At His Mercy Read online

  "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 longing.

  Lise closed her eyes, let her head fall back on her shoulders and invited the sweeping escape of arousal. It coursed through her to pool in her core, stirring long buried dreams of the life she’d wanted, a husband, a lover. A love.

  Too late she realized the mistake of dredging up that loss.

  Nova had stopped. "You’re crying."

  "I’m not. Not really."

  He nudged a knuckled beneath her lashes. "You saying these are tears of joy? Because I don’t think my dancing skills are worthy."

  She laughed because it felt so good to do so, to know she’d done the right thing in moving on. She trailed the backs of her nails along his abs just above his belt buckle, asking, "What about your other skills?"

  "Outstanding, though a bit rusty. I’m eighteen months into that two year thing."

  "I wouldn’t want to be the cause of a broken vow."

  "It was a business decision. No oaths taken. No graves sworn on."

  "And you weren’t out to prove anything?"

  "If that had been the case, I’ve blown it by taking matters into my own hands."

  His hands on his cock. Gripping his shaft. Cupping his head. Stroking. Pumping. His face a tight mask as tension built. There was something so incredibly erotic about watching a man giving himself pleasure ...

  She ran the flat of her hand along his hard length and squeezed. "If you’re sure …"

  He thrust into her hold. "I should ask you the same. You stopped to change your tire. Not for this."

  That had been hours ago. Before she’d closed the door on the past that had brought her to this place. To him.

  What if her tire had hit a nail miles down the road? The thought that she might have missed out on this night … "How close are we to a wall?"

  He took three steps, pressed her against the smoothly varnished pine, brought his mouth down on hers and possessed her. He tasted of scotch, earthy and warm and intoxicating.

  His tongue was bold as it moved against hers without permission or manners. He took, and he gave, stroking, biting, his hands behind her gathering up the fabric of her skirt and exposing the backs of her thighs.

  Sensation bubbled through her and burst in a giddy laugh. This. Exactly this. The urgency. The potent pressing physical need. How had she existed so long without it?

  Her hands found their way to his waistband, and she tugged his shirt free. His belt buckle was next, then the buttons straining at his fly, then the elastic of his briefs, and he was in her hands, hot, full, slick on his tip. Hers.

  His own hands stopped, and he growled. "I can’t think with you doing that."

  "You need to think?"

  "It’s been awhile. Thinking’s the only thing keeping me on my feet."

  "Oh," she began, his words striking a thought. "Not having planned for this …"

  "I’ve got a condom."

  "Close?" she asked because the idea of waiting for him to fetch it …

  He breathed heavily against her neck. "I’ll have to let go of your skirt and I’m not sure I want to do that."

  "Let it go," she told him.

  He did, reaching into his pocket for the condom as she tugged the waistband over her hips and thighs, and shimmied. The garment fell to the floor.

  Nova looked down as he tugged his jeans to his knees, his fiery eyes taking in the strip of champagne lace that covered little. Then he blew out a breath, one heavy with appreciation and strained patience. "You're killing me here, Lise. Killing me."

  Again she reached for his shaft, her fingers sliding deeper to fondle his weighty balls, still deeper to the swollen ridge of flesh behind. Her gaze on his tortured face, she rubbed his cock's engorged head across her belly, tracing the line of her very damp panties. "Return the favor. Please."

  #

  Goddamn, but she was gorgeous, her hips and tits full, her legs long enough to wrap around him, her waist barely a match for the span of his hands.

  He wanted to take his time, to taste her, to pierce her with his tongue, to drive his cock into her mouth and watch her suck him dry. He wanted hours instead of the minutes they had.

  But she was spreading her legs, making room, tugging down on his cock and inviting him in. Then she reached for the hem of her top and pulled it over her head and off.

  There was even less to her bra than her panties, and the dark centers of her breasts, like cherries, left him unable to think. He dipped his head, slid his tongue between the fabric and her skin, and curled it around her nipple—all while rolling the condom the length of his shaft.

  A whimper escaped her lips, and she reached back to unfasten her bra. Yes, he wanted her naked, but more than that he wanted her bound.

  When the straps were halfway down her arms, he stopped her, twisting the garment like a rope around her wrists and pulling her arms above her head.

  She gasped, but she didn't struggle, and he held her gaze as he sent the length of a finger to part her lips slick with her pussy's moisture. "Damn but you're wet."

