Give It All (15 page)

“This is all such bullshit,” Duncan sighed, knowing he was giving his emotions away but feeling too much to keep it all inside without risking an attack. “And since you’ve cost me my job and threatened my very professional viability, I’ve half a mind to go and find those miserable bones myself—give you all something actually deserving of all this squandered energy.
The longer this ridiculous investigation shuffles along, the more time I spend trapped in this town, surrounded by angry, uninformed idiots who believe me complicit.”

Flores glanced up at that. “Have you been harassed?”

Duncan froze, realizing what the truth could very well invite. He didn’t relish the animosity he might encounter around town, but if he felt this upended and powerless now, he wasn’t about to discover what outright isolation in protective custody would do to his mental health.

“Not harassed, no.”
Threatened.
“I just want this resolved, same as everyone else. And I won’t stoop to the cliché of reminding you my tax dollars pay your salary.”

“I’m sure you won’t.” Flores smiled. “I think we both know I’m not the bad guy here.”

“Then why do I want—” Duncan stopped, reminding himself he was being recorded, and that sharing his desire to strangle a federal agent would be a terrifically foolish slip of his judgment. “Are you done with me?”

“For now, yes.”

Duncan gave Flores his personal accountant’s contact information and filled out some forms, and was dismissed. It wasn’t until he stepped out into the BCSD’s front lot that he registered precisely how
angry
he was. It was the powerlessness, of course. The sensation of being bullied and jerked around.

His hands shook around the steering wheel as he drove down Railroad Ave. He took a left on Station and pulled up in front of the drugstore. A gang of surly-looking teenagers parted as he strode for the entrance, their chatter going quiet at whatever evidence of Duncan’s emotions was emblazoned across his face.

One, eyeing his clothes, had the balls to singsong a quiet “Faggot” as Duncan passed.

The comment didn’t offend him, but the situation flashed him sharply back to his childhood. Thirty-eight years old, and still getting mocked by a gang of nascent thugs. He was grown now, but the rage inside him had been fermenting for decades. Duncan turned on his heel and jabbed the kid square in the chest, sending him back a pace, and looming to underline precisely how many inches he had on the brat.

“Fuck yourself, you redneck little shit.”

The teenager went still, eyes widening, but Duncan heard
their voices rising again as he disappeared inside. He didn’t care. He strode down the center aisle and grabbed a bottle of Advil, marched to the counter, and paid in cash. Back outside, no retaliation awaited him; the teenagers had disappeared. But when he got to his car, he stopped dead in his tracks. His hood ornament was gone, the neat little silver Mercedes emblem snapped clean off. He could’ve had his own face slashed and felt precisely this violated. Duncan stared at the wound, the world blazing bloodred.

He cocked his chin skyward and bellowed, “Fuck this town!”

Duncan climbed behind the wheel of his vandalized, shit-splattered, amputated car and drove back to the bar chewing three Advils. Fuck the paint job. It could wait. He slammed his door and rang the bell beside the rear entrance, listening to distant steps until Raina appeared.

“Better find you some keys. How did it—”

“Get upstairs.”

Her eyebrows rose, gaze dropping to the rattling bottle in his hand, and Duncan brushed past and marched up the steps ahead of her.

“Did it not go well?”

“We’re not talking about it,” he called over his shoulder. They weren’t talking, period. No more thinking, no more of anything rational. There was no logic to be had in this town, no respect, no fairness. No measure of any of the things Duncan valued, just sloppy human impulse.

And he could stoop to that right about now.

Raina followed him into the kitchen and shut the door. Duncan eyed her, his gaze surely flinging sparks. She’d showered; her hair was wet, face bare, and she’d dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, boots on her feet as though she’d planned to go out. He’d be ruining those plans now. Moving on pure instinct, he found his fingers in her damp hair, tasted coffee on her lips. Felt her gasp at the ferocity of his mouth, and felt eager fingers digging into his back. Felt twenty fucking feet tall. Felt
right
, slipping into this aggressive, reckless man’s skin.

She said, “You taste weird.”

“It’s Advil.” And that ended that discussion.

Duncan didn’t fuck before the third date, as a rule. But the
rules didn’t apply here. They hadn’t had a single date, and neither seemed as though they desired to change that. Yet she’d watched him come apart this week . . . watched him lose his job and identity and, in moments, his very sanity. She’d bypassed nudity and seen straight
through
him.

So fuck rules. Fuck dates. Fuck the fact that they made absolutely no sense together, because for once, sex wasn’t an audition to Duncan. Before now, it had been another test to pass, to see if he and whatever woman he’d started dating were compatible enough to carry on toward something serious. He and Raina were compatible in precisely this one way, and infatuation was the flimsiest twig to hang a relationship on. They’d never be anything real, but this . . . this was inevitable. This was nature. And this was the first time Duncan had ever pursued what he suspected his soon-to-be lover was an expert at: sex for the sake of sex. Not as a means to predict the viability of a coupling. Just
fucking
, because each person’s craving for the other was so strong it drove them both mad. So strong it felt he’d need to break something if he didn’t get to feel his cock inside her.

