Lock and Key by Cat Porter Page A

tone, heat jabbed me in the gut.
    I figured Grace had to be around my age. Her eyes had seen and experienced some pain in her days. Her skin was creamy, fresh, though, with a few freckles over her cheeks, the kind that had probably come up in her younger years then stayed. When she laughed, she lit up, she let go. That was beautiful. Yes, she was beautiful. My kind of beautiful. Then Grace would go back to holding on tight to something inside her. Something she refused to share.
    I could have kicked myself when she had turned away from me and leaned back against the bar to check out the crowd as some sort of signal for me to change the subject. A sudden need to touch her engulfed me, too. I wanted my hands to glide over that smooth skin under that tight Harley tee and discover every secret curve. We stood very close at the bar. What the hell was that magic scent… her perfume? Her shampoo? I couldn’t put my finger on it and it was driving me crazy. It was something not too sweet, but soft, like early summer. Hell, I wasn’t big on dancing, but I had to do something to get closer to her.
    Once I had her in my arms, and we moved together to the music, she finally relaxed. My cock wasn’t the only thing that stood at attention; it was as if my blood kicked up through every goddamn vein in my body. That night I hadn’t been shopping for a hookup, hadn’t even crossed my mind. But Grace was different.
    It was easy for me to get laid back home. When the need struck, a selection was always available. But the same expectant, willing eyes batted up at me over and over again. There were different faces often enough, but they all wanted the same things from me—a way in, a notch up, an attachment.
    No, that night I stopped at Dead Ringer’s because I just wanted to enjoy my drink, listen to some music, lose myself in the buzz of the crowd, then get back in the truck and get home.
    But there she was in her sparkly t-shirt, tight jeans, sexy silver jewelry and harsh leather boots that on this kind of woman made my mouth water. She had a real body, all tight curves, that she obviously took care of without going overboard. Even whatever makeup she had on was real. I could see her, a pretty her, not a pumped-up version. I wanted to sink my fingers into her long, thick light-brown hair. There was nothing about her that was there to put on a show or jack my cock and jerk my chain. It was all… Grace .
    Yeah, all Grace.
    And I wanted to know that woman. I wanted a piece of that no excuses, been there, done that, no-drama honesty. She didn’t feel the need to let it all hang out and dangle it in your face. She could take it or leave it.
    I liked this. I liked her.
    A lot.
    I had seen something else in her eyes. Something I recognized, because I was lugging the same shit inside my soul. Suspicion, sadness, bitterness? All of it initially flashed up at me, but then she had tucked it away and got back to her drink. Still, she seemed familiar, but I didn’t want to waste any time trying to figure it out just then.
    Maybe I should have.
    I went for it and kissed her. My head exploded when she opened her mouth and gave it up to me. Then she gave it back to me. That was it. I couldn’t keep my hands off her, and I couldn’t help myself with the ice cubes.
    Was it high school of me? I didn’t give a shit. It got me touching her curvy ass, her beautiful tits. My tongue got to glide over her hot skin. I can still feel how her pulse had jumped at the side of her neck.
    I got so desperate for her that I proposed the back of the bar or my truck. Stupid. Her eyes flashed at me. What an idiot. My mouth started to ramble non-stop. I prayed for mercy. Then she invited me back to her room at that motel on the other side of the parking lot.
    I think my hands shook like an eager kid’s when I took out my wallet to pay the bartender. That was a brand new feeling for me, but I pushed that aside and barreled on. Neither of us could get the motel room