Read Online Time Served by Julianna Keyes - Free Book Online

music, no voices.
Of course he’s not here
, I think. It’s the Fourth of July. He’s probably out with his friends, or a woman who didn’t break his heart.
    I knock again, just to make the trip worthwhile, and I’ve given up and taken two steps down the hall—one relieved, one disappointed—when the lock turns and the door swings open. I freeze and look over my shoulder, unable to do more than watch as Dean sticks his head out and peers around, first right and then left, spotting me.
    His surprise is evident but he doesn’t speak, and I turn awkwardly, suddenly feeling as foolish and stupid as I knew I would if I came here. I open my mouth to apologize—again—or make up an excuse, but already one of those big hands is reaching out the door, gripping my wrist and yanking me inside.
    Dean slams the door and locks it, pinning me against the scarred wood with his chest. He’s wearing a tank top and basketball shorts, feet bare. I can make out very little of the apartment beyond him, getting only the general sense that it’s a large open space, sparsely decorated, with a television flickering against the far wall.
    I’m stalling and he knows it, waiting until my eyes cautiously lift to meet his, glaring down at me from inches away. With our gazes locked he uses one hand to take the wine and my purse, tossing them on an unseen table, then lifts both hands to cradle my face. I jerk slightly as his thumbs stroke the soft skin of my throat, his flesh fiery hot, rasping over me like a brand. He leaves one hand there, holding me in place, and the other slides down my right side, giving my breast a cursory squeeze, feeling the dip of my waist before going right between my legs, pressing through the fabric of my dress and panties so hard I flinch.
    “Say
lawyer
if you want me to stop,” he orders, voice tight and low.
    My heart tries to leap out of my throat. I don’t need a degree to know he’s giving me a safe word. Dean Barclay, issuing safe words like it’s a daily occurrence. As though the women in his life are gasping and writhing and begging desperately, so flailing and frantic that they need a
safe word
to make him stop. That
no
is just part of the game.
    But instead of kicking him in the balls and running away, instead of shrieking “Lawyer!” at the top of my lungs and taking my leave, I look him in the eye and nod.
    Dean groans, something low and feral that I can feel vibrating through his chest, and buries his face in my neck, lips and teeth hard and seeking. I whimper as the hand between my legs gathers up my skirt until it’s bunched at my waist, held in place by his thrusting hips, and he forces two fingers beneath my brand-new panties and into my pussy without a word of warning. I feel a hint of pain, but mostly I’m relieved.
    My head falls back against the door with a thud, my breath fleeing my lungs. I’m overwhelmed by him. He’s so big. He’s so fast. Like the day we met at the gym and I’d struggled to keep up, this is the same thing. He’s too much for me. And I hate myself for still wanting whatever it is he’s threatening to give.
    “You like that?” he grunts, forging in with a third finger, forcing me to spread my legs to accommodate him. “Feel good?”
    I whimper my response and the hand at my throat turns my face to his so our eyes meet.
    “I asked if it feels good,” Dean repeats harshly. “Answer me.”
    “Yes,” I tell him. “It feels good.”
    “This for me?”
    He thrusts in roughly, his passage eased by my copious juices. I know he’s referring to my wetness, asking if it’s because of him. I want to lie and tell him it’s for Todd, Todd who has hopefully given up on waiting for me and headed out to enjoy the fireworks alone, but I don’t. I nod, feeling his fingers dig into my neck, making it hard to breathe.
    He looks smug. “Good,” he says darkly, then pulls away. “Turn around and hold your skirt over your hips.”
    My breath hitches but I obey, turning