All Chained Up (11 page)

Panic welled up in her as she watched his retreating back. She shifted on her feet, certain that if he left now, she would never see him again. No. She couldn't have that.

Sucking in a thick breath, she called out to him, “Knox!” Her voice rang out louder than she expected, and even to her ears there was a hint of desperation to it. Need and want. Her face burned hotter.

He stopped several yards away, not quite to the gas pumps yet where he had left his pickup truck. He turned to face her, his deep-­set eyes almost black across the distance.

His expression revealed nothing. Impassive as ever. But just this sight of him—­that hard warrior body that seemed to belong to another time, when men wore chain mail and armor and knocking heads was a part of every day—­pulled at something deep in her belly and gave her all the encouragement she needed.

She had seen him in action. Quick and deadly as a viper. Fighting to defend and protect her with a searing intensity that she had never seen before. Or felt. And she had
felt
it. Felt him. Just as she did now. His gaze felt like a physical stroke over her body. Heat rippled over her skin.

She couldn't forget that day. It wasn't the horror that stayed with her. It was the memory of
him
. His raw power. His brutal beauty. The way his entire body had been a weapon. She wanted that weapon. She wanted him to turn it on her. To unleash himself on her.

She didn't even know if he thought about her that way. If desire for her even entered into this
thing—­
whatever it was
—­
between them.

Tugging her cardigan tighter over her T-­shirt, she held out the carton like it was some kind of proof, evidence that she was merely asking for something safe and innocent. Like sex was the farthest thing from her mind. She clung to it like the excuse she desperately needed it to be. “You like Cherry Garcia?”

 

THIRTEEN

Y
OU LIKE CHERRY
GARCIA?

She voiced the question so innocently, as though she was asking him over for ice cream on a Sunday afternoon. Like he was some loafer-­wearing choirboy from her church youth group with nothing on his mind beyond first base. It had been years since he stepped inside a church. He would likely go up in flames if he even tried.

He stared at her in front of the open door of her car and read the mortification gleaming brightly in her big eyes. She shifted on her feet, waiting for his response. It took everything in her to ask the question. He knew that right away, but he still couldn't bring himself to answer her immediately.

It was a game. The question was whether he would let her play it. Let her pretend asking him over for ice cream wasn't any invitation to fuck.

He didn't do games.

Knox eyed her in her baggy T-­shirt, her toes curling self-­consciously in her flip-­flops, wondering if maybe, in fact, she didn't know what she was doing. Maybe she didn't realize that he was the wolf and she the lamb. That inviting him over meant he was going to devour every inch of her.

He studied her wide eyes and shifting feet and decided, yeah. She didn't know. Not fully. She couldn't. She couldn't fathom what she was inviting on herself. She probably thought they might kiss. Make out a little. As though that would be enough to satisfy the hungry beast prowling inside him, pawing at the gate, ready to be unleashed so that he could do all the dirty things burning through his mind.

“Yeah,” he heard himself answering, even though he had no idea what flavor Cherry Garcia was. “I like it.”

He couldn't
not
go. He wasn't that good or honorable. He wasn't that strong. If she wanted to play with a wolf, then that's what she would get.

The cold truth was that he had gone too long without a woman.

He had turned down other women since he got out. Working at Roscoe's, he'd had plenty of opportunities. At the end of a work week, everyone was looking to blow off some steam with a quick, meaningless fuck. But no one had tempted him. No one felt right. After living in a drought for almost a decade, he didn't want to feast on a crummy P&B sandwich. He wanted steak.

And Briar Davis was that. She'd filled his thoughts since the first time he saw her. This unattainable gem, too bright, too expensive, too good for the likes of him. Even when he got out of prison he had thought about her. He still fucked his hand like he was stuck in that concrete hole with visions of her running through his head.

Turning the corner and seeing her in that convenience store aisle had been like entering the seventh circle of hell. Seeing her. Confronting the one thing he had convinced himself he couldn't have. It wasn't supposed to happen. Even though he was a free man, he wasn't free enough to have her. He'd never be that free.

She bit her bottom lip and something exploded in his gut. A deep, visceral reaction that made him want to leap across the distance and take that lip with his own teeth. Take
her
. He steeled himself with a hard breath, clenching his hands into fists at his sides.

“Would you like to come over for some?” She held out that damned ice cream again and nodded in direction of the town house complex he had passed before stopping for gas.

