Redneck Romeo (Rough Riders) (53 page)

Vicki dragged her gaze up to the relative safety of his face. Only it wasn’t safe, not by a long shot. Bright blue eyes twinkled at her, a lazy love-em-and-leave-em smirk on his firm lips. His hair long enough she wished she could step in closer and thread her fingers through it to see if it was as soft as it looked.

Yeah, if it wasn’t the stupidest idea ever, she would love to get a taste of Joel Coleman. Always had wanted one, never would take herself up on the craving.

She took a deep breath and stared over his shoulder. “Sorry. I’m still riled up.”

“I figured.” Joel stepped to the side, his body swaying back into her line of vision, and the concern on his face nearly killed her. “I really did want to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine.” Vicki paused. The words stuck in her throat, but he had helped. “And…thanks. I mean, earlier, at the restaurant.”

“No problem.” He glanced at his watch. “You finish your shift already?”

No use in lying. He’d find out soon enough she’d been canned. “I’m going to look for a different job. One more suited to my personality. Sorry, no peach pies tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Sorry to see you go.”

Vicki needed to get home. Needed to hide, and not have to think for a few minutes. “See you around.”

She shouldered past him, ignoring his hand that brushed her arm as she walked by. She was at the edge of the alley, stepping into the sunlight, when he spoke again.

“I heard Orson’s Hardware is hiring stockers.”

Vicki paused. Glanced over her shoulder. “Thanks. That might be a better place for me. I’ll look into it.”

“Vicki, if…” His words trickled to a stop, and the strangeness in that alone was enough to pin her feet to the ground.

She turned to face him, waiting for him to finish. “What?”

Joel was looking at her. Really looking, as if seeing beyond the tough-girl façade she wore like armor. She tugged her backpack a little closer, hiding behind it.

“If you ever need, well, someone to talk to. Or a hand. Let me know, okay?”

She should have responded. Should have blurted out a noncommittal
thanks
, but his offer knocked all logic from her brain and left her with nothing but emotional turmoil.

They stood for a moment, nothing said, just a growing sense of disaster looming as Vicki fought the urge to give in. Because giving in would be a bad idea—she was sure of it.

It seemed like an earnest offer. Maybe. Or maybe more of the same of what she’d been handed over the years. People who appeared to be one way, while only wanting to take advantage of the trusting and the naïve.

A bad girl desperate to change her spots couldn’t allow the lure of attraction to lead her astray. She lifted her chin and turned without a backward glance, walking away from temptation in the form of one Joel Coleman.

Because the last thing this rebel needed was to get involved with another rebel.

Skin deep is never deep enough.

Bare Knuckle

© 2013 Katie Porter

Vegas Top Guns, Book 5

After a near-fatal plane crash, fighter pilot Captain Eric “Kisser” Donaghue is a changed man. By day he labors to regain his confidence in the cockpit. By night he moonlights as an off-Strip boxer, fighting for prize money to pay for his younger brother’s third stint in rehab.

In the ring, no one cares he once had a face that launched a thousand one-night stands—and neither does Eric. He’s only there to win. Yet he can’t take his eyes off the new ring girl, a glitz-meets-pageant-queen vision of blonde perfection.

Down on her luck but not quite out, Vegas showgirl Trish Monroe lives for the spotlight. The scarred, steely-eyed loner who stares at her from his corner of the ring gives Trish an extra reason to strut her stuff.

Curiosity and the temptation of a no-strings good time bring them together. The discovery of their secret fetishes—she likes to show off, he likes to watch—turns mere sexual chemistry into a fiery exploration of matched passions. They’re a natural fit. Trust in love, however, is harder to earn than trust in bed, especially when this beauty and beast hide even from themselves.

Warning: This book contains a Sin City-style Beauty and the Beast love story, lots of naughty pics and vids, adrenaline-pumped base jumping, and a set of very important note cards. Oh, and as always, an incredibly hot fighter pilot.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Bare Knuckle:

Trish woke up alone, but she heard Eric rattling around the kitchen. For a moment she stared at the ceiling. Sunlight from industrial second-story windows filled the open space. She wondered how she’d managed to sleep so long with that brightness streaming in.

Oh, maybe cuz I got nailed like whoa and how?

She was sore all over. After cheese fries, Jack Daniels and rigorous exercise of multiple varieties, she was seriously dehydrated. Her head spun in a nauseating fog. She hadn’t consumed that much sodium in one sitting in years. Turning to check the official time—something more specific than “the morning after”—she found an unexpected surprise on the bedside table.

A twenty-four-ounce bottle of water. A bottle of aspirin. And a spare toothbrush. A neatly folded midnight-blue terrycloth robe lay at the end of the bed.

She smiled and smushed her face into the pillow he’d slept on, inhaling deeply. A laugh wiggled out of her body.

Best night she’d had in forever.

We can fuck before breakfast.

His words had been so matter-of-fact. With most guys she’d have left at three in the morning. Safer. Easier than hanging around after they’d both gotten all they wanted. This was more like a work in progress.

She sure as shit didn’t want to look and smell like she did when the next round began.

She downed some aspirin with half of the bottled water. Toothbrush and robe in hand, she headed into the bathroom, which was tucked behind his makeshift photography studio. A shiver of memory worked up her calves.

Damn.
So
good.

After a thorough scrubbing of both mouth and body, she gave up on putting her wig back on. It was a wretched mess, and she didn’t have any replacement pins or glue. She’d need to spend time getting the snarls out.

Trish swiped away the condensation on the mirror. Her short, almost tomboy hair was damp. Barely more blonde than brown.

