Country Kisses

  Country Kisses

  3:AM Kisses 8

  Addison Moore

  Contents

  Copyright

  Books by Addison Moore

  Prologue

  1. The Seduction

  2. Cade

  3. Kissy Kissy Bang Bang

  4. Cade

  5. A Hard Man is Good to Find

  6. Cade

  7. Lust So Hot It Burns

  8. Cade

  A Dirty Little Lark in the Park After Dark

  9. Cade

  10. Two Wrongs Don’t Make a Mr. Right

  11. Cade

  12. Making Hay of the Situation

  13. Cade

  14. Snow Globes and Unicorns

  15. Cade

  16. A Note from the Author

  Books by Addison Moore

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Edited by Paige Maroney Smith

  Cover Design: Gaffey Media

  Copyright © 2016 by Addison Moore

  http://addisonmoorewrites.blogspot.com/

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This eBook is for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase any additional copies for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright © 2016 by Addison Moore

  Books by Addison Moore

  Look for Forbidden Kisses (3:AM Kisses 9), Rex and Scarlett’s story available for PREORDER NOW!

  Romance

  3:AM Kisses (3:AM Kisses 1)

  Winter Kisses (3:AM Kisses 2)

  Sugar Kisses (3:AM Kisses 3)

  Whiskey Kisses (3:AM Kisses 4)

  Rock Candy Kisses (3:AM Kisses 5)

  Velvet Kisses (3:AM Kisses 6)

  Wild Kisses (3:AM Kisses 7)

  Country Kisses (3:AM Kisses 8)

  Forbidden Kisses (3:AM Kisses 9)

  Burning Through Gravity (Burning Through Gravity 1)

  A Thousand Starry Nights (Burning Through Gravity 2)

  Fire in an Amber Sky (Burning Through Gravity 3)

  Beautiful Oblivion (Beautiful Oblivion 1)

  Beautiful Illusions (Beautiful Oblivion 2)

  Beautiful Elixir (Beautiful Oblivion 3)

  The Solitude of Passion

  Someone to Love (Someone to Love 1)

  Someone Like You (Someone to Love 2)

  Someone For Me (Someone to Love 3)

  Young Adult Romance

  Melt With You (A Totally ’80s Romance 1)

  Tainted Love (A Totally ’80s Romance 2)

  Hold Me Now (A Totally ’80s Romance 3)

  Parnormal Romance

  (Celestra Book World in Order)

  Ethereal (Celestra Series Book 1)

  Tremble (Celestra Series Book 2)

  Burn (Celestra Series Book 3)

  Wicked (Celestra Series Book 4)

  Vex (Celestra Series Book 5)

  Expel (Celestra Series Book 6)

  Toxic Part One (Celestra Series Book 7)

  Toxic Part Two (Celestra Series Book 7.5)

  Elysian (Celestra Series Book 8)

  Perfect Love (A Celestra Novella)

  Ephemeral (The Countenance Trilogy 1)

  Evanescent (The Countenance Trilogy 2)

  Entropy (The Countenance Trilogy 3)

  Ethereal Knights (Celestra Knights)

  Season of the Witch (A Celestra Companion)

  Celestra Forever After (Celestra Forever After 1)

  The Dragon and the Rose (Celestra Forever After 2)

  The Serpentine Butterfly (Celestra Forever After 3)

  Crown of Ashes (Celestra Forever After 4) Soon!

  Prologue

  Cassidy

  They say that every person on the planet has a thorn in their side, something that can make even the meekest human wail until their throat bleeds raw. My thorn just so happens to be an auburn evening sky. It’s what I remember most about that awful day. I was hardly six the night my mother ran into the bathroom with convulsive sobs while my father jumped into his beat-up Thunderbird and peeled out of the driveway.

