All Chained Up (14 page)

She was practically sobbing. “I need . . .”

“What?” he demanded, his features harsh but no less beautiful.

“You—­”

“What do you want me to do to you, Briar?” Now he was nudging against her opening, giving her just a little of his engorged head.

“Fuck me,” she begged in a strangled voice.

The words hardly made it out before he was slamming into her, so big inside her that she gasped, nails scoring deep in his back. He pulled out nearly all the way and shoved in again, harder, pushing her up the bed from the force of his movement. She squeaked and clung to him. He paused for a moment, clearly letting her catch her breath.

He took longer than she liked and she wiggled under him, swallowing her breath and working her hips, a plaintive little mewl escaping her. She leaned up and bit his chest lightly, pumping her hips under him.

“That's it, Briar,” he encouraged. “
You
fuck me.”

In a move that stole her breath, he flipped over so that she was astride him. Without ever dislodging himself from inside her, he anchored her atop him, his big hands fastened on her hips.

It was a new position. She floundered for a moment, feeling awkward and not quite knowing what to do.

“I—­I don't . . .” she stammered, her hands coming down to flatten on his chest.

“Just ride me,” he instructed. “Fuck me however you want. I want to watch you . . . touch you.” His hands came up to claim her breasts, his strong fingers playing over her sensitive nipples.

“Ohh.” It was like his hands had a direct link to the magic happening between her legs. She threw back her head as her sex throbbed and squeezed around him, buried inside her.

He groaned. “That's it. See. Your body is milking me tight . . . it knows what it likes. Now ride my cock.” Her face burned at his blunt speech even as another part of her thrilled. She pressed down on his chest and lifted herself up, then came down once, grinding on him in the down stroke. Sparks of sensation shot through her, all springing from her core.

She moaned, repeating the move, leaning her hips forward and finding her angle, crying out as her clit ground down against him. She started to shake, her movements becoming wild and frenzied.

“That's it, baby,” he panted, clenching handfuls of her ass as she worked over him. “Come apart for me. I want to feel you come.” He aided her rhythm, his fingers digging into her and slamming her down harder every time she dropped down on his cock.

She shook her head, her hair tangling at her mouth. She clawed the strands away. “I—­I can't—­”

He reached between them and found her swollen clit. He pinched and rolled it while sitting up under her. Her legs wrapped around him as he looped an arm around her waist and surged up inside her in a single stroke that made her bounce deep on him. Everything inside her released then, bursting apart and erupting into a million tiny pieces. She flew apart at the seams, bits of herself she felt certain would never come together in quite the same way again.

His bright eyes clashed with her. With him sitting up and her astride him, they were at eye level. The position might have been the most intimate they had shared yet. “Don't ever say you can't come.” His eyes drilled into her. “You'll come every time with me.”

She nodded mutely, her body practically limp as he continued to thrust inside her. He wasn't done with her. His hands locked squarely on her waist and he lifted her like she weighed nothing at all, forcing her to finish out riding him. His pulsing length stroked against her newly sensitized and quivering walls. She was soon gasping again, her fingers clawing into his shoulders. “Oh, oh, oh . . . God . . .”

“Again,” he commanded, his face stark and beautiful as his own orgasm came over him. He pushed up into her and she shattered, coming in waves as he growled his own release in her ear.

She collapsed against him, her arms draped over his shoulders. They both breathed raggedly against each other for a few moments before he disengaged from her body and rose to dispose of the condom. When he returned, she almost expected him to say good-­bye. After last time, she knew he felt guilty for waking up in the middle of the night and taking her without using a condom. She doubted he would fall asleep beside her again.

But he didn't leave. He turned out the lights, slid into bed beside her and pulled her into his arms. She sighed against the warm solidness of his body, thinking she could get accustomed to this. Which was a scary thought. He wasn't exactly the kind of guy a girl attached herself to. He wasn't the settling down type. Just the idea of introducing him to her sister made her feel slightly ill.

She mentally shook herself. No one was talking forever here. Certainly not him. He hadn't even reached out to her since the last time they hooked up. No call. No text. And that's all this was. Knox showing up at her doorstep for a hook-­up. Sex.

