Free Wild Ones (The Lane) by Kristine Wyllys Page A

were fused together in two places but it wasn’t enough and too much all at once. I was overwhelmed and it was the most satisfyingly electric feeling I’d ever experienced.
    Voices, not quite loud enough to be understood over the thumping bass of Fury’s stereo, drifted down from the balcony above us, and the thought of people being feet away from our dark corner turned me on further. Judging by the way Luke’s fingers were digging into my ass and the frantic slamming of his hips that I could no longer hope to keep up with, it was doing the same for him.
    I was struggling not to make a sound, to bite back the emotions desperate to escape, when Luke gave one final thrust, burying himself deep, and I was tumbling, on fire, burning from the inside out, biting and clawing anything I could reach. His mouth was back on mine and it was punishing in its brutality, as one of his hands grabbed my hair and yanked hard.
    When he finally broke away, we were both panting, breathing in precious oxygen that just moments before hadn’t mattered.
    He pulled out slowly and I unhooked my legs, sliding down his body. As he stepped back, the nip in the air skimmed across my skin, making me miss his overpowering warmth, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
    “Not bad for a beer wench.” His mutter came out as ragged as my breathing as he adjusted my dress and panties.
    I glanced up at him with a smug look I hoped didn’t look as fuzzy and drugged as my head felt. If it did, it’d match the one on his face.
    “Not so bad yourself.”
    He stared at me for a minute and there was something warring there in his eyes, indecision and something else. Then he sighed and it was a sound of surrender. I smiled, because for the moment, just that one, I was okay with surrendering.
    “Fuck it,” he said, his voice strained and hard, like diamonds cutting glass, and my smile grew. He grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the spot behind the stairs, away from the Tap Room, away from Fury’s. Maybe away from my sanity. He led me toward the street, back toward Duke’s and I knew, deep down, to where his car was parked two blocks away near my own. “Your place or mine?”

Chapter Seven
    “Bri, wake up.”
    I mumbled something incoherent and tried to burrow deeper into the warm nest of blankets and pillows heaped around me. Something was shaking my shoulder roughly and I reached back to swat it away.
    “Five minutes,” I heard myself slur. It barely sounded like me. “Just five more minutes.”
    “No. Up. Let’s go.” The shaking persisted, harder now, and I buried my head under a pillow.
    “Geroffme,” I said. “Too early.”
    “It’s two. Get up.”
    I grunted and batted behind me again. If I could just go back to sleep, my dream of Channing Tatum doing wicked things to me would pick up right where it left off. I could feel it in my bones. He was waiting for me just on the other side of consciousness, ready to finish what we’d started. This thought must have been voiced out loud because a split second later, the blankets were ripped away from around me and I gasped when cool air hit my naked back.
    “Tatum can fuck off,” came a menacing growl from above me, and I sat up abruptly as the memories from the night before came flooding back to me.
    A groping two-block walk to a black F-150. Being shoved up against its passenger door and kissed until I was breathless, then practically shoved inside. An agonizing fifteen-minute drive across town, hands roaming frantically, touching and grabbing anything they could reach over the console. The vague impression of a stone path and a front door before we were inside and clothes were pulled off and moans filled the air.
    Parts of me I hadn’t known could beg tingled and tightened with need, almost weeping in their desperation. Being painfully and unforgivably empty only to be stretched and full and so fucking grateful for it that all I could do was mewl my appreciation. And sex. So much