Read Online Bridled: Bitter Creek Doms #1 by Erika Masten - Free Book Online Page A

fact
that he’s checking me out behind his dark shades and the longish
strands of ash blond hair falling over one brow. I can practically
feel his gaze sliding from my blue and white cloth tennis shoes up
the length of my curvy bare legs to the short, faded denim cut-offs
I put on when I got up at six in the blessed morning despite it
being a Saturday. The blue cotton t-shirt knotted under my round
tits—yeah, I know I’m stacked—exposes my toned midriff to just
below my navel. I admit it’s hard not to tense as his gaze pauses
appreciatively at key points along my petite frame, but I won’t
give Garwood the satisfaction of getting a physical reaction out of
me. Not one he can see, anyway.
    I don’t care how gorgeous he is. And
he is, still. Four years in the Marine Corp after high school
didn’t do him any harm. I wouldn’t have guessed he’d been out of
the military six years already. He’s still hard and tanned, from
what I can see at the collar of his white button-front shirt and at
the rolled up sleeves. The muscles of his thighs shift under his
tight jeans as he walks, flexing just enough to make me wonder how
much power he’s got in those legs, those hips. My gaze alights on
his dusty brown cowboy boots, and I frown. He’d be easier to
dismiss if they were new and polished and clean, like Peterson’s.
I’ve always had a thing for guys in crisp blue jeans and well-worn
boots, guys who work for a living but clean up well.
    “ Not going to swing that at
us, are you, Miss Hawn?” Zach asks, his voice tinged in that
particular accent found only in the more rural reaches of
California’s San Joaquin Valley, a little bit Louisiana, a little
bit Texas, a little bit beach boy. It’s a combination inherited
from grandparents and great-grandparents who followed the field
work west from the Appalachians during the Great Depression. From
the right man, in the right tone, it’s got the best features off
all three: the spicy twang, the deep drawl, the laid-back
charm.
    Before I can decide how I’ll respond
to Zach trying to charm the shovel away from me, the driver’s door
on the four-by-four slams shut. The sight of Quinn Blakely gets my
hackles up immediately. The hair at the nape of my neck stands on
end. My shoulders and back stiffen. But more than that, my pussy
tightens, clenches, slicks itself like a damn dog salivating at the
sound of a dinner bell.
    We’ve got history, not that Quinn
seems to know it. Same short but ruffled brown hair under a beat-up
tan cowboy hat—standard issue around here even for law enforcement.
Same pale, sea green eyes. Same tall, lean, bronze body. I doubt he
even remembers how I moped and trailed after him all through high
school or that the night of the senior graduation pool party I
finally got what I’d wanted since I first laid eyes on the boy,
when we were both just nine years old. Quinn kissed me.
    Not quite the kiss a nine-year-old
girl with her first crush imagines, either. It was the best
make-out session of my life, out by the gymnasium pool, behind the
towels hung to dry on the lifeguard tower while everyone was
gathered for the barbeque. I can still recall the feeling of him
stretched out on top of me, damp hair smelling lightly of chlorine,
cool water beaded on hard muscles, his hips nestled between my
thighs. He was hung—still is, presumably—and the bulge of his stiff
cock was pressing through his swim trunks and my bikini bottoms
against my aching clit. I’d have gladly lost my virginity to Quinn
right then and there.
    That never quite happened, but he did
slide his hand so gently into my bikini, his fingertips parting the
lips of my sex to play with me. I had my first orgasm clinging to
Quinn Blakely’s warm, firm shoulders, his tongue probing my mouth
while his long fingers explored my virgin pussy.
    I didn’t find out under after the fact
that he’d left Bitter Creek to join the Marines two days later.
That had been the way of it for a few years.