Free Silk Stalkings by Kelli Scott Page A

Perhaps he’d just been notified by the health department that he
had crabs, and now she did too. Maybe his parole had just been revoked for bad
behavior. Hopefully an ex-girlfriend wasn’t on her way up, wanting to give
their relationship another go. Now. This very second. Yancey braced herself for
him asking her to hide in the closet or slip out of a third-story window.
    It dawned on her that she didn’t know him at all, but wasn’t
that the point of her wicked escapade down the wandering path to sexual
exploration? She wanted stories and memories and comparisons to measure other
men against. Why not, since they so readily compared her to other women,
finding that Yancey came up short? She needed to be sure that the next man she
allowed into her heart was worthy. Intellectually. Morally. Sexually.
    Equals in every way.
    To make that weighty a decision, she needed to sample a
random variety of men for comparison’s sake. How could one declare they’d found
the world’s greatest cup of coffee if they’d only ever sipped one brew? How
could a person declare carrot cake to be their favorite dessert if they’d never
tasted pie? How could someone hate the idea of chicken on pizza if they’d never
tried it?
    Her stomach rumbled. I think a certain someone is hungry.
    In college she hadn’t entertained the idea of agreeing to
sex without several dates under her belt, a detailed romantic history and a
firm declaration of fidelity—which had sometimes turned out to be a lie. Yancey
refused to go the liar’s route, but she was definitely interested in padding
her sexual resume with some extreme sexual encounters, whether pleasurable or
not. Sometimes a person needed to parachute out of a plane to be sure they
didn’t like it.
    “My buddy Chip is swamped with tow calls. Mine and his own.”
Diego dragged his hand down his face. “I gotta take one or two off his hands.”
    She wondered if he’d planned this. Maybe he had a buddy
system where Chip—if that was his real name—called him after a couple hours in
order to get rid of her. Diego had got what he’d wanted and now he was done
with her. She felt a little used, but Yancey had gone to him specifically for
sex. She’d dressed, or rather undressed, for the part. But dinner would have
been nice. Chatting would have been a bonus. Staying all night had never been
part of her plan anyway, even though he’d said it was part of his.
    With the deal sealed, it was time to get up, put her coat on
and leave.
    “Stay. Eat something,” he said as he pulled on his shorts
and jeans. “Watch a little TV. Sleep. I’ll wake you when I get back.”
    Pushing off the bed, Yancey said, “No. I should go.” She
doubted that he meant her to take him up on his suggestion. That was just
something guys said. There was a code. The underlying meaning called for her to
run along home.
    “Not dressed in your birthday suit, you’re not.” His voice
was a command, not a suggestion.
    She sort of liked his demanding side. All his sides,
actually. Front and back. And more. Yancey warmed inside and out to his
playfulness. His protectiveness. The way he looked at her, into her eyes, when
they made love. Correction—when they fucked. One fiery look from him brought a
blush to her cheeks and wetness to her pussy.
    “I shouldn’t.” Her protest sounded weak, even to her. Twist
my arm.
    His bed felt firm beneath her liquefied body. A nap called
out to her from somewhere deep within. She needed food, water and rest to
recuperate from their tryst. Both sets of lips felt gloriously raw from his
whiskers.
    “Come with me,” he said.
    Rolling across the bed to assess Diego’s seriousness, she
said, “What? Are you joking?” Yancey watched him tuck his shirt into the
waistband of his jeans. The taut fabric hugged the muscles underneath. “I’m a
mess,” she said.
    “A sexy mess.” He opened a dresser drawer and tossed a pair
of sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt toward her. After