Free No Limits by Alison Kent Page B

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, cal l ing 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 fel l . 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