No Limits: A Dark Romance

by Lauren Landish

  The Mayfair Tower is one of the best high-rise apartment complexes in Midtown Atlanta, and the look in Abby's eye as I led her inside sent chills up and down my spine. "Wow, this place is amazing. You really live here?"

  "For now," I said, unwilling to say that I was merely house sitting. I wasn't an official resident, just a guest, which is why I didn't avail myself of most of the facilities in the building. The most I'd done was sneak in a couple of workouts in the fitness center during the dead of night when no one else was around to wonder who the tattooed stranger was. I would sometimes also go down and grab the newspaper from the front desk when it was a day old, looking for the classified section. In a high rise where most of the cars were under two years old, and most of the residents I'd seen had the appearance of wearing suits that probably cost more money than I'd seen in years, it was the better choice. The less I stuck out around the place, the better, I thought. "Here, let's take the elevator."

  There was a comfortable silence as we took the elevator up, and I could sense a growing tension between us. It might have been a long time since I'd seen the look, but I recognized it in Abby's eyes. She thought I was attractive, and I think she also recognized that I found her stunning as well. Still, her dress, her shoes, even her purse and the way she wore her hair screamed high class and money to me. I may have been just out of jail and I may have been growing increasingly horny, but there was no way that a girl like that ended up with a guy like me. Not long-term, at least. She might want me to give it to her one time, just so she could say she’d fucked a bad boy, but that’s it.

  If there was one thing that my time in the Army and my time in Leavenworth had tried to drill into me, it was that for guys like me, there were no happily ever afters. I'd been born to a hard working miner who'd tried to raise me and two siblings on just what he could dig out of the ground. And while I'd not always been the best son in the world, I'd done my best to try and make myself better. But guys like me don't get a happily ever after. We get an hourly job that breaks our back while we dream of having a bigger television to take up the corner space in the double-wide trailer that's busting our checking account every month. That was a lucky ending for guys like me. Girls like Abby Rawlings never figured into our fates. Still, I couldn't repress the little ember of hope that was burning in my chest. It was why I didn't stop, and with the way Abby looked at me, I couldn't stop either way.

  "Here we are," I said when the elevator stopped. I led her down the short hallway to the door, unlocking it and holding it open for her. "It's really not much, just a studio, but it's good for me."

  I knew I was downplaying things, but I didn't know what else to say. The floor plan was called a Stratford, and for the Mayfair Tower, it actually was the least expensive and smallest of the apartments or condos in the place. Who knew what the hell Chris Lake paid in yearly fees? Still, compared to the cell I'd had in Leavenworth, which I shared with another man, the condo still seemed immense to me.

  "It's more than good. This is really something else,” Abby said as she looked around. "What's that, a sixty-inch TV?"

  "I'm not sure. I don't watch it all that much," I said. In Leavenworth, TV was one of the few means to pass the time when you were indoors, and I'd had more than my fill of it. Reading, on the other hand, I couldn't get enough of. I'd come to value the knowledge contained in books, and I found them infinitely more interesting than watching reruns of cable programs—at least those the guards thought we were cleared to view. I wished that I’d been that way back in school. “I think so though."

  "Daddy and I . . .” Abby started before pausing, something causing her to grow quiet. I heard the way she said the word Daddy, and knew that whatever her strength was, she was still at least a bit of a daddy's girl. I just hoped that didn't come with daddy issues as well. I couldn't handle that. "It doesn't matter. Come on, let's get that cut cleaned up."

  "And while we’re at it, let’s take a look at that ankle,” I said. I watched her limp when we walked, and while it wasn't bad, I didn't want her to keep putting pressure on it. "You've been hiding it pretty well, but you were limping across the lobby. I could hear it in the sound of your high heels on the tile."

  Abby smiled shyly and nodded. "Okay. Do you mind if I take them off here? I'm more comfortable barefoot anyway."

