Larger Than Life

by Alison Kent

  "Of course I have." The more she heard, the more she did. "But I've got a business that keeps me hopping eighteen hours a day, not to mention this criminal sideline. Holden Wagner's a back-burner item."

  Mick rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I'll move him up to the front."

  A good start, but not nearly enough. She needed more and told him so. "If you've got those kind of resources available, I'd rather you look into all the places I can't and see what you can dig up on my girls."

  "Your girls. Makes it pretty personal, doesn't it?" he asked in that perceptive way he had.

  "It is personal. These girls are being abused. They're being raped. They're having anything resembling dignity stripped away." She felt her blood pressure rise, her pulse race, both fueled by her anger, her powerlessness to do more than she was already doing.

  She shuddered when she needed to remain calm and focus. "They're not allowed control over their own bodies. Not when it comes to sex or bearing children for men who offer them nothing. No love. No respect. They have no autonomy. They're not allowed to think for themselves, speak for themselves—"

  She couldn't go on. It wrung her out to put that much into words. Admitting to Mick anything more . . .

  He braced his good arm along the back of the love seat and reached over with his other hand, took hold of hers where she held them twisted together. "I can't promise you anything, but I'll check into it, okay? See what I can do."

  She nodded, and this time when her vision blurred, it was too late not to cry. She sobbed softly, drew in shaky, rickety gulps of air. Mick asked her nothing. He simply pulled her into the crook of his shoulder and tucked her close.

  He smelled like soap and liniment and fabric dried in the sun. His thigh beneath hers was solid, hard, as was his chest where she rested her head. And when he rubbed his chin against her, the whiskers of his goatee bristled against her hair and she couldn't help but smile.

  Funny enough, but being near him was all that she needed. His silence gave her strength. He didn't pry, though she was certain he had questions. He did the only thing she wanted. He supported her and let her be.

  It was when she started to move away that she realized she didn't want to. He made her feel so comfortable, as if being in his arms was where she belonged. But since that wasn't the case, it couldn't be, she wouldn't let it, she forced herself to glance back at the four camera feeds, and smiled at seeing Mick's dog nosing around near the edge of the patio.

  "What's he doing?"

  "How did you know—" was all she got out because once she looked back, once his gaze snagged hers and held it, she couldn't think beyond her need to kiss him.

  They were so close; she still sat tucked into his body, her shoulder fitted to the pit of his arm, her bent knees propped on his thigh. His face was inches from hers, his mouth right there. All she had to do was part her lips. Instead, she looked into his eyes.

  Oh, dear. Oh, my. So many things he wanted, was thinking, intended to do. She forgot that she needed air to keep from passing out. When it hit her, she sucked in a breath sharply and muttered to herself, "Oh, hell."

  And then Mick came toward her, pushing her back into the corner of the love seat so slowly she wasn't sure that their descent wasn't her dragging him down. "I don't like the way you know what I'm thinking," she said, her arms coming up to loop around his neck.

  "I know," he answered, bracing a forearm and his weight on the padded armrest beneath her head. His other hand he settled at her waist.

  "Then why do you do it?"

  "It's who I am. It's what I do."

  "I'd rather you do something else."

  "Only if you're sure," he said, coming nearer to nuzzle her nose with his.

  She caught a whiff of maple syrup from lunch on his breath. "I am," she replied, because nothing else seemed right.

  She moved one hand up to cup the back of his head, the fuzz of his hair scratching her palm, and urged him down, his mouth to hers. He was warm and familiar, and she wanted more than his kiss. She wanted his hand on her skin, and reached between them to pull her blouse from her jeans.

  His tongue slid into her mouth, his hand beneath the loosened fabric. She moaned at the contact, wished she was naked, and kissed him back. His breath heated her cheek, his beard scraped her chin. The rumble that went through his body tickled her to her toes.

  She shifted her legs, straightened them out so she lay beside him, enjoying the press of his body as much as the press of his mouth. And when he opened his hand over her rib cage, spread his fingers and grazed the lace cup of her bra, she rolled toward him, pressed herself into his hand.