  My father wasn’t perfect, but, at that tender age, he was close to a living god— tall, manly, holding an undeniable air of authority that at the time I was unaware of the fact it came from the bottom of a bottle. I remember very few details that followed as I chased him down the street, his roaring words—they would be the last I would hear from him—fly away home, little girl. I can smell the smoke from his tires dusting up the blood red sky, taste the salt of my tears as I screamed out after him. Soon, his Thunderbird had dissolved into the murky night, and for as long as I live, I will never forget the stillness of that moment—how alarmingly lonely this world had suddenly become. But then, the dirt thumped around me, the wind shook with fury, inviting me to a new terror. An entire herd of growls grew in ferocity like a hellish choir ready to greet me. I turned my head and saw them for less than a blink of a moment—first the neighbor’s dog, then behind him a demonic pack of beasts bounding on his heels, all of them accelerating toward me at an alarming pace. Their salivating mouths dripped with savagery. I was a feast for the taking, a mere morsel in their hungry eyes. Suddenly, I was nothing anyone wanted, so very alone in this dangerous world. I wish I could say I felt fear in that moment, but, in truth, I was still basking in the rejection doled out by my father. I had already surrendered my weary soul before they took their first bite. Then, the world fell to black, and I’ve spent the rest of my life reliving the pain both physical and emotional. And now when strangers on the street look in horror at what’s left of me—I feel the sting of my father’s rejection all over again. Death could have easily taken me that day, but that would have been too easy. Instead, here I am, living a life of irony, dying a thousand deaths and counting.

  But not tonight. Tonight I lie with a sculpted deity by my side—both his last name and features strike a startling resemblance to that of my best friend, as they should. He’s her brother.

  Cade James’s effigy is what the Italian sculptors long to carve into marble. Cade deserves to be venerated based on his physical perfection alone. The idea that this god would ever want me for anything aside from some quick and dirty fun is laughable. But here we are, together, just one breath away without a single stitch of clothing between us. Something quick and dirty, something beautiful is about to happen, and I’ll be the last to stop it.

  The Seduction

  Cassidy

  According to my sister, there are two types of women in this world: those who choose to devour and those who get devoured—lucky for the men of this world, she’s both.

  I examine her a moment, mostly for traces of sanity since I’m more than familiar with her features, seeing that we’re identical twins, albeit she wears her scars on the inside, where I have them out in the open for all to see, gawk at, judge—taking up precious real estate on the left side of my face. I may as well have a line drawn down the center of my body, my right half unadulterated, unblemished, dare I say, beautiful. The left side—an entire road map of anger and despair, chewed up and spit out, unwanted, twisted vines of pain creating unnatural ridges and divots from the corner of my lip clear up to my brow. I missed losing an eye by a single millimet
er. My grandmother says fate was looking after me that day, but I like to say it forgot me altogether. My features alone can attest to that.

  The Black Bear Saloon is teeming with bodies—mostly students from Whitney Briggs University, where the spring semester has just taken off on its icy tracks. January in the mountains of Hollow Brook should be banished of all living creatures, with the exception of billy goats and mountain climbers equipped with ice picks. North Carolina in general has been reduced to frozen tundra.

  “And to whom do I owe this Pop Tart psychiatry to?” I quip to my lookalike sister without bothering to actually get my proverbial feathers ruffled. I’ve known since we were in utero she likes to get her point across, be it with an elbow, the sharp corner of her knee, or simply her barbed tongue. “The great Caila Jace? Or perhaps the peach schnapps you’re nursing?” Caila Jace. I almost want to smirk at the fact she’s hijacked her Christian name to use as a stage name at the strip club where she rakes in her six-figure income. Unlike me, she didn’t opt for the scholastic route. Instead, she bypassed go and collected a hell of a lot more than two hundred dollars at that penis farm where she makes a killing night after night. Although, to be fair, Caila doesn’t consider herself a stripper, rather an adult “entertainer”—which, in my opinion, sounds far more salacious and tawdry by a teasing-taking-off-your-clothes-to-porn-music mile.

