Frog by Mary Calmes (read along books TXT) 📗

“Stop,” he barked at me, hands on my face, drawing me forward, leaning in at the same time so that we met in a rough kiss, hard and furious, the action filled with how much he had missed me.

I felt the same. Whenever we were separated, I ached for him.

His lips parted instantly for my tongue, and I reacquainted myself with his hot mouth, savoring his presence, intoxicated with him that fast.

He crawled over the console between us and was in my lap, all six feet one of him, twisting, turning, straddling my hips, shoving his hard groin into my abdomen. I was grinding my own painful erection along his crease as his breath got choppy. There were hands fumbling fast, tongues tangling, my long deep moan and the answering tightness in him. It felt so good the way he clutched at me, bit my bottom lip and pressed his chest to mine.

“Missed you,” he choked out. “Always.”

I reached up, my hands on his face leaning him back, gazing up at him. “Me too. Take me home before I fuck you in the car.”

His eyes were slits of need, and when I lifted up, a low, sexy sound, a purring growl, rose out of him. “The car sounds fine.”

I arched an eyebrow for him. “Does it, Dr. Benning?” I teased him, enunciating his title. “And do you think we’d make the society page?”

“Leave it to you to be the one thinking of my career at a time like this.”

I laughed, grabbing him tight, crushing him to me and letting out a deep breath as I did it.

“How long can you stay?”

“Couple days,” I said, closing my eyes, the warmth of his body, how hard he was hugging me back, and his breath down the side of my neck making me want to remain there and never move. “God, I love holdin’ you.”

He didn’t say anything, just squeezed me back.

HEWASquiet on the ride to Potrero Hill, where he lived. I loved his house and his sleepy neighborhood, which was far enough out to be away from the hustle and bustle of downtown San Francisco but still close to the hospital where he worked. I always enjoyed my visits to him, sporadic though they were, over the past three years.

As we sat in silence, the rain hitting the windshield the only noise there was, I reached for his hand.

“Don’t you wanna talk to me none?” I asked him, lacing my fingers into his as I rested our clasped hands on my thigh.

“No, Web,” he said, his voice gravelly. “I want to drug you and keep you locked in my bedroom for the rest of your life, that’s what I want.”

I chuckled. “You’d get sick of me right quick if I was here all the time.”

He shook his head. “That’s the part you don’t get—I could never tire of you.”

I scoffed at him as he turned onto his street. “You don’t know from— Who’s that in your driveway?”

“What?”

“Look.”

As he turned in, hitting the electric garage door opener, we both saw the light go on in the monster SUV as a woman got out of the driver’s side and the two back doors were thrown open. I saw the three kids get out, like steps from biggest to smallest, and all dash into the garage to get out of the rain as the door slowly rose. Cy pulled in and parked, and we both got out as the woman came toward him.

“Cy,” she gasped, and I could tell two things just from glancing at her. First, that she’d been crying, and second, that she was Cyrus’s sister.

She looked like her brother—same delicate, fragile, sharply cut features; thick, wavy chestnut brown hair; bottomless gold-brown eyes fringed in long curling lashes; and golden skin. Because she looked like him, I felt that immediate kinship.

“Oh.” She sucked in her breath when she saw me. “I didn’t know you had comp—”

“Are you a cowboy,” the smallest boy asked me, head tilted all the way back as he looked up at me.

I knelt down on one knee in front of him, tipping my own hat back, taking in the red felt one he was wearing, the boots he had on along with his flannel pajamas, and the rope he was carrying. “I am. And I see you are as well.”

He nodded, lifting his boot for me. “I don’t have spurs, though.”

“You don’t need none,” I assured him seriously. “Real cowboys can guide their horses with just the pressure from their legs and thighs. Cowboys only wear spurs in the movies.”

His eyes lit up as he walked forward, hand on my thigh as he looked into my face. “Really?”

“Oh, yessir.”

“You ever go to a rodeo?” The oldest asked, moving closer as the middle one, who was just staring at me, edged in.

“Yessir,” I told him. “I’m a bull rider. You?”

“Me?” he said like I was stupid. “I’m not old enough to be in a rodeo.”

I nodded. “How old are you?”

The middle one reached out and touched the brim of my hat as the oldest ran his eyes all over me before answering.

“I’m eight.”

“Oh,” I shrugged. “Yeah you’re right, I didn’t do no barrel racin’ until I was ten.”

“I’ve seen the barrel racing on TV. You did that when you were ten?”

“Yep. My brother had a beautiful quarter horse named Dave, and he let me ride him.”

“Dave’s a weird name for a horse.”

“Don’t I know it, but you couldn’t tell that to Spencer.”

“Who’s Spencer?”

“My brother.”

“So your brother named his horse Dave.”

“Yessir, he did, and the rest of us just had to just go along with it.”

“Where’s your brother now?”

“He died in the war,” I told him. “Over there in Iraq.”

“We learned about the war at school.”

I smiled at him.

“My name’s Tristan,” he told me, “but you can call me Tris.”

“Well it’s good to meet you, Tris,” I said, offering him my hand. “I’m Weber Yates.”

He took my hand and shook it.

“I’m Pip,” the little one said, putting out his hand too,