There was anger in him as well—toward his circumstances, but toward her, too. Anger to feel so known, and exposed. He wanted to take it out on her in the crudest ways. She had to taste it in his spit, feel the heat of his need pulsing from his skin.

Between deep strokes of his tongue, she asked, “This finally happening?”

He turned her by the waist, pushed her up against the kitchen wall. Her knee rose to hug his hip and he gave what the gesture asked for—the hard crush of his excitement against hers. “This is happening.”

He cupped the back of her head and ground their bodies together so hard he felt the wallpaper grating his knuckles. The next moment he grabbed her ass in both hands and hauled her up. When her legs locked around his waist, he carried her to the kitchen table. A pepper grinder toppled and rolled to the floor; papers crinkled. Raina was working at his buttons as he yanked her tee up, and she raised her arms and let him peel her bare. Her bra was sheer plum lace, perfection against her tan skin. They got his vest and shirt open together and he stripped them as though they were aflame. He was dying to feel the air and sun on his skin, dying for her eyes on him. Her hands on
him. Everything. He did nothing in half measures, so he let this exposure, this
surrender
, strip him bare.

Her boots were next. He tugged each free and let them hit the floor. “Christ,” he muttered. “You really can’t just wear a bloody skirt, can you?”

“Work for it, Duncan.”

He jerked at her belt, and once it was open, she lay back and he peeled those jeans down her long legs, slow. Everything slow, suddenly. Her panties didn’t match her bra. Not at all. A black-and-white polka-dot thong. No matter. He stripped that little scrap of cotton as well, and went still, studying her. So still he felt his heartbeat swaying his body. He could see nearly all of her.

“Get your bra off.”

She did, now naked before him on her cluttered table. A feast. He memorized everything. All the contrasts: her tan lines; her dark nipples; the black, soft hair between her legs; the flushed pink of her sex. As he ran his hand down her shoulder and arm, he committed that contrast to memory as well—pale against tan, a man’s groomed hand brushing over a wild woman’s tattoo. She leaned in close, fingers seeking his belt. Duncan shut his eyes, savoring the tug-and-give as she freed the buckle. Last night he’d needed control, but he was beyond that now. He needed violence—that intimate melee called sex.

She had to see him already, the hard outline of his cock through the fine wool. The heel of her hand brushed his erection as she worked at the clasps, then the zipper. He moaned when the restriction eased, sucked a harsh breath as she pushed his pants low on his hips. He tucked his thumbs under his waistband and exposed himself. “Stroke me.”

She braced one arm behind her and clasped his aching flesh in her warm hand. His eyes squeezed tight as a noise of pain and relief fled his lips. He’d been burning for this since last night on the couch,
hurting
for it, needing it so badly the pleasure rivaled torture. Her pulls were long and hungry, making him feel bigger than he ever had felt. “Yes.”

He let himself watch, not caring if it was tacky. His cock looked thick in her fist, flushed dark and gleaming at the crown, obscene in the bright daylight. Thrilling. “Good.” Her sex was blocked by the motions, just a tempting, dark shadow beyond her pumping fist.

She murmured, “You’re more than I expected.” And the
statement excited him more than he’d have guessed. Too many men viewed endowment as a personal achievement, but Duncan valued only what could be earned. It was a compliment fit for a more primitive, simple man than he, and yet the praise had him panting.

“What else have you been expecting?” he asked.

“That I’d be the rough one. But I don’t trust any of my assumptions about you anymore.”

He smiled. “As you shouldn’t.”

“My jeans,” she said, releasing him. “Back pocket.”

His brain was foggy and slow, and she waved at the floor, at her pants. He stooped, cock screaming from neglect as he found her wallet. The leather was still warm from her body, and he didn’t have to look hard to find what she wanted—the condom, and each of its predecessors, had branded a circle into the hide. He fished it out, held it up. “You realize that as storage systems go, a wallet—”

“It’s fucking fine. Put it on.”

Point taken. He opened the packet, slid cool latex down his pounding flesh. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her forward, right to the edge of the table.

“Slow,” she said.

“You’re bossy,” Duncan murmured, and brought his head to her swollen lips. “You know that?”

“Just you wait.” But she was breathless, attention nailed right where his was, at his hurting, hard excitement sinking into her.

He moaned. “Fuck.”

No sooner had he slid deep than her hands were tugging at his hips. He eased out slowly, rapt at the sight. She held his face, pressed their foreheads together, and they watched.

She whispered, “Faster.”

“In good time.” For now he wanted only to savor every second of this, of his cock gliding in and out, again and again. She was everything he’d been panting for—lush and hot and slick, a dozen testimonies to the truth that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. He had worries, gnawing, gnashing ones, but just now, locked in this bright, hot moment with this woman, he couldn’t recall what they might be. There was nothing beyond their two bodies, two voices, two pairs of greedy eyes.

