Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

Her hands hold my face to hers as I plunder her mouth, preventing her from forming words. Each lash of my tongue is an order to accept, every bite a demand to surrender. My grip on her thigh commands her to let go, to give into my desire, to join me in the urgency.

“Jarret.” She pushes against my shoulders, panting. “I can’t. I’m not…”

Blood throbs along my shaft, my thoughts a cloud of need, need, need. “Not what?”

“I’m not like the women you sleep with.”

“I know.” That’s precisely why I’m all tangled up in her.

With great effort, I roll off her and sit on the edge of the bed, dropping my elbows on my knees.

She pulls the covers to her shoulders and settles on her side, watching me. “If I wasn’t here tonight, would you be in town?”

“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair, unnerved by the fact that at some point over the last twenty-four hours, I lost all interest in other women.

“I don’t know how you work twelve-hour days and find the energy to pick up girls at night.” An acidic undertone sours her voice. “Don’t let me stop you from going out. It’s been two whole days since you got laid.”

She’s jealous, underlined by the scowl she tries to hide behind the fold of her hand on the pillow.

It’s fucked up, the conflicting feelings pulsing inside me. Satisfaction, because I affect her. Guilt, because it upsets her to think of me with someone else. The latter makes me want to drag her onto my lap and assure her she’s the only one I want.

But I’m not in a monogamous relationship with this woman. She’s on an errand to expose my family, and I’m certain she’s harboring her own secrets. I respect her, but I don’t trust her.

I need to work her out of my system, convince her I have nothing to hide, and send her home. At least I don’t have to worry about her getting attached.

“I’ll let you sleep.” I rise from the bed and head toward the hall, denying the urge to give her a parting glance.

Until I reach the doorway.

I can’t help it. There’s something so striking and addictive about her it draws my gaze and makes me twitch to put my hands all over those soft curves in a way I’ve never considered touching a woman.

I want to hold her without the anticipation of sex. I want to learn where she’s ticklish, what makes her toes curl, and how to coax a smile with the caress of my hand. More than anything, I want to capture the flame inside her and keep it burning between us.

Her full lips flatten, and her bright blue eyes narrow over a pert nose as we remain locked in a stare. I don’t know what she knows about me or the things I’ve done, but whatever it is, she isn’t afraid. Perhaps all she has is that list of names and a head full of assumptions.

Is that enough to compel a homeless journalist to drive nine-hundred miles to investigate?

Six years ago, Sandbank crawled with reporters from all over the country. With Lorne’s trial and the disgusting attack on Conor, there were enough lurid details to fill newspapers. But that’s in the past. The parade of news vans and fancy cameras rolled out as quickly as they rolled in.

Maybe Quinn might dress like a reporter, but she doesn’t behave like one. She’s tough, but not in the pushy, aggressive way I expect. I haven’t seen her with a recording device or even a memo pad. She has a phone, but she’s not connected to it or the outside world. Aren’t journalists obsessively passionate about the hustle of life and capturing it all for public consumption?

She doesn’t fit that persona at all.

I cast her a hard look. Why are you really here?

She glares right back, and damn if I don’t want to kiss the attitude off those pouty lips. Instead, I flick off the light and shut the door.

On my way to the back porch, I stop in the laundry room and switch her clothes to the dryer. Before dinner, I washed the things she wore today. She’ll have to wear them again tomorrow and the next day and so on until I figure out a solution. I draw the line at going shopping.

As I toss her wet clothes into the dryer, my fingers slide against a thin scrap of satin. I pause with my hand in the machine, bending down to stare at the pair of black panties in my hand.

I glance back at the door where I left her, imagining the look on her face if she walks out and catches me.

Don’t be that guy.

Too late.

I lift it to my nose by compulsion, not by choice. The laundry soap erases any scent of her, but my cock reacts anyway as I visualize the fabric rubbing against her pussy all day.