  He touched her as if he cared, gently, the touch of a lover, not a man notching the posts on his bed. She caught at his lower lip, drew it into her mouth, bathed it with her tongue. He increased the driving pressure, demanding she do the same. As if he knew she was ready. As if he knew she'd been waiting for him to ask.

  He'd trapped her one hand between his good shoulder and the cushions. She reached down with the other and tugged up the hem of his T-shirt. The skin of his lower back between his fatigues and the bindings securing his ribs was smooth, resilient, the muscles beneath firm. He chuckled into her mouth as she tickled him there, and then groaned when she took her touch lower and kneaded his very fine and taut backside.

  It wasn't enough, this fumbling, groping kiss. His tongue stroked hers, and she imagined the feel of it on the flesh between her legs. She hadn't enjoyed a man's mouth there in so very long. Just the thought of Mick going down and loving her there . . . She sent her tongue deeper into his mouth to find and mate with his, spread her thighs, and whimpered when he pushed a knee between them.

  She rocked up against him, unprepared for the urgency of her need. He growled and tore his mouth from hers, buried his face in the crook of her neck, pushed away the cup of her bra, and squeezed the flesh of her breast. What was she doing? What? What? Closing her eyes. Reaching between her legs to rub herself with the seam of her zipper. Giving herself up to what Mick did to her body.

  He slid lower, shoved her shirt higher, took her nipple into his mouth and tugged. She bit back a cry, feeling her sex swell as if he were sucking her there. It was when he rolled onto her body and settled between her spread legs that she first met the fullness of his erection. The idea of taking him into her body stole away her breath. She wedged both hands between them, cupped him, measured him, then moved her fingers again to his rump, dug in and begged him close.

  This was so unfair to him, having him rock against her, arousing him, getting off without being able to truly give back. But then nothing mattered as sensations swept through her body, his hard cock on her clit as she came. There was no ripple, no buildup. It was an explosive burst of pleasure that bordered on pain.

  So sudden. So intense. Moisture soaked her panties. She wanted to cry. He tongued her nipple, sucked and bit at the surrounding flesh. She felt so selfish, so relieved. She shuddered as the contractions continued. They consumed her and she let them, giving herself up.

  And then it was done. Mick returned her clothing to rights and kissed her. Soft gentle kisses tendered along her cheekbone and jaw as he sat up. Rumpled and disheveled, she did the same, quickly scanning the camera feeds before chastising herself for getting so carried away.

  What in the bloody hell was wrong with her—and dear Lord, now she was talking like the man.

  Mick cleared his throat, got slowly to his feet, unable to stifle a groan. "Can you point me to the bathroom?"

  She flushed to the roots of her hair. "Right past the kitchen. There's aspirin and Advil in the medicine cabinet." She'd probably come close to killing him, as injured as he already was. "Can I do anything?"

  "Uh, no." He grunted, winced. " This I'd better take care of on my own."

  This time the blush crawled over every inch of exposed skin. She looked down, mortified that she hadn't once thought of his pain. Or his pleasure. And just when she thought to offer, she he
ard Liberty stir. "I'm usually not this selfish, Mick. I'm really not."

  "Neva, don't worry. I'll let you make it up to me later." A hole, please. In the middle of the floor. Now. Sure.

  "Okay."

  He moved beyond the love seat, stopped, looked back. "When I get back, I'm going to need details on your network."

  "My network?" she asked inanely.

  "If you want me co see what I can do to help."

  She nodded because she had no brain, looked up at the screens in time to see Candy hop from Ed's truck and Spencer drive in behind. She glanced back to tell Mick she'd get the info together.

  But he was already gone.

  Eleven

  Arms hugging her middle, Candy stood next to Neva's truck, watching Ed pull out and Spencer pull in. Dealing with the first man had been emotionally exhausting. She wasn't sure she had it in her now to deal with number two. Especially out here in the open when she had no idea what would come out of her mouth. And so she started walking toward the Barn.

