Knotted

by Pam Godwin

  The enticing look on his face is enough to replace my tumbling anxiety with a reckless smile. I tuck my lips together, but the grin pushes through, lighting a flicker in his eyes.

  When his mouth starts moving and his soft singing reaches my ears, I’m a goner.

  We step toward each other at the same time. Our hands connect, and we glide effortlessly across the dance floor as he drawls the lyrics in his deep, seductive voice.

  He’s not big on footwork or hip twists. His boots kick out here and there, but his best moves are all in his shoulders and neck. He sensually rolls his body into the strength of his arms as he swings me around and dips me low to the floor.

  His hands roam constantly, caressing every inch of me. He bends me backward over his knee, his fingers branding the skin above my waistband. Then he sets me free, and I spin and dance around him, smiling up at his indulgent expression.

  Despite his brawny build, he doesn’t look stiff or uncomfortable. His subtle steps flow easily with mine, his body loose and competent and sexy as hell. And his eyes… God, the man has a habit of looking at me. The intensity in those dark brown depths, the way he tracks my movements, never straying, barely blinking.

  I whirl behind him, hair whipping in my face as I snatch his hat. He pivots toward me, singing with a scowl that desperately wants to smile. I set the Stetson on my head.

  His lips twitch. His hands fall to my butt, and he uses his grip to yank me up against him and wriggle my hips. I run my fingers through his messy hair and sing with him, hungry and breathless.

  Our mouths gravitate closer, eyes locked, hearts pounding. I move in to steal a kiss, but he beats me to it, fastening our lips and rubbing his tongue against mine.

  Then he snags his hat back and swings me into another song. No footwork. No technique. I simply float in his arms as he dips, drops, and lifts me through aerials, waterfalls, and slides like I weigh nothing.

  The firmness of his hands heats my skin. The confidence in his stance revs my blood. His unwavering attention weakens my knees and melts my bones.

  When we reach the end of the fifth or sixth song, I’m so aroused my panties are soaked.

  “I need to use the ladies room.” I leave him with a kiss and push my way through the congregation.

  The locals might be leery of me, but they didn’t hesitate to crowd around the dance floor to watch me rub up against their favorite cowboy.

  After a short wait in line, I step into the single-occupancy bathroom and empty my bladder. As I wash my hands, I cringe at the reflection in the mirror. Sweat dampens my hair, face, neck, and… I lift an elbow. Yep, armpit sweat.

  “Jesus, you’re a hot mess.” I gather paper towels and start dabbing.

  Am I glowing? I blink at the mirror, and my mouth wobbles. Definitely glowing. My eyes are bright, my cheeks flushed. I’m radiating happiness, and I feel it, from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. For the first time in six years, I feel like myself again.

  It’s the ranch. It’s Ketchup and Jarret and Jake. But most of all, it’s the sense of overwhelming relief. My shoulders fall back without thought. My boots feel twenty pounds lighter. Every ugly, twisted, bitter regret inside me is still there. It’s just easier to carry now. I no longer feel burdened by it.

  I no longer have to carry it alone.

  The sudden urge to grab my guy and drive home with the windows rolled down turns me toward the door. I swing it open, and a huge body storms in, shoving me backward.

  “What the—?” I stare up at Jake’s face, and my heart slams against my ribs.

  He locks the door and prowls toward me with a carnivorous glint in his eyes.

  I stumble back with nowhere to go in the small room. He stays on me, and we circle each other, assessing, waiting to see who will make the first move.

  Should I run for the door? Or surrender to whatever he has in mind?

  As if I have a choice.

  “There’s a line for the bathroom.” My voice is breathy.

  “Let them listen.” He sets his hat on the sink behind him. Then he lunges, catches me in his arms, and crushes my chest against his.

  “Jake—”

  His kiss punishes my mouth with its potency. His tongue invades, and I yield, liquefying in his heady embrace. His hands capture mine, pinning my wrists behind my back as he thrusts his hips up against me.

