by Pam Godwin
I’ve been touched and kissed and fucked in every way under the sun, but never like this. Never with this much concentration on such a chaste part of my body.
Sliding my hair out of the way, he continues the diabolical assault. He stays on my arm, never dipping past my elbow or extending toward my chest and neck. It’s the weirdest and best thing I’ve ever experienced.
It feels safe.
His groin presses so tightly against my backside I know he isn’t aroused. He’s giving me this…this nonsexual gift, and that alone rocks my world off its axis. He’s gone eight years without the touch of a woman, yet he’s doing the touching, the giving, without taking anything in return.
It makes me uneasy, suspicious, and my stomach hardens inside a fist of dread.
I must’ve tensed, because he pulls his hand away.
“We should get back.” He straightens and grips the reins. “Yah!”
His sharp command launches Captain into a canter. I clutch Lorne’s legs for balance, marveling in the hard feel of his thighs through the denim. A tremor moves through him, his breathing deep and erratic. He feels like a livewire, strung taut and amped up.
“Why did you do that?” At his silence, I clarify. “If you don’t want to have sex, why did you touch me?”
“You didn’t tell me to stop.”
“But you didn’t get anything out of it.”
“Of course I did.”
I grind my teeth. “If you tell me that giving a woman—”
“It calmed me.” He tightens his arm around my waist and leans over my shoulder. “Touching your skin, your hair… It quieted my mind.”
My ribs expand. “After everything that happened all those years ago, I know you feel things about it. If you don’t want to tell me about the ravine, will you share one thing you were thinking about back there?”
“Colors.”
“What?”
“The colors of the land and the sky and all the little things I never noticed before.”
I blink at the surroundings. All I see is shadows and darkness and obscure, very non-colorful objects and bulges. “I don’t understand.”
“I haven’t touched a tree in eight years. I used to pick wildflowers in the field and put them in Conor’s hair. Back then, I didn’t appreciate the hues of the petals. I just liked the way they made her smile. But now, I’m just… I’m overwhelmed by the abundance of color.”
That’s so tragically beautiful it makes my heart sigh. I caress a hand along his thigh, lost in the enigma of this complicated man.
We ride the rest of the way in silence. Rather than returning to the stable, he drops me off at the back porch of the estate and helps me dismount.
“If you need something to sleep in,” he says, swinging back into the saddle, “there are clothes in my room. Just dig through the boxes.”
“Are you not coming back?”
“No.”
“Lorne, I don’t feel right about—”
“Lock the door.”
Captain stomps a hoof, and Lorne rocks with the movement.
“Go on.” He runs the reins through the curl of his hand.
He can sleep where he wants. That’s not my call, even if it makes me feel bad. So I head inside, close the door behind me, and find his gaze through the glass.
He doesn’t move, his eyes watchful and stern, waiting.
I turn the lock.
Cupping a hand over the top of his hat, he bows his head in acknowledgment. Then he kicks Captain into a gallop and vanishes around the corner.
He has a protective heart. Vigilant and, on rare occasions, chivalrous. But also lethal.
The mean glint in his eyes clashes with the gentlemanly boots and hat. He harbors a darkness that doesn’t fit quite right in leather so respectfully worn.
When he opens his mouth, it’s with a sexy drawl, and the skin on his hands is softer than my baby sister’s. His bearing radiates confidence, and his eye contact never wavers. It’s as if he knows the affect he has on women and uses that as bait to lure and trap.
I could never trust a man so perfect. As far as I’m concerned, the more handsome the picture, the greater the danger.
Good thing I know how to deal with his kind.
I wander through the sprawling estate, its occupants shut behind bedroom doors. Hopefully, they’re working off some of that noxious sexual tension.
In Lorne’s suite, I shower, pull on one of his oversized t-shirts, and make my way to the kitchen to take an inventory. I have five ranchers to feed at the crack of dawn.
