I smile as I'm gasping, because his other hand pops his black Stetson off and sets it on my head before he starts to work open the silver buckle of my belt, then the button on my Wranglers. I may not get my pussy full of his dick today, but I'm gonna get something, and that's good enough for me.
For now, at least.
“You will not break me, baby. But you will get me to bend like a willow in a storm.” Roman’s rough hands twist me around as he lurches, and we both end up in one of my favorite places in the world.
The back seat of his truck.
“You know, they call eighteen-year-old girlsnubile. It means ready to be knocked up.” I giggle. “AndI’ve tried every trick in the book to make you give me that foot-long meat stick. Ishouldbe offended. If I didn’t know you loved me, I’d think you didn’t love me.”
Another pout. My brat meter is in the red, and he tolerates me like he tolerates a buckskin yearling acting up, but even Saint Roman has limits.
I start to reach for my Buc-ee’s extra-large cherry lemonade in the cupholder, but my hand freezes midair when I hear that special Roman Marshall ‘I’ve had about enough of your mouth’ snarl.
Before I get out a yelp, my jeans are down my hips, and I see a flash of that dimple that makes half the girls in Montana drop their panties.
“It ain’t about not wantin’.” He curses, and his forearms flex as he gets my boots and pants off before I can sayquit, and I’m ten kinds of soaking wet in the flash of a cowboy’s dimple.
He shifts his hips, working his buckle loose, then he does battle with the button and zipper on his Levi’s, frustration seething through his teeth, because the pressure from his colossal erection on the fabric is making it nearly impossible to set it free.
“I want you as bad as a spring river wants to run, lil Kicker.” My stomach does all those little girl things when he uses that name. He may be the one in the family with the bad boy reputation, but I got myself kicked out of school for fighting more than a fistful of times before I figured out in second grade, I had Roman, and he kicked the shit out of anyone a thousand times better and faster than I could.
Plus, I secretly loved how protective he was of me. Even then. But he started calling me that name way back, and it stuck.
A low, menacing groan vibrates from his chest when his erection finally pops out, and my jaw unhinges like it does every time I get my eyes on the man-monster he keeps corralled behind that silver buckle.
It’s the eighth wonder of the world in my eyes. It’s not just the size, but that’s a sure sight as well. But it’s just…beautiful, in its own masculine way.
It reminds me of Roman, thick and hard and standing tall, but also imperfect, and those imperfections only make it more compelling. It curves slightly to the left, and there’s a vein that runs jagged along the side. The scar from his circumcision is star-shaped, just under the swollen head, and I love to kiss it and make a wish.
He’s watching as I swipe the back of my hand over my lips, spreading a drop of drool across my left cheek.
He’s always watching. It’s one of the many things that balances out my frustration that he won’t pop my cherry like every boy in high school wished they could.
He was protective of me from the moment we walked into kindergarten, but I also learned not to tell him every time some boy said something about my ass or my tits, or looked at me sideways, because the entire state of Montana would be covered in blood, and my poor Roman would be spending more than just a few days in county lockup.
Which… he’s done more than a few times already.
Roman Marshall is the most jealous man in the Northern Hemisphere.
Well, that’s not including my father and Roman’s father when it comes to our respective mothers. He came by his green streak honestly, even if Allister, my father’s best friend and my uncle, is not his biological father.
The family tree gets a little complicated, and when we get married, it’s gonna be ten kinds of kinky knots, but, as long as my Daddy gives us his blessing as soon as we reveal officially to our parents what they might already suspect, all will be right in my world and my heart.
I’m Daddy’s girl for sure. But, lucky for me, now I have two of them. In vastly different roles in my life, of course.
“Come on, now.” He weaves his fingers together and settles them on top of his head, nodding. “Get to rubbing, baby. You got me harder than anvil steel. Finish what you started like a good girl.”
We do this a lot. He sits back, and I climb on his lap, and we hump and grind, rubbing on each other for relief.
“All my friends, and their friends, and evenour parentsfucked before they got married,” I whine.
He shoots me a look as I pop up from my place next to him and bracket his thighs with mine. Friction from the hair on his legs scratches against my inner thighs as I settle on top of the enormous cowboy that is already family, which only sort of makes what we have together hotter.
We ain’t blood, but we sure as fire ain’t supposed to be play fucking in the back of his Ford.
“Jesus fuck.” He inhales, taking a handful of my hip and pressing my open folds down onto his hardness. “I swear your pussy smells sweeter every fucking time. You all nice and sloppy, like I like you?”
I nod and throw my head back as he lets me go, reaching down for the shirttails of his blue and black plaid pearl-snap Roper shirt with hands as big as baseball mitts. He tugs, all the snaps popping like tiny gunshots, exposing the wide planes of his chest, and I nearly come from the glory of the sight.
