Page 11 of Reckless Woman
As if by magic, a neon pink dot appears on the far side of the beach. It’s clashing with a sinking skyline that’s every color of murder, and traveling toward us at a steady pace. As she draws closer, I can see her blonde ponytail bouncing from shoulder to shoulder.
Prayers fucking answered.
Tossing the bottle over the crest of a dune, I stagger to my feet as Anna jogs a path right up to us. She smiles in greeting, slowing to a walk, her hands on her hips and her cheeks flushed.
“Cute twister, Jukebox Romeo,” I hear Cash say.
“Nah, Cash. This twister is amasterpiece.”
And she is—standing there, burning up harder than the red sky above. Tall and athletic, she’s a color explosion all of her own: with green, river-deep eyes and long, golden hair that wraps so perfectly around my fist when I’m arching her back to the point of pain and driving my cock deep inside her.
“I’ll leave you to ride this one alone, little brother,” says Cash, the grin in his voice alreadybon voyagingwith the retreating tide.
“What’s a masterpiece?” Expression curious, Anna turns toward the ocean. “Do you mean the sunset? It’s amazing, right?”
“Fuck the sunset,” I growl, wrapping a hand around her damp neck and yanking her toward me to catch her next labored breath with my mouth.
She tries to wriggle away in embarrassment. “Oh God, don’t kiss me! I’m a hot, stinking mess.”
“You taste of moonshine,” I say huskily, keeping her locked against me, her small hands curling around my biceps as she steadies herself. “And that, myLuna, is the second best taste of all.”
“Oh, I get it.” Her head dances out of the path of my mouth, and I growl again in frustration. “This is your way of apologizing for being such a monosyllabic asshole earlier.”
“I don’t apologize for anything. I learned that from Santiago.”
Her smile falters. “You taste of cigarettes. When did you start smoking?”
“It’s a casual thing.” I tilt my head to one side. “Deny me your mouth again, and you’ll start a habit.”
A wicked smile dances across her face that does even wickeder shit to my cock. “So if moonshine is the runner up in the taste Olympics, what’s the winner?”
“Sex.” I sweep the backs of my fingers across her tight black running shorts and neon pink vest.
An extra layer of color reddens her cheeks. “There’s no sex here, only sweat.”
“Sex…Sweat…it’s a beautiful combination.” A beat later, she’s lying on the sand beneath me. Soft. Honest. Exposed and perfect.
Wanting me for me.
Me.
A murderer. A criminal.
“You taste of the last moments of sex,” I clarify roughly. “When you’re so focused on my cock making you come, that your vulnerability blows you wide open.”
Judging by her breathy response, I’m doing nothing to lower her pulse rate. “Did you always have such a dirty mouth, Joseph?”
“Oh honey,” I drawl, arming my voice with a couple of hundred rounds of southern charm. “This ain’t the half of it.”
“Shame that mouth can’t drawl much else for me,” she says, firing back with a light accusation. Her fingers trace my jaw, and then up into my hair. I keep it longer these days: close enough to keep hold of the killer I’ve become, but with hints of the man I was before. “Why did you come and find me earlier?”
Because I’m spinning, Anna, like you told me to.
One problem: I’m blowing off course.
I nearly tell her then.
I nearly give her the black beating heart of me, as well as the bleeding red. Instead, I part her legs and slide in between. Rising up on my elbows, I trap her face between my hands, the sheer size of them covering her cheeks and jaw.