Last time I was here, I started an herb garden out back and foraged an abundance of native ingredients from the property. Things I dried, canned, and stored. When John learned that I love to cook, he banned me from the kitchen. He was afraid it would distract me from my job as his whore.
I rifle through the pantry, digging way into the back, searching for… Yes! Airtight cannisters of herbs and spices, jars of roots, everything I left behind is still here.
As my mind sifts through family recipes, my insides tremble with excitement. I have a purpose, a legitimate job, and a real chance at killing John Holsten.
Humans can go without sleep for seventy-two hours and still function. After that, things start to misfire, and the senses float in a clumsy, intoxicated state, similar to drunkenness. It’s an exhilarating form of escape without chemicals or alcohol.
The downside is once I reach this level of sleep-deprivation, I’m too wired to close my eyes and let go. Especially with the hot currents of hunger thrumming through my body.
Stripped down to my briefs, I lie on a sleeping bag in the field behind the house. The summer night billows out around me like a giant tent of rustling grass, old trees, and glittering stars.
For the past hour, I’ve tried to tune into my childhood surroundings, but my thoughts are elsewhere, suspended in a fog of seductive whispers.
The soft, melodic voice in my head belongs to a Native American goddess, one I have no business fantasizing about. I feel her small hands on my legs, the erotic curve of her spine against my chest, and her purring, insightful words in my bloodstream.
The only reason she’s under my skin is because I haven’t been around a woman in years. Doesn’t help that she’s a goddamn knockout. Silky black hair, plump tits, tight round ass, satiny bronze legs, exotic features—she’s a perfect ten on top, bottom, and everywhere in between.
I told her I didn’t have to pay for sex, but she’s so devastatingly gorgeous I’d empty my savings account to tap that.
Why am I not in there right now nailing her against the wall? She’s convenient. Experienced. Willing. Hell, she wants to be used for sex.
Because she’s messed up. Probably more mentally fucked than I am.
I stretch out on my back, clasp my hands behind my head, and sink into the vast starlit sky.
There are windows in prison, narrow gaps of heavy glass where an inmate can view the stars that are banked in the sky over razor wire fences. Indulging in that luxury, however, exposes his back to anyone who wants to take out some aggression.
A shudder ripples through me, and I close my eyes. I don’t know how long I lie there, unable to fall asleep. I’m about to give up when something traipses through the grass in the distance.
I strain my hearing, my senses on high-alert.
Dirt scrapes beneath tripping steps, followed by a huff of breath. If someone wanted to get a jump on me, they wouldn’t be making this much racket.
Jake and Jarret have distinct rhythms in their gaits. I can pick out the sound of their boots in a crowd. Conor’s pace has a swiftness to it, a determination. I don’t know Maybe, but I’d bet my best hat Jarret wouldn’t let her loose in the middle of the night.
The approaching footsteps are light and haphazard, moseying across the terrain with irritating nonchalance before pausing within reach of my head.
I don’t bother opening my eyes. “I told you not to wander around alone.”
“You’re a pest, buzzing around and grating on nerves.”
“You say the sweetest things,” she deadpans.
“Why are you here?”
“I let the universe guide me.”
I crack open an eye.
She stands over me, wearing one of my flannel shirts, nipples poking beneath the cotton, a thermos in one hand, and miles and miles and miles of tanned legs. If I shift a couple inches closer, I’d see under the hem and find out if she’s as bare as her thighs.
My groin tightens, a reaction I can’t hide as her dark gaze travels across my briefs. She continues her perusal, openly checking out my legs, my abs, my chest.
If I were modest before prison, I lost all traces of that by the time I was released. Nudity doesn’t affect me, but the way she’s looking at my body, eyes hooded and mouth parted, leaves a very hard, painful response between my legs.
“Hmm. No tattoos.” She holds out the thermos. “I brought you tea.”
“I don’t want tattoos. Or caffeine.”
