Read addicted to you epub format

Authors: Bethany Kane

addicted to you

Table of Contents

 

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

 

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty -nine

Thirty

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

Copyright © 2011 by Bethany Kane.

 

All rights reserved.

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PRINTING HISTORY

Heat trade paperback edition / June 2011

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kane, Bethany.

Addicted to you / Bethany Kane.—Heat trade pbk. ed. p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-51540-2

I. Title.

PS3611.E79A65 2011

813'.6—dc22

2010036502

 

 

http://us.penguingroup.com

Acknowledgments

I’d like to acknowledge my agent, Laura Bradford, and my editor, Leis Pederson, for their continued support and encouragement. Thanks to Lea and Mary for the beta reads—your help is always invaluable. I especially want to send out a huge thank-you to my readers. I so appreciate you.

One

No one in their right mind would want to visit him, so the
sound of knocking at his front door took him by surprise.

Maybe it was Sherona Legion? But he’d warned the only viable candidate for visitation for miles on end—curvy, kind Sherona—about visiting him on this godforsaken hilltop. Who knew what he’d do to her, the state he’d put himself in? Of course, Sherona’d taken Rill at his word for a year and a half, so he couldn’t imagine who was trying to barge in on his drunken, morose solitude now.

He was so caught off guard by the phenomenon of someone visiting that he briefly reverted to his old self—his civilized self—hastening to answer the door.

He was a big man, so when he tripped on the useless little rug in the entryway, he crashed to the wood floor with the impact of an ax-felled oak.

He rolled over and sat up, curses blistering his tongue, the savage Rill Pierce once again fully in evidence.

“My, my. How the mighty have fallen,” she said from above him.

He glanced up in midprocess of ripping the frilly rug in half, his blurry-eyed gaze encountering long legs and curving hips. Nope, this was
definitely
not Sherona Legion. His eyes lingered in a lap he’d like to spend the next twenty-four hours in without pause.

He grinned.

There was good reason he’d warned away Sherona Legion. In his drunken state, his usual tight controls on his baser nature had evaporated. It was precisely why he’d made a vow long ago not to drink to excess around women.

No real woman existed like the one in front of him in Vulture’s Canyon, Illinois. Rill was left with the intoxicated conclusion that a sex angel had been dropped on his doorstep, and God had packaged her in a tight tank top and even tighter jeans. If there was a deity looking out for him—something Rill seriously doubted, considering he was sin personified—then said omniscient being would know how he loved nothing more than a woman in jeans that hugged every tight curve.

He unglued his eyes from the tempting juncture of shapely thighs and looked up. He grinned like the town idiot when he saw a glorious spill of brown and gold-streaked hair and thrusting breasts pressed snugly against white cotton.

“Well, well, well . . . what have we here,” he mumbled thickly. He reached and ran his hands over the back of the woman’s thighs. His cock lurched when he encountered her tightly encased buttocks.

He’d finally gotten drunk enough to hallucinate. He was getting
good
at this wastrel business.

“Rill, what are you—”

She abruptly stopped talking when he kneaded her two round ass cheeks in his palms. His face hovered next to paradise. It was amazing what a guy who had no future and who daily tried to forget his past might consider heaven, but there you had it. He closed his eyes and inhaled, catching the scent of cotton mixing with the subtle spice of woman.

No, it wasn’t just his whiskey-soaked brain. It wasn’t just the fact that he hadn’t inhaled the scent of pussy in his nose in a godawful long time. Drunken hallucination or not, his angel was sweet.

He kissed her with an open mouth at the bottom of her zipper.

She gasped.

“And here that doctor was preaching to me about rehab,” he mumbled. “You’re
just
what the doctor ordered—least you would be if I didn’t have a wanker with a rod up his ass takin’ care of me. Come ’ere.”

He spread his hands on her hips, liking the way he encompassed all those tight curves in his grip. He pulled. She fell onto his lap and thighs with a cock-tugging thud. He buried his face in fragrant hair and soft, firm breasts and nuzzled. Inhaling her scent was like breathing in a potent opiate. He could get lost in this unexplored territory—

Lost . . .

“Rill . . . what the hell are you doing?”

