Wicked Fall (3 page)

My fury rages at the same time the blood in my groin does, causing me to get shockingly hard. Christ… I don’t think I’ve reacted that way to a woman since I was in my teens. She smirks down at me at the same time I hear Angel say, “Alright, men. Let those girls have it.”

Champagne and beer starts spraying up at the girls, and given my position at the edge of the bar, I get a hefty dosing too. My fucking hat is going to be ruined, but I never take my eyes off Callie as she gets sprayed right in the chest. Instantly it seems like the thin, white fabric disappears, and all I can focus on is her perfectly rounded breasts with pebbled nipples. I tear my eyes off her chest and look up to see her looking out over the crowd and grinning. She looks to her right at the other girls, who are now dancing to Miranda Lambert’s
Somethin’ Bad,
and she fucking starts to do the same. Those amazing tits are now bouncing around, and I swear a thin, red film of rage filters over my sight.

When a man—clearly a tourist—next to me reaches up to grasp Callie’s cowgirl boot, I give him a rough shove away. He looks like he wants to come barreling back at me, but one look at the thunderous look of murder on my face and he holds his hands up in supplication.

I slide my eyes up to see Callie staring down at me. For just a moment, she looks at me the same exact way she did all those years ago when she offered up her innocence to me.

“Fuck,” I mutter, and my hands go up to clasp her behind her knees. I give a hard pull, and her body flies forward. My hand goes up, steadying her fall with a grip to her ass, and I have her resting in a fireman’s hold over my shoulder. I turn fast and I think her boots catch someone in the head, but I don’t give a shit.

I march right back through the dance floor, people scurrying to get out of my way. Callie makes feeble attempts to hammer her fists against my back, so I answer her with a resounding slap to her ass. That gets her to calm down, and by the time I reach my office door and I’m punching in the password, she’s gone still over my shoulder.

Pushing the door open, I step in and immediately see Bridger getting his cock sucked by Carlie. He shoots me a surprised look when he sees I’m carrying a woman, but I’m already backing out and pulling the door closed.

Fuck. What a mess.

I bend over and gently lower Callie to the floor. When her boots hit the wood, she tips her face up at me, her eyes blazing with anger. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Woolf Jennings?”

Grabbing her hand, I don’t respond. I merely pull her behind me through the club toward the front doors. She makes the mistake of trying to pull free of my grasp, but I just clamp down on her harder.

When we hit the gravel parking lot, I turn to the right and head toward my Range Rover that’s parked in one of two reserved spots on the side of the building. The other one is reserved for Bridger and his shiny, red Corvette. My strides are long, and Callie is running to keep up with me.

“Let. Me. Go,” Callie all but screams and she pulls on her hand so hard, she rips free of my hold.

I turn around to face her, and she has both hands on her hips. “Just why do you think you have the right to pull me off that bar?” she demands.

God, she’s so fucking beautiful. My eyes drop lazily down to her breasts that are for all intents and purposes naked under the wet material that leaves nothing to the imagination. Licking my lower lip in appreciation, I imagine what it would be like to suck one of those nipples gently into my mouth right now. I make sure she sees this move on my part, and I hope she takes good stock of the lecherous glint in my gaze as I look back up at her.

She’s definitely not mistaking my look if the way her lips are parted slightly and her eyelids a bit heavy are any indication.

“Because,” I tell her slowly as I step forward, “I don’t think that Governor Hayes’ daughter should be showing her naked tits to the entire state of Wyoming.”

Callie

My hands immediately come up to cover my breasts. I can feel how hard my nipples are against my palms, and my skin feels prickly with awareness at the way Woolf is watching me.

He’s like a real wolf.

Predatory and dangerous.

It’s the way he’s always been. Or so it’s always seemed.

He’s a large man, but that’s always excited me rather than scared me. And even though he’s wearing nothing more than a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt, and a dark plaid shirt over it that’s casually unbuttoned, he would put any model on the catwalks of Paris to shame.

“You have no say over what I do,” I tell him, hoping my voice sounds calm enough.

“That’s my bar back there, and I have every right to throw you out,” he says darkly as he throws a thumb over his shoulder at the building behind him.

