Nauti Nights (36 page)

“Dawg.” She lifted her eyes back to his, mesmerized by the eroticism in his expression and the darkening of his light green eyes.

“Are you mine, Crista?” he asked, his voice rasping in the back of his throat as his cock pressed against her, into her.

“Always.” She couldn’t deny what her soul had always known.

A whimpering cry left her lips as he shifted his hold on her and let her legs fall to his chest while one hand gripped her hip, the other gripped the shaft of his cock.

Crista felt the invasion, slowly, a penetration that sent sensation shattering through the tender nerve

endings. Her anal entrance began to stretch, to open beneath the blunt force of his erection.

“Oh God! Dawg, I can’t stand this.” Her body undulated involuntarily as her hands fisted into the blanket beneath her.

Flames were licking around her rear as the flesh parted. Pleasure and pain, submission and seduction. It was ownership. Not of her mind or really of her body. Ownership of her sensuality, of her pleasure. The

intimacy was one so binding that even eight years after he had first given it, she had never recovered from the effects of it on her soul.

He was branding himself onto her soul and into her body.

Her lips opened on a soundless scream as the thickly flared head cleared the entrance, then forged inside once again. He buried his cock head inside the clenching tissue, groaning as she cried out his name in

shocked pleasure.

Dawg paused then, his breathing rough, rapid, as sweat trickled down his chest and his eyes lowered to the tender opening he was taking.

“So hot and tight,” he groaned, moving again, slow, shallow thrusts that worked his cock deeper inside

her by small degrees. “It’s like being held by flames, Crista.”

Or taken by flames.

Her head thrashed on the bed as his cock moved deeper inside her ass, stretching her, revealing nerve

endings so sensitive that the slam of sensation echoed into her clit. She was surrounded by a pleasure so intense, so forceful, she wondered if she could survive it.

“You’re burning me alive.” The hoarse snarl of his voice as the final inches of his erection burrowed into her anus had her womb contracting with an impending orgasm.

It was so wickedly erotic. It was the most forbidden, most submissive act Crista could envision, and it was overriding her sanity.

Control was a thing of the past. Dawg held the control. He held her. He shifted and moved, pulling nearly free before surging forward again. He stroked and caressed and set aflame nerve endings that hadn’t flared to life in eight years.

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Crista arched to him, her hips twisting in his grip as the need began to spiral out of control. She needed it hard and deep. She needed him to…

“Fuck me.” She didn’t recognize her own voice as the shattered plea filled the air. “Please, Dawg. Harder.

Fuck me harder.”

Her lashes lifted, her gaze hazy as she tried to focus on his face. A hard grimace twisted it, pleasure

racking his features as he shook his head, sweat beading and dripping down his forehead as his hands

clenched on her hips and his cock throbbed inside her ass.

“Harder,” she whispered again, tempting him with a flex of those inner muscles, tightening on his flesh

and feeling the pleasure spasm through her as well.

“Fuck. Crista,” he groaned, panting with the pleasure, just as she was.

“I need you.” She swallowed tightly. “All of you. Fuck me harder, Dawg. Give me what I need.”

His hips jerked, dragging his erection back before pushing it inside her with a longer, harder stroke. As he did, one hand moved from her hip to tuck between her thighs.

Broad male fingers slid through the slick essence that gathered there, found the weeping center, and two digits thrust inside heavily.

He moved then. Thrusting hard and heavy as Crista’s eyes widened, her gaze dimming as ecstasy began to

wash over her.

Her orgasm came fast and hard. With his fingers stroking strong and sure inside her pussy, his cock

burying repeatedly inside her ass, there was no holding back. The dark eroticism and extreme pleasure

was too much.

Crista heard her own cries with a distant wonder. They sounded shattered, agonized. Beneath that sound

was Dawg’s. His harsh male groan as he buried deep inside her rear, his seed spurting heavily inside her, would always follow her.