Did angels stun, because that was exactly how his sounded. He turned his head, drowning in the arousing sensation of wedging his face in the valley of delicious breasts.

“I’m enjoying my hallucination to its fullest,” he mumbled as his hands came up to cradle those firm breasts. He held her against his face and twisted his nose in a fleshy nirvana.

His angel snorted.

“You’re not hallucinating. You’re hammered. There’s a difference.”

She’d sounded derisive, but he’d heard the telling tremble in her voice when he pressed his lips against a distended nipple.

“One and the same, if you can get drunk enough,” he muttered.

He cupped one ass cheek and rode her jeans-covered pussy against the ridge of his cock. She inhaled sharply and froze. He knew why. A powerful jolt of lust had torn through him as well. He’d thought his cock had been tamed with a combination of whiskey and his own hand for the past eighteen months, but he’d thought wrong.

It had just awakened, and not with a whimper but with a bang. In a matter of seconds he’d been transformed by the power of volatile need.

His thumb stroked the peak of a breast. He grunted appreciatively when he felt the button tighten. He wasn’t surprised she wore such a flimsy bra. She was supposed to be his fantasy, after all, and Lord knew he preferred women wearing very little, if anything, over their breasts. At least in the privacy of his mind that was his preference. In real life, he’d prefer they covered up and kept the beast in him from rearing its head.

Drunken delirium or not, he was going to love every minute of letting the beast out of its cage. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and he’d be plunged into the abyss once again. But that moment wasn’t now, thanks to this hallucinatory, blessed angel. He moved his head and slipped a stiffened nipple between his grinning lips. His smile faded at the sensation of turgid flesh against his laving tongue.

“You’re stiff as a bullet,” he muttered a moment later. He wanted that flesh served up raw on his tongue. Nevertheless, he forced himself to still, his nose pressed against supple, fragrant flesh. “Do you want me to do this more?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to stop, or do you want me to see to the other one?” he clarified in a tight voice.

Her breathy whisper felt like a caress along his cock. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He moved hastily.

“Rill!” she cried out when he suddenly shoved her tank top over her head. She sputtered against cloth, and he jerked the garment off her. He whisked aside the flimsy satin of her white bra, unveiling bountiful pale flesh capped by a fat, erect nipple. He paused, recognizing true beauty even with the feeble tool of his whiskeypickled brain.

“Aw, baby,” he whispered. His cock throbbed hard enough to make him wince when he saw how his whisking breath made her nipple peak beneath it. “You’re so pretty.”

Something between a whimper and a moan leaked out of her throat when he wrapped his lips around her nipple. His tongue moved like the fingertips of a blind man reading the secrets of the universe in Braille. He learned every tiny bump with fascination. He coaxed the center nubbin until it pressed like a hard little dart against his laving tongue.

When he drew on her, it was as if he had also drawn that sexy, surprised cry from her lungs. Power and lust stabbed at him. Heat rushed into his prick, and he once again rocked her against his straining erection. Her ass cheek filled his palm. He was inundated with the scents of sex and flowers and the sensation of ripe, soft flesh. Heat penetrated her clothing and his own, resonating from her pussy to his cock.

He ground her down on him and rotated his hips, grunting when she gyrated against him in return.

Arousal reared up, a beast about to pounce. The feeling was so powerful, it sobered him for a very brief moment. He’d long ago schooled himself against the charms of nubile flesh and inviting smiles. Lord knew he’d been offered more of that fare than a normal man.

Rill hadn’t been a normal man, though. He’d made a point of that.

He blinked and a dark pink nipple came into focus. It was a rose-tipped delicacy, glistening wetly atop soft curves of mouthwatering flesh. A snarl shaped his lips. A need to mate, hard and fast, swelled dangerously in his blood. He leaned down and latched onto the nipple. Distantly, he recalled her other sweet breast, and he couldn’t resist the temptation.

Her fingers clawed into his hair when he shoved aside her bra and sucked on her other nipple.

“You let your hair grow,” he heard her say through his haze of greedy lust.

He continued to feast on firm, responsive flesh. Did she know him? Was that how she knew that he’d shaved his head for the past couple years? He doubted it. As a film director—an
ex
-director—plenty of people had seen him on television and in entertainment magazines.

