No Limits

by Alison Kent

Finally he’d stepped forward, moved his hands from the roof of the car to the button of her jeans. He’d opened her fly, put his hand in her panties, and she’d let him, just like she’d done in junior high with Robert Benton when they’d cut study hall to make out in the locker room.

  It was so much better this time. King was older and wiser and knew what to do. She’d dropped her head back, and as much as she’d wanted to close her eyes and do nothing but feel, she’d kept them open and locked on his, which were smoky and pleased and involved.

  Thinking of it now……the way he’d finished her off without a word, how he’d helped her straighten her clothing when she was done, the sweet wail of a fiddle drifting out from the bar to carry him away, his leaving her there without a word, his only parting shot a wink that knew too much…

  Thinking of it now…

  She pulled into her driveway behind his truck, her palms wet, her hands shaking. Never in her twenty-eight years had she let a man get to her the way this one had.

  He was a drug, and she was an addict, and knowing that her next fix was on the other side of her front door made it impossible to breathe.

  Except he wasn’t waiting inside at all. He was standing on the porch when she made her way there from the car. His jeans hung low on his hips, and he’d kicked off his boots. White crew socks covered his feet.

  It tickled her, the way he made himself at home, tickled her in other ways, the way his chambray shirt hung open, the way the sun spun his feathered chest hair to gold.

  “Well?” was the only greeting he gave her.

  She was slow to climb the steps after that, the bubble of expectation burst. She’d been so caught up in the past that she’d forgotten King wasn’t here for her.

  He was here for news on Simon Baptiste.

  She brushed past him into the house and made her way to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “He had to cancel. He rescheduled for tomorrow morning. And, no, sorry. No explanation for the delay.”

  King slammed the front door. Facing the kitchen sink, she cringed at the rattling echo. It wasn’t fair, the ease with which he made her feel stupid, the fact that she let him get away with doing it, the reality that she was the only one here wanting more.

  Women fell. Men fucked.

  They’d been assigned their roles at the dawn of time. Why had it taken her so long to wake up?

  Though it was bright outside, the sun shining down, turning her lawn to strips of glittering green, she caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window she faced. He was quiet, and only her senses told her he’d moved close. She knew he was there before he touched her.

  Weak. That’s what she was. Putty with no spine. Melted butter. Liquid Jell-O. She hunched up her shoulders, shivering when his breath tickled her neck.

  He wrapped his arms around her, cradled her bottom with his hips, slid his hands beneath the hem of the tunic she wore over a gauzy peasant skirt that brushed the tops of her feet.

  Covering her breasts, he pinched her nipples through her bra until the pleasure became pain. “How soon do you have to be back?”

  She squirmed, but he didn’t let her go, and she wasn’t even sure that she wanted him to. “Lorna went to lunch with the judge—”

  “We have hours, then.”

  He spun her around, grabbed the fabric of her skirt, and tugged. The elastic waist stretched over her hips, and the garment fell to the floor. She held on to his shoulders as he lifted her to the counter beside the sink. And then she leaned back on her elbows and watched.

  She was a junkie, shameless in her need, at the mercy of her desire, mesmerized by the flex of muscles in his chest and shoulders, by the V of his open fly and the hair that grew thicker there, spongy where it pillowed his sex.

  It was his sex that bewitched her the most, the bulk of his balls, his penis straining against the fabric of both his shorts and jeans like a compact spring waiting to uncoil and reach its full length and potential.

  She knew that length, knew the circumference, the ripe knob on top, the slit that opened in the center, widening for the tip of her tongue.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out the knife he carried. Her breath left her lungs, her heart screamed with a fierce wanting.

  He parted her knees, then her thighs, wedged his hips between and hooked her heels behind him. Sliding one index finger into her panties, pressing his knuckle into her entrance, he opened the knife with his teeth.

  Anticipating, she widened her legs even more. He slid the blade next to his thumb. The cool metal chilled her bare lips but only for the seconds it took him to slice through the fabric, exposing her.