  He’s holding my wrists. It’s a powerful feeling. A fucking invigorating feeling, and I throw my head back, inviting him to lick a fiery trail down my neck.

  “I need inside you.” He wraps a hand around my throat, his breaths erratic. “Right here. Now.”

  Other than the barn, I’ve only had sex in a bed. That’s what this is about. Yeah, he’s horny. But it’s more than that.

  Everything he does is so intricately planned and thought out, so attentive and respectful. Banging me in a public restroom isn’t meant to degrade me. He’s reinforcing his dominance, letting me know that he decides when, where, and how.

  Damn if that doesn’t make me hot in all the right places.

  As he forces my back against the door and fucks my mouth with his tongue, I relinquish control and gladly turn over the burden of power into his capable hands.

  His fingers release my fly, and he crouches to push my jeans and panties to my boots. Then he shoves up my shirt, yanks down the cups of my bra.

  “Fuck, Conor.” He kisses and bites my breasts, plumping them up in his hands and lifting them to his ravenous mouth. “Watching you dance, putting my hands all over you… You’re so goddamn sexy.”

  He grinds his erection against my bare thigh, sending a fresh gush of wetness between my legs. Then his hand is there, sliding along my sensitive flesh and sinking inside.

  I swallow noisy gasps of pleasure as he fingers me into a single pulsating throb of need.

  Just as I’m about to peak, his hand vanishes, and the sound of his zipper shoots a thrill through my body.

  “You’re going to come on my cock.” He tugs down his jeans.

  I wrap my arms around his shoulders and fumble my mouth against his, ravaging his lips with mindless urgency.

  He lifts me up the door and lines up his cock with the entrance of my pussy.

  Then he pushes in, hard and fast, seating himself to the root.

  We groan together, shaking and clinging to each other. I’m tied up in my clothes, leaving all my weight in his hands. The jeans around my boots bind my ankles and allow my knees to open just enough for him to slam into me.

  His fingers grip my thighs. His body nails me against the door. My hands seek any part of him I can reach, digging fingernails into his shirt, biceps, and neck.

  He’s fire and ruthlessness, and I’m desperate to be burned and consumed. Together, we’re a heaving, grunting, hungry battlefield, hunting and raiding, chasing and pillaging.

  Fingers scratch. Lips ensnare. Muscles contract, and bodies bend. We give and take and fuck with abandon.

  When his hand returns to my throat and presses down on my windpipe, a new sensation ignites beneath my skin. Shameless and wanton, my body pulses harder, flooding adrenaline through my veins, roiling my blood, and tightening the deepest parts of me.

  “Jake.” I stare into his eyes. “I’m going to—”

  I come suddenly, violently, and with such great force I clamp down around him, causing him to choke on a breath.

  He pounds into me, rattling the door as he gulps for air and climaxes on his exhale. His hand slides off my throat, and hips thrust, slowing the rhythm and milking every last drop.

  “You’re wrecking me.” He tucks himself away and goes to work on my clothes, straightening and zipping. “You know what I’m going to do every night for the rest of our lives?”

  “Get wrecked inside my body?”

  “That’s the plan.” He snatches his hat, dusts it off, and sets it on his head. “Let’s go home and do it again.”

  In every person’s life, there’s a point of no return. Honoring
our teenage pact is that point for me. I weighed the risks. Poured over the plan. Considered every angle. There’s no way I can stop myself from seeing this through.

  But Levi Tibbs can.

  All he has to do is pass our test.

  He was released this morning from a correctional facility an hour’s drive from Sandbank. His freedom was the first thing on my mind when I woke, and the ache that amassed in my throat has persisted into the afternoon.

  Am I scared?

  Fucking petrified.

  Will I chicken out at the last minute?

  Not a chance in hell.

  I sit on a wobbly wooden chair in a decrepit shack on the outskirts of town. My leg bounces restlessly as Jake and Jarret move around me, checking weapons and making minor adjustments to the musty furniture.