  Her ch
in came up. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

  "It is." He angled his hips and fisted his shaft, drawing the head the length of her slit. "The very best kind of bad."

  "I hope so."

  Her body relaxed, which surprised him. He hadn't realized how rigid she'd gone. "Say the word, Lise, and this stops. I'm not going to hurt you."

  A long moment passed, then she caught at her lip, her eyes going warm. "Not even if I want you to?"

  "As long as we're talking about the same kind of hurt …"

  She leaned in, bit his earlobe. "I don't want to be able to walk."

  "That I can manage," he said, his voice like sandpaper in his throat as he thrust his hips forward, his cock sinking deep.

  Tight. Sweet Christ, she was tight. Like a fist. Like a vise. Sweat broke out in the small of his back as he fought the urge to rut. This was good. So good. She was so good.

  He held her wrists pinned with one hand, gripped himself with the other and pressed his thumb against the top of her clit. "You like?"

  Her eyes were closed, her head back, her breasts lifted high by the position of her arms. She made a sound but said nothing.

  He took it as a yes and pulled back on her clit's hood, revealing the nerves for his touch.

  He toyed with her there, his cock filling her, motionless, and she tightened around him, a rhythmic, milking pulse of her muscles that turned his balls hockey puck hard.

  He'd been celibate for months, and his control was shot. He wasn't sure he had it in him to take this as far as he wanted. But that didn’t matter as much as making sure he took her where she needed to go.

  "I want you to come." He teased her clit with butterfly brushes of his thumb. Back and forth, hovering, skating over the knot.

  Her breathing grew labored, her skin sweaty. He leaned in and tongued the hollow of her throat.

  "Come for me." He said it against her skin, nipping her, marking her. Bruising. She tasted sweet and salty, and was warm where he tasted. Her neck, her chin, her collarbone.

  He pushed with his thumb, pulling her clit up, scraping with the edge of his nail. When she moaned, he caught the sound with his mouth, the vibration rising to buzz between their tongues.

  And that's when he let her go, looping her bound wrists around his neck and gripping her very fine ass. He lifted her against him, the base of his cock spreading her wide as he thrust.

  He was aching, filled to bursting. Having her had opened a vein and his control was bleeding away. He dug his fingers into her cheeks and pumped, bouncing her off the wall.

  "Look at me," he demanded, and she opened her eyes, held his gaze, parted her lips to breathe.

  "Now come," he ordered, and she raked her nails over his shoulders and did, contracting around him, crying out, her voice caught by the jazz riffs of the sax and carried high.

  He followed, his back arched, his seed spilling out in a hot rush that left him limp, spent, sated. Left him wondering how much of himself he'd just lost.

  And if the price had been too high.

  Chapter Four

  Lise pulled her SUV to a stop where indicated by the sign in front of the converted farm house. The Bed & Breakfast was charming and would no doubt be doubly so with more than the parking area's floodlight and that on the front porch by which to see.

  She hated arriving in the wee hours, but once she and Nova had gathered their clothes and dressed, he'd made the call as promised, and she was expected and welcome. Not that she'd be able to sleep after the events of the last few hours, but she was still in need of a tire and a place to stay until morning.

  A chime tinkled above the door when she pushed it open into a softly lit parlor that smelled of sugar cookies and clean hardwood floors. Old-fashion postal boxes hung on the wall behind the check-in desk.

  On a stool at the counter sat not the weathered farmer or plump farm wife she'd thought she'd find, but a teenage boy banging to whatever music blasted through his ear buds. He pulled them out when he saw her and gave a little wave.

  "Hey. Guess you're the one wanting a room."

  "Hi, yes. I'm Lise Kimball. I apologize for waking you."

  "You didn't." He opened a black ledger, spun it around, and shoved it toward her. "I was up. Late shift at Micky Ds in Purvis. I'm Wayne, by the way. Wayne Barrett."

  Smiling, she took the pen he handed her and signed in. "That makes me feel better."

  "It's all good. Folks'll be happy to have the night's board. You paying with a card?"

  "No, cash. If that's okay." She returned the pen, reached for her wallet.

  "Even better," he said, quoting her the cost. "Breakfast's any time between seven and eight."

  "Perfect." Breakfast, then a tire, then lunch with the man she still smelled on her skin. A blush heated her neck and spread to her cheeks. And when the door opened as she was counting the bills to pay, she was surprised but even more so relieved by the distraction.