She fell asleep in his arms, only to have him wake her up twice more with deep-­mouthed kisses. Once to her lips and another time she woke to find him tonguing her sex, bringing her to hair-­clutching, shuddering release before he pushed himself deep inside her, wedging his thickness inside the aching walls of her channel, working her into such a state that one of the neighbors below pounded the ceiling for them to shut up. Briar Davis, sex goddess. Who knew she had it in her?

Knox was never so overcome that he forgot to put on a condom again. He was controlled yet driven, relentless as he took her with such rawness, such need. She was sore by the third time he made love to her just before dawn, but she couldn't deny herself or him.

Every time they came together, something unraveled inside her. Each time with him was better than the one before and it scared her shitless. A real problem, considering she had long ago promised herself to never live a life of fear again.

All those reasons why they couldn't be together, why it was wrong for her to take a man like him into her body . . . into her life . . . faded to murky shadow. Something to be examined later. Reality was for later.

By the time she woke, sunlight was pouring through her blinds. She was definitely going to be late for work. But she didn't care. The only thing that mattered to her in that moment was that he had left her. Again, without a word. He was gone.

 

SIXTEEN

“S
O YOU'RE STILL
holding down your job?” Polansky asked as he pushed his glasses up his nose and walked down the porch steps into the sun-­baked yard. He glanced back at Knox with an arched eyebrow, almost like he expected him to admit that he'd quit. Or been fired.

Knox held back his snort. It was his family's business. Did Polansky think his family was going to fire him? Instead, he nodded and murmured assent. He never volunteered more than asked to his parole officer. This was Polanksy's second visit to the house. Such visits were routine, to check out his living conditions and make sure Knox wasn't running a meth lab. He didn't have a history of drug-­related offenses, but Polansky always surveyed his house as though he expected to find a cook pot. He insisted on checking the basement, too. Maybe he thought Knox might have a few ­people chained down there.

He paused at the door of his nondescript sedan and nodded at Knox's motorcycle. “New hobby?”

The shiny chrome beast was parked on a tarp with several tools littering the area around it. He'd been working on it when Polansky made his unannounced visit. Knox had saved up and bought it his last year of high school. He'd been in the process of restoring it when everything had happened with Katie. It felt good to get his hands back on it. It felt familiar and right.

Knox shrugged. “I enjoy working on it.”

“Hope you're not considering joining an MC gang . . . that could have consequences on your parole.”

A bitter sigh welled up in him. “I'm not joining any gang.” He'd done what he had to do while in the box, but he wasn't looking to connect with any local gangs. Just because he was friendly with a few of their members didn't mean he was one of them.

Polansky crossed his arms in front of him. “Several gangs frequent Roscoe's . . . I had my reservations about you working there but set them aside because it's a family business and your family has always been law-­abiding citizens despite owning such an unsavory establishment.”

Knox stared coldly at the man, wiping his hands on a rag. It didn't matter. The grease didn't seem to want to come off. “I haven't broken any laws since I got out and I don't intend to.”

“Yes, well, we'll see. Won't we, Mr. Callaghan? One misstep, one infraction of your parole . . .” He thumbed the air behind him for emphasis. “. . . and you're headed right back to Devil's Rock.”

Knox nodded once, not trusting himself to speak. This guy with his unsubtle threats pissed him off. It reminded him that he wasn't really free. Not fully. Maybe he never would be. Not as long as this asshole kept popping in to criticize him anyway. He couldn't even work on his fucking bike in peace. Polansky ducked inside his car.

Fuming, Knox fixed his expression into an impassive mask as his parole officer drove away. Turning, he started toward his bike to continue where he'd left off, but stopped with a glance down at his dirty hands. They were shaking. With a curse, he stormed up the steps. The contentment he had found working on his bike was gone.

A restless anger prowled loose inside him. He felt close to exploding.

Uncle Mac called out to him from his chair, where he was watching
Wheel of Fortune
, “Everything go okay with the visit?”

“Everything's great,” he lied.

His mood was dangerous. He wasn't fit company. He should go for a run and work off some energy. Except he didn't feel like running. He had another activity in mind. Activity that involved losing himself in soft eyes and wild caramel hair.

He'd left Briar's apartment two mornings ago and hadn't seen her since. He knew he'd hear from her eventually. She'd have to let him know if she was pregnant. She would do that. She wouldn't keep him in the dark. She was too honest, too good, not to let him know one way or another.

