Fast Lane - Kristen Ashley Page 0,61

got to watch and hand Preacher the little gold studs Preacher slid in after he pierced me.

And I definitely didn’t mind, because now, every time I put in a new pair of earrings, it reminded me of Preacher.

And, well, Dave.

Preacher started chuckling and through it said, “Yeah. It’s not that it’s 1994, and we maybe needed to haul our asses out of the seventies.”

I grinned at him.

He slid his hands under my skirt, up the backs of my thighs to my bottom, asking, “Why we goin’ to this thing again?”

“Because Brad and Gwyneth will be there.”

He burst out laughing, his fingers digging into my ass as he did.

“They’re our only competition for prettiest couple alive,” I informed him. “We have to show them up.”

He stopped laughing, sliding one hand over the top of my thigh.

“Well, cher, lookin’ like you do, Gwyneth doesn’t stand a chance. But I ain’t pretty.”

He was so wrong.

She’d be gorgeous.

And he was wrong times two, of a sort.

Preacher wasn’t pretty, that was true, and Brad was hot.

But Brad paled in comparison to Preacher.

“It’s for the kids, Preacher,” I said softly.

“Right, that’s why I paid fifteen hundred bucks a ticket.”

I smiled at him.

His hand shifted up over my belly. “They already got the money.” His fingers slid into the front of my panties. “We can ditch.”

He found the perfect spot, rolled and my head fell back as my hips moved with his fingers.

“Yeah,” he whispered and the gravelly note to that word made me ride his fingers harder.

“We…have to show. I…promised,” I forced out. “The charity needs the press.”

“Mm,” Preacher hummed.

I dropped my forehead to his and breathed, “God, Preacher.”

“Keep ridin’, baby,” he encouraged. “Oh, yeah,” he growled when I did.

I glided my hands down his shirt to his trousers.

“Want you,” I panted.

I heard a whirring noise that didn’t last long and Preach ordered, “Drive around awhile.”

“Yeah, Preacher,” the chauffer said.

The whirring noise came back just as I freed him from his pants.

His fingers went out of my panties, and he pushed his slacks over his hips while I claimed his hard cock.

Preacher tugged my panties aside, I positioned him, my eyes staring into his, and I bore down.

He clamped onto my ass with both hands and groaned, “Fuck.”

My forehead still to his, I took him, he let me, his fingers pulsing into my flesh with encouragement before he moved one hand around and found my clit with his thumb.

I gasped, took him harder, and he pushed me over the edge right before he jumped off with me.

I was sitting on his cock, my face in his neck, and Preacher was trailing his fingertips lightly on the skin of my ass and thighs when I came down.

Then suddenly, skating my gown up my back, his arms clamped around me.

“Ditch this shit,” he rumbled.

“Honey—”

I was about to remind him why we had to appear at this event when he interrupted me, sharing precisely what he wanted to ditch.

“Take you to a mountain somewhere. Somewhere they can’t get to us. Build you a house. Fill you with babies. Make our lives about nothin’ but you and me and our family.”

My man was tired of it.

It had become a grind.

Something he loved had become a grind.

And it was all about him, all on him.

The guys, they were great.

But none of them carried the weight like Preacher.

I had to get him to a place where he could breathe, remember how much he loved this, get him into a zone where he could just pick up his guitar and play because he wanted to.

Not because he had to.

But I had to wait to get him to that place.

Because the pressure was still on.

I tipped my head to press my lips on the underside of his jaw and whispered, “We’ll do that. Maybe after the tour.”

“I want you going with me.”

I lifted my head up and looked down at him.

“What?” I asked.

“I want you on the tour with us.”

He always wanted me on tour with him.

He always wanted me with him.

But this sounded different.

And although that concerned me, I had other concerns that took precedence.

“Preacher, I don’t have a job.”

“I do.”

“I know you do, but I don’t.”

“I can take care of you, cher.”

I knew he could, since he’d been doing that since I graduated college (mostly).

“It’s not about that.”

“Baby—”

“Preacher, I want be with you. I want to live my life with you. You make a boatload of money and I never will. I get that and that’s not the problem.” I dipped my