Free Strung Up: A Blacktop Cowboys® Novella by Lorelei James

time we fucked, he moved in.” Cres blinked. “Shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to go off on a mangent.”
    “Mangent?”
    “When you don’t shut up about the guy in your life.”
    I chuckled. “Never heard that one before.”
    He smirked. “Because you’re old.”
    “Hilarious. Guess I’ll toddle off to the old folk’s home, sonny boy, and drink my Metamucil before Wheel of Fortune comes on.”
    Cres laughed. I liked to hear it because I suspected there hadn’t been much humor in his life in recent years.
    I fished my phone out of my back pocket. “Hit me with your number.” As soon as I had the info saved, I sent him a text. “Now you have mine.”
    “Good. I’ll be there about three.”
    “That’ll work. Text me if anything changes.”
     

Chapter Five
    Breck
     
    Patience—a trait I’d never had much use for.
    Practicing restraint? Not a natural reaction for me either.
    But I had no choice but to implement both from the moment Cres had shown up for his personal tour of Grade A Rodeo Academy.
    When I’d shown him the empty classrooms I’d exercised restraint, even when my brain kept replaying the image of me on my knees between Cres’s legs, my head bobbing as I noisily sucked him off as he braced himself against my desk.
    I filed that away as a future possibility. That counted as patience, right?
    Hour two into the tour, after I’d introduced him to the other instructors as Sutton’s brother and we’d chatted with Berlin and Chuck Gradsky, I decided I deserved a fucking medal for patience, restraint, and circumspection for not dragging his sexy ass into the boiler room and fingering his prostate until he jizzed all over my chest.
    Yeah, that scenario would shock the stuffing out of Bill, the groundskeeper. But I’d put a note in the suggestion box that maybe the boiler room door needed a proper lock.
    I was getting the hang of this “being a team player” shit.
    By hour three—Cres’s patience had worn thin.
    And that tested the fuck out of my restraint because we were near the end of the tour.
    In the first arena, he’d grabbed me by the shirt and kissed the sense out of me.
    I’d kissed him back because I sure as hell wasn’t shooting for sainthood.
    In the second arena, he’d stood behind me and started rubbing his groin into my ass, suggesting a hand job to relax me.
    My cock had pouted when I resisted the temptation.
    In the third arena, Cres warned me if I didn’t end the tour in the next seconds he was going home.
    It might’ve been the only time in my life I gave in to an ultimatum with zero resentment.
    He asked, “How far is the campground from here?”
    “A ten-minute walk.” Or a four-minute run.
    Then again, running with a hard-on sucked.
    When my motor home came into view, I clicked the key fob that unlocked and opened the door.
    My eyes were on his butt as he jogged up the steps.
    As soon as my boot hit the top step, Cres was on me, his mouth ravenous, his fingers at the hollow of my throat as he undid all of the pearl-snap buttons on my shirt with one vicious tug.
    I circled my hand beneath his jaw, breaking free from that tempting mouth so I could think. “Hey, horny toad, how about you let me close the door before you tear off my clothes?”
    “Then hurry the fuck up. You’ve been shaking that tight cowboy ass at me the last three hours and I want it now.”
    I shut and locked the door and darkened the blinds, while Cres attacked my neck.
    He peeled my shirt down my arms, carelessly tossing it to the floor. He groaned with frustration. “Why are you wearin’ another shirt?”
    “I always wear an undershirt.”
    “Next time don’t. I hate havin’ to strip another layer off you to get to the good stuff.”
    In the back of my mind I wished I could take the time to bask in Cres’s lust for me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been wanted with such near desperation.
    Then he hooked his fingers in my belt loops and towed me down the hallway to my bedroom so