Out of Control by Shannon McKenna Page B

again as she deposited Mikey in the passenger’s seat of her car. “I should drive you to work. Your hands are shaking.” He cupped the slender hand that held her car keys. “You want a ride?”
    Her hand vibrated in his grip, but she didn’t pull it away. “No, thanks. I need to be mobile right after my shift. I’ve got gym classes to teach afterwards. And, uh…Davy? One more thing.”
    â€œYeah?”
    She hesitated for a second, then launched herself at him, grabbed him around the waist and hugged him, tightly. Almost angrily.
    He practically jerked away, he was so startled. She just hung on harder. He came to his senses and grabbed her back just in time, as her grip was loosening. His heart thundered in his chest, his breath had gone ragged. Every part of him that touched her tingled and burned.
    She lifted her face from where it was pressed against his shirt. “Thanks, Davy,” she whispered. “For everything.”
    â€œFor what?” he demanded. “You won’t tell me anything. You won’t trust me. You won’t let me do a goddamn thing to help you.”
    She shook her head, and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. “You’re sweet,” she said. “You came when I called you. You gave me a hug when I needed one. You’re sweet. A good guy.”
    â€œNah. Not that good.” He cut off her reply with his mouth.
    Her face was wet with tears, her skin exquisitely fine-grained and soft. Her lips were full and sweet and salty, trembling under his.
    She opened to him, drinking him in like she was starving. That knocked the lid off, and what he’d thought was just sexual hunger got swept away by something bigger and hotter, something that welled up from deep inside him like a fountain of molten lava.
    The kiss went crazy. Her arms went up around his neck. He pushed her back against the car, nudging his thigh between hers as he plundered the tender secrets of her mouth. So sweet and moist and hot.
    She pushed at his chest, murmuring soft protest. He finally registered it, and wrestled his trembling muscles back under control.
    He stumbled away from her, panting. Didn’t even want to imagine the look that must be on his face.
    Margot wiped her mouth, her eyes glowing, pupils dilated. Her lips were red, puffy and soft. “That’s all.” Her voice was wispy and quavering. “That’s it. No more. Please don’t torture me.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, torture you? Can I call you?” he pleaded.
    Her face tightened. She got into her car, started up the engine, and mopped her eyes with her sleeve before giving him a little wave and a tight, fake smile. She pulled away, her car belching black smoke.
    He stared after her for several minutes, his brain wiped clean.
    Then he walked around to her back porch. The overgrown bushes shielded him from the neighbors’ line of sight. His legs shook, his heart still raced. He had a pick gun in his tool stash in the truck, but the flimsy lock on the back door could be negotiated without it. He had to know more before he could help, he told himself as he eased the lock open with his bank card and let himself into the kitchen. He counted the money in her freezer stash, leafed through the envelopes on the counter. Utility bills, past due notices. None in her name, not that he knew her real name. The place must be a sublet.
    He scanned every drawer, every scrap of paper, every scribbled grocery list. He sifted carefully through her trash. No clues.
    It didn’t take long to go through the place. Margot evidently wasn’t the type who accumulated stuff. A roll of posters leaning against the wall proved to be Art Nouveau images and classic art photographs. A calendar of flower fairies hung in the hall, incongruously cheerful against the cracked, stained wall. This month was a rose fairy, with a flower petal skirt. Nothing was written on it, no appointments, no phone numbers.