14
Toying with the verboten
Lawson’s Landing, mid-November
The Ducati rolled in fast, kicking up dust as Rafferty turned off the road and onto the stretch of gravel leading to the carport.
A pair of wind-tossed mesquites flanked the entrance to the large overhang, their branches clawing at the wind.
His jaw clenched behind the helmet, thoughts still tangled in the meeting from earlier — the clipped words, the sideways glances, the not-so-subtle reminders of the life he’d left behind. Or tried to.
He coasted in beside the Jeep, killed the engine with a flick, and sat still for a beat. The silence made the weight in his chest press harder. His mind swirled with memories he didn’t want to replay, but they kept cycling back.
Nothing good or clean.
He dismounted, boots hitting the ground with more force than necessary.
In one slow motion, he removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm.
Peeling off his gloves, he looked toward the main house, where the warm glow of the veranda light beckoned a quiet welcome.
He knew they were inside — his parents, his grandmother — likely waiting with their cautious smiles and eyes full of questions they’d try to ask gently, but that would still cut to the bone.
Are you okay? What did the agents say? Are you going back?
He wasn’t in the mood for an interrogation. His pulse hadn’t settled. It probably wouldn’t tonight.
He grabbed the helmet and gloves and stowed them in the metal cabinet and hung his keys beside all the others.
He ran his fingers through his unruly hair still damp from the ride, his eyes on the house as he moved out from under the carport and away from the light, the night swallowing him up step by step.
He unzipped his leather jacket, and the dry and restless wind tugged at it, like something about to break loose.
He didn’t slow.
Didn’t look back.
If he walked far enough into the dark, maybe the questions wouldn’t find him.
*
Brandy-Lyn heard the stomp of booted feet before he burst from the small grove of trees. Even the dark could not mask the desperate look on his face.
“Rafferty?”
He stuttered to a halt, and his head swung toward her. He blinked, repeatedly, but his eyes remained unfocused, his gaze wild.
Frantic, even.
Like a caged animal, his head moved from side to side, looking for an escape.
Brandy surged to her feet, setting the swing into motion. The blanket fell to the ground and wine spilled from the glass as she set it down, but she ignored both, intent on reaching the agitated man before he took off. She skipped down the steps, stopped before him, and stretched her arm out.
“Hey,” she whispered, placing her hand on his chest. He flinched, but she kept it in place. His heart thumped hard beneath her palm. She took hold of his upper arm with her free hand and nudged him toward the steps. “Come sit with me for a while.”
She led him toward the bench she’d just vacated.
With soothing murmurs reserved for her horses, she coaxed him down onto the thick cushions, setting the swing in motion.
Only once he was fully seated did she let go and sit beside him.
He leaned back and let out a long and mournful sigh before closing his eyes.
The movement of him rubbing his palms over his denim-covered thighs drew her gaze, and without hesitation she covered his nearest hand with hers.
To her surprise, he twisted his wrist and threaded his fingers through hers.
He remained silent. To prevent herself from asking a million questions, she focused her mind on the vibrant insect nightlife, the squeak of the thick rope chafing against the wood as the swing oscillated, its motion slowing, slowing, until it finally stopped.
The ragged breathing of the man beside her evened out, becoming deep and rhythmic.
Had he fallen asleep?
She twisted her head to look at him.
*
Rafferty inhaled a lungful of air. With it came the scent of woman, something floral with an undertone of leather and horse.
Brandy-Lyn’s scent. A comforting scent. Familiar even.
For the first time in days, a sense of calmness took hold within him, the heavy pressure hovering over him for the last while easing.
He concentrated on his ribs expanding to accommodate the deep breath and then let it out.
Brandy-Lyn shifted, and he opened his eyes and turned to look at her. Dark pools of green stared back in earnest.
“Hey,” he whispered.
A soft smile curved her luscious lips. “Feel … easier?” Her voice was husky. All sultry and seductive. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, a fall of deep copper.
And he had to kiss her. Taste her. Now.
It was a compulsion he could no longer ignore.
He turned to face her fully, his hand sliding up to cradle her neck. “I’m going to kiss you now, Red,” he said, voice rough with need.
Her eyes flared, the rapid thrum of her pulse beneath his palm echoing his own pounding heartbeat. “Probably not a good idea,” she whispered, voice low and unsteady.
Their noses touched.
“Stop me.”
“No.”
He caught the breath that escaped from between those irresistible lips, then closed the minuscule distance.
Ah, her lips …
Soft and warm, yielding beneath the firm press of his.
Finally.
Better than he’d imagined.
So much better.
Something stirred deep inside him — a flutter of excitement.
Of anticipation.
Anticipation for this.
This woman. This moment …
Twenty years. That’s how long he’d waited.
He deepened the kiss, angling his head for a better fit.
Her lips parted under his, granting him access to the wondrous secrets of Brandy-Lyn.
He pushed deeper, exploring, tasting.
Hot. Tangy. A touch of spice. A hint of wine.
Intoxicating.
His new addiction.
Brandy-Lyn Powers.
Unlinking their hands, he slid both of his around her neck, fingers gliding upward to bury in hair as soft and luxuriant as it looked. He dug into her scalp, mashing their mouths together as desire overtook wonder.
A jolt shot up beneath his ribs, coiling around his heart.