He nodded once. Before she changed her mind. Before he changed his. Good girls like her didn't invite felons over for ice cream. Apparently she missed that memo.

“Great,” she said all breathy and with forced brightness. “Um. Just follow me.”

He watched her for a moment as she got into her car and reached for her seat buckle. Then he turned and made his way to his pickup, climbed inside and started the engine. It almost felt like a weird out-­of-­body experience. Like he was watching someone else follow this nice clean girl back to her apartment. Killers like him didn't get invited over for ice cream.

But she knew what he was. A smart girl like her, she had to know. She knew his hands were dirty, his thoughts dirtier. Even if she only guessed at a fraction of his thoughts when it came to her, that was enough to send her running in the opposite direction.

But she was still inviting him over.

He flexed his hands on the steering wheel and waited a moment before shifting into drive. He followed her onto the road and turned left, then waited as an electric gate slid open for them. She must have a remote opener in her car. They passed through a brick entrance and around several buildings until she parked in front of a rock fence. This late, most of the parking spots directly in front of the town houses were occupied. ­People were snug on their couches, watching reruns. He had to park several spots down from her car. She waited on the sidewalk for him, holding her small pint of ice cream that had to be softening in the warm night.

She still wore that smile. The sweet one that looked strained and uncertain. It almost made him turn around and leave. Almost. If he wasn't such a selfish bastard.

She led him up a set of stairs and his gaze fixed on the shape of her legs in her skintight yoga pants. Her loose T-­shirt and cardigan drifted up enough that he could see the bottom of her ass and the upside down V of her inner thighs meeting her crotch.

His mouth dried and he bit back a groan when she reached the top of the stairs, taking the sight away. Her baggy scrubs had always covered her up. Except that day those fuckers tried to rape her, ripping off her pants, and he had seen all that peaches and cream skin . . . including those little panties and the shadow of hair beneath the pale pink cotton that hid her sex.

He shoved the memory away. It felt wrong to remember her like that, in that moment. That knowledge of her, the sight of all that skin and the soft texture of her thighs under his rough hands, was a stolen thing. He didn't have a right to that. It was tainted.

He hated having seen her like that, but he couldn't unsee it. He couldn't fully chase it away or keep the memory from bursting in on him like a flash of light in the darkness, an unwanted intruder as he stroked himself off in the shower or his bed at night.

She let him inside her home, gesturing at the cozy space with a wave. She'd left the television on and a show he didn't know played on the flat screen.

“Have a seat.” She nodded to the couch. Slipping out of her cardigan, her hands shook a little as she dropped it on the back of the sofa. “I'll make us some bowls.”

It was his turn to feel uncertain as she left him alone in her living room full of nice things and entered the kitchen. He rotated in the small space, the wood floors creaking under his weight as he noted the soft, clean colors. Pewter-­framed photos of some cute kids sat on a wood media table beneath the flat screen attached to the wall.

Knox stepped closer to examine the images, noting the parents standing proudly behind the children. The mother was a bit heavier than Briar, but she was young and bore a strong resemblance to Briar. He guessed they were sisters. They had the same fresh girl-­next-­door-­faces and curly hair.

He heard the sound of a cabinet closing and the clink of glass. “Would you like a drink, too?” she called out. “Water . . . I have beer, but I don't guess that actually goes well with Cherry Garcia.”

He followed her voice, moving silently into the kitchen. She was scooping ice cream into bowls on the counter, her back to him. He studied her for a moment, the soft skin at her nape and the copious amount of coppery-­brown hair piled into some messy concoction on top of her head.

He approached, stopping an inch behind her, not touching, but she stilled anyway, sensing him at her back. She didn't turn around, but he heard the change in her breathing. The shallow rasp. Like she couldn't get enough air.

His chest tightened as he absorbed her warmth. Even this close, it was like a current connected them. All of him felt coiled and ready to snap like a contracting spring.

She lifted her head and stared straight ahead into the cabinets, waiting. Was this it, then? She had invited him over here on the pretext of ice cream, but the first move was his?

He closed the final distance and braced both hands on the counter, leaning in, letting her feel all of him against the trembling line of her body.

He spoke into her ear and caught a whiff of pears. Just like all those times in the HSU. Except they were alone now. No guards. No handcuffs. Nothing was stopping him from touching her. “This is a bad idea,” he whispered.

A shudder racked her softness and vibrated into the length of him.