  "Mi casa es su casa," I said, trying to force casualness. I hoped that it would calm the raging inferno that was building inside me, growing larger and larger each second I saw her in the full light of the apartment. If I thought she was stunning in the park, in the apartment, fully illuminated in the tastefully recessed track lighting LEDs that cast a glow around the room, she was ethereal. I'd never seen a more beautiful woman in my life. Barefoot, she came up to just below my chin, and her figure still concealed underneath her dress was the sort of thing artists dreamed of. She didn't seem to notice my growing desire, however, and glanced toward the back of the studio.

  "I assume your stuff is in the bathroom," Abby said, looking around, her hair tossing lightly side to side. I knew instantly that when she wasn't dressed up, she was the sort of girl who liked to keep it in a ponytail. Unfortunately for me, ponytails are a major turn on, and the idea of wrapping that spun gold hair around my fingers caused my cock to surge in my pants to nearly bursting. "Or do you want me to play hide and go seek?"

  I noticed that her skin was slightly flushed, and her joke was as forced as my casualness, but still, both of us smiled and I shook my head. Maybe she was feeling it as much as I was? Fresh hope flared in my chest. "Come on."

  The bathroom was just after the kitchen in the L-shaped design of the studio apartment, and I found a bottle of antiseptic spray inside the medicine cabinet after rooting around for a few seconds. "Here," I said, handing it to her. "No peroxide, but this should do."

  "All right then, off with your hood," Abby said. She grinned at the slightly macabre joke, her lips curling up in the most enchanting bow I could imagine. "You're already bleeding onto it, and you need to get some cold water on that fabric or else it’s going to be ruined."

  An electric thrill ran through me as I let her peel my shirt up and over my head, leaving me in just my jeans and boots. Abby had turned to toss my shirt through the open door to the laundry room beyond the bathroom, so when she turned back, her startled pause when she saw my upper body for the first time actually caused me to blush. She reached toward me before pulling her hand back, suddenly realizing that she hadn't asked permission. "Wow."

  I tried not to let it show that I was pleased with her unexpected compliment, but I couldn't help it.

  Abby blinked and shook her head, tearing her eyes from my torso to look up at my face and taking the bottle of antiseptic in her hand. "Okay, hold still," she said, moving close enough that I could almost feel the heat of her presence against the skin of my upper body. "I'll try and be gentle."

  Unfortunately for Abby, the button she'd originally taken to be a weak spray turned out to be much stronger than either of us anticipated, and the resultant shot of mist not only got my cut, but also my left eye. "Ow, shit!" I gasped, immediately closing my eye and turning around. I planted my hands on the countertop, my fingers digging into the curve made by the marble of the sink. "Fuck!"

  "I . . . I’m sorry!" Abby said, her voice apologetic. I was blind and in pain, but she sounded just as hurt as I was. "God, I'm so sorry!"

  "No . . . it's okay," I said, tears running down my face. "You didn't mean to, and I should’ve closed my eye."

  "Hold still," she said, putting her hands on my shoulders. I stilled, a blissful calm almost coursing from her touch into my body, as if she were some sort of magical being. "Keep your eyes closed."

  I heard the water in the sink turn on, and a minute later, the cool bliss of a wet washcloth pressed against my injured eye. "Here," I heard Abby say as she gently wiped my eye and down my cheek. "I'm so sorry, Dane. You go and save my life, and I try and repay you by blinding you."

  "You didn't mean to,
and you don't need to repay me," I said. The pain was lessening. I turned away from the sink and reached up, putting my hand over hers to hold the compress against my eye. Her hand didn't move though, and I could feel how close she was to me. "Just let it flush out a bit, and I'll be fine. You just surprised me, that's all."

  In the silence that followed, which was now tense not because we wanted to be apart, but instead because of the unspoken desire to be closer, I could hear her breath quicken. In the reddish darkness of my still tightly shut eyes, I almost thought I could hear her heartbeat. "Dane?"

  "Yes?"

  "What are those tattoos for?" she asked, her free hand coming up to rest on the ink that adorned my chest and arms. "There are quite a few of them."

