Country Love (A Billionaire BWWM Romance) (4 page)

Chapter Six

Tanner

I liked her
immediately, partly because she was staring me down like she wanted to murder
me with her bare hands.

Partly because I
believed
she could do it. I can't help it;
I'm a sucker for a good challenge.

Since I started
in the music business, women have been a constant. I used to have a hell of a
good time back when I first started. Thing is, after awhile, I got bored. Maybe
it was the rancher in me, but I get suspicious of things that are too easy. I
feel most at home when I have something to tangle with.

Right about now,
Miss Thang over there looked like a worthy opponent. She had these lips on her,
the kind that looked like they could just as easily kiss me as rip me a new
one.

I decided to have
a little fun. Feign ignorance, watch her struggle, wiggling that ass of hers. I
was just starting to enjoy myself when she called me out.

"You know
damn well I'm stuck," Oh boy, I could just hear the exasperation. I had to
laugh.

"Oh
really?" I pulled my innocent, 'gosh-golly-gee face' but just like I
suspected, Miss Thang wasn't falling for my act. Good. "Well sweetheart, I
sure do hope you packed some boots in that nice luggage of yours."

Well that sure pissed
her off.
 
She was already as ruffled
as a wet hen, all puffed out and squawking. But when I called her out on her
footwear, she started hissing and spitting like the feral barn cat that ruled
this place when I was a boy - God rest his nasty, bitey soul. But as stuck as
she was, I was still in danger of being killed dead by her death glare, so I
relented and went down on one knee next to her.

She hissed again,
this time in surprise, and tried to hop away from me. "Hey now," she
protested, but I had her by the ankle. I was enjoying myself even more now that
I had an excuse to wrap my hand around that leg of hers. Up close, her skin was
incredible, a million different shades of darkness - all cocoa and eggplant and
ebony. There weren't too many girls who look like her in Heath County - fuck,
there weren't too many girls that looked like her period - and I was flat out
staring now.

Once she was
free, I reluctantly released her and she did this funny little stumble-hop out
of the mud. "Thank you," she said, still sounding like she wanted to
kill me but at least attempting to be polite about it.

My manners kicked
in on autopilot and I touched my hat when I told her she was welcome. That
gesture - usually enough to make panties fall off five counties over - seemed
to piss her off even more.

What was with this chick?

I stared back,
wondering what the hell to do now. She narrowed her eyes. I narrowed mine. She
put her hands on her hips. I planted my feet and crossed my arms. She twisted
her lips and I felt my own mouth twitch in response.

We were frozen
together in a staring contest and I couldn't help but feel like I was losing.

I don't like
losing.

She cocked her
head and arched her eyebrow and finally I couldn't take it anymore.
"What?!" I exploded.

"I have to
get a shot of you," she said, lunging for the trunk of the still idling
car. "Golden hour. Hold still, the light is perfect."

"You're
fucking kidding me, right?" I sputtered, but she was not paying me any
attention anymore. She banged on the trunk and the driver, who clearly knew who
was in charge here, popped it open immediately. She yanked and cursed until a
black bag emerged.

Miss Thang, so
polished and poised a moment ago, dropped right to the muddy ground and started
fiddling with expensive looking lenses. I could have stripped naked and done a
jig and she wouldn't have even noticed, so focused was she on her work.

Gave me a nice
long time to stare at her body, if I was being truthful. I’m not complaining.

Her shoulders
were broader and more muscular than I would have suspected, probably a result
of hoofing that bag around everywhere. She had actual muscle definition in her
arms, too. She wasn't afraid to work hard, that much was clear from her body,
even if her clothes told a completely different story. In fact, the longer I
looked at her, the more I came to the conclusion that this high-heeled princess
act was just that. An act. Take away those silly, citified rags and I was sure
the real Miss Williams would be revealed.
 
Just need to let her hair out of that slicked black bun, get her out of
that flimsy little blouse, unzip that hip hugging skirt that cupped her ass
like a good, firm handhold...

Great. Now I've worked
myself up into a giant hard-on.

"Okay!"
she sang out. She whirled around with that huge camera and stopped short. I kind
of awkwardly bent at the waist, but her eyes, damn those eyes, went right to
it.

I was caught.

And I was
blushing like a hormonal schoolboy about it too.

She twisted those
lips. "I'll get a few shots from the waist, up," she said pointedly.

I didn't know
what to say, so I said nothing. I suddenly had no idea what to do with my
hands.

"Put your
hands down," she admonished me. "On the fence there. That's right,
now look at me. No, look at
me,
not
the camera. Perfect."

