by K. Bromberg
His eyes flick over to mine, then back out to the sea. His looks first annoyed, then amused. “Is this a quiz?”
“I think I have a right to quiz you. After what you did.”
One dark eyebrow arches. “Terrible thing, loaning you money to buy a car. That’s basically what I did, you realize.” That and offer to pay you ten thousand dollars for a night on an island.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. You took advantage of me.”
“I wish you would stop saying that, Rojo.”
“I can’t pay for the fucking car! Broke people don’t buy cars.”
“How’d you get broke, Rojo?”
“Quit calling me that,” I say. “ It sounds like a man’s name, and the part that sticks out in my mind the most is ‘ho.’”
He smirks, and in that low voice of his, he says, “Are you a ho?”
I pinch my lips together to avoid a smile; his tone is clearly teasing. “No. I’m not a ho at all.”
A reluctant little half smile slips over his mouth, and my poor neglected vagina responds. I bite my lip to distract myself from the party in my jeans.
I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling a little weird about myself. This is hardly a normal response to finding out about the death of one’s grandmother. Then again, Gertrude was a total stranger. Her death is, for me, mainly just a disappointment. The end of some remote possibility that probably wasn’t ever possible at all.
I push my bangs over the top of my head, where they tend to stay, whipped back in the wind. Race’s lips twitch again, and I glare. “What?”
Why the hell am I feeling so warm and fuzzy? I’m like a high school freshman creaming my panties over the senior quarterback. I shouldn’t be so damn attracted to him—so I am. Of course I am. This is the way things go for me.
And then he tilts his head my way, gives me a full smile, and says, “You wanna steer?”
Total swoon land. Which is sad. So very, very pitiful.
I take a long, slow breath. “Are you being condescending?”
He shakes his head. Angles his body toward mine. In a low, scratchy voice that may just be the wind and my imagination, he murmurs, “Truth? I want to put my hands on you.”
Heat sings through me. “Did you really just say that?”
He grins, and I say, “You should keep your hands to yourself. I don’t need or want them.”
LIAR!
“If this is some kind of ploy,” I continue, looking into his eyes, “it won’t work. I’m not even attracted to you.”
If at all possible, his grin spreads wider, making him look wolfish. His eyes flit down the front of me, and before I can prepare myself, he reaches out and flicks my nipple gently. “Not attracted?”
Pleasure shoots in a direct line down to my pussy—so fierce I go all limp and almost lose my footing. I clamp an arm over my chest and laugh, because seriously, I cannot believe this asshole did that. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“Believe it, baby.” Again, that smug smirk. “I don’t think you minded. In fact,” he says slowly, leaning so close his lips brush me near my ear, “I think you liked it.”
Before I can deny this, his arms are going around my waist, moving me in front of him, turning me toward the boat’s nose. I wait, lightheaded, for him to press my ass against his huge erection, and am dizzily disappointed when he simply places my hands on the wheel and wraps his hands around them.
He moves my sweaty fingers to a position that looks like nine and three. “Hold it here,” he purrs into my ear. He holds up one finger and disappears, moving toward the back of the boat.
I look into a little rear view mirror and see him pushing a button on the side of one of the motors. A few seconds later, their overpowering roar quiets a few notches. I look over my shoulder; the wind whips my hair across my face.
“What did you do?” I ask as he comes back to me.
“Shifted the motors to a different setting. Kind of like shifting down a gear.”
Now the loudest thing in my ears is the whipping wind. He stands so close to me we’re practically hip to hip, and then he wraps an arm around my back.
“Are you cold?” he asks. “You’re shivering a little.”
Omigod, I’m not shivering. I’m trembling. With lust.
I swallow. Shake my head. I try to step away from him, I swear I do, but my legs are frozen. He’s got me entranced. Not him. His delectable body.
“Quit acting like you care if I’m cold.”
I tighten my hands around the wheel, and for a second I swear I can feel his hardness against my butt. The sensation is gone as quickly as I notice it, but I’m so fired up now I can barely remember my own name, feeling sweaty and shaky and flushed.
His hand comes down beside mine on the wheel, tugging it slightly right. “Hold it there for a few minutes,” he says. The boat veers right a foot or two, and the current ripples around us.
For the next five minutes, the only sound is that of the motors, the splash of water under us, and the whipping wind. The sailboat never quite goes fast enough to completely level off, so the nose of the boat, where we’re standing, rides just a little higher than the back.
Little droplets of water fly into my face. We pass a large boat, flat and slow-moving, like a barge. Overhead, the sky darkens, threatening to spill.
We pass a group of three small, tree-covered islands on our left, and my heart pounds, wondering if one of them is Gertrude’s. Race doesn’t move, though, so I shift my eyes ahead, where I can already see something else in the water. Another half mile or so reveals an even larger island: this one sporting dozens of tall pines.
“Beautiful,” I murmur.
“Perhaps it could be yours,” he says with a funny little half-smile. “I can see if it’s for sale.”
“No thanks. If I need one, I’ll take yours.”
