Slow Fever by Cait London Read Free Book Online

drift of the tendrils along her delicate nape begged for a man’s hand to ease them aside for a kiss on the soft curve.
    After the first surprising wave of tenderness, desire slammed into Michael, stunning him, as he worked his path through the dancers. Lora Simmons pressed against him, running her hand over his chest. “Dance, handsome?”
    “No, thanks.” Michael moved away from Lora’s perfumed curves and low-cut, tight sweater. He moved toward Kylie’s grass-stained sweatshirt and jeans. He had the unshakable sense that the image of Kylie’s plastic wrapped body had ruined him for other women. He tensed as he heard Brody groan in relief, Kylie’s slender fingers digginginto the areas along his spine. Brody’s groans were too close to another sound that Michael didn’t want men making under Kylie’s touch.
    She’d been honest in her need for sex that night at Anna’s. Michael inhaled slowly and considered Kylie’s expression, one of concentration on her task, her spiraling curls bobbing gently as she worked. She was healthy and strong and earthy. It wasn’t his business if Kylie wanted to make love—or was it?
    He stood beside Kylie as she worked on Brody, finding his scalp through his hair and massaging it. Michael looked slowly to the other men, one at a time, and knew that every one wanted to be the body beneath Kylie’s strong, knowledgeable fingers. He knew his friends well enough to know that they’d deliberately strain a few muscles just to replace Brody’s aching ones under Kylie’s hands. “No,” he murmured quietly and recognized the momentary challenging flash in the men’s eyes.
    Just noticing Michael, Kylie straightened and her expression immediately changed from one of concentration to one of frost. “Did she let you loose tonight?” she asked in a tone that could have frozen a forest fire.
    “Dance?” he countered, dismissing her question and challenging her at the same time. Michael realized then that he’d wrapped his hand around her slender wrist, holding her.
    He’d promised himself long ago that he wouldn’t need anyone. And now he needed Kylie. He studied his scarred and darkly tanned fingers against her fairer skin, shocked by the knowledge that he’d wanted to claim her for his own. He slowly released her wrist and removed his black leather jacket, tossing it to Gabriel Deerhorn.
    The night he’d seen her in another tavern, a nineteen-year-old girl on a dare, determined to ride that mechanicalbucking bull, he’d burned with the same dark anger. It was the only mechanical bucking bull in the countryside—miles from Freedom Valley—and Kylie and her friends had dressed older, just to get into the tavern. She’d rocked upon the bull, testing herself, swaying with the movements too slow to be dangerous. She’d concentrated on her task, her body flowing sensually as she moved around and stood and sat and tested her skill. The rhythmic symphony of curves had men drooling and had sucked away Michael’s breath when he’d first seen her. When he’d managed to pull his tongue off the floor, he told would-be takers that she was his wife and the baby needed her at home. Then he’d hauled her off that bull and she’d sulked at the lecture as he delivered her and her underage girlfriends each to their doorstep. The last one to reach her home, Kylie had simmered and then lunged at him. “Little girl,” he’d said, trying to distance his need to give her a taste of what she’d been asking from him. “Take it inside and don’t worry your mother.”
    It was just the same now; Michael couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Kylie had always been his.
    The thought zinged through Michael, shocking him as Kylie’s blue eyes darkened. His gaze slid to her lips and then slowly down her body, marking the sudden rise and fall of her breasts. “I asked you to dance. Yes or no?”
    Kylie’s chin lifted and she spoke quietly, only to him. The color of her blue eyes had changed to