In the meantime, until the matter was resolved he could see her. Be with her. As long as she was willing, he wasn't going to deny himself.

Oh, he knew she had her doubts. When she had opened the door for him last time, he read the wariness in her eyes, but he'd sent those reservations running. Kissing her and sinking his fingers into her heat, giving her the orgasm she so badly needed.

And that was the truth of it. She needed what he could give her just as much as he needed to give it. And he planned on giving it to her until he had his fill.

AFTER WORK, BRIAR
parked her car and stared at her building in the early evening sunlight. She could see her balcony from where she sat. The aloe vera plant on the balcony looked a little wilted. She made a mental note to give it water. Tapping the steering wheel anxiously, she debated whether to go inside or keep driving. She didn't have a destination in mine, but she could come up with something else to do.

Going inside, where she would only have silent walls for company, didn't appeal to her. Even with the TV on that was a lot of time alone with her thoughts.

Knox hadn't come over since two nights ago, and she told herself she didn't want him to. She stopped herself from texting him or calling him. That would send out the wrong message. The only time she intended to text him was when she knew for a fact that she wasn't pregnant. She'd be strong until then. She'd start listening to the alarm bells in her head and not give in to the urge to reach out to him.

Deciding she couldn't hide from her own home—­she wasn't that pathetic—­she stepped out of her car, slamming the door after her. She winced at the sight of her dirt-­coated hood. It needed a good washing.

Seized with sudden inspiration, she hurried inside and changed out of her scrubs into a pair of wind shorts and a T-­shirt. She collected a sponge, soap, and some old towels and headed back outside.

Hopping back inside her car, she drove past the gas station where she had run into Knox. She shook off the memory of him and Cherry Garcia ice cream. She'd never be able to eat it again without thinking of him. Unfortunate. She'd have to find a new flavor.

A few blocks past the gas station she pulled into an old outdoor do-­it-­yourself car wash. Growing up, Dad had bought both her and Laurel cars when they turned sixteen. It was part of his image. Giving so generously to his family. His daughters were an extension of himself, and they had to appear better than the average teenage girl rolling into the parking lot of Polk High School.

In reality, the cars were just one more thing he would shout at them about. They didn't drive them properly. Didn't park in the driveway correctly. He insisted, of course, that she and Laurel keep their cars spotless. God forbid if the inside was a mess. She knew how to wash a car so that it passed her father's eagle-­eyed inspection.

She fished out enough spare change for ten minutes of water—­just for starters. Water was a precious commodity out here in the badlands. She tried to preserve when she could.

Once the car was soaked, she began soaping it with the sponge, humming under her breath. She didn't mind getting wet. It kept her cool. Even at five o'clock it was still warm.

She paused and tried to shove several strands that had fallen loose back into the bun on the top of her head. Then she bent back over her car, standing on her tiptoes in her flip-­flops so she could reach as much of the roof as possible.

A car honked driving past, the guys inside catcalling her. She sent a glance over her shoulder, satisfying herself that they weren't stopping.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She yelped and whirled around, her back slamming into her wet car as she gawked at a very pissed-­looking Knox in front of her. She forgot that she held the hose in her hand. Water sprayed down the front of his big body. His hands came up to ward off the water.

She lowered the hose. “What are you doing here?”

He looked down at himself, his dark eyebrows drawing tight. “Getting soaked, apparently.”

Her gaze followed his stare to his soaking wet shirt. It was plastered to his chest. She swallowed a suddenly dry throat, tracking the outline of every delicious muscled ridge and indentation.

“You startled me,” she accused just as her water slowed to a weak drizzle and shut off, her ten minutes at an end.

“I was driving by and spotted you. Hard not to when you're sticking your ass out for every passing car to ogle.” His gaze dropped to her chest and his eyes darkened to slate.

Her gaze dipped and heat scalded her face at the sight of her breasts. Her nipples poked through her bra and T-­shirt. She hunched her shoulders self-­consciously. Pointless, she supposed. He'd seen, tasted, and touched all of her.

“I—­I'm washing my car.” She glanced out at the road. “Were you just driving by or . . .” She couldn't finish the question.
Was he coming to see her?
presumed too much.

“Something like that,” he murmured, dragging a hand down his dripping face. He turned and dug into his pocket. Pulling out more change, he turned and fed it to the ancient machine, adding more time.