  He didn’t even bother closing the knife, but just tossed it to the floor as he bent to cover her with his mouth. He sucked her plump flesh, one side, then the other, nudging her clit with his nose.

  Oh. Oh. His breath was warm, his lips hot, his tongue nearly scorching. Oh, God, oh. She couldn’t look away. She watched like a voyeur, her temperature rising at the sight of his open mouth on her pink flesh.

  He used his thumbs to open her, pushing one inside to play, the other spreading her juices lower and slipping into her ass. Her eyes rolled back. It was too much, his tongue now flat on her clit, one thumb stroking her G-spot, the other filling her up the rest of the way.

  She cried out, caught up in spasms, squeezing, contracting around him, her world spinning away. Her orgasm was all she knew. It was the only thing in her world.

  He did this for her, took her apart in ways no one had ever known how to do. She hurt, she ached, he bruised her. She loved it all, wanted more, caught her lip between her teeth and begged him with a look.

  He stood, his eyes firing like an engine running hot, and shoved his jeans to his knees. His cock jutted forward, impressive, intimidating, bold. She wanted it in her mouth, in her hands, the shaft thrusting between her breasts, the head pulsing in her ass.

  He wrapped his fingers around it and stepped forward, drove into her with a stroke that she felt all the way to her spine. Quivering, she wrapped her arms around his neck when he reached for her, clinging tight, impaled.

  He backed up two steps, turned, and fell with her to the kitchen table. He climbed onto it on his knees, his hands curled around the edges for purchase until the muscles in his arms, the tendons in his throat, bulged blue.

  She gripped his wrists, crossed her ankles in the small of his back, and held on. As he rocked into her, the table shook, groaned beneath their combined weight.

  His strokes were powerful, strong and fluid. Her sex swelled, her breasts swelled, her heart swelled to bursting with the emotions she couldn’t release in words.

  But she couldn’t keep it out of her eyes, and he knew. His gaze locked with hers, he struggled not to speak, but the fire between them had set spark to tinder and was unable to be contained.

  “Goddammit, Chelle!” he yelled, tossing back his head. “Don’t do this to me. Not now. Don’t fucking do this to me now.”

  And then he came, crying out, stiffening, shuddering, collapsing on top of her as he reached between her legs to make certain she found her oblivion.

  How could she not?

  She burned, flamed, exploded against him, beneath him, doing the very thing he didn’t want her to do—loving him more than she should when she knew he didn’t love her at all.

  Thirteen

  I t was almost dark when Simon heard Micky stir. The house was old, worn, creaky. Even the sound of her feet hitting the floor as she rolled out of bed, the moan of the frame with the shift of her slight weight, was enough to rattle the beams and planks of old wood.

  Not helping was the matter of how empty the house was. He’d come prepared with camp chairs and sleeping bags, a small charcoal grill, and a cooler for ice in case the place had been rented since Lorna’s last contact and he had to find a campsite and make do. He’d made do in worse places and with less during his deployment, often dispatched with no more supplies than would fit in the pack he carried.
>
  The house on Le Hasard had served as a rental for several years. There had been little he’d wanted to keep once he’d accepted that he wouldn’t be living here again. He’d had his attorney handle things, retrieving a few photos, his mother’s wedding ring, his father’s dog tags.

  The proceeds from anything sold—cars, tractor and tiller, power tools, rifles and hunting gear—were added to the rental income to pay property taxes and keep the place livable. For several years, a good chunk of the nearly four thousand acres had been leased as grazing land.

  He wondered if the dearth of potential renters was a reflection of the Bayou Allain economy or if having King for a neighbor kept them at bay.

  Whatever. The point was moot. The house wasn’t worth the cost of the repairs it needed. That hadn’t stopped him from spending most of the day shoring up the porch. It was busywork, nothing more, but working with his hands had always helped him think.

