Ride Me Dirty(9)

By: Vanessa Vale

Sam leaned forward and picked up a softball he had on his desk and started tossing it up in the air. We were on a summer league through the recreation center, and Sam liked to keep his hands busy. “If she's that good, then she's better than a quick fuck.”

I shook my head. “I'd be game for more, but she just wants sex. Lots of sex. Needs it, in fact.”

Sam caught the ball and looked at me, wide eyed. “How the hell did you learn that from the plane? And don’t tell me she actually said that to you.”

She’d been about to, that's for damn sure, but she’d changed her mind. I’d watched the battle rage behind her expressive blue eyes, and nearly groaned with disappointment when I saw the cool, logical mask she wore drop down to hide her desire. “I peeked at her instant messaging conversation with a girlfriend. She was practically ordered to have a fling. She’s divorced and looking for a good time.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Why would she need a fling? What’s wrong with her? If she’s as hot as you claim, she should have men lined up wherever she’s from.”

“New York. And nothing’s wrong with her.” She was one perfect little package with curves I itched to hold again. “She's just got a type-A personality focused solely on the corner office. Uptight. Conservative. A lawyer, just like you.”

“Ah, one of those.” Sam had walked away from a big-time partnership in San Francisco, very similar to the one Catherine so desperately wanted, for the slower paced life in Montana. No more eighty-hour work weeks for him with his private practice.

“She's wound up tight. Real tight.” I steepled my fingers. “From the IM conversation, I'd say she hasn't gotten any in awhile. If we got our hands on her, she'd probably go off like a rocket.”


“Yes, we,” I countered. “She's not Samantha and I'm not eighteen anymore. I know what I want now.”

Sam stiffened. We didn't talk about what happened all those years ago. It was a sore subject. Fuck, it was a huge fucking elephant in the room and it never went away.

“She wasn't the one for us,” I added, referring to Samantha. “We weren't the men for her. She's married to the MacPhersons. Happy.”

The town of Bridgewater, Montana was founded on the principals of plural marriage. Two or more men for one woman. Back in the 1880's, when our great-great-great grandfather came to the United States from England, he—along with a few fellow soldiers—established Bridgewater as a safe refuge. They believed in the custom that two men should protect and love a wife. Together.

I didn't know the full story, but they'd served in the small, now extinct country of Mohamir that followed this custom; men who believed in sharing a woman. Protecting her, cherishing her and loving her in a way that kept her from ever being alone was their sole purpose. If one husband died, she had another to take care of her and any children. While it seemed to many outsiders to be chauvinistic, the lifestyle was designed with the woman in mind, with the woman the center of every family. Those original tenets set by our ancestors still held today. While not everyone in Bridgewater married this way, it was commonplace and understood. Sam and I, we'd grown up with it—we had one mother and two dads—and wanted that kind of marriage for ourselves.

Sam dropped his feet to the floor with a thud and leaned on his desk. “Jack—”

“We're grown men. Let's stop acting like pussies about this. It's not about Samantha Connor any more. We were too young. Hell, I was eighteen and shaved once a week.”

I ran my hand over my jaw, which was covered in a heavy five o'clock shadow. “What did I know about having a wife?”

“You're ready for one now?” he eyed me closely.

“I know you left because of the fallout with Samantha and I know why you finally came back—to find The One. It's time we found our bride.”

He could have found a woman in San Francisco and settled down, married her. But he hadn't. He wanted a Bridgewater marriage. He just hadn't been ready before. Now, he was ready. We just hadn't found the right woman.

“And you think this woman on the plane is her?”

“Fuck, yeah. As soon as she straddled my lap on the plane, I knew then she was going to be in my bed. More.”

His eyes widened. “Do I want to know why she was straddling your lap on a fucking commuter plane?”

I couldn't help but grin, reliving the sight of Catherine's stunned—yet heated—look. I'd had my hands on her, saw the flare of attraction and desire in her eyes. I wanted her again, on my lap was just fine, but without any clothes between us. I wanted to be able to see what color her nipples were, feel the weight of her breasts in my palms, watch them bounce as she took me for a ride, my cock buried deep in her sweet pussy. Shit.