  They told me about this place a week ago when we discussed the plan. Surrounded by woods in the middle of nowhere, the tiny one-room house was bought and paid for by their dad years ago.

  John Holsten never told his sons about it. Jake discovered the property during his investigation into his dad’s secrets.

  The significance of this shack is the duffel bag of money hidden under the floorboard.

  When Jake searched the place a few years ago, he found the bag. Ten grand in cash. Left behind by two hitmen the night they went to the ravine to commit murder.

  We know it’s their money because the bag includes photos, personal belongings, and other identification. We know John Holsten let them stay here to prepare for my murder. And we know Levi Tibbs will return for that cash.

  As a registered sex offender, he’s not allowed outside after dark. He’s not permitted within two-thousand feet of a child, and he only has the cash that was on him during the time of his arrest. That severely limits where he can stay the night. The shack is his only option.

  Beyond the grimy window, the sun begins its downward arc, sinking an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “He should be here by now.” I clamp a hand down on my knee to stall the nervous bouncing.

  “There’s only one Greyhound bus to Sandbank.” Jake leans against the wall, hat tipped downward and legs crossed at the ankles—the patient, sexy slouch of a confident man. “An hour walk from the bus station puts him here in about twenty minutes.”

  “Unless he hitchhikes.”

  “He might.” Jake nods. “Though I don’t think he’ll want anyone knowing he’s here. Witnesses lead to questions, and questions could lead to the money he claimed he never received.”

  “And you’re sure he won’t have a GPS tracker?”

  Most states require sex offenders to wear ankle bracelets.

  “I’m certain.” He nudges up the Stetson to meet my eyes. “Oklahoma only puts those on habitual offenders. This was his first offense.”

  And last. Sucks for him. A monitoring device might’ve saved his life. Hard to bury a body with a tamper-free GPS tracker attached to it.

  “You can still back out.” Jarret lowers into the chair across the table from me. “We’ll get him, Conor. You don’t have to be here when it happens.”

  “I’m not freaking out. I would just feel better if we were all in position.”

  “All right.” He rises from the chair and ruffles my hair. “Remember, whatever that fucker says to you—”

  “I know. I’ll be fine.”

  If I can survive what Levi Tibbs did to me that night, I can survive his hateful words.

  “What about the situation with Maybe Quinn?” I arch a brow. “Is that dealt with?”

  Jarret pokes his tongue into his cheek and stares down at the floor. A strange huffing sound passes his lips, and he turns toward the door. “Don’t worry about her.”

  “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

  He steps outside, and a moment later, his shadow flickers past the side window.

  No doubt he wants to get his dick wet with the journalist, but he would never let a woman jeopardize our safety. I know his head’s in the game as he waits outside that window, hidden from sight with a gun in his hand, ready to shoot through the glass if needed.

  Jake pushes off the wall and stands in front of the only door. He surveys the room, as if looking at it through the eyes of the man who will walk in at any time.

  I perch on a chair behind a table. The long wooden surface will be the only thing separating me from Levi Tibbs.

  My motorcycle sits outside the window behind me. Levi won’t see it when he approaches the shack, but he’ll spot it through the glass when he steps inside. We positioned the bike there to give him the sense that I’m alone.

  Beside me, a sagging couch faces the door. Jake inched it away from the wall, just enough to squeeze behind it, but not enough for Levi to notice it moved.

  Jake ambles toward me and cups my chin in his strong hand.

  “I love you.” I fill my eyes with the words and see them reflected in his.

  “It’s almost over.” He kisses my lips, grabs the shotgun off the table, and takes his position behind the couch.

  Then we wait.

  Five minutes. My muscles quiver and twitch.

  Ten minutes. Heart palpitations tighten my chest.

  Fifteen minutes. The scuff of footsteps sound outside the door.

  My lungs collapse. My breath cuts off, and I fight the urge to glance at the couch and window. The guys will stay concealed. I just need to focus on schooling my expression and not losing my shit.

  Placing my hands on the table, I relax my joints and try to look as nonthreatening as possible.