Besides, if he’d ever come face-to-face with a woman like this, he would have remembered. She was too sweet to be real. She melted on his tongue. He drowned in her scent and flavor. His balls pinched tight. He reluctantly withdrew his mouth from her breast.

The necessity for haste jolted through him like an electrical shock. He jerked up his hips and she fell off him, long hair spilling over her face.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he mumbled as he rolled on his hip and came up on his hands and knees. When he got there, he paused for a few seconds, willing his world to stop spinning.

“Rill . . . are you all right?”

“No worries,” he mumbled as he slowly, carefully stood, putting his hands out for a balance as though he were on a lurching ship. “I may be shit-faced as an Irish sailor on payday, but I’m in fine fucking form.”

“Charming,” he heard her say dryly when he grabbed his cock through his jeans and grimaced. He could tell by the tone of her voice that his angel thought he was being crude, but in reality, he’d been trying to alleviate the stab of lust that went through it when he noticed her shapely legs encased in tight denim and supple, calflength leather boots.

His vision blurred as he held out his hand to her. She got up on her own, however, which indicated he’d hallucinated some brains along with all that firm, ripe beauty. Most likely, he would have stumbled and brought both of them down on the hard wood floor. She stood, her hair falling in a riot of waves and curls around her shoulders—a fucking glorious display. The tendrils reached her waist. He stretched his hand farther, longing to touch the burnished strands.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand firmly in her own instead. “I’m taking you to bed.”

“Now you’re talking,” he agreed with drunken earnestness. He staggered after her down the hallway to his bedroom, his eyes glued to the beguiling curve that led from her waist to her hip. He couldn’t wait to peel those jeans off and expose the rest of that golden apricot-hued, juicy flesh.

In his drunken state, fantasy and reality melded. One second, he’d been in the hallway leching over his angel’s ass, and the next, he was in the bedroom pulling her back in his arms and nibbling at her neck, the fragrance of her hair and skin deepening his intoxication. He bent and pressed her ass against his erection. She squirmed.

“Rill Pierce, behave.”

Instead of stopping, his mouth grew hungrier on her neck. He felt the vibrations of her soft, helpless moan against his lips.

“You don’t want me to behave,” he growled against her ear before he pressed his mouth to her neck. She shivered in his arms. He could feel her pulse, throbbing quick and strong beneath his lips. “Your heart is racing.”

“That’s because I’m trying to throw a six-foot-three drunk Irishman off me,” she said acerbically. But he heard the tremor in her voice; he knew what it meant. And, no—it wasn’t drunken wishful thinking, either. She’d slowed her wriggling in his embrace. She molded against him like she couldn’t stop herself from feeling his shape.

He opened his hand at her lower belly, his third and fourth fingers spreading down to her mons. He liked how much of her compact body he could encompass with his hand. His actions didn’t strike him as forward or inappropriate, only right and natural—soft woman against hard man. He pulled her closer, holding her hips captive.

She went completely still in his arms.

“I may be drunk, but I’m not an idiot. Don’t tell me you don’t feel that,” he said gruffly, referring to the palpable heat that emanated from both of their groins, daring her to deny the obvious. His voice had gone hoarse with acute desire. Something about her scent and the feeling of her satiny, warm skin beneath his hand was turning him into a horny satyr. Sure, her body was a fine piece of equipment, but he’d thrived in a profession where breathtaking women abounded. It wasn’t her soft skin and lush curves that were making him crazy.

Or at least it wasn’t
just
that.

“I don’t think . . .”

“Stop thinking. Just feel,” he entreated in a whisper next to her ear. “That’s what I’m doing, and I haven’t let myself feel much of anything for two years now. Have pity, beautiful.”

If he didn’t feel her wet, sleek flesh surrounding his cock very soon, he suddenly doubted for his sanity. Not that doubting his sanity wasn’t a daily occurrence these days, but on this occasion, the possibility of losing his mind felt frighteningly close.

He placed one hand on her chin and pushed it gently, urging her to twist her face toward him. He plucked at her lips. Even though she didn’t kiss him back immediately, she didn’t turn away, either. He closed his eyes and nibbled at her. It was like trying to coax a flower to open for him. Rill loved the art of kissing—at least, he did when he wasn’t shit-faced with his cock ready to burst.

