by Pam Godwin
Lorne grips the neck of the bottle and moves it out of reach.
Jarret’s gaze follows the liquor. “Talk to me.”
Lorne unscrews the cap.
“Give it here.” Jarret holds out a hand. “Unless you’re aiming to turn into your—”
“If you mention his name, I’ll break your fucking face.” Every muscle in Lorne’s body goes rigid, his voice cutting. “Get out.”
He hasn’t cooled off. If anything, he’s even more keyed up, and his irritability is rubbing off, given the flex of Jarret’s hands. Two raging bulls in a small space are guaranteed to lock horns.
“Christ, you’re a stubborn fuck.” Jarret jumps to his feet. “If this is how you want—”
“Jarret.” I grip his shirt and gesture toward the exit. “Outside.”
“Or what? You gonna shoot me with an unloaded gun?”
“Nope. The one I aim at you will be loaded.” I walk to the door.
Thankfully, he follows. I guess he’s smart enough to realize his anger isn’t helping.
The moment we step outside, he clutches the back of his neck.
“I don’t know what to do. That guy…” He thrusts a finger at the door. “That’s not Lorne. That’s not the brother I grew up with.”
“Yes, he is. Stop making fists and screaming for his attention. You’re acting like a butt-hurt baby.”
“The fuck I am.”
“You waited eight years for his return. He’s finally here, and you still have to wait.” I soften my voice. “I can’t imagine how much that stings, but he needs you to be patient.”
“I only have patience when I’m not breathing,” he mutters.
“Not true. I was in there when you helped Maybe pack up her apartment.”
They thought I was asleep, but I heard them talking about their separation.
“You waited for her for eighteen months.” I give him a gentle smile. “And you’ll keep waiting for Lorne because that’s what he needs.”
His stark eyes tick between the estate and the stable before resting on me. “I won’t leave him in there alone all night.”
“I’ll be with him.”
His gaze dips to my chest and bounces away. In the distance, two silhouettes float across the field, heading toward us.
I squint. “Is that—?”
“Jake and Conor. I’ll head them off so you can…” He motions at the door. “Be alone with him.” He strides off toward his brother.
He thinks I’m going to offer my body to Lorne. Because that’s all I’m good for. Maybe the latter is true, but Jarret doesn’t know I already tried and was rejected.
I pull in a steady breath and return to the man and his whiskey.
Lorne hasn’t moved from his slouch against the wall. It’s more of a non-slouch with the amount of surly tension and developed muscle vibrating along his frame. He lifts his head, and his gaze rams into me with enough animosity to make me second guess why I’m here.
The bottle of whiskey waits beside him, his fingers twisting the cap off, on, off, on. The universe might be telling me we can help each other, but all bets are off if he turns into a drunk.
“You don’t want that.” I kneel in the V of his spread legs and sit back on the heels of my boots.
“You have no idea what I want.”
“I know what you don’t want.”
He bumps up the brim of his hat and shoots me a withering look.
“You don’t want the nightmares.” I fold my hands on my lap and meet his glare head on. “Or the memories. The constant itch to look over your shoulder. The pain.”
His eyes flash.
I lean in. “The things you carry today will strengthen you tomorrow.”
“Don’t preach your hippie bullshit to me.”
“I’m a grown-ass woman, and I’ll preach whatever the fuck I want to whomever I want.”
The muscles in his face tighten, and his entire body goes motionless, breathless. I brace for a mean insult, a whip of rage. Men like him don’t respond kindly to defiant women.
“Damn,” he whispers, and the tension leaks from his shoulders.
“What?”
“You’re so extraordinarily beautiful it pisses me off.”
A startled thrill jolts through me. “That’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get from me.” He shoves the hat back down on his forehead. “Fuck niceties and social pretense.”
That’s the kind of attitude that’s bred within the concrete walls of a heartless, oppressive system, where men are caged and deprived of love, respect, decency, and humanity.
