Roustabout (The Traveling #3) by Jane Harvey-Berrick Read Free Book Online Page A

I’m wrong. In fact, why don’t you tell me I’m wrong? Tell me that life is easy, and that second chances are a dime a dozen; that third chances are more common than pennies. Go on, Tucker—tell me what you think I should hear.”
    Her crystal blue eyes sparked with defiance and the words I should have said dried in my throat.
    She leaned forward, hooking her fingers into my belt loops and pulling me forward until her lips were on mine again.
    This kiss was soft, sensual, and the wanting and needing that I’d been pushing away all evening flooded open. I crushed her body against mine, almost lifting her out of the saddle.
    “Are you finally agreeing with me?” she gasped.

Tera
    I opened my mouth in a gasp. Tucker didn’t need a further invitation. His tongue slid in and he was no longer gentle.
    One strong hand gripped my hip and the other was on the nape of my neck, controlling my body as his mouth angled over mine, his greater height and strength pulling me up from the seat of his bike.
    Then he tore his lips from mine, panting against my neck, his warm breath fanning my hair.
    “One night,” he grit out. “One night and then . . .”
    “Shh, don’t say it. You don’t need to. You’re on the road and I live in California. I get it.”
    “Kes will fucking kill me,” he groaned.
    “Kes will never know,” I whispered, stroking my hands over his butt and the back of his thighs.
    The moan that came out of his mouth was more animal than human, and God help me, I wanted to hear that sound again.
    “Let’s go to my room,” I said, my voice urgent.
    He shook his head softly. “We can’t be seen together. If word gets out that the Senator’s daughter . . .”
    “We’ll go in separately. Room 837¸” I said. “I want you to tuck me in, Tucker. Now give me your bike keys.”
    “What?”
    “I said give me your bike keys—I’m not giving you the chance to wimp out on me again.”
    He choked on a laugh and shook his head. “You are something else.”
    “So you said,” I agreed, pushing my hand into his jeans pocket and pulling out his keys.
    His smile was heated and amused as I grinned at him over my shoulder.
    I was 27—not a teenage virgin on her first date. Although I had somewhat exaggerated my experience to Tucker: I’d had three serious boyfriends, all long-term. The sex had been nice, pretty good in one case, but nothing that had turned me on as much as kissing Tucker. Nothing that burned.
    I am in so much trouble .
    I reached my room in a couple of minutes. And then I had a metaphorical stumble. Should I wait by the door? Should I wait in the bed? No, I had to open the door to him. Should I leave the door ajar? Oooh, bad, bad idea. Should I . . . ?
    But then I heard a quiet knock outside—Tucker must have been less than 30 seconds behind me.
    I yanked open the door without checking the peephole—rookie mistake—but Tucker was leaning against the wall, looking more sinful than a triple chocolate cake with whipped cream and sprinkles. Waaay more.
    “Last chance to be a good girl,” he said, his voice low and resonant.
    I shook my head slowly. “We’re a long way past that, Mr. Roustabout.”
    “Good,” he said, pushing the door wide open and stalking into the room. “Because I want to see you being bad.”
    “Back at you,” I laughed, my voice more breathless than I’d have liked. “You’re going to come so hard . . .”
    He stepped closer, his body looming over me. Suddenly 5’7”—or 5’ 11” in my heels—felt petite.
    “Is that a fact?”
    “Yes,” I challenged. “That’s a fact.”
    There was a moment when promise and power and the weight of every mistake hung in the air. A moment when I could have, should have stopped it before it started.
    Then he kissed me—a kiss so intense, so deep, so demanding, that I forgot my name; forgot my lungs needed air; forgot that blood should wash through my brain.
    I felt his body shaking as the kiss intensified, and then with a