a new, rough affection presses us together. It’s warm and familiar, wild and exciting at the same time and I want to drown in it. I can’t get close enough; I need the contact of his skin more than my lungs need the air they’re screaming for. I tear my mouth away and lift his shirt. As soon as it’s off, he’s pulling at the strap of my nightgown, teeth scraping my shoulder, suctioning the flesh of my collarbone, my neck, hard enough to mar.

I pepper kisses across his bronze chest, running my hands over every sculpted crest, loving how his stomach tightens under my touch as I move lower. My tongue pays homage to the hard nub of his nipple along the way—swirling and flicking—making Stanton hiss. I get on my knees and look up into his eyes as I unbuckle his pants.

He watches me with heavy, hooded lids, knocking the hat from my head, petting my hair, smiling like he has a secret.

There’s a naughty joy—a dirty fucking thrill from being on my knees in front of him, when he yanks at my hair, when he utters the filthiest words. Because Stanton knows exactly what he’s doing—knows what I need. I give him my body, my supplication, and he gives me breath-stealing pleasure in return. He doesn’t rely on my direction. I don’t have to worry about instruction—he’ll get me there gloriously and all on his own.

But I’m not powerless, even on my knees. I give, he takes—but he needs me to give. He’s desperate for me to give—it’s there in the pleading of his eyes, the assertive push of his hand, and the whispered command to fuckin’ hurry. We’re the perfect balance of passion—a heady, equalized mix of desire and fulfillment.

I peel his pants off and push them to the side. Stanton’s cock juts up, thick and ready, exacting all of my attention, waiting to be handled. His dick is a sight to behold—impressive girth, masculine veins, potent length—it deserves to be emulated, sculpted, and revered like a precious piece of art.

I take him in my hand, gripping firmly, stroking slowly from base to tip.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he moans.

For a horrifying moment, I wonder if he’s imagining it’s her fist around him, her blond head bowed at his feet. But then I lick him, up and down, slathering moist desire along the length . . . and it’s my name groaning from his lips.

“Sofia . . .”

Liquid heat suffuses my body at the sound of his voice, wetness gathers between my legs, spurring me on. Driving me to give him this pleasure, to make him writhe, to swallow his moans—to swallow him.

To make him forget why we came—leaving him fixated only on who’s about to make him come.

“I love how hard you are,” I breathe against him, making him twitch in my hand. “I love how you taste.” I place my lips around the head, bulbous and hot. I suck at it, circling my tongue. Then I descend, taking him all the way down, the way I know he loves. I relax my throat, letting him in, breathing through the gag impulse, and swallow—knowing the reflexive muscles will contract tight around him.

His hips surge up, seeking more depth—more snug, wet heat. Then I slowly withdraw, sucking hard, dragging with my lips and tongue as I go. I lower down on him again, quickening the pace, adding the tiniest scrape of teeth.

His chest rises and falls rapidly—panting and grunting. His fist tightens in my hair, pulling hard enough to give just a bit of pain. And it’s rewarding, encouraging, because I know I’m bringing him to the edge of his control.

Yes, Stanton!

I want him to push me, pull me—fucking use me—as long as it’s only me he’s thinking of. Me he wants.

My head bobs faster. I cup his heavy balls in my warm hand and massage, tug, then gently caress.

“Oh fuck . . . deeper . . . Sofia . . . shit . . . that’s it, baby.”

His cock hardens even more, a slick, silken rod filling my greedy mouth. I wrap my fingers around him near the base and jerk up and down in harmony with my mouth. Then his hand on my head tugs, holds me steady, as his cock slides in and out of my mouth, with the volition of his thrusting hips. “Fuck . . . I’m coming . . . coming in your perfect mouth . . . fuck . . .”

I feel the flesh expand, swell, and a second later hot, salty streams surge on my tongue, filling my mouth. I swallow every bit he gives me—appreciatively. Because I love that I can do this to him. I love that I gave him this.

Stanton gulps for air as he runs his fingers through my hair softly now, soothingly. When he goes slack in my mouth I release him and immediately find myself pulled up, pressed against him. He holds me as we tumble back on the bed. He kisses my forehead, my closed eyes.

Then his hand slides up my thigh, as his body slides lower, his breath a tickling scrape across my stomach. He settles between my spread thighs, cups my ass, lifting me as he lowers his mouth. The air whooshes from my lungs at the sensation, the first touch of his lips enveloping me. I arch my back, he grips my hips, holding me steady for the onslaught of his tongue.

His tongue licks and probes, rubs against the tight, desperate bundle of nerves between my legs, bringing wet, delicious heat that steals my thoughts and renders me speechless. I look down to watch him, and the sight makes my hands clench in the sheets, my thighs quiver. His eyes are closed in concentration, his face blissful, his mouth hums wordless appreciation as his head swivels. And I feel it build—the pressure, sparks of erotic pleasure spike deep inside me—building, cresting, getting closer.

“Oh God, Stanton, oh God . . .”

He releases my hips from his grasp and my pelvis gyrates shamelessly against him, wanting him deeper, harder, hotter. He slides two fingers into my tightness as his tongue makes firm, relentless circles against my clit. Every muscle in my body goes stiff in anticipation, and for a few beautiful seconds I’m suspended, hanging weightless on that sensual precipice.

And then, with a long serrated moan, I shatter. My shoulders shake with the force of my orgasm, my pussy pulses around Stanton’s fingers, as carnal joy wracks every nerve in my body. It goes on and on, spasms of pleasure that force whimpering gasps from my lungs.

After the heated sensations cool to soft embers, I open my eyes. Shining dots of light sparkle on the outer edge of my vision, and in the center is Stanton’s face—watching me with tender satisfaction. I feel his hand hold my jaw, and when he kisses me slowly, I taste a pleasing combination of tart alcohol and my own sweetness on his lips.

Drained and boneless, we crawl up the covers, rest our heads on the pillows, and with mingled breaths, close our eyes to the rest of the world.