Silver Bastard (Silver Valley #1)(37)
Author: Joanna Wylde

In the corner of the front room was the curved little turret area with her weird, old-fashioned sewing machine. I’d heard all about her sewing from Darcy. Becca was good. Like, really good. Good enough that Darcy hired her to make new “window treatments” (whatever the hell those were) for her business last year, which was really saying something. You could buy those fuckers at Walmart for almost nothing.

Of course, Darcy had a whole explanation about why Becca’s curtains were better than Walmart’s, which I couldn’t follow but totally believed. The shop looked fantastic. Like a magazine.

Becca’s apartment was just about perfect now that she’d had a chance to fix it up. Of course, I’d be happier if the downstairs door locked, but even I had to admit that probably wasn’t a big deal. Nobody in Callup locked their doors, not unless they had things to hide.

My own place had three locks.

“How much do you want taken off?” Becca asked, bustling around and gathering her scissors and shit. What the hell had I been thinking? My hair grew until it got annoying and then I cut it off. It wasn’t annoying right now so it didn’t need a cut. Simple.

But watching her fuss over Blake earlier nearly killed me—Christ, but she needs to start shutting her fucking shades—and I wanted her to touch me like that. To give me what she’d given him. The rational part of my brain knew there probably wasn’t anything between them. That hardly mattered, though, because every time I saw them together I wanted to beat him to a fucking pulp.

My cock got hard just thinking about it. Right. Nothing fucked up about that. Time to dial back the homicidal urges a bit . . .

“Okay, come over here so I can wash your hair.”

I reached for my shirt, pulling it up and over my head. Becca’s mouth twisted like she’d been eating lemons.

“What?”

“Why did you take off your shirt?”

“Blake wasn’t wearing his.”

“He didn’t want to get it wet.”

“You really want to talk about getting things wet?”

She flushed and my cock throbbed. Now there was a dark path if ever one existed . . . I held my shirt in front of my pants. Camouflage. If Becca had any fucking clue how horny I was, she’d kick me out on my ass. I could control myself, though, if it meant getting close to her.

Pussy. I practically heard Painter’s voice mocking me in my head. Right, like he should talk.

“Okay, lean over the sink,” she said quietly. Following her direction, I leaned. She unhooked the faucet, revealing a surprisingly modern hose connection. “Earl put this in for me. Regina has one just like it that I like to use on her hair, up at their place. He installed it for a Christmas present last year after I started school.”

I ignored her words as warm water sluiced over me, because I could give two shits about Earl. She leaned in, smelling all clean and fresh, with a hint of orange. Not perfume or anything like that. Must just be the soap she used. Her tits brushed my side as she turned off the water and reached for the shampoo.

Were her nipples hard?

Then Becca’s fingers dug into my hair, which had to be the sweetest torture in history. I remembered those same fingers stretched tight around my cock, squeezing and working me until I’d lost the ability to think. Been drunk off my ass that night but I hadn’t blacked out, thank fuck. The only thing worse than waking up and discovering what I’d done would’ve been losing those memories—if you’re gonna do the time, goddamn shame to forget a crime that sweet. Still jerked off to the thought at least once a week because I’m a fucking masochist.

“How’s that?” Becca asked, her voice soft and husky.

“It’s good,” I managed to croak out. She leaned in closer and I felt her boobs push into me—had she washed Blake’s hair like this?

Wasn’t down with that. Not even a little.

The scalp massage lasted a long time, way longer than it needed to. Did she want to touch me as bad as I wanted to touch her? Was she thinking about the taste of my come, or how she’d grabbed my hair and screamed when I ate her pussy? Over and over her fingers ran across my skin, smoothing and releasing . . .

“Okay, time to rinse,” she whispered, shifting her legs restlessly. I bit back a groan. Fuck. This was physical pain. Warm water washed over my head. If Becca had any sense, she’d turn cold spray on my crotch.

She reached for the conditioner—tits brushing my side again—and I felt her shiver. Christ. She felt it, too. My dick screamed for relief. I reached down as quietly as possible, pushing the heel of my hand down along the length, trying to make it better somehow.

The mixture of pressure and pain felt good in a sick way.

Becca’s hands dug in again and I started cataloging bike parts in my head. Wasn’t sure how much more I could take. Was she doing it on purpose?

Fuck, I hoped so.

“Almost finished,” she whispered and I swear, I heard the same agonized need in her tone that I felt running through my whole goddamn body. Take her, my mind whispered. Throw Becca down across that table and fuck her ’til she screams. When Blake and Collins come running to the rescue, you can shoot them and carry her off into the mountains. Do it.

Jesus. I needed to pull my shit together. Fast.

Becca rinsed one more time, and then she was wrapping a towel around my hair. I stood—knees shaking—and walked into the living room where Blake’s chair sat, taunting me.

“Shut the shades,” I gritted from between clenched teeth. “People can see every move you make in here if you don’t. Fucking fishbowl.”

“I’d be a lot more worried about that if anyone went outside after dark in Callup,” she replied quietly. “Sidewalks are rolled up for the night, Puck.”

“Shut the fucking shades,” I repeated, the words catching in my throat. Becca shrugged and obeyed, and my eyes followed her graceful form as she moved around the open area. The woman was perfect. Like a dancer. Christ, what I’d give to see her work a pole. I’d lied to her the other day when I said I could be the man who watched when she got married and had a family and lived a normal life . . .

I wasn’t that man.

I’d been playing a game with myself, pretending to be something I wasn’t because it was the right thing to do. Told her the truth about one thing, though—I definitely wasn’t the guy who did the right thing. Never had been. Everything was so fucking clear now, because I knew exactly what I should do next.