Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) by Nya Rawlyns Read Free Book Online Page A

muscles burning from a buildup of lactic acid, he opted for a slow jog rather than the sprint that had seemed a good idea when he’d awakened to a boner and memories of being dumped unceremoniously behind that damn roadhouse. Every stride, every impact with the packed sandy road had been a fuck him, fuck him rhythm driving him to a level of stupid he hadn’t permitted himself in a very long time.
    He was going to pay in pain. And he didn’t care. At least that kind of pain was real. He could deal with it. Ice it, massage it. Own it.
    But in spite of his resolve, the phantom refused to release him. Like a fiend it still possessed his every thought, every step of the dance replaying in his mind on an endless repeat loop. Feeling those hands on his hips, the fingers around his throat, that knee spreading him open. The wash of emotion pouring off Michael, it had threatened to drown them both. Michael had been on the verge of an assault, the promise of an act so out-of-control Sonny still quaked at the memory.
    He’d been churning the incident over in his mind for hours, losing sleep, losing confidence. Now he was running to expunge his inability to stop craving it, whatever “it” might have been. A memory, that’s all he’d wanted, a chance to let the bad boy inside come out to play. Instead, a wicked man had teased him to the point where his inhibitions simply collapsed, then abandoned him to blue balls, leaving him horny as fuck and madder ’n hell.
    Huffing, “I hope I never see that bastard again,” he slid down the bank on his heels and ass, landing with a satisfying thud near the warren of paddocks. Wheezing from the effort, he circled behind the barn, the dry air sucking moisture from his skin, coating it with a layer of awareness and regret that he’d decided on wearing just his nylon track shorts for his morning exercise. The chill was pebbling his nipples but doing nothing to cool his jets.
    Fingers to the pulse in his neck, he power walked while counting off beats as he stared at his watch, satisfied he hadn’t lost too much fitness during his stint in D.C. There hadn’t been a lot of free time to keep after his fitness goals, not when days and night were taken up with schmoozing the head honchos at the USDA and acting like a talking puppet for his cousin Renee. The learning curve had been as tough as he feared, though he was grateful to have survived without too much damage to his self-esteem. He just needed to overcome one more hurdle, then he and his career were off and running.
    Sniffing the air, he detected the faint odor of smoke and smiled as he rounded the corner of the barn, expecting to find Hank tending to morning feeding.
    The collision rocked him onto his heels, hurtling him backwards as his running shoes lost traction and dislodged his center of gravity. He was going down. Muttering, “Dammit,” he braced for impact only to have strong hands lift him up and set him upright—hands that cupped his hipbones, with thumbs straying south to the elastic on his running shorts.
    Without looking, he’d recognize that touch anywhere. On sturdy cotton it had burned through the layers, leaving residual heat and a lingering sensation of unbridled power. On his bare skin, it created a rupture in his sanity, the shock waves so profound he shut down every sensation but that touch. A single point of contact that picked up where they’d left off the night before.
    He sputtered, “You,” and moaned a prayer of thanks. It should have been one for forgiveness...
    Bless me father, I want to sin.
    Michael’s mouth was moving, the lips thinned to irritation. Sonny listened but didn’t hear.
    Details he’d missed in the faulty glare of floods and smoke-filled air suddenly sharpened in the lens of déjà vu. Wavy thick hair, the color of warm walnut, was streaked with russet and tipped with silver. A widow’s peak accented a high forehead. Brows straight and set into a scowl perpetual and dangerous reminded