He reined in his lust, willing her to respond as he shaped their mouths together tenderly, and then with increasing fervor as the sensation of her pervaded his awareness. His brain may be taking a bath in alcohol, but he recognized her premium flavor nonetheless.

Something swooped up from his chest to his neck until it tightened like a clawed hand on his throat. It took him a second to recognize the sensation as blinding need.

“Open up, baby,” he growled. “I’ve waited for this for so damn long.”

When her lips parted, he swept down on her, drinking her nectar thirstily, letting her taste course through his blood and flesh, allowing it to drown out his memories by a means exponentially more effective than whiskey.

She made a sound in her throat that he couldn’t completely identify when he began to unfasten her jeans with fingers that had grown fleet from an onrush of distilled lust. Had it been surprise he’d heard in her tone? Arousal?

Or uncertainty?

He didn’t know, and he didn’t care.

He groaned gutturally as he kissed her—well, ravaged her mouth, in truth—while he shoved down her jeans and one hand rose to caress the smooth skin of her hip and ass. Lust raged in him at the evidence of all that sweet female flesh.

It’d been so long.

The way he felt, he might have been a sixteen-year-old boy first dribbling jeans off the girl of his wet dreams, not a thirty-six-year-old man who had known his share of fame and accolades, the touch and desire of many women, the love of a wife whom he’d failed, in the end . . .

. . . the black void of loss and self-doubt.

Rill was too familiar with all those things.

The flickering thought galvanized him. He shoved her panties down next to her clinging jeans, and then regretfully interrupted their kiss. She wasn’t so hesitant in her response now; she’d been kissing him back with a fervor and heat that nearly equaled his own, tangling her tongue with his, twisting her face farther over her shoulder to get a better angle on his penetration. He ducked his knees and dragged her jeans and panties down to her shins.

She cried out in surprise—or possibly distress—at his clumsy seduction. He was back to reassure her in a second, biting gently at her lips and then penetrating the warm, wet well of her mouth again. He wanted to kiss her forever.

He knew fucking her would prevent him from doing that.

He needed to do both.

When he heard her moan, deep and aroused, as she pressed her bare ass against a cock that was fit to pop, Rill found he couldn’t take any more. If he didn’t get inside this tempting creature, he was going to take a trip to the asylum sooner rather than later.

He continued to kiss her, his hunger mounting uncontrollably, as he tore at his button fly. He impatiently shoved his jeans and then his boxer briefs down over his thighs. He fisted his cock and broke their greedy kiss with a hissing sound.

“I’m gonna come right in my hand. I can’t take any more of this.”

He had a fleeting image of her delicate profile through tendrils of curling hair. Her lips parted in surprise. He placed one hand on her hip, rubbing her in a soothing motion. Despite what he’d said—despite the need for overwhelming haste—he remained unmoving for a moment, his gaze glued to the sight of a compact, round white ass with just a hint of a peach-tinted glow. He tested that flesh with one hand. Her skin was as soft as a flower petal, the flesh firm and succulent.

“Don’t make me wait,” he whispered, leaning over and nipping at an earlobe. “I want you so bad I think it’s cutting at me from inside out.”

He felt her hesitate, and for a split second, he knew misery.

But then she brushed her ass against his erection in a beckoning gesture. She bent at the waist.

“That’s right. You
are
an angel. Put your hands on the bed,” he said thickly as he moved behind her.

 

 

Who in their right mind named a town Vulture’s Canyon?
Katie
Hughes wondered as she peered out her front windshield at the forlorn-looking buildings that comprised downtown Vulture’s Canyon, Illinois. She’d seen quaint-looking downtowns circa the 1930s, both in her road trips around California and on Hollywood movie sets. But Vulture’s Canyon’s storefronts appeared much older. She stared at the Dyer Creek Trading Company as she passed and wondered if she’d gone through a time warp back to the 1800s. A humid September evening and the soft, hazy lavender fall of twilight only added to the surreal feeling. The sensation of being lost in time was so complete that she gave a little sigh of relief when she saw the door of the Legion Diner open and a teenage boy step onto the sidewalk wearing a rock band T-shirt, jeans and tennis shoes.

