PROLOGUE
Somerset, Kentucky Lake Cumberland
Eight Years Ago
Crista Jansen stared at the bed and the man sprawled across it in horror as she stumbled back, the knowledge of the mistake she had made the night before pounding through her head like the strike of a tambourine. Over and over again.
She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide, her stomach churning in sick realization of exactly how huge this mistake was. The mistake and the man. He took up almost every inch of space on the mattress, his powerful legs sprawled, his strong arms moving restlessly as though searching—for her.
And he would be. The man was inexhaustible. A veritable sex machine with no off switch once he got started. And she should know now––she and every other woman he had ever had in his bed.
She could feel the memory of the night before on every inch of her body: her breasts, swollen and sensitive from his lips suckling at the tender tips, her lips abraded and tender from his kisses, and between her thighs—
That memory nearly brought her to her knees as her gaze slipped to his thighs, to the half-erect flesh that appeared threatening and overlarge, even though he wasn’t fully erect.
Yet he had fit inside her. Stretching her wide, often in a pleasure bordering pain. He had managed to work every inch of that ironhard flesh inside her, and he had destroyed her with it. Pounding inside her with a force that shook the bed and shook her senses, throwing her into one orgasm after another, bringing such pleasure that she had been unwilling to deny it. Unwilling to deny him anything, even at the end.
Her hand covered her mouth as tears filled her eyes. Oh God, she hadn’t let him do those things to her, had she? Lifted her rear for him and begged for more as his tongue caressed forbidden flesh, then screamed in pleasure and in pain as the head of his cock began to work inside the heavily lubricated little hole.
He had marked her. He had taken her virginity, and he had taken her sanity. When he had finished marking the wet depths of her pussy, he had turned her to her stomach and marked her rear as well.
With heated slaps, with diabolically talented fingers, and finally, with the deep, controlled thrusts of his cock.
He had taken her anally, and she had let him. And as she had lain beneath him, fighting for breath, he had told her how much better it could be. How three cocks would take her, move against her, pleasure her.
And with those words he had destroyed a part of her soul. She had dreamed of sweet, gentle words. Endearments. Soft kisses and maybe at least a promise to see her again. She hadn’t expected him to tell her that soon, so soon, she would have his cousins as well.
They shared their women; she knew that. It wasn’t just rumor, wasn’t just hinted at. Alex, her brother, had warned her repeatedly that the stories didn’t come close to the reality of the sexual lifestyle Dawg and his cousins lived, and she hadn’t heeded that warning.
Shaking in fear, she quickly jerked her shorts and T-shirt on, not bothering to search for her panties and bra. God only knew where they were. She had to get out of there before he awoke, before he realized how incredibly stupid she had been.
He had been drunk. He might not remember. God, he’d been drunk; just getting him back to the houseboat had taken every ounce of strength she possessed. But she had understood the drunkenness.
His parents had just died in a horrifying wreck; he had buried them, stood over their graves, and known they were gone from him forever. He deserved a few hours of freedom from the pain.
If only she hadn’t been stupid enough to go looking for him when she learned he wasn’t with Rowdy and Natches. If only she hadn’t grown worried about him, borrowed her brother’s car, and gone searching for him.
But she had, and she had known better. She should have sent Alex after him. She should have sent anyone after him but herself. Because she had known how it would end, and she had known where he would want it to go.
Rather than accepting that, she had fooled herself into thinking that taking her, realizing her innocence, her feelings for him, that he would show a spark of possessiveness. Just a moment’s hesitancy in sharing her with other men, with seeing another man touching her, taking her.
She was crying as she eased the lock back on the glass door that led to the lower deck of the houseboat. It was still early. The mist was thick on the lake, surrounding the houseboats and creating a luminescent, otherworldly air that cut into her soul. Touching him had been like touching power itself. He was huge, so tall and broad, his body leanly muscled and graceful. His chest lightly furred, the crisp curls had raked her nipples as he thrust into her. When his lips hadn’t been suckling them. But it was more than just the physical. That power had seeped inside her, filled her with emotions she had tried to hold in check, tried to protect herself from. She loved him. He made her heart clench and her soul ache. He had the power to bring her to her knees or to make her fly in ecstasy with only a glance from those odd green eyes of his.
And when he touched her…When he touched her, he’d had the power to make her forget that she knew exactly who and what Dawg Mackay was.
As she slipped down the docks, she kept her head down, kept her eyes on the floating walkway, and prayed no one saw her. Dawn was barely breaking over the mountains now; most of the inhabitants of the houseboats wouldn’t be moving around for hours yet.
She could get lucky. She could escape, and no one would ever know she had spent the night with one of the most notorious sex gods in five counties. One of three.
She swiped at her tears. She hated crying. She had learned years ago that no good came of it. It only succeeded in making her feel worse than ever.
But she couldn’t stop the tears any more than she could stop the pain. Dawg had been chasing her all summer. Those light celadon green eyes framed by the thick, inky black lashes, so pale they mesmerized her and pierced into her soul.
His smile was always slow and sexy, knowing. As though he were aware of the ache that centered between her thighs and tormented her long into the night. As though he knew how often she dreamed of feeling him against her, touching him, being touched.
The dream had turned into far more than she had expected. Part nightmare, part temptation.
Forcing herself out of that bed had been next to impossible. She had wanted him to flow over her; she wanted to take his cock into her mouth again and practice what he had taught her.
She wanted to hear him moan her name again, watch his eyes darken. She wanted to run and hide and make certain she never let herself become so vulnerable to him ever again.
And it was breaking her heart. Walking away, turning her back on the only man her young heart had ever raced to was killing her. It hurt physically. It made her stomach cramp. It made her heart feel like a raw, aching wound.