We zip over the ocean’s surface, rushing the gray sky that seems to hang low over the water; Race’s arm brushes mine, and I can feel us lose a little momentum.
And then I see it: the widest island so far, covered with so many trees, it looks like someone took a swatch of luscious southern forest and plunked it down in the middle of the ocean. I frown at all the trees inside the dark sand border: pines, oaks, cypresses.
“Gorgeous,” I whisper.
And then he rocks against my ass. I feel the hardness of his cock. I hang onto the wheel as my knees tremble.
*
WOLFE
I press my dick against her.
Reckless.
Instinctive.
Necessary.
I can almost scent her wet cunt; I’ve been with enough women to recognize the glazed eyes, unsteady feet, flushed cheeks, hard nipples. She wants me. She may not like me, but she fucking wants me just like I want her. She confirms this with a wiggle of her ass against my swollen, aching cock. My balls fist up.
I grit my teeth to avoid moaning. I wrap one arm over her shoulder, folding her against my chest because my cock needs to feel that round ass.
We near the shore; I flip a switch to pull the motors up.
As the wind dies down I hear her panting.
“Oh my God, you’re such a fucking asshole.”
I rock against her and groan my words: “Bad first impression, baby.”
She rubs her ass against my cock. “I’m not…your baby.”
I reach around and unfasten her jeans button, yank the zipper down, reach inside. I place my hand over her mound. I’m so jacked up I can barely see straight but I have to take this slow. Can’t just dip inside.
“I want you.”
“This is crazy,” she says.
I clasp her hip with my left hand and curl the pointer finger of my right hand, dragging over her soft, hot, panty-covered flesh just to see how she responds.
The waves knock the boat into gentle rocking as we creep toward the shore. My finger slides down toward her slit. She gasps.
I can feel her wetness throug
h cotton.
“I want to slip inside you. Not my dick. My finger.”
I hear her exhale in a rush and I lift the elastic of her panties. I slide my hand inside—palm rough against her velvet skin. My finger strokes over her puffy flesh, glides into the silky moisture of her slit. She sags against me.
“Hate you…”
I glide my fingertip through the wetness, stroking down toward her core. She rocks against me, gasping. I cup her, placing my thumb over her clit, urging my middle finger down, inside.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Fuck,” she echoes.
I curl my finger brushing her G-spot; I gently rub my thumb over her clit. “I want to taste you. I would love to taste you.”
“I’d…hate that!”
“I want to see you hate it. Turn around. Like this.” I drag my hand out of her, guide her hips so she’s facing me. Her mouth hangs slightly open as I work her jeans and panties to her knees; I’m thrilled to find her just as brilliant red as I had hoped.
“So beautiful.”
I run my finger over her tight curls. I part her lips with reverence, inhaling deeply her sweet scent. I touch my mouth down on her as my finger finds its way inside. She sinks onto me. I balance her on my arm and guide her to the boat’s floor, where it’s damp with sea spray.
I move my finger in and out. With the tip of my tongue, I trace her up and down.
“Oh fuck! Oh God!”
“Come for me. Take your time, but you will come for me.”
I slide a second finger in. She’s lying down now, face toward the sky, legs spread. She tastes sweet, and I devour her like island fruit.
“Oh God… Oh no… Yes. Oh…fuck… Oh yes.”
Her hips rock up to meet my mouth. My tongue rolls gently, softly over her.
“That feels so good.”
I push my fingers in as far as they will go.
“So full…” she gasps.
I’m not surprised at all when she jerks her hips up off the floor and comes with a guttural shriek.
But I’m shocked that I come with her.
Chapter Four
RED
I fall back to earth in pieces, with the rain. Cold, hard rain. Stinging rain. He pulls my pants and underwear up and lifts me underneath my ass and back, putting me over his shoulder like one might a child. I open my bleary eyes and realize that we’re touching sand. The boat sits sideways on the shore, knocked here by the tide.
He grabs my bag. My purse. I cannot move. Can only stare. The trees are tall and mossy. Thick. Untouched.
I don’t know if I think the dark, overgrown forest just beyond the beach is beautiful or frightening. But I’m here.
I’m here, and the rain is falling harder every second.
The DEVIL In Me
The Devil In Me
Copyright © K.I. Lynn
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the author.
Cover image licensed by shutterstock.com/ ©pudi studio
Cover design by L.J. Anderson
Editors
Marti Lynch
N Isabelle Blanco
Publication Date: May 5, 2014
Genre: FICTION/Romance/Erotica
Copyright © 2014 K.I. Lynn
All rights reserved
Chapter 1
Lying on the bed of my childhood room should have been a nostalgic experience. Instead, I stared up at the ceiling, boxes in my periphery and the alarm blaring next to me.
What the fuck happened?
I rubbed my face, then swung my legs over the edge of the bed, slamming my hand down on the alarm as I stood. There was very little room to maneuver around the already small room, but I’d already filled up the basement and half the garage with all the shit I’d accumulated in my life. I cursed when I slammed my toe into the wheel of the suitcase on the floor, giving it a swift kick before grabbing some clothes out of it.