  Driving Holden's car earlier, all she'd been able to think about was Spencer's daddy catching her behind the wheel of the stolen BMW. She'd followed near enough to Ed's bumper that anyone blowing past wouldn't have time to examine closely who was hidden by the tinted glass as the sweet ride burned up the road. That didn't mean she hadn't held her breath each time Ed had slowed for a curve or taken an unexpected turn. She'd nearly rear-ended him twice.

  They'd left Holden's car sitting in the middle of the property he owned outside of E.T., and left no other tracks behind. No footprints or tread marks from Ed's truck. No fingerprints or other obvious trace evidence. At least nothing the county sheriff would be able to find with the forensic technology he had at his disposal.

  If it had been any other time of year, Candy would've prayed hard for a good rain to wash away any lingering proof of her involvement. She knew she faced prison time should the work she did with Neva be discovered. But Jesus Lord, she did not want to find herself behind bars for being in possession of a stolen vehicle.

  If she were caught, that was the future she faced because there was no way she'd rat out Liberty for taking the car. Not when the girl was facing a nasty future with that whack job Holden Wagner in her bed. Candy's stomach had been rolling since hearing that particular news.

  And it was thinking about Liberty looking down the barrel of that ugly gun and listening to Ed mouth about Neva getting in trouble with a man like Mick Savin that had Candy's claws sharpened and flexed. Ed knew better. He knew what the Earnestine girls were up against. Yet he didn't seem to give a rat's ass about Liberty. He only wanted to know why Mick was still at the house.

  And now here came Spencer when Candy was so not in the mood to deal with men after the good doctor and Holden and yesterday's run-in with the sheriff. Not to mention how the situation in the township had her thinking about all the perverts she'd known in her life. She just knew this wasn't going to go well. Nope. Not today. Not now.

  Seeing that she was heading to her place, he followed, teasing her by driving behind instead of giving her a ride or passing her and moving on ahead. She wasn't up for his teasing. She had too much on her mind. Spencer couldn't know that, but that didn't mean she was going to cut the boy so much as an inch of slack.

  Taking him down to her place wasn't particularly smart since Neva was still upstairs with Mick and the Mitchell girl, but right now Candy wanted to go home. Her home. Her haven. She needed to surround herself with all the things that made her feel safe, hating—but admitting—that sweet Spencer Munroe was way too big a part of that.

  What in the world was she doing loving a white boy who hadn't even yet turned twenty?

  She walked past the patio to the back of the Barn and stopped in her apartment's doorway, turning as he braked, parked, and locked up his truck. Looking at him as he climbed down and walked toward her, she wondered why she and Neva trusted their bodies so easily to men after all that they'd witnessed in their lives.

  This thing with Mick was the first time since knowing Neva that Candy had seen her girlfriend show enough interest in a man to involve him in her life at a level that had nothing to do with her orgasms. If Mick made Neva happy even before she'd taken him to bed, Candy didn't want to be standing up when that earth moved.

  Her own case was just as out of the blue and crazy; she still hadn't figured why it had been so easy to open her heart to Spencer when she'd known from the beginning that their summertime relationship would never last beyond the season.

  He was such a beautiful boy. So clean and pure—traits that made it easier to understand the source of her affection, even as she knew she had to let him go. So much in her life had been horribly ugly and dirty. And he deserved better than to have to wash off her stain.

  Her hand on the doorknob, she shook her head, knowing this wasn't going to be easy. "I cannot believe you came back out here after last night. You never seemed like a slow learner before."

  Spencer took the last four steps to reach her in two stretches of his long and powerful legs. His grin was as wide as the sky. "Feisty this afternoon, aren't you?"

  "I'm in a mood, baby. I'm not going to kid you about that."

  "Then I should be just the person you're wanting to see." He stopped, shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, and flexed his shoulders, which stretched the cotton of his faded green Pit Stop Pirates T-shirt with all those muscles he had. "I haven't seen a mood of yours yet that has turned me off."

