literally the last straw, but… “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times—Babe was a pig.”
Armando opened his mouth but Kerry cut him off before he could talk. “Honey is a Boo Boo, Snookums reminds me of reality TV, and Darlin’ is that crazy writer lady Eden Winter’s cat.”
“Snuggle bunny?”
“Oh, please. That’s the best you got? You’re sounding desperate.”
“Muffin, Honey Bear, Snuggluffagus?”
Kerry cocked an eyebrow. Those lame attempts didn’t deserve a verbal response.
“Sweetie Pie? Poopsie? Penis the Menace?”
“As a seduction tool, it ain’t a’workin’.” And Kerry could’ve done without the “menace” reminder. Wasn’t his fault they’d fumbled through their first encounter as two dumbass virgins with an overload of hormones, a willing partner, lust-induced brain shutdown, and no instruction manual. Kerry crossed his arms over his chest and gave the shifter who’d broken his heart the same death stare once reserved for getting stuck lying in all the wet spots on the bed, post-fucking.
“So, I reckon I’m not getting that kiss.” Armando hung his head. Too bad his head wasn’t the only thing hung about him, and part of the reason Kerry allowed himself to get involved with a bull shifter to begin with, back in his young and stupid days. What was it about a whole lotta… beef?
The offending matchmaker pushed out the front of Armando’s jeans, probably dying to say howdy. Friendly little thing. Or big thing, rather. He’d rightly boast of being hung like a bull.
Kerry frowned. That’s how they’d gotten to this point—the damned thing getting too friendly with the wrong people.
All Armando’s affected confidence fell. His vulnerable side made Kerry want to grab him, hold him, and tell him everything would be all right. Then slap the hell out of him—and not in a good way—for months of wasted time.
“I didn’t cheat on you. I know that’s what you think, but believe me, when you got asparagus at home, you don’t go shopping for weeds.”
“I believe the expression is, ‘If you’ve got steak at home…’” Kerry once had USDA Prime Choice in Armando.
“Hey! Vegetarian here, remember? No need to go all violent and caveman. Don’t be that guy. Be green, not mean!”
“Steak, steak, steak, steak, steak! Hey, Armando! After the rodeo, I think I’m gonna go out and get me a big, thick, juicy—and no, I’m not using those words to describe you—steak! How you like them apples!” Oh, apples. Those would be tasty. Probably more so than steak—but Kerry wasn’t telling Armando. “Or maybe an appetizer of bull’s balls?”
Armando shoved fingers into his ears. “La-la-la-la, I can’t hear you!”
“Like that’s news! You never hear what you don’t want to.” Oh, they’d been good one time, real good. Until Armando’s daddy started all his shit about “hanging with your own kind”—and Armando listened.
Armando stepped closer. Close enough for the lazily circling overhead fan to bat his scent toward Kerry’s nostrils. The man smelled of sweat and leather and sunshine and wicked things done in back rooms. Someone should bottle the scent. They’d make a fortune.
The fight went right out of Kerry, and without quite knowing how he got there, he found himself in Armando’s arms. A place he’d sworn never to be again. And yet here he was. Soaking up warmth, and smell, and lightly humping a rock-hard thigh with a cock grown every bit as firm.
Ah, hell. One little kiss couldn’t hurt, could it? One more time for old time’s sake? Then Kerry would piss off his own family by walking away from the circuit for good so he’d never have to see this two-legged temptation again.
“Leave me alone,” he growled, a moment before sealing his mouth to Armando’s. He’d intended to push the asshole away, but his damned traitorous arms screamed “Gimme!” and pulled the man forward instead.
“I am.” Armando grabbed a double handful of Kerry’s ass and hoisted him closer. Fuck. The jerk shouldn’t feel so good.
His insides shouldn’t be turning to mush, and Kerry shouldn’t want more. No, no, no, no, no! Oh, hell. “No, you’re not. Get the hell away from me.” Of course, it would have taken a crowbar to loosen Kerry’s death grip around the man’s waist.
“I’m trying to.” Armando’s humping might soon ignite a friction fire on their jeans.
“No, you’re trying to get inside of me.” Kerry pulled his zipper down with some difficulty, with their bodies squeezed too tightly together, and found a cast iron tube snake in his britches. Oh, the crotch protector. That had to go.
“Isn’t that still away from you?”
Kerry