Page 92 of Kentucky Nights
“Shirtless?” This time it’s me who blushes. “I ain’t ever done anything like that, Dru.”
Her hand drifts up the innermost part of my thigh, and I catch my breath.
“You’ll do it for me, though. Won’t you?” She stops before she grabs my aching cock pressing against my jeans.
God, it’s a good thing I bought the same phone at the store this morning. I have no idea how to work a touchscreen, but I’ll fucking figure it out if it means she sends pictures to me too.
Fuck everyone else needing to get a hold of me.
I lick my lips, nearly panting with need. All she has to do is lower the zipper and free me. She lights a growl within my chest, and all I want to do is reach for her phone to throw…somewhere. I need to have my way with her.
The squeaks of metal have me turn my head to listen. Tires roll onto the driveway, followed by the loud roar of mufflers.
Of course, we are interrupted.
Standing in front of Dru, I extend my black claws, readying myself for a fight. The first truck comes into view, and a trailer is attached.
Then another.
And another.
They line up behind each other, reaching the end of my driveway.
“It’s the animals from the slaughterhouse, Dru. Think any of them will be for Romeo?”
She stands, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her head leans against my shoulder, watching as the first person climbs out of the driver’s side of the brand new, deep green truck.
“Hey there,” the guy shouts. “I’m looking for Kentucky Jones. I have the animals from the slaughterhouse. I think I have the right address.” He flips a few pages on his clipboard to find it.
“Go inside, Darlin’. He’s a vampire. I can smell it on him. Lock the door.”
“Kentucky, he’s delivering animals for goodness sake. I’m sure he is harmless. Stop being a man. Go up to him so he isn’t shouting across the damn lawn.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I grumble with a pout of my lips.
She smacks my ass as I head down the steps. I look over my shoulder, brow raised, a sly smirk on my face.
“You wait until later, Darlin’.”
“Can’t wait.” She forms her hand into a gun, kisses her index finger, aims it at me, and pulls the trigger.
I catch it, pressing it against my lips. I don’t give a damn if I’m in front of another man, witnessing me paying attention to my mate.
“Are you Kentucky Jones?” he asks when I get close enough.
Wait a damn minute.
I know the driver. He was at the rodeo.
“I know you. You’re Oklahoma Richards. Your partner, Cal, got terrorized by that bull. How’s your friend?”
He hands me the clipboard to sign a few forms, the wind rustling them. His lips form a grim line. “He died yesterday. A stroke. There were too many injuries. I tried to give him my blood so many times, but he wouldn’t take it.”
“Damn, I’m so sorry to hear that. He was a great rider.” Knowing this information twinges my gut with guilt, knowing his teammate died at the hands of my son. Do I offer that information? What good would it do? “Do you need anything? You’re welcome to stay here and rest up. We have plenty of room.”
“Thank you, and I appreciate that, but I have to travel across the country for another pick up. Besides ridin’, this is my true love. Rescuing animals.”
On the side of his truck in big white letters, it says,“Oklahoma Rescue: bringing love to where storms are.”