  She flexes her cheek in lieu of a smile. That’s my sister’s signature move once she’s irritated. Caila Jace Clayton gives exactly zero fucks about anything, with the tiny, precious exception of her three-year-old daughter, Jacey. I love that little peanut princess like she were my own, and according to that carbon copy face of her momma’s—mine by proxy—she very well could be.

  “What do you care?” She pulls the cherry from my daiquiri and bites down over it with her paper white teeth, twisting the stem into submission as if her life depended on it. Ten guys in the vicinity just sat up and took notice. Not surprising—cherry stem withstanding. Not only is Caila drop-dead gorgeous, but she works hard to polish herself to perfection daily with the aid of the cosmetics industry. Caila undergoes a grueling beauty routine that in some civilized nations might actually qualify as torture techniques. The low-cut top and suicide heels she’s donned help somewhat in drawing attention her way. There’s not a person who can’t help but look at Caila when she’s in the room. I’ve always admired that about her. “You never listen to a damn thing I say.”

  “Honey, after you replaced salt for sugar in that snickerdoodle recipe and fed it to me for kicks—it’s been hard to believe you’re human, save for that face. The things that you say? I take them with a grain of salt.” I gift her a hard wink right along with my well-seasoned rebuttal. True as God, that girl laughed her little pink tits off after trying to do me in with sodium chloride. God forbid our grandma Mimi actually ate the condiment-laced confection—she would have stroked herself into eternity.

  My sister waves her favorite finger at me with a laugh.

  Caila is tough as nails, has more self-confidence than an entire high school of girls will ever need in one lifetime—not to mention, she’s damn beautiful, and she knows it. That’s where her deepest irony lies, her beauty. It’s hard to believe someone so well put together, big blue doe eyes, porcelain skin, long blonde bone-straight hair—dyed trailer park platinum and heavily ironed into submission—can be so ever-loving crude. Caila can make a sailor blush with that brash mouth of hers, but she’s stunning enough to make him beg for more.

  I guess it’s odd venerating my twin’s beauty, but after nearly having half of my face chewed off, I stopped seeing us as doubles long ago. From that point on, I’ve seen her as perfection, as what could have been, and me as the twisted Brothers Grimm nightmare gone awry. My spirit broke and shattered that day right along with my features, while Caila soared to new, untouchable heights since the time of my father. I bore the curse of our family. She bore the beauty. I’ve often wondered where my life would be today if I hadn’t met up with a pack of hungry carnivores who saw me as a walking T-bone. I probably would have laughed at Whitney Briggs University and would be honing my twerking moves right alongside my sister.

  A frat boy over at the table to our right winks at me before startling to attention. I can feel the searing heat of his unwelcomed lust-riddled gaze as it whistles through me like a nuclear wind. He belches and licks his lips as if those very acts were enough to land me on his inebriated lap. And, trust me, if I were an equally inebriated sorority girl, it just might be. If it’s one thing I noticed, there’s not a whole lot of coital discretion going on at Whitney Briggs—not that I’m complaining. In fact, I plan on getting in on some of this non-discretionary coital affection sooner than later myself, just not with the belching douchebag who’s currently running his tongue along the rim of his glass and nodding me over with a greasy smile.

  Caila follows my gaze and grunts, “Tell me this isn’t happening.”

  “Please. Are you aware of this den of depravity we’ve seated ourselves in? It was destined to happen.” I flick the tiny red straw peering out of her drink. “Watch the master.”

  I give a little wave to the derelict in training and turn my face just enough for him to see my not-so good side. You can practically see his budding hard-on already rising to take a peek of me itself. Then, in a moment, his demeanor shifts. His eyes, though glossy with intoxication, round out with a slight look of horror. His brows narrow at me a moment as if to get a better look before he gives a slight wave and heads deeper into the establishment. But, it’s that brief look of pity he offers as he glances back that knifes me just as much as it amuses me—my face had sobered him up, pulled him out of his alcohol-laden sexual stupor just enough for him to realize he didn’t want any part of this action.

