AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Don’t give me your bullshit, Sam, about having no-strings sex. She’s just in town for a few days and looking for a good time. She’s from New York. I sat beside her on the plane. Talked with her for awhile. Practically the whole time we were delayed a friend of hers was messaging her, telling her to find a hot cowboy and have some fun.”
Was that a grin teasing at the edges of Sam’s mouth? “I don’t know how you find them, Jack.”
“She needs me. Her pussy needs me. I can’t just walk away.” I sat down in the chair opposite my cousin in his big, fancy lawyer’s office and couldn’t keep the happy grin off my face. “One, she’s sexy as hell. Curvy, blond, and strung up so tight she’ll probably pass out the first time I make her come.”
“I don’t need to know.” Sam was shaking his head now, but there was laughter in his eyes. Which was good to see. He hadn’t quite forgiven me for costing us the woman he wanted us to marry all those years ago, before he left town. Sweet Samantha Connor. She’d been eighteen at the time and everything Sam wanted. What he wanted, I hated: innocent, sweet, dependent. Needy. I’d felt myself suffocating the closer Sam got to proposing. Hell, I'd only been fucking eighteen myself. I’d refused to marry her, she’d cried a river and married the MacPhersons six months later. Sam left town two weeks after the wedding and stayed gone for more than a decade.
“Hell, cousin. If anyone needs to get laid, it's her.”
I grinned, thinking of her computer and cell and instant messaging and her full inbox and… hell, the seventeen other things she probably had going through that pretty head of hers. It was amusing to see her so intense and serious. On the plane, I'd had a semi since I first sat down and had to pull out my book to try and cover it. When she'd gotten up to use the lavatory, I'd enjoyed the view of her curvy ass as she walked down the aisle, which had only made me hard as a rock. I'd had to sit there, eyes closed and think about mucking out stalls and root canals to will it away. But when she'd surprised the shit out of me and tried to climb over my lap, I instantly imagined her riding my cock up and down, shifting her hips to get herself off as she fucked me. There was no question she'd felt how hard I was for her as I savored her warm curves beneath my hands, the soft feel of the underside of her breasts, her thighs pressing into mine the instant before she leapt off.
My cock stirred at the memory alone. Her body… lush and round. Perfect.
Now Sam’s brows winged up. “Haven't seen that look on your face in awhile. That good, huh?”
I nodded and grinned, envisioning Catherine's blouse as it strained from her full breasts, her blond curls, the soft weight of her thighs on mine, her surprise at being caught straddling me. “Hell, yeah. That good.”
Sam leaned forward and picked up a softball he had on his desk and started tossing it up in the air. We were on a summer league through the recreation center, and Sam liked to keep his hands busy. “If she's that good, then she's better than a quick fuck.”
I shook my head. “I'd be game for more, but she just wants sex. Lots of sex. Needs it, in fact.”
Sam caught the ball and looked at me, wide eyed. “How the hell did you learn that from the plane? And don’t tell me she actually said that to you.”
She’d been about to, that's for damn sure, but she’d changed her mind. I’d watched the battle rage behind her expressive blue eyes, and nearly groaned with disappointment when I saw the cool, logical mask she wore drop down to hide her desire. “I peeked at her instant messaging conversation with a girlfriend. She was practically ordered to have a fling. She’s divorced and looking for a good time.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Why would she need a fling? What’s wrong with her? If she’s as hot as you claim, she should have men lined up wherever she’s from.”
“New York. And nothing’s wrong with her.” She was one perfect little package with curves I itched to hold again. “She's just got a type-A personality focused solely on the corner office. Uptight. Conservative. A lawyer, just like you.”
“Ah, one of those.” Sam had walked away from a big-time partnership in San Francisco, very similar to the one Catherine so desperately wanted, for the slower paced life in Montana. No more eighty-hour work weeks for him with his private practice.
“She's wound up tight. Real tight.” I steepled my fingers. “From the IM conversation, I'd say she hasn't gotten any in awhile. If we got our hands on her, she'd probably go off like a rocket.”
“We?”
“Yes, we,” I countered. “She's not Samantha and I'm not eighteen anymore. I know what I want now.”
Sam stiffened. We didn't talk about what happened all those years ago. It was a sore subject. Fuck, it was a huge fucking elephant in the room and it never went away.
“She wasn't the one for us,” I added, referring to Samantha. “We weren't the men for her. She's married to the MacPhersons. Happy.”
The town of Bridgewater, Montana was founded on the principals of plural marriage. Two or more men for one woman. Back in the 1880's, when our great-great-great grandfather came to the United States from England, he—along with a few fellow soldiers—established Bridgewater as a safe refuge. They believed in the custom that two men should protect and love a wife. Together.
I didn't know the full story, but they'd served in the small, now extinct country of Mohamir that followed this custom; men who believed in sharing a woman. Protecting her, cherishing her and loving her in a way that kept her from ever being alone was their sole purpose. If one husband died, she had another to take care of her and any children. While it seemed to many outsiders to be chauvinistic, the lifestyle was designed with the woman in mind, with the woman the center of every family. Those original tenets set by our ancestors still held today. While not everyone in Bridgewater married this way, it was commonplace and understood. Sam and I, we'd grown up with it—we had one mother and two dads—and wanted that kind of marriage for ourselves.
Sam dropped his feet to the floor with a thud and leaned on his desk. “Jack—”
“We're grown men. Let's stop acting like pussies about this. It's not about Samantha Connor any more. We were too young. Hell, I was eighteen and shaved once a week.”
I ran my hand over my jaw, which was covered in a heavy five o'clock shadow. “What did I know about having a wife?”
“You're ready for one now?” he eyed me closely.
“I know you left because of the fallout with Samantha and I know why you finally came back—to find The One. It's time we found our bride.”
He could have found a woman in San Francisco and settled down, married her. But he hadn't. He wanted a Bridgewater marriage. He just hadn't been ready before. Now, he was ready. We just hadn't found the right woman.
“And you think this woman on the plane is her?”