  Looking beyond her, Wayne raised a hand. "Hey, Nova. Long time no see."

  Lise turned slowly, the flush she'd been fighting flooding through her. What was he doing here? Obviously not stalking or following her. Wayne knew him, which meant … The sneaky, scheming bastard.

  As if reading her thoughts, Nova gave her a quick wink then said to Wayne, "That's because you're usually holed up with your music when I get in."

  "I've got a new mix if you want to take a listen."

  "Sure. How 'bout tomorrow? You can drop by the Pit after school?"

  "Will do," Wayne said, turning back to Lise as Nova headed down the hall and out of her sight. "You know who he is, right? I mean, if he called for your room, I guess you know him."

  Lise tucked her wallet into her purse, her thoughts racing, her traitorous pulse, too. "I only met him earlier. I had a flat tire and he helped change it. He said his name is Donovan True."

  Wayne waited as if she'd forgotten the punch line to a joke. "Donovan True? From True Believers? The suspense novels where the TB team works to free people who've been wrongly convicted."

  "Oh, right. Donovan True. I hadn't put two and two together." But now that she had … Scheming aside, why was an internationally bestselling novelist running a pit of a bar in Mississippi?

  "He likes it when folks don't know." Wayne gave her a sheepish shrug, his stringy hair falling into his face. "I just figured you did or I wouldn't have said anything."

  "My lips are sealed." She took the room key the teen offered. "Thanks again for accommodating me on such short notice."

  "Don't thank me. Thank Nova," he replied, tucking his ear buds in place as he went about locking down the front desk.

  Yeah. About that. Lise picked up her tote and overnighter and headed for the same hallway down which Donovan had disappeared. Behind her, Wayne pounded up the staircase to the second floor, and seconds later a door slammed.

  She passed the entrance to the darkened dining room, then turned to the right. Her room was at the end. So was Donovan's.

  His door was open, and he stood just over the threshold, waiting, one forearm on the jamb above his head, the other hand a fist in his pocket.

  Enough time had yet to pass for her to put their encounter in perspective. She hadn't recovered, or forgotten, and still ached, still tingled, still wondered how mad she must be to have stripped in a bar for a stranger.

  She looked from the number on the key in her hand, to the number above her door. Then she looked over at him. The novelist. The liar.

  "You could've told me you were staying here."

  "I like surprises."

  The room behind him was lit with a soft glow, a single lamp or a candle, and she could see the polished footboard of his four poster bed as well as the edge of a quilt. Donovan True. In bed. Soft sheets. Naked.

  "I understand you're a celebrity."

  "That Wayne," he said, shaking his head. "Some people think so."

  "Another surprise."

  "You're not a fan of surprises?"

  She thoug
ht of the divorce papers landing on Mark's desk. Thought of his arriving home to find her gone. Then she thought of the flat tire and the surprise of Donovan True. "Of some. Others, not so much."

  "Good enough," he said, taking a step into the hallway and holding out a hand. "Give me your key."

  She did, conflicted, then moved away to give him space to open her door.

  He took hold of her wrist and pulled her into his room instead. She wasn't but two steps inside before he spun her and pinned her to the door.

  His eyes glittered as he looked her over. Her face. Her arms and her waist. Her hips and the skirt that was all she wore over her panties. He lingered there, the tic in his jaw signaling the effort his control cost him.

  Breathing hard, he brought his gaze back to hers. "What are you doing here?"

  His hands on her shoulders were heavy, his strength undeniable, but there was nothing in his intent that frightened her. And she knew his question wasn't as simple as the words made it sound.

  "I'm in your room because you pulled me in here. I'm in Danport because I had a flat tire."

  Still holding her, he dropped his gaze again, taking in her neck, her chest, her breasts that he'd paid too little attention to when he'd bound her to him in the bar.

  Then, she'd had no thought for anything. She'd been a body, rising and dipping as pleasure swelled. Too focused on the play of his hands and his mouth, she'd been unaware of what their intimacy had done to him.

  Now she knew. What had seemed so simple was anything but. "I'm here because I am. A long road brought me. Tomorrow it will take me away."

  At that, his head came up, his grip on her shoulders loosened. He slid his hands down her arms, over her elbows to her wrists.

  And when he brought her palms to the center of his chest where his heart raced like a wild thing captured, she knew whatever passed between them would cling to both of them long beyond tonight.

  Chapter Five