Booted (Trails of Sin 3)

“I only do it when I’m desperate. Yesterday was a desperate day.”

“And the other times?” I soften my tone, removing all traces of judgment. “Did the universe guide you to sell your body?”

“No.” She stares at her hands. “There was incessant pull to leave my sister’s life up to fate. But I couldn’t accept that. In the end, the universe got what it wanted.” She hovers the tea beside my face. “Drink.”

“No, thanks.” I’m not ready to change the subject. “You jump down my throat for disrespecting you, yet you disrespect yourself by allowing men to use you.”

“I allowed it. That’s the difference. I made the choice to let them use my body. What I won’t do is allow you to attack my character.”

I don’t care what mental gymnastics she undergoes to rationalize her decisions. She won’t sell her body again. Not while I’m breathing.

“You’ve been out here for two hours,” she says. “Have you slept at all?”

I grit my teeth. “If I drink that, you’re going to march your ass back inside.”

“That was the plan, because let’s be honest. You’re not a lot of fun to be around.”

I sit up and snatch the cup from her grasp. Bringing it to my lips, I sip slowly, letting the warm, sweet, earthy taste of herbs roll over my tongue. It’s not bad.

I gulp the rest and hold out the cup. “It’ll help me sleep?”

“Yep.” She pours a refill. “It’s been passed down through my family for generations.”

“What’s in it?” I tip back the cup and finish it in a long swallow.

“Damiana leaf, white oak bark, chamomile, lavender, and…” She blinks. “Other herbs.”

She hesitated there. Why?

I stare down at the empty cup. “Explain the other.”

She glances left, right, and mumbles, “Muira puama.”

“Say again?”

“Muira—”

“I heard the first time. What is it?”

“A plant.”

“And?”

“It treats menstrual disorders.” She wings up a brow.

“Horseshit.”

“No lie.” Her mouth twitches. “It also helps with libido and male sexual performance problems.”

A grunt puffs past my lips, and I return the cap to the thermos. “If you think I have issues with that—”

“No, I just thought…” She stares at her hands on her lap. “When a nice girl comes along, it’ll give you a little boost. That’s all.”

“Don’t put that crap in my drinks again.”

Her eyes catch fire. “I brought you the tea because I wanted you to sleep well. Say thank you, Lorne.” She rises to her knees, shoves her shoulders back, and hardens her voice. “Say it right now, and you better fucking mean it.”

Jesus. I didn’t tell her to come out here, half-dressed and ten kinds of seductive with her legs and her tits and her goddamn love potion.

Full lips form a pouty curve over her jutting chin. Sharp, high cheekbones underscore the ferocity in her deep brown eyes. I thought she was stunning before, but when she’s pissed, she’s intoxicating.

And resilient.

Her shields are so thick it’s easy to forget the horrors she endured. John let her sister die. She didn’t get to say goodbye, didn’t get to be there during those final moments. Instead, he kept her in the dark, all the while raping and abusing her repeatedly.

Bruises mark her body, but she keeps the emotional trauma hidden, buried beneath all that free-spirited energy. I know she can’t escape the pain. When she’s alone with her thoughts, she relives every agonizing detail.

And all she asks is that I thank her for the tea.

“Thank you.” I mean it and wish I could give her more.

She nods. Her lashes lift, and her gaze gravitates to mine.

In that shared look, we probe and analyze, trying and failing to read each other’s thoughts. She doesn’t know me, doesn’t want to know me. But she wants something.

It’s in the lift of her hand as it edges toward my face with uncertainty.

I drop back to my elbows, my entire body stretched taut in the open air. She angles for my jawline, fingers slack and closing the distance with excruciating hesitancy.

Laid out beneath her, I have a direct view of the tent pitching my briefs. My insides throb, restless and hot, hard and ravenous. If she goes for my dick, I’ll be inside her so fast she’ll have to steal another pair of panties.

But she doesn’t look at my erection. Her attention fixates on my face.

I wet my lips, silently demanding.

Do it, baby. Put your hands on me. Stroke me. Grip me hard. Spread your cunt. Ride my cock. Take it. Fuck it.

She leans in, mouth open, fingers hovering a decision away. The moment she touches my jaw, my arm snaps out. My brain moves slow, too groggy to stop my hand from clamping around her wrist.

What am I doing? Do I want to pull her to me? Push her away? Fuck her into mindless oblivion?

She’s here because of John. Less than a week ago, she was chained to a wall and forced to endure his hunger and cruelty. She doesn’t need mine.