The shutter
clicked a few times as I stared at her. Her eyes were hidden behind the massive
black lens, so I focused on her neck, that swooping, elegant neck that curved
into her strong shoulders. The awkward angle of her crouch allowed her blouse
to fall open a bit, revealing a creamy satin bra...

"Stop
moving, Mr. Brock." She darted a quick glance up from the lens and
amusement was dancing in her eyes. "Just look at the car if you can't
stand looking at me."

"Sorry,
darlin," I muttered.

She snapped a few
more shots and then looks down at her display. "I think I got what I
wanted," she said, teetering to a stand. I reached out to steady her and
she sniffed at me. "But if we're going to be working together the next few
days, I want to clear something right up, okay Mr. Brock?" She slipped her
arm free and planted a hand on her hip. "This is business only. You can
call me Monique, if you'd like. But I'm not your darlin', your babe, or your
sweetheart. You get me?"

"Wait, I
never once called you babe," I protested.

She blinked at
me, slowly, like a cat. "Pre-emptive strike. Just in case."

I felt heat flare
at the back of my neck. "Very well,
Miss
Williams
," I hissed. "Strictly business."

She nodded and
slid back into the still waiting Towne Car, then rolled down the window.
"Shall I meet you at the house?"

Still seething, I
squinted up at the sun and then looked down at my wrist. "Seein' as we're
all business here, I'd say no. Quittin' time's five o'clock and I’ll be back up
to the house well past that. Sleep well,
Miss
Williams
."

I could hear her
sputtering and hissing as I walked away, but I didn't care. She wanted to make
this difficult and awkward? Fine, two can play that game.

 
I hopped the fence and mounted Falcon in
time to enjoy the sight of Miss Williams's driver trying to reverse back up my narrow
half a mile drive. It made me feel marginally better. I'd survived Monique Williams's
death stare.
For now
.

I just had to get
through tomorrow.

Chapter Seven

Monique

That arrogant son of a bitch....

I've met some
cocky celebrities in my day, but none of them pissed me off more than Tanner
Brock. I saw right through his little games. It killed me that I had to try and
play nice. The frustration that built up inside of me had nowhere to go.

Until now.

The front-desk
clerk was bearing the full brunt of my pent-up wrath. "What the hell do
you mean, one night's stay?!"

"Sorry ma'am,
we only have you down for tonight," the pimply-faced kid behind the
counter squeaked. He barely looked old enough to have hit puberty much less old
enough to work.

"Then book
me for another night then," I seethed, pinching the bridge of my nose and
closing my eyes.

But when I closed
my eyes, the image of Tanner Brock's cock bulging against his tight, low-slung
Wranglers sprang into view.

I snapped my eyes
back open again to see Mr. Acne's pasted on smile fading a bit. Perhaps I could
smite him with my gaze? That would help my mood. I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Ma'am, I'm
sorry," he squeaked, looking slightly scorched, "but we are all
booked up."

"You're
kidding me, right?" I exploded. "How in the hell do that many people
want to stay in this backwater hellhole at once?"

"Rodeo's in
town, ma'am."

A little ball of
pain exploded in my brain. "Of course it is," I exhaled, shaking my
head. "Well, where else is there to stay that's semi-nearby?"

"Nearest
hotel is in Holcum. That's a good..."

"Fifty
minutes away," I finished for him. That burst of exploding pain in my
brain settled into a dull, resigned ache.

Pimple looked
shocked. "Yes ma'am, you've vacationed here before?"

"No one 'vacations'
here. I had the misfortune of living here," I explosively sighed, then
waited as the wheels in his rabbity little brain turned around, taking in my dark
skin and my designer clothes. His embarrassment made his acne flame even redder
and I suddenly wasn't interested in smiting him anymore, I was just too damn
tired to deal with it. "Never mind that then, can you book me in Holcum
for tomorrow night?"

"Let me see
what I can do." He seemed relieved to be allowed to scamper away.

I waved to the
driver who was still waiting patiently. I didn't know how he dealt with the
boredom, frankly. "Change of plans," I told him.

Once I went over
the itinerary three times; pick me up here, let me pack my bags in the trunk
for an extra huge tip, take me to Tanner's, pick me back up again and drive me
out to Holcum, I went back inside. Pimple was positively beaming at me.

"All set
ma'am. I transferred your reservation to the Inn in Holcum." He looked so
proud of himself, like he expected me to fall over with gratitude and then bake
him some cookies.

I wasn't in the
mood. "Yeah, great, can I get my room key now?"