“It’s decaf. An old family recipe for insomnia.”
I keep my hands folded beneath the back of my head.
She twists off the cap and sits beside my hip with her legs crossed. Tucking her bare feet under her thighs and knees wide open, she gives me a straight shot of the pink fabric covering her pussy.
I know for a fact she ran from John’s house without undergarments.
“Where did you get those?” I direct my eyes at her panties, wondering if they belong to Maybe.
She glances down but doesn’t move to cover herself.
“When I drove your truck into town yesterday, I stopped at Walmart and…” She pours the tea into the cup-sized thermos cap and shrugs. “I stole them.”
Little fucking thief.
I narrow my eyes. “Did the universe guide you then, too?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“I’m serious. Stealing seems to be a habit of yours.”
“I only do it when I’m desperate. Yesterday was a desperate day.”
“And the other times?” I soften my tone, removing all traces of judgment. “Did the universe guide you to sell your body?”
“No.” She stares at her hands. “There was incessant pull to leave my sister’s life up to fate. But I couldn’t accept that. In the end, the universe got what it wanted.” She hovers the tea beside my face. “Drink.”
“No, thanks.” I’m not ready to change the subject. “You jump down my throat for disrespecting you, yet you disrespect yourself by allowing men to use you.”
“I allowed it. That’s the difference. I made the choice to let them use my body. What I won’t do is allow you to attack my character.”
I don’t care what mental gymnastics she undergoes to rationalize her decisions. She won’t sell her body again. Not while I’m breathing.
“You’ve been out here for two hours,” she says. “Have you slept at all?”
I grit my teeth. “If I drink that, you’re going to march your ass back inside.”
“That was the plan, because let’s be honest. You’re not a lot of fun to be around.”
I sit up and snatch the cup from her grasp. Bringing it to my lips, I sip slowly, letting the warm, sweet, earthy taste of herbs roll over my tongue. It’s not bad.
I gulp the rest and hold out the cup. “It’ll help me sleep?”
“Yep.” She pours a refill. “It’s been passed down through my family for generations.”
“What’s in it?” I tip back the cup and finish it in a long swallow.
“Damiana leaf, white oak bark, chamomile, lavender, and…” She blinks. “Other herbs.”
She hesitated there. Why?
I stare down at the empty cup. “Explain the other.”
She glances left, right, and mumbles, “Muira puama.”
“Say again?”
“Muira—”
“I heard the first time. What is it?”
“A plant.”
“And?”
“It treats menstrual disorders.” She wings up a brow.
“Horseshit.”
“No lie.” Her mouth twitches. “It also helps with libido and male sexual performance problems.”
A grunt puffs past my lips, and I return the cap to the thermos. “If you think I have issues with that—”
“No, I just thought…” She stares at her hands on her lap. “When a nice girl comes along, it’ll give you a little boost. That’s all.”
“Don’t put that crap in my drinks again.”
Her eyes catch fire. “I brought you the tea because I wanted you to sleep well. Say thank you, Lorne.” She rises to her knees, shoves her shoulders back, and hardens her voice. “Say it right now, and you better fucking mean it.”
Jesus. I didn’t tell her to come out here, half-dressed and ten kinds of seductive with her legs and her tits and her goddamn love potion.
Full lips form a pouty curve over her jutting chin. Sharp, high cheekbones underscore the ferocity in her deep brown eyes. I thought she was stunning before, but when she’s pissed, she’s intoxicating.
And resilient.
Her shields are so thick it’s easy to forget the horrors she endured. John let her sister die. She didn’t get to say goodbye, didn’t get to be there during those final moments. Instead, he kept her in the dark, all the while raping and abusing her repeatedly.
Bruises mark her body, but she keeps the emotional trauma hidden, buried beneath all that free-spirited energy. I know she can’t escape the pain. When she’s alone with her thoughts, she relives every agonizing detail.
And all she asks is that I thank her for the tea.