He lifted his hand and fisted it into her hair, fingers sinking deep and tangling in the mass, the strands soft as silk against his rough palm. “You should tell me to go,” he growled, fingers delving deeper, searching for the band to free it. She released a soft whimper as he found the thin elastic and tugged it free. The band snapped and broke and the mass of silky hair fell over his hand and arm, tumbling down her back.

Just like that, something snapped in him, too. The last invisible thread that had been holding him together.

“Last chance,” he growled, thrusting his hips, letting her feel him, rock hard against her, letting her know exactly what was going to happen if she didn't tell him to get the fuck out of here.

He pulled back on her hair and another one of those little sounds escaped her as she arched her throat for him and he pressed his open mouth to the flushed skin at the side of her neck, directly beneath her ear.

She pushed back against him in response, rocking her ass into his hardness.

She might come to regret it, but he had his answer.

SHE WAS ON
FIRE
. She arched her neck, guided by the hard hand in her hair. She pushed back against his erection, grinding her bottom into him, moaning as his wet mouth found her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut and she bit her lip to stop from crying out so loudly.

Was it possible to orgasm with your clothes on? She felt like she was seconds from coming. And he hadn't even kissed her yet.

And God, she wanted him to do that. She wanted that mouth on hers. She wanted to taste him with an ache that went bone-­deep. Despite all his tough edges, that mouth had always looked so beautiful, hinting at a tenderness in the well-­carved shape.

She inhaled a ragged breath, trying to get it together and calm her nerves. Desire rushed through her like a high-­speed train. She hadn't been on a date in over a year. And that date had ended in a handshake. She hadn't been kissed in closer to two years. And sex? Forget it. She couldn't even remember how long it had been since Beau. Maybe it was abnormal, but she had never cared. Never missed it. Not in these many years had her lack of sex life bothered her. Until now.

Until she had confronted someone she wanted so badly her body ached and hummed. He felt so good against her it was frightening.

With a frustrated choke, Briar turned, squeezing between him and the hard edge of the counter. He looked down at her, so much taller, bigger, the blue of his eyes almost black as he gazed hotly at her.

He still braced his hands against the counter's edge, caging her in. He ate up all the space in her small kitchen.

“Knox,” she whispered, a thread of wonder in her voice as she flattened a hand against his chest. She stopped just short of begging him to give her his mouth. His heart beat hard against her palm, but surely hers beat harder. She felt so awkward. Almost like she didn't know what to do next, which was silly. She'd done this before even if it was a long time ago. Even if it had never been with anyone like him.

Maybe that was just it. It had never been with anyone like
him
. Her hand smoothed its way up his shirt, stopping at the hard curve of his shoulder. She rose up on tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his exposed neck. He tensed as she feathered tiny kisses along the bristly edge of his jaw until she reached the corner of his mouth.

Air shuddered from her at arriving there—­at the mouth that rarely smiled. At least before. In the prison. Here, it was different. Everything was different. They were alone and she could have him. She could touch her mouth to his. See for herself if it felt soft or hard, cold or warm.

She stretched higher on her tiptoes and slanted her mouth across his more fully. His lips were soft. Firm and dry. Her chest squeezed with a desperate desire for him to kiss her back. For her to do it right so that she pleased him.

She started to sink back on her heels, disappointment pumping through her at his lack of response. And shame. Shame that she had thrown herself at him and he didn't want what she was offering. She didn't arouse him.

His head dipped then, swiftly catching her mouth before she was fully gone from him.

“Where are you going?” he growled against her lips.

He snatched her by the waist with both hands and picked her up and plopped her onto the counter before she could draw a breath. The motion positioned them more evenly, brought their lips level. He settled one hand at her waist, gripping her there while his other hand sank into her hair, his fingers curling around her skull and pulling her in, drawing her closer until their mouths were fused.

She gasped and his tongue entered her mouth, slicked over hers in total possession. She leaned in, moaning, tangling her tongue with his, tasting something faintly lemon on him and wondering what he had eaten. He tasted so good. Lemon, a faint saltiness, and man. Sex. She tasted sex on his tongue and the pleasure to come. She curled both her fingers into his shoulders, clinging to him and pulling him closer.

He made a deep sound in his throat and kissed her deeper, his fingers clenching tighter around the back of her head. She touched his face, the bristle of hair on his cheek a delicious scrape that ran right through her. They kissed and kissed and kissed. She didn't know kissing could be like this. So drugging. So addictive. Simultaneously endless and not enough.