His jeans became uncomfortably tight, straining against the pressure building within.
He groaned — feral, uncontrolled — losing all hold on reality.
His tongue tangled with hers, dueling, sucking, learning the enigma of this woman. She whimpered, pressing closer, her soft breasts crushed against his chest.
The desperate sounds she made only fueled his hunger, fanning the flames of his lust.
What was it about her that drew him in, when he knew — just knew — that being with her was wrong?
For years, she haunted him. Until finally, he forced her from his thoughts.
Yet in the darkest nights, in that godforsaken hut, as he waited for death to take him, old memories returned.
They wove into his delirium, tormenting him.
And now fate had tossed her in his path again.
Here they were, mouths fused, tongues exploring, desire surging.
And he was sinking.
Deeper.
Deeper into all things Brandy-Lyn.
Into everything forbidden.
The power she held over him … it was unsettling.
Cool air drifted over his lower back as her hands slipped beneath the layers of his clothes. Goosebumps broke across his skin when her cold fingers found heated flesh, smoothing up his side.
Then her touch stilled.
The calloused pads of her fingers found a scar.
Traced it.
One of many inflicted by a wrathful woman.
Reality crashed over him, cold and brutal, like a bucket of ice water.
He tore away from her and lurched to his feet, chest heaving as he gulped in chilly night air.
*
One minute, she was touching heaven.
Then she wasn’t.
The fall back to Earth was swift and brutal.
The seat swung madly. Chest heaving, Brandy-Lyn stared at the wide-eyed man looming before her. He curled forward, arm snapping out to steady the swing.
His bent position brought his face near hers again.
Jaw clenched tight, those bright blues locked on her, regret swimming in their depths.
Hell no. He was not—
“Do not say you’re sorry, Rafferty Lawson,” she snapped.
“Brandy—”
She lifted her hand, pressing a single finger to his lips. “Not a word of regret.”
His breath warmed her fingertip, but the fire that had raged moments ago drained from her blood, leaving only chill.
He straightened. “It cannot happen again,” he growled.
She huffed and got to her feet. “It was inevitable.”
“That’s beside the point. I…” He dragged a hand over his head — and winced.
And just like that, his expression shut down.
“That will never happen again,” he said, voice flat, face unreadable.
Then he turned sharply, stalked down the steps, and disappeared into the night.
Brandy sagged onto the cushions, curling her feet beneath her as the swing rocked gently.
She stared into the dark where Rafferty had vanished.
Regret sat heavy in her chest.
He was right, of course.
There was no point exploring this … whatever it was between them.
Still.
It was a pity.
No man — not even Sullivan — had ever aroused her so fast.
Cool to scorching in mere seconds.
All it took was a touch of his lips.
“Get a grip, Brandy. You are not falling for your college boyfriend’s identical twin brother.”
Except … they weren’t identical.
Rafferty carried an edgy rawness that set him worlds apart from his twin.
It was that bad-boy wildness — the damage barely hidden beneath the surface — that reached straight into the softest part of her and took hold.
*
The following morning Rafferty tracked Brandy-Lyn to the tack room.
He owed her an apology for his loutish behavior last night.
Especially the bit that had happened once alone in his room when he had jacked off to the image of lusty green eyes staring at him while her plump lips closed around his dick.
Not that he would share that detail with her.
“Morning,” he said, failing miserably in his endeavor to not notice how well the faded grey jeans and a long-sleeved shirt hugged her generous curves.
What the ever-loving fuck are you doing here, Trick-boy? You need to avoid her, not seek her out.
She jumped, the tack clattering to the ground as she spun around. “Dammit, Rafferty Lawson! You scared me!”
His lips quirked with a reluctant smile. “I owe you an apology.”
She tilted her head. “For creeping up on me?”
He looked past her, then back. “No. For last night.”
“For kissing me?”
“Yes.” He shook his head slowly, lowering his voice. “No. Maybe. Kissing you was the only light in an otherwise dark day.” And I want more. Much more. And that is the problem. “I just— Fuck.”
He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck, not quite sure how to continue.
“Yesterday was a shitshow,” he mumbled, staring at the pale woodgrain vinyl strips, “and I got home feeling out of sorts.” His intense inspection of the flooring found a repeat pattern.
“But having a shitty day is no excuse for subjecting you to my bad mood.”
Brandy-Lyn remained silent, and he finally looked up, drawn by the force of her stare.
“We all have bad days, Raff. And if being with me, kissing me, made yours a little better … then I’m okay with it.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sugar.”
“But it cannot happen again,” he rushed to add. “Because we cannot happen.”
She tilted her head, giving him a long look. “Yeah. That will be rather foolish.”
“Very foolish.”
“Glad we cleared that up.”
“Me, too.”
“Good thing we’re both known for our self-control,” she said dryly.
He snorted. “Yeah. That’s our defining trait.”
“What are you doing today?” she asked.
He blinked at the left field question. “Fixing the fence line up near Rattlesnake Bluff.”
“Want some company? One of my green mares needs a long ride.”
Spend more time in her company? Bad, bad idea.
“No kissing,” she added, a small grin teasing her very kissable lips.
“Practicing self-control?”
She gave a light laugh. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” he found himself saying.
What the hell, Trick?