  Caila leans in hard, her violently straight vanilla hair falls over her face in pieces like twin curtains. I keep meaning to try that middle part. It looks so sultry on her, but then, sultry is her business.

  “Would you stop with that barbaric pit maneuver of yours?” she hisses before checking her phone for the tenth time.

  “What you call a ‘pit maneuver,’ I call effective communication skills.”

  “Look, I don’t have time to debate your questionable communication skills. I need to haul my ass to work.” She smirks at the idea before pulling my hand across the table. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why she’s smirking. Caila averages $800 to a $1000 on a bad night. She’s not merely a seasoned pro at the pole, she’s teaching future stripper hopefuls, and hausfraus alike how to shimmy and shake with the best of them at an hourly rate that could be better spent toward designer shoes. She gives my hand a tug in an effort to gain my full attention. “Would you please stop?”

  “No,” I flatline without even the intention of bothering to ask what it is she’d like for me to cease because, well, I already know.

  “Stop using your face as a weapon, honey.” Her voice sweetens. Her faux party lashes bat up at me like trembling butterfly wings. “There are more effective ways to ditch the unwanted assholes of the world. Just please stop using your pretty face.” She leans in, her lids are hooded and pleading in a quasi-sexual manner. Caila can’t help it. She’s been hardwired at an early age to do just about everything in a quasi-sexual manner. It’s just a side effect of growing up bombshell. “God gave you a finger that adequately communicates exactly what you wanted to say to that frat brat, and far more effectively might I add. Go ahead and try it next time.” She averts her eyes. “Never mind next time. What you need is a good fuck—tonight.”

  “Ugh,” I grunt, scooting my seat back in an effort to remove myself from the conversation. “I’m positive I don’t need that, and would you please mind laying off the expletives? You’re burning a hole in my skull.” I press my hands to my ears a moment to exemplify the fact.

  She averts her eyes once again. “Speaking of holes in your body—you’ve got a couple that haven’t properly been filled in quite some time.”
She pulls her purse off the chair and secures it to her shoulder. “How’s that for communication?” She leans in and offers a quick peck to my cheek. “Oh, come on, Cass. You only hate that it didn’t come out of your mouth first. And you can loosen up on that country bumpkin routine of yours.” She gives that sisterly wink that doubles as a lube job because she knows her words are going to hurt. “We’re not in Tennessee anymore, sweet stuff. Do yourself a favor.” Caila reaches over and roughs up my hair with that pathetic I’m-secretly-sorry-for-you look in her eye. “I’m serious. You need to get laid. I promise—all that stress you carry around will melt right off. Pick a good-lookin’ one, would you? Someone who really knows the meaning of Summa Cum Loud.”

  I’d laugh, or cry, but lately, her orgasmic delusions of grandeur on my part have been a serious pattern in our conversations.

  The 12 Deadly Sins hop on stage, and the crowd loses their ever-loving shit, as Caila would say. I spot my roommate, Piper, and our good friend, Daisy, whooping it up on the dance floor before the music even starts. The lead singer of the band, Blake, is somehow related to Piper, so she’s screaming the loudest right about now. Blake is a cutie—heck, most of the boys at WB qualify as something way too scrumptiously delicious to ever pass up, but I haven’t exactly made a smooth line for a single inebriated one of them.

  “Go on now and get laid.” Caila sweeps her fingers my way in an effort to shuffle me off toward the bar, as if all I had to do was pluck some poor boy off a stool and jump up on his lap. “Go get yours! Believe you me, one good—”

  I hold a hand up at this mirror image version—correction, almost mirror version—in front of me. “Go get mine? Now why didn’t I think of that? Because every girl knows that inserting a penis into your body just solves everything!” A part of me wants to retch at the idea. “Penises for the taking and orgasms for the faking!” I shout a little louder than necessary at a group of girls strutting by.