At His Mercy Read Free

his
fingers, his cheek against hers, his thighs tangled with the fabric
of her skirt.
    One song became another and the hour
grew late. Late enough that the thermostat kicked to its overnight
settings. The ceiling fans, timed to follow, spun to a stop. The
air stilled. Their body heat rose.
    Perspiration dampened her neck and
chest, and he breathed deeply of the arousal that bloomed on her
skin. He hardened, his breathing rough, his pulse
ragged.
    She shifted slightly, her hip nudging
toward his fly, noticing his length. Lingering. "Can I ask you a
question?"
    The music’s bluesy bass notes thrummed
along the surface of his skin. "Of course."
    "I’m curious about something you said.
I just don’t want to cross any lines."
    "Something tells me that’s not going to
be a problem."
    "What did you mean by keeping it simple
while in Mississippi?"
    He weighed a full confession of his
sins against a simpler answer and gave her the latter. "It’s a
small town. Seemed a good move not to get sleep with the
clientele."
    "But a dance with a stranger passing
through is a good one?"
    "Feels damn good to me," he said, his
hand sliding down her back to her ass. She slowed, stopped, and he
bit back a curse for rushing her. He’d obviously misread her
signals. It had been a long time. He was out of practice. He’d been
known to get things wrong—
    "No," she told him. "Stay." Both hands
on his shoulders, she raised her gaze to his and brought her mouth
close as she whispered, "Stay."

Chapter Three
     
    His eyes glittered darkly. His hand on
her backside burned. His desire rose to surround her, a column of
palpable lust and heat, consuming. She didn’t know him. She didn’t
care. Tomorrow she’d be gone.
    Tonight, only one thing existed.
"Stay."
    He lowered his hand, cupped her, his
fingers close to the crevice separating her cheeks. "You draw the
line. I’ll step back."
    Her heart in her throat, she nodded and
once again begged him near, the music soft but urgent. Donovan.
Nova. He smelled of a day’s work, the skin of his neck damp, and
salty when she tasted him, not a kiss but with the touch of her
tongue.
    A sound throttled low in his chest. She
felt it, heard it. Beneath her silk tank, her nipples tightened,
and the sound came again, involuntarily, making them painfully
taut.
    He wanted her, and in that most basic
of ways. No manipulation. No games. His body. Her body. Oh, how
she’d missed this honesty. Sex for pleasure, not offered as a
reward, or withheld as punishment.
    She slipped her leg between his,
pressed her hip to his groin and learned the thickness of him. He
said nothing, but nuzzled his face to hers, his jaw hard, the
stubble of his beard a scraping reminder of their differences and
shooting sparks from her nape to the base of her spine.
    She sighed.
    "A good sound, I hope?" His voice
rumbled, intense and deep.
    She thought she might come from no more
than this. "You have no idea."
    "Oh, I think I do," he said, the press
of his erection to her hip reminding her.
    "Yeah." Her skin was on fire. "It’s
that kind of good."
    "I can make it a whole lot
better."
    She wanted better. She wanted more. She
wanted everything. He was in her head already, tempting her,
teasing her, and her panties were damp with the wait.
    Aching, she splayed one hand between
his shoulder blades, skated the fingertips of the other in the
hollow of his throat, taking measure of his pulse and his sweat. He
swallowed, and she moved to his buttons, slowly freeing them from
their holes, baring him in inches.
    The parking lot lights showed her the
definition of his collarbone, his pecs, the discs of his nipples,
the dark hair he clipped close. He was beautiful, big and built,
and the idea of being taken by him left her breathless.
    Sounds of a soft guitar washed over
them, and Nova guided her across the floor, one step, another, both
of his hands now lifting her to him. They moved as if one being,
wrapped together in this wildly inappropriate