Page 9 of Ridin' Free
I could almost feel his fingers in my hair. His tongue in my mouth. His cock stretching me open. My sex clenched, the heat of desire pooling in my belly as I crawled my way out of sleep.
I gasped, drawing in a deep breath as I pried my eyes open and rolled onto my back, forcing myself fully awake.
One night with a real man.
One night with a Stallion.
Turned out—it only took one night to destroy the carefully constructed safeguards I’d built in my mind over the last twenty years. They’d been torn down and rebuilt, damaged and patched up many times—but this, this was different. This was my own fault.
Or maybe it was Twister living up to his road name.
What we did didn’t mean anything, but Twister would have been hard to forget on a normal day. Six-foot-two. Head full of soft, wavy hair. That thick beard and his many tattoos onlyhintingat the rebel he was.
If I’d have been sober, I would have been smarter.
If I’d have been sober, I would have told him no.
If you’d have been sober—you’d have missed out, taunted the devil within.
The men I fucked were usually strangers lacking any quality that might be even remotely interesting. They were compliant and eager. They were warm bodies easily forgotten.
Twister had relinquished control—mostly—but he was far from docile. More than anything, he was amused by me. I still remembered the laughter that made his dark eyes gleam. Yet, even sober, I wasn’t nearly as annoyed by the memory of it as I should have been.
It was going on four days, and in spite of the tequila which coaxed me into a deep sleep beside him in that bed, I couldn’t seem to forget a single detail from Saturday night.
I had more than enough experience shoving memories into the furthest, deepest, darkest corners of my mind. I’d learned some things couldn’t be forgotten, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be hidden. Though, life had been decent for a while now, and it seemed I was a little out of practice.
Or maybe it was the fact that Twister unlocked something I’d been hiding for years.
I nearly forgot how much I liked to be kissed.
I was twenty-four years old the last time a man’s mouth knew mine.
Even younger since I’d wanted to know his.
Before the memory of my monster’s face could slither out of its dark corner and into the forefront of my mind, I sat up, tossed aside my covers, and jumped out of bed.
It was one fucking kiss, Phoenix. Get the fuck over it.
I pulled off the hair tie wrapped around my wrist and piled my curly mane atop my head as I descended the stairs of my two-story home, headed for the kitchen. I had shit to do—including inventory at the bar before we opened.
First, my babies and I needed hydration.
I made myself a cup of coffee—black, with a drop of liquid stevia—then headed out the backdoor, slipping on my Birkenstock sandals as I went. No matter how out of sorts my brain got, I could always rediscover peace in my outdoor oasis.
The patio door opened up onto my simple wooden deck, big enough to house a small four-top table and two, cushioned, wooden lounge chairs. Not that I ever had any guests over. I merely preferred the symmetry. Built above the deck, extending off the house, was the Pergola—the lattice top complete with solar powered stringed lights.
The deck and the Pergola came with the house when I bought it.
The rest of the yard was my doing.
There was an extensive flowerbed, about four feet deep, which bordered the entire fence line. It was as chaotic as it was gorgeous, bursting with the colors of my favorite flowers. Lavender, daisies, dahlias, zinnias, columbines, marigolds, foxgloves, and snapdragons. There were also wildflowersscattered about, which added a bit of whimsy. In one corner, I had a blue hydrangea bush, which got a little bigger each year; and in the opposite corner were my pink roses.
With my coffee in one hand, I used my other to turn on the spigot on the side of my house, filling the hose I used to hand-water the garden. I took my time, walking slowly along the stone path I’d laid around the yard. I didn’t have much grass, but that was by design. I hated mowing and much preferred my floral escape.
By the time I watered the potted flowers lining the deck, my coffee mug was empty, and my head was mostly clear. With my first morning chore complete, I headed inside in order to get on with my day.
An hour later, I was dressed in a pair of cut-off denim shorts, an over-sized, black Nirvana tee I wore tucked in, and my Doc Marten’s. My hair was loose, my makeup had been applied, and I was securing my knife to my hip as I headed for the garage. I grabbed my keys and my purse from the hook I kept next to the door, then stepped out to climb into my ‘76 Ford Bronco.