My eyes flick past his shoulder, back to the front of the bar, right to the white neon sign in the shape of an oval with the words “Wicked Horse” written diagonally across in blue. I turn a narrow-eyed gaze back to him. “Your bar?”

“Mine,” he growls at me, then he has my elbow and he’s propelling me toward a black Range Rover. “And it’s now my official policy that the governor’s daughter can’t come in my bar. You better hope to God this doesn’t get back to him.”

I dig my boot heels down into the gravel and try to jerk my arm from him again, but he’s got a firm hold. That doesn’t stop my resistance or my skepticism. “Why in the fuck would a Jennings be wasting his time with a lowly honky tonk in the middle of nowhere?”

Woolf stops abruptly and spins on me. “Since when do you say words like ‘fuck,’ Callie? You used to slap me if I even said the word ‘damn’ when we were growing up.”

He pulls his Stetson off with his free hand and slaps it against his leg in frustration, and wow. Just wow. I had almost forgotten that Woolf Jennings has a face that can stop reality. My gaze flicks first over that strong jawline with midnight black stubble. I had first recognized him by that jaw alone when he started stalking across the dance floor toward me just a bit ago, the top of his face having been shadowed by his hat. I’d recognize his jaw anywhere, no matter how much time has passed since I’ve seen him.

And just seeing him stalk toward me in there… knowing he was coming toward me and was probably madder than hell… God help me, but it sort of turned me on.

And now, as he stares at me with bright blue eyes that seem even bluer in the glow of the neon sign, and black eyelashes that are impossibly thick, I feel my pulse hammer hard the way it always did whenever I was around Woolf.

“I’m not the same girl you grew up with,” I tell him hotly. Well, at least I don’t want to be the same girl he grew up with. That Callie Hayes has spent years of her life being quiet and well mannered, leading a peacefully dull existence up until now.

“So I see,” Woolf says as his eyes flick down briefly to my hands covering my breasts. “You put on quite a show back there. What would your fiancé think?”

I tilt my chin upward. “Would have been a better show if you hadn’t stopped me. And I’m not engaged anymore.”

Woolf blinks at me in surprise. “Since when?”

“Since about seventy-two hours ago,” I tell him. With a hard jerk of my arm, I’m free again. I spin around, intent on heading back into the bar. “And you just ruined what I’m betting was going to be a very good night.”

“You’re not going back in there,” Woolf says as he makes another grab at me, but I twist my body out of his reach.

But then I reconsider and stop, turning quickly, and Woolf almost barrels right over me. He catches himself, his hands coming to my shoulders to steady both of us. And damn… his hands on me feel just as solid, and warm, and secure as they did so very long ago.

I swallow hard, take a deep breath, and say, “Look… I’m going to go back in there because my bra and purse are in there, so I’d like to get both and then head home.”

Woolf slams his hat back on his head and gives a resigned sigh. Shrugging out of the plaid over shirt he has on, he holds it out and says, “Fine. Put this on though.”

I gratefully accept the shirt because even though phase one of the New Callie was having fun on top of that bar, I’ve sort of lost the thrill of dozens of men staring at my breasts. I’m still just as buzzed, but the lure of enticing men to notice me has lost the appeal at this point.

Placing his hand at the back of my neck, he turns me toward the front door of The Wicked Horse and guides me back to it. “Get your stuff and meet me back at the front door. You’ve got five minutes. I’ve got to go find my partner to let him know I’m taking you home.”

“You don’t need to do that,” I tell him hastily. “I’ve got my own car here.”

“You’re drunk.” His hand tightens on the back of my neck, and for some weird reason, it makes me want to drop to my knees in front of him.

“I’m buzzed,” I argue. “Big difference.”

“Sorry, babe,” he says, and oh, geez… why does Woolf calling me
babe
make me want to curl into him and purr? “But the Callie Hayes I know needed several drinks to get on top of that bar tonight, so you’re not driving home.”

Woolf opens the door, and we’re greeted with some old-school
Dixie Chicks
. “Five minutes,” he grumbles in warning and releases me. “Don’t make me come find you.”

I turn to give him a glare, but he’s already pushing through the crowd and I lose sight of him fast. I don’t waste any time because while I know I couldn’t be in safer hands with Woolf Jennings, I don’t want to test him. So I cut across the dance floor toward the DJ booth where the red-haired woman who had me sign up for the contest said I could stash my purse. When I approach her, she gives me a smile and nods toward the floor.

