One-night stands on the road?

Yep.

Hook-ups at the bar that end with me getting a hotel room for the night instead of taking a woman back to my place?

That too.

Relationships that last more than twenty-four hours?

No.

But Tillie Jean’s under my skin. She’s a part of my life whether I like it or not, but unlike anyone else’s sisters or female friends, she gets to me.

I always thought it was because she has no idea how lucky she is to have such a great family, that she treated them like crap and took them for granted, except I was wrong.

She doesn’t just prank Cooper. She drives up the mountain and drops off his favorite soup the one day a week that Mr. Rock makes it, and she smiles when he pranks her back. She doesn’t just make jokes about Grady’s goat. She also slips the animal treats and texts her brother funny baker memes. She hugs her grandparents. She has Sunday lunch with her parents every week and stays after to play board games even when her brothers don’t. She tells her friends when they walk out of the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to their shoes and she slows down to run at the back of the pack, offering encouragement and company to the slowpokes during local 5k races. She pays attention to what’s going on around her. She listens. She cares.

She knows who she is. She knows where she fits.

She doesn’t irritate me because she doesn’t appreciate what she has.

She irritates me because she has everything I never did.

And right now, she’s standing in my kitchen, breasts rising and falling under her Crusty Nut T-shirt and puffy coat, her breath quick, glaring at me since to her, apparently I’m a friend.

The kind who’s supposed to mention when I’ll be gone so she doesn’t worry.

Or maybe the kind who’s supposed to mention when I’ll be gone since she’ll miss me.

I can’t offer her any of that in return. I don’t know how and the idea of someone expecting that of me ramps up my blood pressure and sends my anxiety into overdrive.

But I also can’t stop myself from what I’m about to do next.

“Well?” she says. “What are we?”

I take one step toward her.

Then another.

She doesn’t back away, but instead flares her shoulders back, lifts her face to watch me, and widens her stance like she’s getting ready for me to step between her legs.

Fuck.

How’s a guy supposed to resist this?

“We’re fucking complicated,” I tell her.

She loops one arm around my neck. “I can live with that.”

And then she’s up on tiptoe, kissing me, wrapping one leg around my hips, thrusting her tongue into my mouth and her fingers into my hair.

I don’t know why she keeps coming back, but thank fuck she does.

I push her coat off her shoulders and tug her shirt out of her jeans so I can feel the hot, soft skin of her belly and sides.

More.

More Tillie Jean.

More skin.

More glorious breasts, and yes, more lace.

The door’s locked. The light’s low. No one knows she’s here.

So you’re damn right I’m pulling out of the kiss to unbutton her shirt and find out what color lace she’s wearing tonight.

“Pink,” I groan. “Fucking pink.”

With black ribbons, but I can’t force that many syllables out of my mouth.

She starts to talk, but stops with a gasp when I lick the line of her cleavage down to the rough material holding them in place.

I love breasts.

I love breasts in lace.

I love women gasping my name when I lick their breasts in lace.

She fumbles with yanking her shirt all the way off, then grips my head and holds me to her chest while I lick and suck and nibble my way around the edges of her bra. My thumbs are teasing her hard nipples, my dick so hard it could knock a fastball out of the park, and it’s not enough.

I want more Tillie Jean.

I want all of Tillie Jean.

My fingers slide around her back and flick her bra clasp open, and her nipples peek out from behind the edge of the lace as the fabric slips down her arms.

“Oh, god, Max,” she gasps as I suck one sweet nipple into my mouth, rolling my tongue around the tight nub.

Fuck, I love breasts.

And she has a glorious pair.

She grips my hair hard. “Need—closer. Touch me.”

I didn’t know I was the following instructions type until my hand instinctively goes between her legs to cradle her pussy. Her jeans are soaked, and the scent of her arousal tickles my nose, reminding me what else I love on a woman.

“Off,” I order as I slide my mouth to suck on her other nipple.

She yanks at her button. I push her jeans down over her hips, and yes.

Pink lace panties.

No, a pink lace thong. With little black bows on either side of the little patch of lace.

This woman is gonna kill me.

I lift her in one smooth motion and set her at the edge of the rickety old table under the lone window in the kitchen. Her eyes are midnight blue and hungry, her parted lips moist, her cheeks stained rose.

“Back out now if you don’t want to do this,” I tell her.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to do this.”

“One time only.”

“If you say so.”

“One time only.”

“Then you better make it good.”

That mouth of hers makes my dick strain even harder.

Walk away, dumbass, that snide fuckwad in my brain hisses.

I mentally flip it off, then grab Tillie Jean’s hands and brace them behind her. “Stay.”

“Bossy.” She pushes her breasts out, and this time, when I bend to worship them, I stroke the wet lace between her thighs with my knuckles too.

She replies with a garbled moan that I take as encouragement, especially when her hips buck against my hand.

Heaven.

And it’s all mine.

One time only.

I lick a path between her breasts, down her belly, swirl my tongue over her tight little belly button, and lower.

She spreads her legs wider.

I slip my finger under the fabric and feel her hot, wet, silky skin, the delicate folds, that tight bud of her clitoris, and yes.

Just yes.

Her hips jerk in my hand as I thumb that magic button. “Don’t stop, Max. God, don’t stop.”

The table creaks under her thrusting hips. I push the lace to the side, lean in, and lick her seam, but it’s not enough.

Not with her pressing her most intimate parts into my mouth, gasping my name, fisting my hair in one hand while she braces herself with the other.

I don’t want to lick and savor.

I want to devour.

Claim.

Conquer.

This pussy?

Mine.

So long as she’s on this table, her legs wrapped around my head, pumping into my face, she’s mine.

I haven’t shaved in two days, but she seems to love the feel of my rough whiskers on her delicate skin, so I’m not gentle.

I’m hungry.

I’m desperate.

I want Tillie Jean to come all over my face and feel me imprinted on herself every time she takes her panties off for the next week.

“Oh, god, Max, more,” she pants.

I can barely hear her with her thighs clamped around my ears, but I hear enough, and it’s driving me fucking wild.