Swagger…
 
Recent years showcase misuse and abuse of the term, by young want to be gangsters who don’t understand its connotation. Boys who disguise themselves as men, walking around with their pants hanging off their asses, boxers in plain sight, all while demeaning every woman in their path with terms like baby, dime, or bitch. Songs pollute the airways in celebration of this new idea of swagger and the degradation of those who don’t have it.
 
They’re idiots…too lazy to open a book and discover that the term is as old as Shakespeare and his sonnets.
 
They’re asinine…too clueless to see, none of them will ever possess it.
 
However that word, swagger, is the first that comes to mind when Raylan Givens enters the room. Fresh off a plane, skin tan and beautiful thanks to the Florida sun; he personifies the word – exemplifies the meaning beyond a shadow of a doubt. Command settles into the palm of his hand with one of his infamous half moon smirks.  Rachel Brooks has trouble accepting that even she’s under his spell. Maybe it’s the lazy southern drawl; devil may care attitude, or the wicked gleam in his eyes hidden by the brim of that damn hat. Whatever the case may be, it makes Rachel stop and take notice.
 
Her breath hitches…
 
Her pulse races…
 
A mandatory change of unmentionables will be necessary within the next hour.
 

~

Three weeks pass before Mullen saddles Rachel with Raylan.
 
Resentment barely outweighs the sexual tension she feels towards him.  He’s Harlan County’s favorite son, home on the wings of disgrace, with scores to settle, and things to prove. She’s a Junior Marshall, not just some young agent who lacks experience, but an African American female agent, with the powers that be expecting her to play nice and heal the discord between law enforcement and the community.
 
Success that’s Rachel’s goal, not empty commendations and loose handshakes of acknowledgement, but a sincere appreciation for her skills and service in Kentucky’s Marshalls office. Raylan Givens is the only road block to that achievement. She’s the good cop to his bad cop; the cool head and slow hand. Everyone’s up in arms about his antics. Shoot first and ask questions later. Did he have justification to pull his side arm?
 
Why in the hell is he screwing Ava Crowder?
 
At least she’s curious about Raylan’s answer to the last question.
 
Ava’s beautiful, tragic, but Rachel gets the allure. Their choice of career doesn’t leave much room for developing and maintaining a healthy relationship. Hell the last time the phrase I love you fell from her lips, she was dancing under gaudy decorations in a funky gym at her senior prom. That’s not to say that her desires have gone unkempt. What batteries can’t cure, a few drinks, cool sheets on a plush bed, and a warm, able body can definitely deliver relief to her latent itch.
 
And it’s been a while. She counts the days, no weeks, of her last adventure. Her grip tightens on the steering wheel with the realization that it’s been three weeks; unless you count the week the batteries in her vibrator died which brings the total to four.
 
Raylan’s presence is no help; all masculine bravado, feigning sleep behind the hat that’s quickly becoming the bane of her existence. He’s being facetious when he extends it in her direction, “Try it,” that infectious grin spreads across his face as he nudges the hat closer.
 
She spends an hour in the shower replaying the curve of his lips and the movement of his tongue, over and over again in her mind’s eye between toe curling climaxes. Batteries - tomorrow she’ll buy a case of Energizers before her fingers revolt and refuse to move.
 

~

The heat settles between Rachel’s thighs with the brush of Raylan’s fingertips across nape of her neck. “Spider,” he mumbles before he flashes that shit eating grin as his body folds into the booth across from her.
 
The perspiration on his bottle of beer becomes intriguing. Rachel knows with direct eye contact he’ll read every indecent thought filling her brain. Somewhere between the waitress’ delivery of their next round and his relocation to her side of the booth the comfort between them increases. The line between colleagues and friends blurs. There’s loneliness in his touch when he brushes the back of her hand. This time she meets his gaze and finds a kindred spirit there. 
  
Their silent discussion ends when he stands and drops the bills on the table. He waits for her to slide out of the booth, apprehension hidden behind the lips she’s finally ready to taste. His frame outlines hers as they move through the bar that’s now filling with intoxicated locals. His arm encircles her waist and she feels him. The rise and fall of his chest – the tautness in his belly – the bulge stirring to life against her backside. It’s natural for her to grind against him. She can hear him sucking in his breath.
 
“Play nice.” He whispers against her ear.
 
It’s that same ear he’s filling with expletives as one hand grips her left breast and the other slips between her skin and the lace of her panties as it dips into her wetness. He’s still in command, pressing into her from behind, and kissing the spot on her neck he marked hours before.  She can feel his fingers driving deeper as her legs part granting him further access. It’s better than any of the fantasies conjured in her private moments of intimacy. A piece of her mourns the loss of his fingers until she feels them pressed against her lips. Rachel opens her mouth willingly accepting his offering and she doesn’t need to see his face to know that his excitement is building.
 
It’s now or never she thinks as she turns and takes the fingers diligently fucking her mouth and pushes their owner to the bed. She clutches both of his wrists in one hand before placing them above his head. He’s stronger than she is, but for once he yields to her control. She straddles him, hovering above the erection begging for her attention. She allows the lace barrier that’s preventing full contact to brush against his swollen sex. The smirk returns, "Try it," he teases. Then she remembers how this all started. Raylan’s arrogant demeanor, that hat, and a well worn pair of jeans. His eyes travel over her body, pausing on the smooth skin of bare breasts. He raises his head, mouth open, and fully intent on seizing a nipple. She shakes her head, tightens her hold, and his hips rise, creating a delicious friction against her wetness. It’s his final plea for completion.  She denies him; instead opting to touch herself like she has so many nights before with only thoughts of him. She's lost in the gratification she's receiving by teasing her delicate center. Raylan capitalizes on the moment of weakness, turning the tables, and Rachel finds her body covered by his. In the distance she recognizes the distinct sound of tearing fabric. In the next second, the wait is over as she feels all of him ease into her.
 
Rachel prays for the strength to hold on long enough to enjoy every inch of him.