I see my purse and bend over to pick it up. “Thanks for watching this.”

“No problem,” she says, her voice rising above the music. “And sorry Woolf took you out of the running for the contest. In my opinion, you had the nicest tits up there.”

My cheeks turn a little pink from her compliment and I awkwardly turn away from her, only to run into a hard, male body. “Callie Hayes… lookin’ good,” I hear drawled out.

Tilting my gaze up, I see a face from my past and instantly relax. “Hey, Colton.”

Colton Stokes is still ruggedly handsome, and I’m betting still just as cocky. We dated in high school but broke up after he left for college. He was a year older than me, and I’m guessing didn’t want a girlfriend tying him down. Especially one that wasn’t willing to put out for him.

Leaning down, he places a kiss on my cheek. “You look fantastic.”

I know this is a lie because my hair is sticky from beer, and I’m betting even my eye makeup is running.

“You too,” I tell him, and that isn’t a lie. Colton is damn good looking with his caramel-colored hair highlighted naturally from the sun and dark brown eyes. He’s dressed like most others here tonight with jeans, a western-styled shirt, and large belt buckle, but Colton was always one of those guys that stood out in a crowd.

Colton runs his gaze down me and with a smirk, says, “I see someone lent you a shirt.”

I wince. Damn, he must have seen me up on the bar. Double damn… he’s seen my breasts. I wait for shame to overcome me, but it never does and I find that a good sign because if I’m going to shed the vestiges of the old Callie Hayes, I can’t afford to be mired in guilt over it.

Stepping in closer to me and leaning down again, he says, “For what it’s worth… you would have totally won that contest.”

“Um… thanks,” I say as I nervously brush some strands of sticky hair that came loose from my braid away from my face.

“Listen… let me buy you a drink and we can reconnect,” Colton says, and his smile seems genial enough. I’m guessing, however, he’s thinking I might be an easy score tonight since I was just on the bar a bit ago flashing my boobs all around.

“She’s going home,” I hear Woolf bark above the music so he can be heard clearly, and my elbow is once again in his hand. I turn my head slightly to see Woolf glaring at Colton.

“Well, then,” Colton says as his eyes slide slowly from Woolf back down to me. “In that case, seems like you’re in good hands tonight. Hope to see you around, Callie.”

Woolf doesn’t even let me reply, just turns me around and starts pushing me hastily back through the crowd. In no time at all, he has his SUV door opened and he’s helping me to climb in with liberal use of his running board.

All is silent as Woolf makes his way out to Highway 191 and turns north instead of south.

“Where are we going?” I ask in confusion, as my house is back in Jackson.

“I know damn well your father is in town and I can’t take you home like this, Callie,” Woolf says in exasperation. “Reggie would have a heart attack if he saw you looking and smelling like that.”

“I can make it to my room without him seeing me,” I grumble but secretly… I’m a bit pleased. I’m just not ready to go home yet. I’m even more excited by the fact that I know we’re headed to Woolf’s house on the Double J, which means some more alone time with him. That thought shouldn’t bring me such a rush of giddiness, but it does all the same.

I knew I’d see Woolf at some point when I returned home from Connecticut. His father and my father were very good friends. His father was a huge contributor to my father’s political campaigns, and we all ran in the same social circles our entire life. Woolf is three years older than me and up until my sophomore year in high school, we attended the same schools in Jackson from elementary school onward. But then my father won the gubernatorial race and we moved to the state capital of Cheyenne, which is less than an hour away from Laramie where Woolf was attending his freshman year at the University of Wyoming.

Even though we were family friends and were within spitting distance of each other, I saw very little of Woolf while he was in college. This was due, I expect, to the fact that my older brother Richard was attending Harvard back east. He and Woolf were close friends, and without Richard around, Woolf just didn’t come to visit that much.

That came about even less after Richard died at the start of his senior year at Harvard from pneumonia. Richard was asthmatic and stubborn as hell. By the time he broke down, went to the emergency room, and got admitted, his lungs were so full of fluid he suffocated to death. My eyes prick with tears at the thought of his death, which will hit the eleven-year anniversary mark in a few months. I wonder if Woolf still grieves for him the way I do.