  He hadn’t planned on having to do that while here. He hadn’t had a vacation in years. He was counting on getting his business done, then spending the rest of his time off recovering from his last assignment—and doing it while sober, so Hank wouldn’t have to pry another bottle out of his hand and wonder if it was time to let him go.

  He’d seen the toll taken on his fellow operatives, those who’d been working for Hank Smithson longer than he had, who had learned the value of downtime for keeping reflexes sharp and instincts humming.

  He’d also seen the changes several of the men had gone through with a woman in their lives. That seemed the hardest act to balance of all, that of willingly stepping into danger with a wife or a lover at home holding tight to the hope that nothing would blow up in the team’s face.

  It was a commitment, an implied promise that Simon wasn’t sure it was fair to make. Life wasn’t fair, no, but putting his life in danger was one thing. Leaving a woman to deal with the fallout should he be killed, or putting her life at risk because of the job…After what he’d seen happen to Eli McKenzie’s Stella, he wasn’t sure he was ready to do that.

  The thought now brought Micky to mind—no reason it should have, no reason at all—and when he heard her coming down the stairs, he stiffened, his hand too tight around the hammer he held, his teeth gritting against the shanks of the nails in his mouth.

  Stupid, this reaction that was fitting of his twelve-year-old self, the one with feet too big and arms too long and a voice that hit as many bass notes as soprano. The one who couldn’t find a thing to say to girls when his blood rushed from his head to his pants.

  She materialized in the rectangle of the open back door. He didn’t look up; he didn’t have to. He could smell her, a hint of dark spice, and he wondered if the scent would ever wash out of his clothes she was wearing.

  “Do you think I should stay inside?” she asked. “So I won’t be seen? Or is it safe to come out since it’s getting dark?”

  It was, and he was going to have to hang up his hammer soon before he hit his thumb instead of a nail. Except the lack of light wasn’t as much of an issue as was his lack of concentration, or at least his drift of concentration, since it was now all on her.

  He straightened from where he’d been kneeling, tossed the hammer into his toolbox, and pulled the nails from between his teeth. “The porch is shadowed. You should be good up there.”

  She nodded, stepped through the door, her slender bare feet drawing his gaze. Funny, but he would never have pictured the heiress to the Ferrer fortune as the barefoot type, and whoa did he shut down that thought before it took him places he didn’t need to go.

  What he needed was to gather more information, just as he’d collect intel before heading into the field. It was the only way to find his footing, secure his balance.

  “Are you feeling better? Rested? Head on straight?” Knowing that hers was would make it easier to get his back where it belonged. He hoped.

  “I’d say I’m at eighty percent.” She perched on the edge of the rocking bench, testing its integrity before she sat.

  “Another eight hours or so, and I should be closer to a hundred.”

  “Good. You’ll need that hundred tomorrow, but eighty tonight should be enough.”

  “Enough for what?” she asked, her forearms braced on her thighs as she hunched forward, her hair falling over one shoulder, her breasts full where her biceps pressed against their sides.

  He glanced down, watched her curl her toes. One foot, then the other, then both. Her nails were painted a cinnamon brown. She had a small tattoo below her ankle, and a narrow gold ring on one toe.

  He had never thought much about a woman’s feet, but this woman looked so vulnerable already, having nothing but his clothes between the world and her skin, that the polish and the ring and the tiny tattoo all got together to make him wonder if she decorated more of her body parts.

  This would’ve been a good time to be holding the hammer. He needed some sense knocked into his head. “To make a plan. See what we’ve got in the way of evidence. If there’s anything we’re missing that might prove your accident wasn’t an accident.”

  “You mean like the paint from my rental on the grille of the truck?”

  He found himself grinning. “Watch a lot of crime TV, do you?”

  “Not really,” she said, though she chuckled. “Or at least not by design. My assistant TiVos a lot of shows. I think she owns every season of every CSI on DVD. They run in her office constantly.”