His broken “I love you, Crista. God help me, I love you” threw her orgasm higher, shattering her soul with the ragged edge of hope and pain she heard in his voice.

He jerked against her, spilling his semen into her rear before giving a final groan and easing slowly from the tight clasp she had on him.

Crista whimpered at the added sensation. The feel of him slowly leaving her, his cock easing from her, his fingers caressing away from her pussy were nearly painful now in their intensity.

They were both sweat-soaked as he eased on the bed beside her and pulled her to his chest. His lips

pressed against the top of her head in a kiss that had her chest clenching in emotion.

Beneath her cheek his heart raced, just as hers was racing, and his lungs heaved for breath.

It was like this, every time. It wasn’t just the exertion of the sex but the intense emotions that tore through them and left them weak and shaken.

“I love you, Dawg,” she whispered when she could finally find her breath and her senses. “I’ve always

loved you.”

TWENTY-ONE

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Graceful Sweets and Bakery sat just off North Main Street outside the old town center. The house Johnny

Grace had bought sat on the plot of land beside the house that Crista had inherited from her parents.

The two-story brick home sat amid a perfectly manicured and landscaped lawn. Summer blooms grew in

abundance around the property, wooden archways held trailing vines and climbing roses, and the front

porch was home to cement urns filled with sweetly scented flowers.

Crista walked to the wide front door. The sign hanging on the door claimed, Open to Fulfill Your

Sweetest Needs.

“This is a very bad idea,” she muttered, not for the first time, as Dawg gripped the door latch and opened the door.

Instantly, a profusion of scents wrapped around them. Baking breads, sweet icings, and tempting delights.

Crista inhaled unconsciously and felt her sweet tooth awaken with a vengeance.

Johnny had always kept her supplied with sweets. For the past year, she hadn’t had to buy so much as a

loaf of bread because of his generosity. Payment for betraying her? A guilty conscience? Betrayal and

anger began to burn brighter inside her. It made her chest ache with the knowledge that Dawg had dealt

with this most of his life.

“Crista.” Johnny’s voice greeted her with an edge of concern as she stepped into what had once been an

open living room and dining room. It now held display cases of profuse sweets and breads.

There were other customers. Johnny had a steady clientele that kept him busy through the day.

He stepped away from the register cabinet, a frown pulling at his brow, as he glanced at Dawg behind her.

“Natches said you had left town.” His gaze was filled with concern. “Is everything okay?”

He gripped her hands before kissing her cheek. Reacting normally was the hardest thing Crista had ever

done. She wanted to rage; she wanted to cry. For all his problems with the Mackay family, she had always enjoyed Johnny’s company.

“Everything’s fine, Johnny. Natches misunderstood a slight argument Dawg and I had. Nothing to be

worried about. But I have been missing my banana nut bread. Do you have any made?”

Johnny glanced over her shoulder once again, his gaze flickering with indecision.

Crista glanced back. Dawg hadn’t taken off his dark glasses, and he looked mean enough to bite nails in

half. She butted her elbow into his tight abs with a warning look.

Customers were watching the scene curiously, a spate of whispers breaking out as Dawg looked down at

her and rubbed at his hard stomach almost absently.

“I always have your bread, Crista.” Johnny’s voice could have held nerves, anger, or fear. It was hard to tell.

He turned and moved back to the main display case. Lifting the hinged glass door to the long case, Johnny grabbed a wax liner, lifted a small loaf of banana nut bread from the case, and pushed it quickly into a white wax bag he used for the breads.

“Here you go,” he said, moving to the register, his expression emotionless, his gaze flickering between

Crista and Dawg. “Anything else?” His gaze lingered on Dawg, and Crista swore she saw hatred glittering

in the depths then.

“I tried to tell her she could get the bread somewhere else.” Dawg spoke up then, his tone taunting. “It’s a 156 of 183

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nice place you have here, Johnny. Real nice. I’m glad to see your little court battle paid off.”

The money and land they had won during the estate battle with Dawg had evidently paid for the store.