“It’s okay, you know.” I tilt my head. “To be uncomfortable around people.”
His nostrils pulse.
“You won’t be able to avoid interaction forever,” I say. “But I can promise you one thing.”
His deep green eyes find mine.
“You’ll survive it.” I bend over my lap, resting elbows on my thighs with my head down. “No matter how uneasy it makes you feel.”
I don’t know if I’m saying the right things, if I’m getting through to him or helping him at all. I have only his silence and what it’s telling me.
My grandmother used to say, Your tongue will keep you deaf. Maybe I’m talking too much?
I fall still, gaze on my lap, prepared to listen. Or wait him out for however long it takes.
Minutes whisper by, and neither of us moves or speaks. At least he isn’t drinking, the whiskey seemingly forgotten at his side.
I let my eyes close, tracking the sound of his breaths. As I lose myself in the entrancing rhythm, something stirs my hair. The current of movement races up the strands and tingles my scalp.
My eyes open, and my breath catches.
He’s touching me, his fingers sifting through the long black curtain that drapes my arm.
I don’t twitch or blink, afraid he’ll stop. But when my gaze lifts to his, he withdraws his hand.
“You can touch me, Lorne. If I don’t like it, I’ll tell you. That’s what people do.”
“I’m not like them.”
Them? The men I’ve bedded? Society as a whole?
“No, you’re not,” I say. “The average man hasn’t watched the brutal rape of his sister or spent his adult life behind bars for a crime he committed out of love and protection. No one has felt what you felt, perceived, experienced, or examined the things you have. No one will ever know you or truly understand, until they run their fingers through your soul. But you need to let them. Someday, you’ll let someone in.”
He meets my eyes, his expression guarded, giving nothing away.
I’m running my mouth again, and who am I to give advice about letting someone in? My heart is an island, completely disconnected from the world and anything that might hurt it. I know how to seduce. I know how to fuck. I know how to redirect the focus, the pleasure, and all thought to anyone’s emotional damage but my own.
His eyes shift to the stall behind me. I glance back at the white and brown dappled palomino stallion they call Captain Undies.
When I stayed here with John, his sons took Lorne’s horse out every day. Captain hasn’t been neglected, but I imagine he misses Lorne.
“Have you ridden him?” I ask.
A blank wall crashes over his face.
That would be a no.
I stand and head into the tack room. Loading my arms with gear, I walk back to Captain’s stall, lead him into the walkway, and saddle him.
“What are you doing?” Lorne’s voice scuffs with disinterest.
“John used to make me tack his horse, the lazy cunt. But he never let me ride.”
He stares at me, emotionless.
I shrug. “I was his whore. Nothing more.”
His eyes harden before lowering to the dream catcher necklace on his wrist. “You’re not taking Captain out.”
“Nope.” I cinch the straps and adjust the noseband. “You are.”
> “Not tonight.”
“You hear that, Captain?” I glide a hand along the horse’s strong neck. “Lorne would rather pout than give you a proper run. Maybe it’s time to find a new friend. A man who’s willing to dip into his soul and remember what calls to him. The wind in his face, the freedom on your back, the feel of your strength between his legs, the sound of your loyal heartbeat—your gifts should be appreciated.”
“You’re fucking nuts.” Lorne rises and steps around me, pulling on the buckles and checking my work.
I angle away, hiding my smile.
He’s not giving in. He’s going to take Captain for a ride because deep down, he wants to. Badly. He just couldn’t see that through his fog of despondency.
“Hop on.” He pats the saddle.
“What?” My gaze flies to his, and my heart skips.
“I won’t repeat myself.”
I touch Captain’s mane, stroking the coarse hair. Oh, how I’ve ached to ride. I had lessons when I was little, when my mom was sober. It was so long ago I don’t even remember how to mount a horse.
But this isn’t for me. It’s about Lorne and getting him back in the saddle again, figuratively and literally.