He deflated
somewhat, but scampered around and grabbed my bags anyway and I was glad I had spared
his life. After all, it wasn't his fault that Clara had clearly messed
something up in booking me. Smiting her would be a hell of a lot more
satisfactory anyway.

The room was
clean looking, at least. The moment I sat down on the bed, the exhaustion that
had been nipping at my heels all day caught up with me. I tossed my clothes
over the desk chair and pulled out my pajamas. A brief toilette and I was under
the covers, not caring that it was still dusk outside. I waited for sleep to
come, listening to the silence and waiting for the familiar lump to settle in
my throat.

Loneliness.

It came like
clockwork, always waiting for me whenever I was quiet long enough for it to
creep in unwanted.

I tried not to
allow myself too many of these quiet moments. Because when I did, the longing
crept in. It was something I couldn't quite put a name to, a feeling of sadness
that I always tried to bluster my way through. Sometimes I disguised it as
anger, sometimes as sarcasm. Other people might be fooled, but I never was.

Living like a
gypsy taught me that your home was never tied to a place, it was tied to a
feeling. I thought I had found it with my job at Auteur magazine and the group
of girlfriends I was cultivating, but try as I might, I could never hold on to
that feeling for long.

I squeezed my
eyes shut and did the mind-clearing exercise I had done since I was a kid. I
visualized the gates of my mind opening wide and tried to picture the blue sky
with puffy clouds behind it. It was usually enough to buy me enough peace for
sleeping.

But blue skies
led me to brown rolling hills and brown rolling hills led me to fences and
fences led me to tanned, toned torsos...and Tanner fucking Brock.

Or, more
specifically, Tanner fucking Brock's bulging cock.

Poetry.

When I tried to wrench
my mind away from the cock, my mind instead forced me to relive, in vivid
detail, the way his torso rippled as he struck the nail with the hammer, the
way his shoulders bunched as he shoved his hands nervously in his pockets. The
way his thighs bulged, straining against the faded fabric of his well filled
out jeans....

Sighing with
frustrated desire, I tried to push those images out of my brain, only to
inadvertently invite that bulging cock back the forefront of my mind's eye.

I moaned, and
roll to the side, punching my pillow. A throbbing ache had taken up residence
between my legs. "He's an arrogant prick," I told myself out loud.

Prick.

Cock.

Dammit!

And I forgot my
vibrator.
Of course
.

The thought of my
vibrator made me moan in frustration again. My last date had been the creepy
shoe-stealing fetishist so that had been a wash. I tried to think back. The
last man I had been with was clearly forgettable enough to require several
moments of recollection. Ah yes, the barista. His dreads had smelled filthy,
like a mixture of new coffee and old sweat. The low point of my loneliness in a
new city.
 
Since then, I had
replaced the batteries in my vibrator more times than I could count.

But tonight, I
didn't want the imitation, I wanted the real thing.

I've never been
with a white guy before, and by the look of those tight jeans, my first time
wouldn't be disappointing at all. Something about the way he held my ankle in
his grasp...the way he caressed my skin on the sly. As if I wouldn't notice his
touch thrilling through me, sending sparks up my spine that defied rational
thought.

I could just
imagine the way his lips tasted...

My fingers danced
downward like heatseeking missiles. I groaned and tightened my thigh muscles,
trying to stem the flood that was rising down there. Pleasure bordered on
pain...

"Cut it
out!" I yelled into the darkened room.

With a furious
moan, I dragged my ass out of bed and forced myself to sit on the toilet.
Peeing relieved some of the ache and a splash of cold water on my face got rid
of the flush of heat that threatened to burn me up inside. I regarded my
panting, wild-eyed face in the mirror with a scowl.

I splashed my
face again and start ticking off the reasons why I needed to stay away.
"One, he's a cocky asshole, two he's quite impressed with himself, three
you'd just be another notch in his belt, four he's a touring musician on the road
constantly. You do not want to sleep with him," I told my reflection
emphatically. "He's a good-ole boy country singer who doesn't like to hear
the word 'no.' He's completely wrong for you, and what's worse, he's a subject.
Get your pictures, get your shit together and get the hell out of Heath County
and back to your job and your life."

Feeling
reasonably composed, I sat back down on the bed and rifled through my equipment
bag. Gil would be wanting the shots from today, and if I could get the wheezing
hotel wifi to work, I could send them right now and go to sleep with a clean
conscience.

But as I flicked
through the shots from today, I inhaled sharply. The small hairs on the back of
my neck stood up as I scrolled through them, faster now, my breath coming in
short, measured gasps.

Tanner was
fucking
electric
on camera.

And in each
photo, he was staring me down through the lens with naked, open desire.