All Chained Up (Devil's Rock #1)(36)

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 f*ckers 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 f*ck 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.