The kid gawked at her as she approached. Katie gave him a wave, sympathetic toward a young man’s admiration of sex on wheels. It was embarrassing to admit, but she’d had a similar adolescent longing when she’d bought the shiny black Maserati. Maybe she’d always treasure the feeling of the open road and a fast ride surging through her veins, but at least she’d learned a measure of shame over her crush on sleek, mechanized power. She was a thirty-year-old woman, after all, not one of this kid’s classmates.

Something squirmed inside her belly when she recalled the look of incredulity and vague disgust on the manager’s face when Katie had whipped into the parking lot of the soup kitchen to volunteer for service a few months back.

Note to self: don’t show up for philanthropic service in an expensive car; it reeks of self-disgust and the need to fill the empty hole of a useless life.

Katie shoved the depressing thought aside and smiled when the teenager dazedly waved back at her. She hit the brakes and waited while the kid walked toward the curb with a stride that was all long, scissoring legs and arms. She recognized his awkwardness and felt a rush of warmth toward him. She lowered the passengerside window.

“Hi,” she called. “I’m Katie.”

“Uh . . . hi,” he replied, his deep voice spiced with a slight twang. Southern Illinois was a whole different world from the northern part of the state. She saw him inspect her car, and then her, with brown eyes that looked curious, but also slightly alarmed, as though he thought she passed for normal, but hadn’t entirely discounted the possibility that an alien had just glided into Vulture’s Canyon in a Maserati.

“What’s your name?” Katie asked.

His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “Derek Legion.”

“Hey, Derek. Could you tell me where I might find Eagle Perch Road?”

“Yeah. Just keep going straight through town, pass Dyer Creek and take the first right you come to.” He crouched slightly to get a better look at her. “You’re not going up to the Mitchell house, are you?”

“Yeah, I am. You know Rill Pierce?”

Katie thought she read a hint of belligerence in the kid’s expression, making him look older than he had just seconds before. “I know who he is. He manages to come down the hill a couple of times a week. Sees to the necessities,” he added, glancing pointedly across the street. Katie turned her head and saw where the boy was looking: the Last Stop Tavern.

She straightened in the car seat. She wasn’t surprised at the boy’s subtle judgment of Rill, but it still made her uncomfortable nonetheless.

Rill had practically been adopted by the Hughes family since he’d come to southern California from Ireland to attend UCLA. That had been almost twenty years ago. People usually gravitated toward Rill. Grandmas adored him and little boys begged him to rugby-tackle them. He could make a female of any age marvel at the wonder of her womanhood as she experienced the delicious contrast of her own sexuality and Rill’s easy charm and rugged good looks.

Things must be even worse than she’d thought if Rill’s behavior in the small town could cause this nice-seeming kid to glower so darkly.

She thanked Derek, assuring him that Rill was a longtime friend when he asked her if she was
sure
she should go up to the Mitchell place alone.

Twenty minutes later as she leaned over Rill’s mussed bed and stared blindly at the wall while his cock slowly carved into her flesh like a hot knife through melting butter, Katie distantly realized she should have heeded the boy’s warning.

Two

I’ve waited for this for so damn long.

Katie’d still had the capacity to refuse Rill until he’d muttered those words. Forget that what he’d said was probably forgotten in his whiskey-addled brain the second after he’d said it. Never mind that she was nothing more to him in those seconds than a willing female who would ease his pain, if only for a few short moments.

He’d spoken
her
wish as if it were his own.

It wasn’t his wish, of course. If an angel had, indeed, dropped on his doorstep and offered him one wish, Katie knew what he’d wish for, and it wasn’t her. His cock had just been doing the talking for him tonight. Since his wife, Eden, had died, Rill had existed in almost constant torment. Katie found that she had no interest in denying him a few moments of pleasure and forgetfulness.

Not that her acquiescence was completely altruistic.

She shook with excitement as she leaned over that bed. Rill may not know her from a fantasy conjured up in his drunk mind, but Katie was stone-cold sober. She gave her desire to him in the same way she would offer him a bandage if he’d come to her bleeding.