He faced her. A muscle worked in his cheek, feathering his bristly skin there. “The sooner we finish, the sooner every jackhole that drives past won't drool over you like some piece of meat.” He picked up the soapy sponge and easily reached the roof of the car, covering all the areas that she could not reach. She watched, frozen for a moment as he washed her car.
He cared that jackholes drooled
over her?
Even though she thought that an exaggeration, pleasure suffused her chest.

He glanced back at her. “Come on. Water is running. Wash off the soap.”

She blinked out of her daze and proceeded to rinse the soap off the gleaming hood. She followed in his wake, spraying off all the suds, her gaze repeatedly straying to him. She couldn't help herself. She tracked the way his muscled body stretched and worked, walking purposefully around her car. The water finally stopped and she hooked the hose back into place. Opening her car door, she reached inside and tossed him one of the towels she'd brought. Grabbing the other one, she started rubbing her car dry.

“You know there are car washes where ­people do this for you?” he asked.

She grinned at him over the hood of the car. “I didn't think you were the kind of guy to pay someone else to wash your car.”

“I'm not. But I thought you were.”

Briar worked her towel in fierce circles, fighting a grin. “You don't know everything about me.”

“So I'm learning.”

Something warm unfurled in her chest at his deep voice. Did that mean he wanted to?
No, no, no, no
. She killed that thought and her budding smile. She couldn't get her hopes up about this guy. Not him. He wasn't anyone she could bring to Thanksgiving dinner. She couldn't forget that fact.

“For example,” he added, “are you a pepperoni kind of girl? Or do you like the works?”

She paused and blinked at him over the car. He didn't even look up as he worked to dry the rear window. “What do you mean?”

“Pizza,” he elaborated, flicking her a glance that was faintly amused.

“Oh.” Was he leading up to asking her out to dinner? “Who said I like pizza at all?” she hedged, her mind working feverishly. Did she want to go out with him? When she was so desperately fighting for distance?

“It's un-­American not to like pizza. Of course you do.” He crouched to dry her front fender without even looking up at her. Her breath caught as she watched the way the back of his T-­shirt hugged his flexing shoulders and back.

“I like everything on my pizza,” she admitted. “The works.”

He straightened. “Good. Me, too.” He stepped back and surveyed the car, making sure it was dry before looking at her again. “Think it's all dry now.”

She spared a cursory glance for the car, nodding. “Yeah. Thanks for the help.”

“So how about that pizza?” Knox scanned her, his eyes stopping on her breasts. Her nipples reacted, hardening beneath his perusal. She pulled at her damp shirt self-­consciously and pressed her legs together against the sudden clenching ache. “Maybe we should order in,” he suggested.

As in order pizza at her place? Where they would be alone? This had BAD IDEA written all over it. Would they actually eat? They only ever seemed to do one thing when they were alone together, and for the life of her she couldn't think very clearly on why that wasn't what she wanted.

She cleared her throat. “Uh—­”

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, you gotta eat. Let's go.” Decision made, he turned and strode to a motorcycle parked a few yards away that she hadn't noticed before. He straddled the big machine. His big body on top of that beast of shiny chrome and metal made her girl parts melt and quiver. She watched him for a moment, her resistance dissolving to dust.

Nodding dumbly, she climbed into the driver's seat of her car. Her gaze flicked several times to the rearview mirror, watching as he followed her to her condo and doing her best to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. She sucked in a calming breath, convincing herself that this was just pizza. If that's all she wanted, then that's all it would be. It didn't have to be like last time. No one had to get naked.

She parked and got out as he pulled in beside her, shutting off the bike's loud engine and swinging off his bike. They walked up the steps to her condo, his steps a heavy thud that matched her pulse.
This was just dinner. This was just dinner
. Maybe she should establish that once they got inside.

Unlocking the door to her apartment, she stepped into the welcoming blast of air-­conditioning and dropped her keys on the counter. She moved into the kitchen, plucked her favorite pizza place menu off the refrigerator and called in, staring conveniently at the menu in her hand, not looking up at the man who seemed to make everything inside the apartment smaller. The air felt thicker as she ordered. When she hung up, she turned and gasped to find him right in front of her. She inhaled and smelled the damp heat of his skin. “They said thirty minutes.”