  " I got most of them in the Army," I said, trying to remember in my mind's eye what her fingers were touching. The truth was, some of them were from before the Army, a few were in service, but a lot of the others were from my time at Leavenworth. Every prisoner has their own little way of telling the administration to fuck off, and for me, it was ink. There had been a Specialist from the 10th Mountain division locked up with me who was quite the amateur artist, even though he didn't always have access to the best supplies. "I think that one is my jump wings. The parachute, right?"

  "Yeah," her voice, thick and a bit deeper, said. She was feeling it too, and I was quickly losing any resistance to wanting to pull her closer. She may have been untouchable. She may have been a bit younger than me and most likely the worst mistake since I'd permanently fucked my life up with a single act in Iraq, but if I was going to be damned, there were a lot of worse ways to go than what I wanted at that moment. "What about the others?"

  I took the compress away from my eye, blinking as light returned. The first thing I saw was Abby's beautiful face, and without an instant's hesitation or reconsideration, I knew that I was going to fuck her. I pulled her closer to me, my hand coming to her waist, our lips coming together, and I happily fell into damnation again.

  Chapter 3

  Abby

  When I first saw Dane in the street light, it was hard to put my finger on what exactly was so fascinating about him. Obviously, I’d been impressed that he’d come to my aid and how he'd beaten up my attackers so easily. Two-on-one fights usually end up with the one getting his ass kicked. But when the light from the streetlamp let me get more of a look under his hood, there was something more about the way he looked that excited me.

  Dane was certainly handsome, but it was a dark, brooding handsomeness that I wasn't used to seeing. I'd gotten used to well-groomed, slickly laid back guys who looked like they'd never really worked a hard day's labor in their lives. They were basically weak, pretty boys, and Dane was different. Black eyebrows shaded gray eyes that looked like they could either be expressive and clear or stormy and intimidating. His face was lean, with a steely tension to his features that spoke of great strength, but his mouth was large and sensual, and even with the furrow on his cheek pulling up at one corner, expressive. His short beard made him look just a bit scruffy, but in not a bad way. He looked like the sort of man who was made for a motorcycle.

  "I'm not a very good man," Dane said, and in that moment, I saw something even more appealing than his dark handsomeness. I saw introspection, and yes, a bit of a haunted soul.

  I'll admit, I'm a lucky girl when it came to the looks department. A lot of it came from Mom, who I wish I had gotten to know better before she died. In looking at the old pictures of her, though, her high school and college graduation photos that Daddy still kept in the family room of the house, I looked a lot like her once you account for the change in hairstyles and fashion. My hair was a shade darker though, probably because of my father’s influence, although I'd gotten a bit of his height too. While I'm no starter for the basketball team, Mom was so short that she was nearly a gymnast.

  So with my looks, even as intimidating as my father is, I'd had guys compliment me. The biggest problem most of them had was that they were insecure and tried to hide it by being cocky as all get out. I'd had guys try to strut past me with their chests puffed out or try to show off their clothes or their cars like peacocks at the zoo. One look in their eyes, however, told me that they were insecure little boys trying to mask imperfection behind a cocky strut of perfection.

  Dane wasn't like that at all. He was up front with his flaws, and in his eyes I saw that he was, despite his protests, more of a man than anyone I'd ever met at Georgia Tech. When we got back to his place, though, I was floored. Sure, it was a studio, but the Mayfair Tower was one of those types of places that a guy around my age would be bragging about. It was furnished tastefully, though it looked like he'd recently done a major change in decor—something about the way the furniture was arranged in the living area and the way the couch didn't quite jive with the impression I got of Dane on the way from the park, I think. It was like there was the real Dane, and one that maybe he'd recently left behind or something.

  Most of it was the contrast between his belongings. For example, the couch that he used to separate the living room area from the bed area of the studio was real leather, and while I didn't know the designer, it looked like one of those sofas that got used in photo spreads for magazines and had price tags in the thousands of dollars. On the other hand, Dane's jeans were off the rack Old Navy, and his boots I couldn't even identify. I wondered if perhaps Dane had fallen on some hard times, or if maybe he'd come into a windfall, and that was why he hadn't bragged about his living accommodations. He led me into the bathroom, and it didn't really matter. I focused instead on the task at hand, cleaning his cheek.