She stood with her rear end in the air, her hands on Rill’s mattress. The thick head of his cock probed her entry. The scent of him rushed into her nose: a hint of spicy soap, the lingering salt of his sweat . . . the musk of his come.

It should have turned her off, to know that the man of her fantasies hadn’t washed his sheets in weeks . . . maybe longer. She was typically fastidious about her boyfriend’s hygiene. What if Rill’d had sex with a parade of faceless females in this bed before that moment?

But it was Rill, and instead of allowing the thought to dissuade her, she spread her thighs an inch and sent her tailbone higher.

She bit her lower lip to suppress a cry when his cock sank several inches into her pussy. It was like harboring the
Titanic
in that narrow, burbling creek she’d passed on her way up the hill.

When he made a sound that was a mixture of choke and grunt, she exhaled shakily. The cry she’d trapped in her throat leaked out against her will.

“Shhhh,” he soothed. “Your pussy is as tight as the rest o’ you.”

She clamped her eyelids closed at the sound of his Irish accent. It always became thicker when he drank, not that Rill had ever been a big drinker before Eden died.

It was surreal to hear his familiar voice saying something so intimate . . . so
illicit.

Emotion and pounding sensation overwhelmed her as he stroked her hip and ass soothingly with one hand in the type of gesture she fully identified with Rill. The fact that he held her other hip firm and steady while he worked his cock into her struck her as both bizarre and wildly arousing.

He began to pump, gentle but insistent.

“God must save pussies like this for dying men.”

She jerked up, stopping only when he grunted and prevented her from moving farther with both hands at her hips.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she demanded over her shoulder.

He thrust and his cock drove into her body. Katie gasped. Her hands dropped once again to the bed, bracing herself instinctively for the coming storm.

“Just being overly dramatic. It’s why I never could have been an actor,” he said in a choked voice. He withdrew and plunged into her to the hilt.

“Oh
God
,” Katie moaned. His cock was harbored deep, deep inside her. Did drunk men get this hard? He was hot, too. Was he feverish? She swore she could feel his heartbeat throbbing at the very core of her.

“All right?” he asked. She blinked. His voice had sounded very Rill-like all of a sudden, concerned and gentle.

She didn’t have the ability to speak with his cock lodged so deep in her person, so she just nodded.

He began to fuck her. Her vocal cords froze. He stroked her hip with one hand as though in reassurance, but the rest of his possession was purely primal.

“Aw, you’ve got a cunt so tight you’re gonna squeeze the life out of me, every . . . last . . . drop,” he mumbled, pumping his hips to emphasize his words. Katie’s mouth gaped open as sensation overwhelmed her. Rill was as lustily loud in the midst of his pleasure as she was silent. The deep, throaty sounds of his groans as he thrust in and out of her filled her ears; he grunted in satisfaction each time his balls slapped against her ass.

Katie would have loved to show Rill Pierce that she was an experienced, sexy woman. But she couldn’t do much of anything at that moment but allow pleasure to slam into her, each successive wave more powerful than the last. She’d never been filled in the way Rill filled her. He ducked his hips slightly when he pumped into her, straightening slightly when he withdrew, creating an extra jab of stimulation that had her clit sizzling.

Previously, Katie had jadedly believed that the G-spot was an urban legend perpetuated by
Cosmopolitan
magazine.

Rill taught her different.

He spoke to her while he fucked her, and what he said had Katie rolling her eyes back in her head in mounting arousal. Sure, Rill’s films were known for raw language. The knowledge that he actually
talked
like that at times was just as eye-opening as the rest of this unexpected experience.

He held her hips tighter and lifted. Katie squealed when her boots came slightly off the floor. Her hands faltered on the mattress, but she caught her weight on her elbows. Both of them shouted when he plunged his cock into her at the new angle.

“Oh,”
Katie yelped.

“Aw, yeah, that’s good,” Rill growled as he withdrew until just the head of his cock was lodged in her pussy. Katie gritted her teeth, knowing what was coming. He held her hips captive in his hands and pounded his cock into her from head to balls. She squealed at the impact of him massaging that magical spot deep inside her. Orgasm loomed. He held her lower body at his mercy and slammed into her with rapid, shallow thrusts.