“Dawg,” Crista chided, hating the need to maintain a semblance of compassion toward Johnny. She could

feel the animosity that began to thicken between the two men. She pulled some money quickly from her

purse to pay for the bread, wanting only to get out of there, to breathe without the stench of Johnny’s

betrayal choking her.

Johnny held his hand up, forestalling the payment, his gaze hardening as he stared back at her. “For old times.” He smiled tightly. “But please, call before coming back. I’ll make certain I have my assistant

working that day. I don’t need Dawg in my shop, if you don’t mind.”

Behind her, Dawg clicked his tongue mockingly. “Johnny, we’re family, man. Surely I’m allowed in the

store after paying for it? I can’t believe you’d be so coldhearted.”

This was Dawg at his most taunting. This, Crista had seen before. He was pushing Johnny, trying to make

him angry, trying to make him strike out.

Johnny stared back at her instead. “Call first, Crista,” he reminded her. “I’m sure you understand the

reasons why.”

The customers milling around the store were watching in interest now, the gossip mill gearing up for a

spate of talk that would go on for months.

“I understand, Johnny.” She kept her voice soft, but inside, she ached. And she felt her anger beginning to build.

This store Johnny took such pride in. The big house his mother had built, their airs and certainty of their place in society had been bought with the pain of Dawg’s childhood. They had added to his father’s

cruelty to Dawg and exacerbated memories that haunted Dawg even now.

Crista stared at the loaf of bread in her hand, then back at Johnny. Her expression tightened as she laid it back on the counter.

“On second thought, Johnny, I think I don’t need this after all.”

Surprise filled his gaze as he looked at the sheathed loaf of bread, then back at Crista.

“Are you sure, Crista?” It could be paranoia, but she was certain she heard a warning in his tone. She was choosing Dawg’s side rather than staying neutral, or far better, choosing Johnny’s side.

Crista’s lips thinned as she stared back at him, seeing now how easily he could have portrayed her. They were the same height, close to the same build. It wouldn’t have been hard for Johnny to fake the curves

that her body held, dress in her clothes, and pretend to be her.

Getting her clothes and putting them back wouldn’t have been hard. Her house sat right beside his, and he could have copied her key the few times she had left it with him, times such as when the cable repairman had been expected and she had to work.

“I’m sure, Johnny.” She stepped back from the counter before turning and glancing at Dawg. “I’m ready

to go now.”

She didn’t wait for him. She turned on her heel and moved purposely for the door, feeling Dawg moving

protectively behind her. It was the oddest feeling, knowing he was there without even looking, feeling his warmth surrounding her even when he wasn’t touching her.

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He reached around her as she neared the door and opened it quickly. Standing back to let her through the exit, Dawg glanced back at Johnny. He should have smirked. He could have antagonized the little bastard

further, he thought.

But as he stared at Johnny, all he felt was pity. He was too much like his mother, too easily influenced by his need for petty power and his drive to have more than he worked for.

Dawg saw the hatred in Johnny’s eyes. He saw the resentment and years of pent-up aggression caused by

the fact that only once in his life had he ever gained the upper hand on Dawg. That once being the court battle Dawg had nearly lost.

Rather than saying anything more, he merely shook his head, sighed at the weariness of the fight that had waged between him and Johnny since childhood, and left the small store Johnny had purchased from the

ill-gotten gains of betraying blood.

Leaving the building, Dawg followed Crista to the truck, feeling the heaviness in his chest and regrets that he knew were better left forgotten.

He knew, to the bottom of his soul, that his own father would have preferred to have left his estate to

Johnny and his mother. But it was Dawg’s mother who had foiled those plans.

For all her paranoia and suspicious tendencies and cold, emotionless demeanor, Brenda Mackay had

understood family loyalty. She might not have been able to keep her husband from beating the hell out of her son when he was younger, but she had counseled Dawg on the best ways to avoid Chandler’s temper,