“You’ll ride with me?” I ask.
“Can’t leave you alone with John on the loose.”
Right. I scan the saddle gear and reach for the pommel. Hooking a boot in the stirrup, I attempt a climb that leaves me clinging ungracefully to Captain’s side.
Upper body strength would be great right now. And jeans. Every time I try to throw a leg over, my borrowed dress slips into flashing territory.
“You might want to look away.” I grapple for a handhold, certain my panties are on full display.
Strong hands grip my hips and launch me upward. The momentum nearly sends me off the other side, but he stays with me, swinging into the saddle and pinning my back against his chest.
A thick forearm hooks around my waist. Brawny thighs hug tightly to the outsides of mine. He adjusts me where he wants me. No hesitancy in his touch. No uncertainty. His movements are assertive, confident, like he’s ridden with a woman hundreds of times.
“Thank you.” I gasp, trying to catch my breath.
He gathers the reins and steers Captain out of the stable.
My pulse shivers. My nerve endings stir, and my core floods with a rush of warmth. My fevered elation has nothing to do with the horse ride and everything to do with the hard chest rubbing against my back.
My body is an alien, buzzing and tightening in a state of war. Lorne is just a man. He has a deep voice, masculine scent, abundance of muscle mass, and a cock between his legs. Who cares? I’ve traversed the male landscape more times than I care to remember.
So why am I gulping for air and wriggling restlessly in the cage of his arms? The initial delight in touching an attractive guy should’ve gone stale by now. Now would be the time I start yearning for escape.
The faster I get them off, the quicker they go away.
But Lorne isn’t a job. He isn’t John Holsten. He’s the first man who’s ever held me without stripping off my clothes.
“How many girlfriends did you have in high school?” I rest my hands on his knees.
“None.”
I know he went to prison at a young age, but sweet Lord, he’s so wildly, overwhelmingly good-looking he couldn’t possibly be a virgin. Could he?
I lick my lips. “Are you—?”
“No.”
“Ah. So you played the field?”
“I had options when I was young.”
“You’re still young, and you still have options. The fine women of Sandbank would climb over one another to be with you.”
A harsh breath hits my neck. “Lay off the goddamn pep talks.” He drives a boot into Captain’s side with unnecessary force. “Your fucking voice gives me a headache.”
My spine snaps straight, and I shove his arm away from my waist. “I know you’re going through some adjustments, but that doesn’t give you a pass to disrespect me. I tolerated a lot of cruelty the last couple of years, but no more. Do you hear me, Lorne? I’m done with it.”
We rock together in stiff silence, floating across a tenebrous landscape. After several bristling seconds, he releases a low-pitch whistle and brings the horse to a stop.
We’re out of view of the estate, the stable, or any hint of civilization. He could strangle the air from my body, and no one would hear me scream. There’s no one left in my life who would care.
His right hand comes around me, slowly lifting across my chest to rest on the left side of my face. My pounding heartbeat grows loud in my ears as he uses the featherlight touch to guide my head ever-so-softly to look at him. I’m too shocked by the tenderness to fight the pull.
Dense, black lashes fringe seductive green eyes. Slack lips, unlocked jaw, he looks calm. Innocuous.
His thumb falls against my cheekbone, ghosting across my skin as his cruel, gorgeous mouth drifts lower, closer, inches from mine.
“I’m sorry.” His breath caresses my lips.
Fucking damn, he’s potent. The intoxicating scent of him, the reserved beauty in his face, the strength of his heart that shines so clearly in his tortured eyes, and his touch…
The universe must hate me, because that delicate, complicated, barely-there pressure of his fingers feels like a fist slamming between the rungs of my ribs.
In that candid moment of connectedness, something passes between us. A soulful greeting? A peek behind our defenses? A what-if? Whatever it is, it shakes something loose inside me while reinforcing my number one rule.
They can have my body, but everything else is off-limits.