“Thank you.” I mean it and wish I could give her more.
She nods. Her lashes lift, and her gaze gravitates to mine.
In that shared look, we probe and analyze, trying and failing to read each other’s thoughts. She doesn’t know me, doesn’t want to know me. But she wants something.
It’s in the lift of her hand as it edges toward my face with uncertainty.
I drop back to my elbows, my entire body stretched taut in the open air. She angles for my jawline, fingers slack and closing the distance with excruciating hesitancy.
Laid out beneath her, I have a direct view of the tent pitching my briefs. My insides throb, restless and hot, hard and ravenous. If she goes for my dick, I’ll be inside her so fast she’ll have to steal another pair of panties.
But she doesn’t look at my erection. Her attention fixates on my face.
I wet my lips, silently demanding.
Do it, baby. Put your hands on me. Stroke me. Grip me hard. Spread your cunt. Ride my cock. Take it. Fuck it.
She leans in, mouth open, fingers hovering a decision away. The moment she touches my jaw, my arm snaps out. My brain moves slow, too groggy to stop my hand from clamping around her wrist.
What am I doing? Do I want to pull her to me? Push her away? Fuck her into mindless oblivion?
She’s here because of John. Less than a week ago, she was chained to a wall and forced to endure his hunger and cruelty. She doesn’t need mine.
I release her and jerk to the edge of the sleeping bag, white knuckled and wound up. “Go to bed.”
Her face closes off, her arms falling to her sides.
“I’ll leave the tea.” She stands and heads toward the house.
“Raina.” I wait for her to glance over her shoulder. “What tribe do you belong to?”
“My maternal grandparents were full-blooded Cherokee.” She looks at her feet. “Good night.”
I watch her walk the distance. When she slips inside, I stare at the door long after she closes it behind her.
Did she lock the bolt? Jake installed security cameras and motion-activated alarms that encompass a wide perimeter around the estate. Jarret is right across the hall from her, and I’ll hear anything or anyone
approaching.
She’s safe.
But I won’t be able to sleep until I check that lock.
By the time I make the trek to the porch, test the door, and jog back, I’m staggering beneath the weight of exhaustion. It hits me quick, dragging down my eyelids as I collapse onto the sleeping bag.
Within seconds, I’m out.
I sleep and wake frequently throughout the night, drenched in a cold sweat and shaking from nightmares. But unlike the past eight years, I fall back under quickly and doze for longer stretches of time.
By morning, I feel more rested than I have since I was a kid.
As the sky pales from black to gray, I pull on my clothes and boots, pack up the sleeping bag, and head inside.
The din of chatter and scent of pork grease lures me to the kitchen. Raina stands at the sink with her back to me as Jake putters around her, searching the cabinets.
The rest of the family gathers around the table, grabbing at the buffet of food in the center. They fight over biscuits, laughing and swatting at one another, too preoccupied to notice my entrance.
“What are you looking for?” Raina asks Jake, without glancing up from the pan she’s scrubbing.
“The blueberry stuff—”
She points to the cabinet behind him and resumes her task.
I guess there hasn’t been much reorganization since she lived here last. She seems to know where everything is.
Her hands work vigorously over the skillet, her banging body clad in my old clothes from high school. I was rangy back then, still growing into my height. But my jeans look fucking fantastic on her. They bunch around her ankles, about six inches too long, and hang low and loose on her hips. My God, her ass fills them out, the pockets cupping and squeezing those perky round cheeks.
Her hair falls in black sheets over the t-shirt, which slouches off one shoulder. She knotted the extra length at her midriff, baring a tantalizing sliver of sun-kissed skin. It doesn’t get any sexier than that.
My pulse pounds through my body as I set my hat on the counter and drag a hand down my whiskered throat.
“Morning!” Conor spins toward me, a smile stretching across her whole face.
“Mornin’.” I tip my head at her. “What’s for breakfast?”