Katie pressed her cheek to the mattress and shuddered in climax. Through her haze of swamping pleasure, she distantly heard Rill.

“You’re so fucking
hot
,” he gasped, pausing with his cock fully sheathed. He grunted in pleasure, and Katie knew he felt her orgasmic convulsions. His low growl sounded a little dangerous.

She shrieked when he resumed fucking her, fast and furious. Within seconds, she felt his cock swell, the sensation sending a powerful shiver of ecstasy to ripple through her flesh. He thrust into her one last time, the strike of their perspiration-damp skin sounding like the sharp pop of a firecracker.

Katie opened her eyes wide. Rill placed her feet back on the floor. She felt his body going rigid as orgasm blasted into him. His strangled grunt morphed into a pressured shout. His penis jerked inside her. She grimaced, her vagina instinctively clamping around him as he came. His muscles tightened and loosened again and again as he climaxed.

When his convulsions lessened, he leaned over her, his jagged pants blending with her soughing breath.

“Sweet Jaysus,” he groaned almost incoherently.


He’s
got nothing to do with it,” Katie mumbled. When he’d spoken, she’d felt the warm vapor of his breath on the back of her shoulder. She glanced back when he began to move his mouth as he panted, caressing her with his lips. Her pussy tightened around him again. He groaned against her shoulder blade. The sensation of his cock lurching deep inside her—and the resulting surge of heat in her pussy—brought reality crashing in on Katie.

“Rill?”

“Yah?” he mumbled as she shifted his hips slightly, stroking her with his sated penis.

“That’s enough.”

“Who says?” he slurred against her shoulder.


I
did,” she emphasized. The beginnings of panic began to flutter in her belly. She pushed up off the bed. Rill grunted when she attempted to push his weight off her. He straightened and his stillformidable cock slid out of her body.

“Spoilsport,” he accused. Katie stood and nearly fell on her face as she tried to turn. She cursed and bent to reach for the panties and jeans binding her shins. She straightened a moment later, spitting her long hair out of her face, and paused.

Rill had already fallen into bed. He lay on his back, his head on the pillows, torso twisted, and his feet hanging off the mattress. His eyes were closed, but Katie noticed how pale he looked beneath the shadow of his dark whiskers.

“Rill . . . are you going to be sick?”

“Course not. What’d you think I am? An amateur?”

Her mind flashed back to just moments ago when pleasure had splintered through her flesh. One thing was for certain: Rill Pierce was no amateur at making love. Even in his drunken state, he’d been utterly in control . . . masterful. Katie steeled herself against the powerful memory.

“I think you’re going to be sick, that’s what I think.”

His arm dropped from where it’d been resting on the pillow. His muscles went lax.

“Always the doubter, eh, Katie?” he mumbled, his accent so thick she’d barely understood him. He nestled his cheek into the pillow and passed out.

She went very still at the sound of her name on his tongue. It’d been the first time he’d acknowledged her all evening. Had he known her all along? she thought incredulously. She instantly vetoed that idea. It was just the casual camaraderie of their conversation there at the end, their typical taunt and tease that had made him think of her—Katie Hughes—before he’d passed out.

Before that, she’d just been a warm, willing body—a role Rill never identified with his best friend Everett’s little sister . . . or with his wife’s best friend.

For a few seconds she just stood there, undecided about what to do. She was paralyzed by her disbelief of what she’d just done. She’d just had sex with her best friend’s husband. It didn’t matter that Eden had died. Years of conditioning herself to a neutral role, of holding back when it came to Rill, suddenly struck her in a forceful rush. She’d been on a mission of friendship, and within a matter of several minutes, her entire world had changed.

If she got in her car and drove away, chances were he’d never remember she’d been there. The idea tempted her.

You came here for Rill
, another part of her brain scolded. Just because she’d screwed things up by giving in to an infatuation that had lasted since she was teenager didn’t give her the excuse for fleeing the scene of the crime. Not when Rill needed help.

Not when Rill required saving.

She bit her lower lip, her gaze roaming over Rill’s body and lingering on his groin. His cock was moist and softening, but still firm and beautifully shaped. Her pussy tightened with desire. Her cheeks heated.