Fury on Fire (Devil's Rock #3)(12)

He glanced down at the note again, staring at the looping handwriting. It was pretty. Elegant. Nothing like his chicken scratch. It made him wonder. Holding the note in his hand, he wondered at the scone-baking woman who wrote it. He looked over at her duplex—sharing a wall with his own. He winced. Naturally she had heard him banging some woman whose name he didn’t even know.

Damn it. He guessed he had to talk to her. Later.

For now, he hopped in his truck and dropped off the sculpture. He was gratified at how pleased Dr. Perry was with it. He loved the piece and assured North he would have more work for him again soon. He also told him that he had even recommended North to one of his friends who wanted a smoke pit for his backyard.

Feeling pleased with himself, North headed to the garage and spent the rest of the day working on the custom bikes awaiting his attention there.

By 5 p.m. he called it quits and headed home.

He slowed as he turned onto his street. Both driveways were empty. Apparently he had time to take a shower and get the stink off him before he knocked on Faith Walters’s door. At least he then wouldn’t offend the proper Miss Walters with his smell.

He took his time, showering for a long while, letting the warm water spray over his body. He never got tired of having his own shower. No water shutting off when the allotted time was up. No COs, no other inmates. The privacy meant never having to watch his back.

When he finished he grabbed a towel and chafed his head with it, rubbing the long strands of his hair dry. Walking from the bathroom, he noticed a message on his phone. He pushed play, then grimaced at the sound of his brother’s voice inviting him to dinner. Again. He was overdue. He’d have to stop dodging him and go soon.

After setting the phone down, he peered out the blinds of his front living room window and stilled at the sight of Faith Walters’s familiar car pulling into the driveway. The day’s fading sun hit her windshield, making it difficult to see within. He could only make out that someone sat behind the wheel. A smudge of a shape. No distinguishable face. No features.

He waited, a strange anxious energy filling him as the door swung open. Time crawled as he leaned forward slightly. He held his breath, dragging a hand over the faint stubble on his jaw as Faith Walters emerged, her face obscured. She was talking on her phone, her face tucked awkwardly into her shoulder to keep the phone from falling to the concrete. Even as concealed as she was, he could tell she was young. Not the matronly type he had assumed.

The sleek fall of her hair concealed the side of her face that was facing him. He couldn’t make out any of her features.

Her hands were full, carrying a purse, briefcase bag and coffee mug.

Frustration rolled up in him. Turn. Look at me.

Not getting his way, he shifted his perusal to the rest of her. She was tall and slender, wearing one of those high-waisted snug skirts that stopped just past her knees, with a blouse tucked in. The blouse’s pale fabric was shimmery, the kind that would get snagged on his callused palms.

He’d had his share of spinners, but it wasn’t what he preferred reaching for in the middle of the night. He was big, and he didn’t like the feeling, irrational or not, that he might break a woman. This one looked just right. Perfect. She looked like she would fit him.

His cousin had been a small girl. Petite. His hands curled into fists at his sides as memories of Katie flooded him. He tried not to think about her. Ever.

He tried not to think about how that bastard had enjoyed breaking her and then bragged about it to all his friends. He tried not to remember how he and Knox had made him pay for that.

North shook his head. He didn’t want to think about her. He wanted to forget.

He refocused on his neighbor.

She wasn’t very well-endowed, but her blouse draped over her slight breasts like a lover’s hand, and his palms tingled, itching to mold their shape.

She carried herself toward her door, her high heels clicking over the concrete as she talked on her phone. Even without her heels, she would be tall. He wouldn’t have to bend down very far to claim her mouth. Her long legs would wrap around him and anchor him nicely.

Her shoes were sexy as f*ck—nude, a shade darker than her legs. He imagined gripping those heels, flinging them over his shoulders as he wedged himself between her thighs. He would slide his hands along that infinite stretch of skin as he drove inside her.

Obviously he had been with all body types. When he first got paroled he couldn’t get enough sex. Anywhere, any woman, he was down for it. Women and good barbecue. For the first few months he indulged himself in both at every opportunity. He had twelve years to make up for, after all. Twelve years of jacking off and eating crap food on a tray. Understandably, he gorged himself.

Except lately his appetite had been tapering off. Instead of sex every night, once a week was enough. Same went for barbecue. Although a brisket sandwich sounded good tonight. Staring at those legs through the blinds, he decided getting laid didn’t sound too bad either.

His gaze skimmed the long lines of Faith Walters. He felt his cock stir. It wanted. Without even seeing her face, it wanted her. Her body was built for taking everything a man could give and giving it back.

He stopped abruptly at the thought, killing it. He didn’t need to be thinking this way. He didn’t want to be thinking this way. Not about her. There were other women out there to f*ck. He needed to forget about this one.

He glanced down. Too bad his body wasn’t of the same school of thought.