She stroked his belly and chest, making a study of the shapes his obsessive diet and exercise routine had built. No
great bulk, but no excess, either. Every aspect of his person had been molded around a philosophy of efficiency and performance, until so very recently. Everything about him—his clothes, his body, his grooming, his possessions—spoke of the balance between discipline and luxury. Everything one could see, that is. Everything outside his broken mind, his private rituals, his pathetic memories.

He took her deep and slow with exaggerated rolls of his hips, savoring the contrasts—cool air against his fevered body, her darker coloring meeting his pale skin and the lighter hair that framed his cock.

“Jesus,” she murmured, gaze hungry. “You are fucking hot.”

The words sizzled like a brand, and had him granting her request, hips racing.

She pushed his shirt from his shoulders, eyes darting.

He was inside her warm body, smelling her excitement, hearing her hot exhalations at his throat, fucking her in her kitchen. But he wanted more. Wanted to be in her bed, on her covers. Wanted the memory of this burned there, so hot she’d never climb between those sheets without thinking of him.

He grabbed her ass and hauled her against him, her strong legs wrapping tight around his waist once more. He walked them awkwardly, hurriedly to her room, clutching his trousers to his thigh with one hand. Once she fell back against the covers, he left her warmth long enough to strip his shirt and kick away his pants and shorts. She was grabbing at him before he even got his knees spread between her legs, tugging at his arms and shoulders and the back of his neck. She wanted him with such an open, nearly
brutal
physicality it sent a shock of pleasure through his body.
Wanted
was a loaded sensation to Duncan. An unmet need so fierce he’d long ago quit allowing himself to register it, preferring the numbness of living without to the sting of the yearning.

Everything she roused in him . . . everything hot, and aggressive, and out of control . . . everything he worked so hard never to let himself feel. It wanted out. And with his armor rusted to red powder, he had no choice but to obey. Had to give his cock what it was screaming for, and to hell with his tiresome persona.

He grasped her wrist. Blood pounded through him, his cock aching. He grabbed her other wrist and forced her hands up above her head. His hips sped, and hers seemed to fight them,
wrists twisting in his grip, everything about the sex suddenly darker, rougher, raw—

She jerked her arm, hard, and struck him square in the eye with her elbow.

Duncan shouted. He froze. He clapped his palm to his eye and gaped at her with the other. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t
ever
hold me down.”

His heart and cock and injury were all throbbing, pulsing. “You could have bloody told me ‘Stop.’”

“Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t, if that’s the result. Christ.” He let his hand drop, blinked to make sure he could still see. He started to leave the bed, but she grabbed him by the shoulders.

“I didn’t say to stop fucking me.”

“I read between the lines.”

“Keep going.”

And too hard and hurting to overthink it all, he gave her what she wanted. What he wanted as well—rough, fast thrusts, his forearms tucked up tight against her ribs to mimic that feeling of restraint he’d so utterly buggered up a moment ago. He gave her all the aggression he craved as the pleasure built, let his hips punish and pin her as his hands weren’t allowed to. His needs would change, the closer he got to the edge, but for now, all he wanted was to own her.

She stroked his shoulders, his back, his ass. Curious fingertips found the pit just to the left of his spine, circling the deep scar.

Cooled by the contact, he said, “Turn over.”

She fumbled onto her hands and knees, and he sank back in, deep. His grip on her hips was tight, probably too tight, but her moans didn’t protest. He took her hard, reveling in the control he felt. He told her with his body which of them was older, stronger, bigger, male. He gathered her long hair in his fist and urged her head to turn. Urged her gaze to watch him, to remember this the way he was doomed to. Indelibly. For the rest of his life.

“Look at me.”

She did, lips parted, wordless. Awe in those dark eyes. He told her with this sex,
You’re mine.
True perhaps for these fleeting minutes alone, but no matter how long it might last, yes, she was his. The woman who’d brought this hounding hunger to his body, and the only one who could cure him of it. But not
before he heard those sounds again—the moans and gasps that had heated his throat as his hand had teased her until she quaked in his lap. He reached around, finding her curls, then the hard, swollen tip of her clit. She bucked, flooding him with smug satisfaction.

“Fuck, you feel good,” she said.

He took her deeper, quicker, stroking her in tight little circles. Her body was perfection, tattoos and all. A gorgeous hourglass, with muscles forming twin ridges along her spine, softer flesh at her hips echoing his thrusts. Strong. Feminine. Nothing like the willowy ideal he’d sketched for himself so long ago. Wild and crass. Shameless. How he’d ever go back to those civilized, icy women, when his life once again looked as it should . . .

Should.
What was happening now wasn’t what he
should
do, but funny how fucking incredible it felt.

“Don’t stop,” she said, the words halting from his impact.

His grip dented the delicious swell of her hip, fingers teasing as though he’d been pleasing her for ages this way. He couldn’t help feeling there was a
rightness
at work. And for once, fuck the control. There was nothing he wanted more than her eyes.

“On your back.”

“No. I’m close.”

He pulled out and slapped her hip, cock aching in the cool, dry air. “On your back.”