  "That's because you're a randy rutting beast." She wanted him to move, to come closer. She wanted to get this over with. Aggravation buzzed around her like a fly. "You have a dick for a brain, boy. You're all about getting turned on."

  Spencer winced, then laughed, a nervous, uncomfortable sound. She would've felt sorry for him if she hadn't been busy feeling sorry for herself. She sighed. "This isn't a good time for me, Spencer. Why don't you come back later when I'm feeling more sexy? Let me get over myself."

  He obviously didn't think she was serious because he still didn't budge. Just stood there with all that thick dark hair and those broad shoulders, those long sturdy legs and wide chest. He looked like he belonged on the pages of a teen magazine, or in a glossy football program, one pom-pom girls drooled over while they diddled themselves.

  She stared off into the distance, blinking back tears. She was so proud of her professional success. She didn't know why it was taking so- long to get her personal act together. Or why she had to judge the beautiful Spencer Munroe by the acts of so many others.

  And then the mood shifted. She sensed it like a storm on the horizon, swirling and tightening, sucking away the air she was trying to breathe, and it took her a good long time to look over to the source. She wasn't happy with what she saw when she finally got up the guts and did.

  "I'm not going anywhere, Candy. In case you haven't noticed, I don't show up only when you're feeling sexy." His dark eyebrows came down to shadow his bright green eyes. "If anyone thinks of me as a dick, it's you. You're willing to spread your legs, but forget about opening your mind."

  He paused for a moment, then charged forward, head low, as if he had a ball tucked to his chest. "I might actually be more than a good fuck. But at the rate you're pissing me off, you're never going to know."

  And that did it. He wanted to know where they stood? He wanted to know what she thought? She'd show him exactly. "Then we might as well get busy with the one thing we know works between us. Unless this time you didn't bring a condom?"

  Scowling, she opened her door and walked inside, leaving it open for him to follow or not. He did, locking the door before walking across the hardwood floor to where she'd stopped in front of her orange chenille sofa, staring when she reached back for the zipper of her skirt and ripped it down.

  The garment pooled around the cowboy boots she wore. Her cropped T-shirt went next. She whipped it over her head, slung it toward Spencer's chest, kicked the skirt to land at his feet, and stood there in turquoise lace bikini
panties and a matching push-up bra.

  Her pussy throbbed with the need to prove him wrong. He wasn't anything but a good fuck. She couldn't let him be anything more. Believing that he was different from all the men who'd wanted her for sex, believing that anything about the way he made her feel cherished was real. .. Believing either one of those meant she wouldn't be able to tell him good-bye, to send him into the arms of the girls his daddy would be proud to have him date.

  She didn't want to deal with an empty bed and a broken heart. It was simply easier to believe everything bad than to believe anything good. Especially when bad had been a constant for her first nineteen years, the years she no longer counted, the years before her current life began. The years that would always keep her from having the relationship she wanted.

  How could she when that one horrible night would never go away?

  Her heart was pounding like a drum in her chest when she walked over to where he stood and dug into his pocket for the knife she knew he carried. She held his troubled and angry gaze as she pulled it out, made sure to drag her fingers along the length of his erection.

  And then she took one step back and flipped open the knife. She tested the tip of the blade with one finger before she pressed it to the scar in the hollow of her throat. "Do you want me to tell you about this scar?"

  "Don't," he growled, then cleared his throat. "Put the knife away."

  She widened her eyes. "You think I'm going to hurt myself? Oh, baby, I've been hurt too many times to even feel this." She dragged the flat of the blade down between her breasts, feeling nothing of the metal, feeling her own arousal, feeling the need to make Spencer understand. "And right now? The only thing I'm feeling is you."

  He pulled the brim of his ball cap lower, watched her play the knife over her body. "This isn't funny."

  "That's probably why no one is laughing." She drew the knife tip over the slope of one breast then the other. Her nipples were large and hard and visible beneath the sheer mesh cups of her bra—and all she could think about was what had happened to her that night.