This was huge. The only people who saw her without her wig were Mama and other women in Trish’s same line of work.

With a deep breath, she reminded herself of how much Eric seemed to like the truth. Genuine things. Maybe…

She cinched the bathrobe’s tie and opened the door before she could change her mind.

A cup of steaming coffee waited for her on the same bedside table. She smiled. Gruff, yes. Inconsiderate, apparently not.

Was he in the kitchen? Listening more closely, she heard…grunts? Steady. Rhythmic. Like when he’d slammed into her before coming.

What the hell?

Apprehensive, she walked toward the open space on the other side of the bedroom’s brick half-partition. And froze dead. Had she grabbed the coffee first, she would’ve dropped the mug.

Eric was doing chin-ups. One after the other after the other. He was covered in sweat, wearing only a tight-as-sin pair of black boxer briefs. During their decadent evening, she hadn’t been privileged with such a blatant view of his back. Muscles bunched across his upper back, his shoulders, his thick arms. Then he lowered his body in a controlled move. Everything lengthened, including his scar. It was as if a pale snake had coiled around his back, nestling where she knew it ended, out of sight around his ribs.

She was going to offer a greeting, something light to belie how he turned her on. Because
poof
, she was wet and tingling with want. She’d never been with a man who took such precise care of himself. A masterpiece of macho.

Then she saw his laptop. It sat open on a nearby table. From where he worked out, Eric had a perfect view of the screen. On that screen was a slideshow of Trish. Only a second separated each transition. Naked, pouting, sweaty, straining and finally screaming. All the phases of their night.

Eric kept working. Harder now. Grunting with each fierce pull.

She swallowed and found her voice. Because she wanted in on a piece of that fabulous, rigid body before he worked out all the tension.

“So, stud…how’d they turn out?”

A shot of energy sang along Eric’s shoulders and down his back. He held himself upright in the chin-up for three more counts, finishing out the movement. Then down. His toes hit the floor. He’d done enough that he was huffing. Sweat had popped up along his skin. He hadn’t been able to help it. The drive of Trish’s pictures…

It had either been a fast, difficult mini-workout or jacking it while she was in the shower.

The pictures had hit him that fiercely.

Grabbing a towel, he turned while he wiped away some of the sweat.

Whoa.
He hadn’t expected that.

Short hair barely brushed the tops of her ears in a color that more closely matched the honey between her legs. He should’ve known better, that the platinum had been a wig. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so appreciative to see a woman with natural breasts. Now even her modest makeup was long gone, and she stood before him wearing her vulnerability like a second robe. She lifted her shoulders in a tense, halfhearted shrug, as if waiting for him to pass judgment.

He palmed the back of her skull. Her hair was baby fine and super soft. “Nice,” he said quietly, then pulled her near enough to take her mouth. She tasted like mint, not coffee.

She splayed a hand across his pecs. “You certainly do know how to say good morning.”

“The pictures…” He traced the arch of her eyebrow with one thumb, harboring the compulsion to memorize the shape of her face. “Perfect.”

Her smile sharpened. “Told you I’d end up on your wall.”

“Yeah,” he said with a quiet laugh. “Probably.”

She sauntered to the side table where his laptop rested. Hands in the pockets of his robe, she watched the slideshow. “Man, look at that. Look at
me
. I’ve never…” She tilted her head as her breathing hitched a bit faster. “That is crazy hot. Oh! That one. Go back.”

He angled around her hip to get to the trackpad. “This?”

In the picture, he was behind her, fucking her. His arms were wrapped underneath her breasts. While Eric buried his face against her neck, she looked right at the lens.

She made an inarticulate moan. “Christ, yes. Lord, look at your arms.”

“What?” He could barely see them beyond the plump rise of her tits.

She folded both hands around his upper arm. “This. Your body is flat-out sick.” Petting, she slid over the caps of his shoulders, down his forearms and along the veins that stood out there. “How much work do you put in yourself?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “I could ask the same of you.”

“Skinny doesn’t mean in shape. I couldn’t do a chin-up to save my life.”

Devious. There was no other word to describe the feeling that took over. He felt absolutely devious.

After gripping her ribs, he picked her up and spun their bodies. She squealed as he lifted her toward the chin-up bar. She grabbed it as if by reflex. The dark blue robe came open, displaying a creamy expanse of skin that remained slightly pink from the shower.

“Don’t you dare let me go,” she said on another squealing laugh. “So help me God, if you do…”

“You’ll what?” He pushed away the robe with his nose and nuzzled the inside curve of her breast. Those two pert nipples were irresistible. He sucked one tip into his mouth, then nibbled and licked.

Her legs curled around his waist. “This doesn’t much seem like any chin-up I’ve ever heard of.”

He smiled against her skin. “If you went to a gym, no man would ever leave.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a compliment.” Her legs tightened at his waist as she released one hand. She steadied herself with a hand at the back of his head, sending tingles down his skin—until she smoothed around to the edge of the scars on his face. “You can’t let me go, though. Promise me.”

Offering silent encouragement, he grabbed her hand and lifted it toward the bar. He liked when she extended her lithe body, with her breasts rising to his mouth.

He also liked her
not
touching his scars.

He slipped his hand under her thigh and hitched her knee over his elbow. She was wide open for him—a tempting bit of wiry determination. Her pussy was already wet.

Teasing done. They were both ready.

He kissed her. Took her mouth. Stroked his tongue along hers, harder, more urgently, as their lips pushed and slid.

She threw her head back, inviting him to graze his teeth over her skin. He palmed her ass and positioned her wet cleft over his cock. “You still think I’m going to drop you, showgirl?”

Redneck Romeo