Read Online Complementary Colors by Adrienne Wilder - Free Book Online

roar, but he somehow kept from coming until I barked out a cry and shot all over his pillow.
    His breath on the back of my neck was almost as hot as his lips when he brushed small kisses against my skin. It bothered me how the gentle touch felt better than his cock in my ass, his hands bruising my flesh, or being pinned and made helpless.
    ********
    My ass hurt when I perched on the barstool Roy had pulled up to the counter. I wondered why we sat there instead of the table until I saw the duct tape on the rungs of the chairs.
    Roy caught me looking. “It came with the apartment. Otherwise, I’d get rid of it.”
    “Their version of furnished?”
    “Yeah. At least the bookshelf was usable.”
    “I hope the sofa and bed are yours.”
    “Salvation Army but yeah, they’re mine. Believe it or not, the mattress set still had the tags on it.”
    “I believe you.” I’d sent enough unworn shirts with Alice when she changed out my wardrobe.
    Roy took a bowl of soup from the microwave. “Here.” He sat it on the counter in front of me.
    “So why were you out in the rain?” He finished assembling two sandwiches. He put the one with the extra meat in front of me. I switched it with his. He frowned.
    “It was either the rain or my sister. I chose the rain. If I’d known you were wandering out there, I would have bolted a lot sooner.”
    The blush in his cheeks was dark under his caramel skin. He ate part of his sandwich, and I chased the letter-shaped pasta around the bowl with my spoon.
    “If you dislike her so much, why not make her leave?”
    “I can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Do as I say, Paris, or I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life in this hellhole.” I traced the vein in the back of his hand. There was a scar between his first two fingers, at the base of his thumb, another near his wrist. I touched each of them.
    “I do construction in the summer and get cut up a lot.”
    “What about this one?” There was an inch long, raised bit of flesh just under his middle knuckle. Roy flexed his hand and put it in his lap.
    I propped my chin on my fist while he concentrated on finishing his sandwich.
    “So tell me, what does the great Roy Callahan do on his days off?”
    He caught a piece of tomato trying to escape. “Not much time off.” He ate it. “But when there is, I usually sleep or watch a little TV.”
    Was the relic sitting on the opposite counter even color? “It works?”
    “Mostly.”
    “A few more years and it will be an antique.”
    He chuckled.
    “How much do you pay for this place?”
    “Seven hundred dollars too much.” He shrugged. “But it’s dry and people leave me alone.”
    I had a hard time believing someone as imposing as him ever had to worry about being bothered. But he did stick out like a sore thumb in his blue jeans and flannel shirts.
    “Where are you from, originally? Not from here, I know.” While he talked with a Southern accent, it didn’t have the same twang as the natives.
    “Arkansas.” He nodded at the bowl of soup. “That’s going to get cold.”
    “Why did you leave?”
    “There was nothing left to make me stay.” He finished off his sandwich.
    I pushed mine over to him. “I ate lunch before I ran into you.”
    He gave me a look that said he suspected I was lying.
    “Promise.” I gave him a slow smile.
    He took a bite of the sandwich. Chewed. Swallowed. “Where are you from?”
    “Here.”
    “You don’t have an accent.”
    “My family was transplanted from a few states up north. But I was born here.”
    He nodded. “Have you always done art for a living?”
    I took a bite of the soup. It was still warm, but barely. “Not always.”
    “How old were you when you started?”
    “You realize you can get answers to all these question with a quick search on the internet or any number of art magazines.”
    “I’d rather talk to you than read about you.”
    “Reading about me would be safer.”
    For me. For him. For my heart.
    “How do you