I offer him a nod, accepting his apology. With a quick shift of my hips, I face forward, escaping his touch. And his eyes.
Vibrant, melty, poisonous eyes. I’m angled away, but I can still see them, still feel them luring me in with filthy promises.
I don’t even like sex. Or men, in general. I offered myself to him, because I don’t want to be in his debt. I stole his money. Now I’ll be eating his food and sleeping in his house. That makes me dependent, and dependency makes me uneasy.
He makes me uneasy.
He leans against my back and rests a hand on the saddle horn, leaving no space between my bottom and the swollen, steely length of him trapped against his thigh.
I bite down on my cheek, my throat an arid desert.
His mouth skims my ear. “You wear a fearless mask, but I hear you, Raina. I feel your fear.”
“I feel your erection.” I turn my neck, my lips a hairbreadth from his. “Are you reconsidering my offer?”
His jaw stiffens. “You use sex like a weapon, wedging it between you and anyone who might run their fingers through your soul.”
My head jerks back at the verbal slap, and I quickly look away, grasping for a subject change. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Prison.”
Three days ago.
I stole his bed the first night and ran off the second night. “Because of me?”
“Because I can’t sleep.” He makes a clicking sound with his cheek, and the horse lurches into motion.
“Do you want to talk about it? I’ll listen—”
“No.”
For the next thirty minutes, Captain carries us through the dark at a lazy pace. My chest bounces uncomfortably, my boobs in desperate need of a bra. But I don’t own one. So I center myself in the tempo of chuffing snorts and the stretch of the horse’s powerful muscles.
It’s so tranquil here. A light breeze, an explosion of stars, the atmosphere flows with energy and life.
Behind me, Lorne’s as quiet as a statue. But I’m viscerally aware of the muscled bar of his arm across my abdomen, the contraction of his thighs against mine, the strength in his fingers around the reins, and the warm massage of his breaths along my neck.
I’m so distracted by him I don’t realize where he’s taken us until he stops beside an unli
t, one-story building.
“What is this?” I search the unfamiliar landscape of sparse trees. “Where are we?”
“The ravine.”
My breath catches. “How? It doesn’t look—”
“Jarret and Jake filled it in.” His voice creeps over my shoulder, cold and distant. “Jake built Conor’s veterinary clinic right on top.” He motions at the building.
She works here? Where she was raped?
“Doesn’t that unnerve her?” I ask.
“I guess she doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
He huffs a sound of annoyance. “They buried the bodies in the ravine.”
“Oh.” A chill spreads over my scalp. “I didn’t know.”
“Neither does John, and it’ll remain that way.”
He doesn’t move to dismount or inch Captain closer to the place that altered his life. We sit there for so long I wonder if I’ve lost him to the past.
Does he wish the ravine wasn’t filled in so he could visit it a final time? Is he reliving Conor’s attack? His hunt for her rapist? Or the catastrophic moment when he gunned down the wrong man?
“Lorne?”
“Quiet,” he snaps.
I have so many questions scraping along my tongue, but I trap them behind my lips and close my eyes.
Until his fingers drift through my hair.
I fix my stare on the building and go unnaturally still.
His touch is airy at first, floating through the stick-straight strands like a suggestion. Then his exploration curls into a soothing brush, sinking midway into the length and raking to the end, where it tickles my elbows.
Over and over, he strokes. Neither rough nor hesitant, his movements seem to be absentminded. Except whenever his fingers graze my arm, they linger, feeling my skin through the veil of my hair.
After a while, he abandons my hair altogether to trace the shape of my bicep.
With the pad of one finger, he roams the curve of my shoulder, under the strap of the dress, and back to my upper arm. The slow, methodical caress shoots delicious shivers up my spine.
His breathing accelerates, and mine follows. He sways closer, and I relax against his chest. The heat of his exhales quickens my pulse. My blood warms. My eyes grow heavy, and an involuntary clench quivers forgotten muscles between my legs.