The house remained quiet as I made my way to the bathroom. I sighed as I looked down at the boner curving my cock up. Pissing with one annoyed the crap out of me, but had become a daily thing since sex for me was non-existent lately.
Once I threw on the random jeans and shirt I’d grabbed, forgoing styling my hair for now and doing the basic morning routine, I headed downstairs. The smell of coffee perked me up a little, and I grabbed a cup as I made a quick bowl of oatmeal before finding my mom sitting in the living room.
“Morning.” I kissed her forehead and sat down on the couch, placing the oatmeal in front of her.
She smiled at me, and the sight depressed me, but I tried not to show it. Her face had become a shade of sickly yellow, there were dark circles under her eyes, and every bit of her hair was gone. I hardly recognized her as the woman I’d known my entire life.
“Good morning, sweetie.”
“How are you feeling?” I reached forward and grabbed the multiple pill bottles sitting on the coffee table.
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
I dished out the four pills for her morning dosage and handed them to her along with some water. Her face scrunched up.
“Jared, I don’t think…”
“Mom, don’t fight me on this. Not again.”
“I’m nauseous.”
“And one of these will help with that, but you have to get it and that oatmeal in you.” I handed her the bowl and stared at her as she took a tentative bite.
She’d lost her appetite with all the treatments and drugs. The biggest fear I had was of her giving up. I wasn’t about to let that happen, especially not with my sister pregnant.
“I have some clients at one, but I’ll be home by five. Cassie’s off today. She has a doctor’s appointment this morning, and then she’ll be by.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’m fine by myself, you know. I’m not an invalid.”
I stood up and grabbed the phone, setting it on the table next to her. “No, you’re not, but this is always the rough day. I’ll be back soon.”
Her expression dropped—a contrast to her words. She didn’t really want to be alone, no matter what she said. “Where are you going? I thought you didn’t have to work until this afternoon.”
“Just running an errand. I’ll be back soon.” I picked up her Kindle from across the room and set it next to the phone. “Read something today. TV will rot your brain.” I winked at her.
She rolled her eyes and swatted at me. “Get out of here, stinker.”
I beamed at her and headed out the door and onto the street. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and a warm breeze blew—
About fucking time. It’d been the longest winter in my thirty-one years.
It was a great day for a walk down to St. Joan of Arc, a Catholic church a few blocks from the 1920s cottage, in a historic neighborhood of Indianapolis, my parents purchased over thirty years ago. My parents were raised in two different religions, so we didn’t go to church that often—about once a month—but Joan of Arc was one of the more steady locations. I believed in God. Period. So, what did it matter what church I visited to talk to Him?
Stepping into the church felt a little odd—it’d been years since I’d been within its walls. The cumbersome weight of my head and heart slowed my walk down the aisle. I slipped into a pew about halfway down and folded my hands together. The place was empty.
“Hey, big man.” I sighed and fidgeted with my hands. “I know I’m not good at visiting, and I should come more often. People stare when I do, always assuming, but you know the truth.” I leaned forward, resting my arms on
the back of the pew in front of me. “I have to ask—are you testing me? Because if you are, did you have to throw so much at me at once?”
I stared up at the altar, lit up by the sun shining through the stained glass windows all over the stone structure. No response to my question came—not that I expected one.
“I can deal with all of it, but Mom…” I took a deep breath, trying not to let her condition get to me. “Cassie was a wreck when she found out about the cancer. You took Dad three years ago, and I’m not sure Mom has the strength to fight this. She’s still heartbroken.”
I leaned back, my gaze tracing over Jesus on the cross, and got lost in my own head. In the time I sat there, still as a statue, a few people came and went. I didn’t look at them, but I felt their eyes on me as they passed. Most thought I worshiped the Devil or some shit like that because of the way I looked. Tattoos covered a lot of my skin, and my jet black hair, often in a short mohawk, gave off a taboo vibe to most of the church-going folk.
I could admit it—I had a nice body. Being a personal trainer meant I had to be able to do everything I put my clients through.
The nerves on my neck lit up, tingling down my side. It woke me from my trance, and I turned to find innocent eyes looking at me from one row up on the other side of the aisle. When our gazes connected, she didn’t flinch, her eyes didn’t widen, but a slight blush did appear on her cheeks.
The strange current continued to move through me.
I was caught, roped in, staring at her.
She seemed young—early twenties maybe. I went from studying Jesus to studying the woman who called to me. That was the only way I could explain the firing off of every nerve ending in my body.
She had large, blue doe eyes that bored into my soul. Dark brown, wavy hair curled around her smooth, pale skin and full cheeks. She nabbed her full bottom lip with her teeth before looking away, hiding from me.
It didn’t stop me from staring at her. I tilted my head to the side, forehead scrunched as I tried to figure out what the hell had just happened—and why my cock was so hard. It was just a look, but at the same time, it felt like so much more. A connection, and not that love-at-first-sight bullshit.