  "All right, off with your hood," I told him as I looked at the antiseptic spray bottle. It had a lot of hype text on it, but the important part was the 99.9% printed on the side. If something had gotten into Dane's cut that this thing couldn't kill, I would be surprised.

  I wasn't really paying attention as I took his shirt and tossed it into the laundry room, but when I turned around, I couldn't help but shudder at the flush of heat that ran through me at seeing his torso. The tan that highlighted his firm muscles wasn't a frat boy tan or the tan of a guy who laid out in the sun, but the tan of a man who spent plenty of time outdoors doing labor. His muscles were the real thing, not some gym rack set built with curls and pump sets, but steely cords that knew how to do real work.

  And of course, there were his tattoos. I've always had a secret attraction to good body ink, though I didn't have any myself. Patrick Rawlings would have had a heart attack if I did, even a little rose or butterfly on an ankle. But Dane's body was beautiful, with complex, intertwining designs that covered most of his chest and around to his shoulders, going nearly halfway down his left forearm. Whoever had done the work was talented, because even though I could see that there were different pieces from different times in his life, they all wove together in a tapestry that flowed and looked harmoniously joined, like a visual representation of his life so far.

  It was the tattoos and the impressive definition of his upper body that distracted me when I triggered the spray bottle. In hindsight, I should’ve sprayed the gauze pad in the first aid kit and then wiped his cut, but I wasn't thinking all that clearly. I'd meant to push the plunger slowly, giving just a little squirt of liquid onto his cheek. Instead, I pushed too hard, sending a mist of the alcohol-based cleaner right into his eye. He jerked his head back, hissing in pain. "Ow, shit!" he said as he turned around. "Fuck!"

  "I . . . I’m sorry!" I replied, horrified. Here he was, being a total gentleman, and I'd nearly blinded him. I felt like crying. "God, I'm so sorry!"

  He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute, his face turning red as the first tears of pain trickled out of his eyes and started to make their way down his face. Still, he maintained his composure and there wasn't a hint of anger in his words. "No . . . it's okay. You didn't know, and I should’ve closed my eye."

  "Hold still. Keep your eyes closed."

  Grabbing a washcloth from the towel
bar next to the sink, I quickly wet it until it was soaking. "Here," I said, pressing it against his face and taking the opportunity to apologize. "I'm so sorry, Dane. You go and save my life, and I try and repay you by blinding you."

  "You didn't mean to, and you don't need to repay me," he replied, a delicious tension in his voice. His hand came up to cover mine, and my body reacted again to his presence. His touch was just as strong as it had been the first time, and my heart sped up. I didn't even realize it as I stepped closer, until I was barely a hand's breadth away from him, close enough to smell him. He smelled like a man, clean sweat and a hint of some sort of aftershave, not the fruity type either, but a real scent. "Just let it flush out a bit and I'll be fine. You just surprised me, that's all."

  I tried to keep myself under control, but it was hard with him so close. I wanted to run my hand over his chest to feel the strength in his arms and his body. Even more, I wanted to feel his hands on me, and not just covering mine. I took a deep breath to try and control myself and forced my one-track mind to think of something to say. "Dane?"

  "Yes?"

  "What are the tattoos for?" I asked, giving in to the temptation and tracing some of his ink. I could see that not all of it was finely done. There were a few that looked a bit amateurish, but still the work of a talented amateur. I wondered where he got them. I saw a symbol I thought I knew, a set of wings coming out from a parachute on his right shoulder. "There are quite a few of them."

  " I got most of them in the Army. I think that one is my jump wings. The parachute, right?"

  "Yeah. What about the others?" I rasped, unable to resist it any longer. I wanted him. Right or wrong, one-night stand or forever and a day, at that moment, the thing I needed most was his touch, his caress. I wanted to taste his skin and run my tongue along the intertwining lines of his ink. When he opened his eyes and looked down into my eyes, I knew that he wanted it too.