Knotted (Trails of Sin, #1)

by Pam Godwin

The terrain of childhood shapes the soul, and the soul never forgets.

With Wyatt dead and Lorne in jail, she and everyone else is too wrapped up in the impending trial to address her emotional wellbeing.

“No matter what, we stay together. Miles, months, cities, years…” Her breath strangles. “We’re bigger than anything that tries to come between us.”

The last to go is a shoe box. It lands at my feet, and the lid falls off, spilling its contents. Letters. Hundreds of letters written in metallic brown ink with gold flecks. I remember the day I bought that shimmery marker in Chicago. It was a terrible, lonely day, and that marker was everything. Because it matched the color of his eyes.

When Lorne was hauled away, I lost a vital part of myself. When I was separated from the ranch, I became half a person. When I left Dad face down on the couch, more pieces of me tore loose. But I still had something left. I still had Jake. Now I have no one, nothing, and nowhere to go. I’m completely carved out.

I could hang myself, all alone, swinging by a rope around my neck. Wouldn’t that be symbolic? A tragedy that began and ended on a birthday with a passionately knotted rope. Then I think about being found that way. Being remembered as the girl who killed herself because she loved a boy. Because the boy didn’t love her back. Boo hoo. So sad. How fucking pathetic. I’m not that girl.

But that’s not why I’ve been coming to this field party every Saturday night for the past six months. I’m driven by an unshakable, deeply-rooted, screwed-up fascination with sex.

“I’m not broken,” she whispers. “You don’t need me to fix you. You need me to sit with you in the sadness.”

I step toward it and caress a hand along the brush strokes. “Why did you add this?” “I missed you.”

The guys join in, singing and laughing through the words, and I let myself laugh, too. I’m finally home.

“Someone will come this week to collect her things.” Jake pockets the phone. “If you vandalize her possessions or fuck with her or her education, then me and you are gonna mix.” He tips his hat, his voice calm and deep. “Best be on your way.”

Whiskers shadow his jaw, his skin bronzed from the sun. He’s a mountain of a man, all shoulders and chest and powerful legs. And those jeans fit so low and provocatively around his hips I can see his religion.

“I’ll give you a few seconds to be single.” He bends his knees, putting his face in mine. “But don’t get used to it.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You’re about to be taken.” His expression smolders with red-blooded hunger. “No—” “You’re mine.”

Hair whipping behind her, she twists her neck to shout back at me, “Catch up!” I swear I see a glimmering smile before she kicks Ketchup into a gallop. With a grin that bares my teeth, I do what I’ve done my entire life. I chase her.

His assertive, uninterrupted attention on me makes my skin hum and my pulse race. It arouses me.

“Yes, ma’am.” He slams a hand against my butt. “Go take a shower.” I swallow a gulp and shudder with delicious tingles. “Stop doing that.” He spanks me again, harder.

“Conor.” I twist my neck and find him sitting on the edge of the bed. Lips swollen and hair mussed, he gives me the full force of his eyes. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever kissed.”

“I’ve been too soft on you.” “Too soft—?” “You needed a couple of days to adjust to being home and around me again. I gave you that.” His eyes lure and capture mine. “My goodwill has come to an end. It’s about to get very real for you.”

Cross those arms all you want. You’ll stand up to the challenge, because the Conor I know never backs down.” I uncross my arms. “I’m not that girl.” “That’s right. You’re stronger, fiercer, and so goddamn ornery it makes me hard. Really fucking hard.”

And that desire bucks restlessly between us. It feels cinched and saddled, like it’s ready to be kicked into a gallop and ridden hard.

Holding my finger in her rectum, I slide my thumb into her cunt and kiss her clit. “When you’re aroused and fully lubricated, it’s extremely pleasurable.”

“I need you to take the edge off.” His voice strangles. “It’s been too long, and… Goddamn, stop staring at it.” His features tense as if he’s in pain. “Put it in your mouth, Conor.”

The room pulses with our uneven breaths, and the rug offers little comfort beneath my knees. But I’m exactly where I want to be. Where I’m supposed to be. I’ve always been his.

I fell in love with him when we were kids, before I understood the language of love.

Banging me in a public restroom isn’t meant to degrade me. He’s reinforcing his dominance, letting me know that he decides when, where, and how.