Free Wild Ones (The Lane) by Kristine Wyllys

you’re a boxer?” I spat the word from my mouth, the foul taste of it lingering on my tongue.
    “Never came up, sugar.”
    I was glaring at him and there was a deep rumble in my throat that might have been a growl, because even though I could see his point, I was still pissed beyond reason.
    “I don’t associate with boxers.” I went for haughty but it came out scathing, which worked just as well.
    “Good. Because I don’t associate with bitchy little beer wenches.”
    I slapped him. I didn’t know why. One minute I was standing there, shaking with outrage, one arm trapped in his grasp, and the next, my free palm was connecting with his cheek. He raised his hand, the one not holding my elbow, to rub at it. I couldn’t tell if he looked shocked or amused. I didn’t really care.
    “Well, it looks like we’re done here then,” I said coolly, as if I hadn’t just struck him and his face wasn’t reddening under his fingers. I wasn’t pulling my arm free of his, though, and even when he agreed, a short clip of a word, his voice low and dangerous, he didn’t let me go.
    We were standing there, staring at each other, our chests a breath away from touching and I knew, somehow, that we were posed on the brink of something. It was a knife’s edge, or maybe a cliff, and we could either step back, onto safer ground, or we could inch forward, though we’d probably be bloody when we landed. I was wondering which we were gonna do, if I should be the one who made the first move, which way I should go if I did, when the hand holding my elbow hauled me forward, closing the tiny gap between us.
    I blinked in surprise, but before I could register that the decision had just been made for me, Luke was bending and his lips were crashing down on mine.
    I think I gasped. Or moaned. Whatever sound it was, he was instantly swallowing it. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was violent and dominating. His hand fisted my hair, tugging at my scalp, and mine instantly followed suit, diving into his, sliding up to his crown and pulling.
    The hand on my elbow slipped down till it was cupping my ass. With one swift movement, I was hoisted up against an unyielding body, the skirt of my dress riding up as my legs automatically wrapped around his waist. He was everywhere at once. My hair, my neck, gripping my thighs, my ass, back up to squeeze my face, then back down to my waist where his fingers cruelly dug into my hips. His skin was a sinful cologne, a medley of cigarettes and beer, aftershave and sex that filled my nose and overwhelmed the rest of my senses. His tongue battled mine, fighting for dominance, only to retreat and he sucked my bottom lip into his mouth, nipping it with his teeth. I think I tasted blood.
    I wanted to tell him I didn’t kiss and I certainly didn’t kiss boxers, but then his tongue was back and I forgot why it was exactly that I didn’t kiss and what the big fucking deal was with boxers anyway.
    I wasn’t aware that he was moving until my back came into sharp contact with the bricks behind the stairs, his hand at the back of my head cushioning the impact. My panties were shoved aside and I didn’t know who was doing the shoving, but both of our hands were fumbling and fighting for control of his button and zipper. And I was hoping, dear God, I was hoping, that he was going commando again, because the thought of anything else between us made me want to sink my nails in and drag them down his scalp to his neck.
    But then he was inside me and I felt like I was going to burst with the fullness and the relief. We threw our heads back, hissing with pleasure, and I grabbed his shoulders when he started to pull back. I made a sound of protest, glaring at him, and he met it with an incensed look of his own before his hips surged forward again, turning my complaint into a groan. He moved furiously, thrusting violently against me, and I met him halfway, matching his pace, his intensity. His mouth found mine and we