AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“That’s funny. As far as I know, I don’t have an ex-fiancée.”
Her eyes finally met his. “I met Penelope.”
“Penelope Walker?”
Her eyes darted around the room. “I’m not doing this here,” she said, tugging her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “I’m going home. I mean, to the station.”
Like hell she was.
She wasn’t going anywhere until they discussed what Penelope had said.
Lucas stood, grabbed her by the elbow with a firmer hold, and began to guide her through the room, passing scores of people trying to have a word with the mayor. Surprisingly, he merely gave each person a nod, navigating her down a back hallway and past a set of restrooms.
He shoved a back exit door open, where they accepted deliveries, dragged her down a couple steps, and leaned her against the brick wall.
“Okay,” he said, breathing hard. “I’m not, nor have I ever, been engaged to Penelope Walker. She was under the impression we were somehow in a committed relationship. But never did I propose or imply marriage to Penelope.”
She looked over his shoulder again and shrugged hers. “Okay, fine.”
Her breathing was erratic, and he gave her a moment to catch her breath.
“Okay then. What did she tell you that made you so upset? I’m not going to ask you again.”
To his surprise, both of her hands came up and she shoved him. “This is exactly what has me upset. You… you treat me like I’m… you’re…” Her body went rigid with anger. “Gah! I’m not doing this.”
She attempted to stomp away, so he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against him.
“Talk. To. Me,” he said, with his mouth next to her ear.
“Fine,” she huffed, her back against his front and damnit, he was hard. “With her you’re slow and loving and tender and… and patient. She got the Santos Special and I got the Santos Crap Sandwich who… who bosses me around and… and makes me strip for him like a cheap whore.”
She stilled, as if she said more than she had intended.
What in the world was she talking about?
He moved her back against the wall so he could look her in the eyes, and with his fingers splayed against her chest, he asked, “If this afternoon was the Crap Sandwich, what the fuck is the Santos Special?”
Aw, fuck. She was crying. He made her cry.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Birdie Wellborn didn’t cry. He watched her mother berate her in front of the town and call her awful names and, yet, Birdie. Never. Cried.
“She said when you made love to her that you were loving and tender. That you treated her like she was… special.”
“How in the fuck did you two meet for the first time and dive right into comparing my prowess in bed?”
“You’re such an asshole.” She attempted to leave, so he covered her chest with his forearm, relieved to see her angry instead of crying. He’d take pissed-off and fuming Birdie all day long instead of a crying one. “You want to know why I fuck you like I do?”
“No,” she fumed unconvincingly, looking small and uncharacteristically vulnerable.
“Because you fucking drive me crazy.”
“I don’t have to listen to this.”
“Oh, you’re going to listen. When I’m around you, I have no self-control. It’s like I’m a rutting animal. Incapable of any level of critical thinking and determined to do nothing more than sate my desire. You make me hot and mad and horny as fuck… you make me… feel things no one else does. I don’t treat you tender and… and slow, because you turn me into a fucking caveman, where all I want to do is drag you around by the hair and fuck you on demand against the cave wall, on a flat boulder, next to a… a… stegosaurus bone.”
Her body deflated a smidge so he took a chance and lowered his arm. His hand went to his hip as the other gouged a set of visible rows through his hair.