  The door swings open.

  Levi Tibbs stands on the threshold, backlit by the glow of the afternoon sun. His eyes converge with mine. His brows jump up, and his breath chokes.

  He composes himself quickly and lowers his backpack to the floor while scanning the room for threats.

  Looks like he lost weight. He was skinny before, but now he’s all gangly and sallow in trousers that hang on his shapeless legs.

  Same evil gray eyes, glinting like razor blades as he leans back and surveys the perimeter outside.

  Black hair crops close to his scalp, and his hands flex at his sides. Same hands that bruised my flesh and held a knife against my throat. Same thin lips that stretched around the gag Jake shoved in his mouth.

  This is the man who stole my virginity. If Jake hadn’t gone after him that night, he might’ve gotten away with it.

  His gaze ticks between me and the gravel road out front until it lands on the window behind me. He registers the motorcycle, and a sick smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” He steps all the way inside and closes the door. “You came here alone? How did you know about this place?”

  “I heard John Holsten mention it once. I figured you might’ve heard about it, too, and thought you’d come here for a free night’s sleep before skipping town.”

  He glances at the floorboard where he stashed his money six years ago. I keep my eyes on his.

  “You’re either stupid or you’re really fucking stupid.” He lowers into the closest chair, sitting across the table from me, exactly as we hoped.

  “Waiting for you to come after me would’ve been stupid. Would you have done that?”

  “What? Gone after you?” He wets his lips and gives my chest a skin-crawling examination. “You sent me to prison, you fucking bitch. What do you think?”

  “The prosecutor sent you to prison.”

  His gaze darts to mine, his expression oily and hostile. “I can still feel your tight cunt. You bled all over me, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it for six years, about how I was your first. I bet you think about it, too.”

  I hate that Jake heard that. But he was there that night, right beside me in hell, watching the whole thing. As my mind replays it in agonizing detail, a bitter tang floods my mouth and burns in my throat.

  I clear my voice. “I came here to get closure. Did you receive my letter?”

 
“I jerked off to it every night.” His hand slides under the table.

  Part of me wishes he kept that hand on his lap. It might’ve saved his life.

  But a bigger part of me, the part that wants this to end, is relieved he failed the test.

  He reaches for the pistol taped beneath the surface of the table. A pistol we assumed he put there six years ago.

  “You’re right. I would’ve come for you.” He yanks the gun free, cocked and aimed at my head. “Thanks for saving me a trip across town.”

  He stands and shoves the table aside, leaving three feet of nothingness between us. My heart races.

  “Take off your jeans.” He waves the pistol at me. “Everything below the waist.”

  A swallow sticks in my throat as I shake my head.

  His face reddens, and his hand tightens around the gun. Evidently, he wants to rape me while I’m still breathing. Otherwise, he would’ve squeezed that trigger by now.

  “You want it rough, huh?” He steps toward me and tenses, his gaze swinging toward the couch.

  “Back up.” Jake rises from his hiding spot and trains the shotgun on Levi’s chest. The fire blazing in his eyes negates the calmness in his approaching steps.

  “I’ll shoot her.” Levi points the barrel at my head from two feet away. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “Try it.” Jake advances another step.

  Levi squeezes the trigger with a hollow click, and the blood drains from his sunken face. He looks at his gun, eyes wide, and tries to shoot me again. And again.

  Click. Click. Click. Click.

  When he realizes we removed all the bullets, he stumbles back toward the exit, arms up and hands shaking. With a roar, he hurls the pistol at Jake, misses, and yanks open the door.

  And slams into another armed cowboy.

  Jarret bares his teeth and pistol-whips Levi across the head, knocking him out cold. Then his eyes find mine. “Conor?”

  “All good.” I suck in a calming breath. “We knew he’d fail. I prepared myself for this.”

  As Jarret restrains Levi’s limp body for transport with duct tape and cable ties, Jake moves into my line of sight.

  Crouching at my feet, he sets the shotgun on the floor and gathers my hands in his.