  And had no doubt convinced Micky the fictional portrayal of that world was the truth. But her question was valid. “Paint on the grille would be good if he hit more than your bumper. Might be hard to separate the impact damage from what the crash added, though. Depends on what part of the car hit the water and if it rolled or bounced.

  “Then there’s the issue of the number of pickups and SUVs in the parish. Assuming the vehicle and the driver were local. And if this is all tied up in the disappearance of Lisa Landry, it’s a fair one to make.”

  “A fair what?”

  “Assumption.”

  “Oh.” She rested her chin in the cradle of her palms, her elbows propped on her knees. “Are you sure you’re not the one with a jones for crime TV?” She paused, cocked her head, a thoughtful consideration of her own remarks. “Or is that what you do?”

  “What I do?” he asked, hedging.

  “In New York. Are you NYPD? A federal agent?”

  He had no intention of telling her what he was. He shook his head as he hunkered down to lock up his toolbox. “Nope. Just making use of my common sense and a dozen years of training on Uncle Sam’s dime.”

  “You’re not old enough to be retired military.”

  He stood, heaved the toolbox onto the edge of the porch, stayed there facing her. “I’m pretty damn old.”

  “How old?”

  “Isn’t that one of those questions you’re not supposed to ask? Like weight and shoe size?”

  “That’s for women. And it’s weight and bra size. I’ve already figured out your shoe size.”

  “You have?”

  “From your waders.”

  “Those weren’t my waders, chère,” he said, laughing out loud when she screwed up her face in what looked like disgust. “You’re just lucky I’m the one who showed up to see you wearing them.”

  She shuddered, but then her head came up. “What if this house had belonged to one of them?”

  One of them. As in the bastards who if not joyriding and playing dangerous games had purposefully singled out Micky to guarantee her silence. “At Red’s, when you were talking to the judge, was anyone else around? Could anyone have overheard your conversation?”

  “There weren’t a lot of people there, no. And with the dancing and the band, the noise level was pretty high. But my back was to the room. For all I know, there could’ve been someone listening from the next booth.”

  Something in her expression clicked. She sat up straight. “I met this guy who might know. He pointed out Judge Landry an
d seemed to think my talking to him was quite a show.”

  As a lead, it wasn’t much, but it was more than the nothing he was holding. “This guy. Do you remember his name?”

  She smiled. “Oh, yeah. Hard to forget a name like Kingdom Trahan.”

  Fourteen

  M icky would have thought she’d poured a whole bottle of Veuve Clicquot on Simon’s head. He closed down that coolly, that quickly, as if she’d delivered the cut direct. “Do you know him? Or where we can find him?”

  The questions went unanswered as Simon jerked his toolbox off the porch and headed for his truck, his shoulders and biceps full and defined. He lowered the tailgate, slid the metal box in between what looked to be crates of supplies, then slammed the back end shut.

  She expected him to stomp past her, pound up the stairs, and lock himself in the bedroom where she’d slept—the only one with a door that closed and windows left unbroken.

  But he didn’t. He just turned around and leaned against his truck, his backside on the bumper and his ankles crossed. “Don’t count on him offering any help.”

  Hmm. King hadn’t seemed the type not to help. He’d been very helpful, in fact. “So you do know him.”

  “I do.”

  “And you don’t like him?”

  “We…have issues.”

  Puh-lease. Who didn’t? “And you think your issues would keep him from helping me.”

  “If he knew I was in the picture, yeah. They might.”

  Didn’t say a lot for either of them. “Then maybe I don’t tell him that you are.”

  Simon didn’t say anything right away, just crossed his arms over his chest and continued to stare. He was thinking. Micky had no idea whether he was considering her suggestion, or revisiting whatever memories her mention of King had brought to mind. She decided she wanted to know.

  “How do you know him?” she asked at the same time he said, “Tell me what the two of you talked about last night.”

  She pressed her lips together. Something was going on here…something personal? Obviously so, if they had issues. But how deep did those waters run? And what did it mean for her safety?