up the dream. In the meantime, he’d plant gardens—not such a bad lot in life, if it came to that.
Several yards away from where Kincaid worked now, an ornamental iron fence defined the edge of this property, and beyond that was the road. Inside the fence, these owners had planted a grove of true cedars—the trees responsible for the blanket of needles—and Japanese maples to hide themselves from the rest of the world. In the shade underneath, ferns, hostas, bleeding heart, marsh marigolds, and violets grew in thick bunches. At least these people had been wise enough to choose sturdy, native shade lovers. Some people planted expensive, delicate flowers, then hired Rodney and his crews to keep them alive against all odds. It might have given Kincaid a rush to beat natural selection, but it was damn hard work.
There was a lone jogger coming up the road. He could see only that she was female, with breasts that bounced under her sports top and a ponytail that swung. As she got closer, he allowed himself to admire both those things. What had happened in the alleyway with the waitress should have taken the edge off the sexual need that had dogged him, sometimes painfully, during his captivity, but it had honed it, instead. Now, instead of being an abstract longing, it was a specific one: her, at the borderline between civil and unruly,
all the way.
Of course, Murphy’s Law being what it was, as the lone jogger came into more vivid view, it was
her.
Her. The waitress. He knew her name, of course, but saying it out loud, even in his own head, unsettled him. It made her seem real, and important, and the only way he could have done what he’d done the other night was if it was a one-off thing. A mistake he could pretend had never happened. That was why he hadn’t been back to the diner since then, because it made it easier to pretend it
hadn’t
happened.
He crouched behind the wheelbarrow he was filling with weeds and tried not to look at her, because now that he knew those were
her
breasts, his hands felt hot and itchy with the need to cup them. His mouth filled with saliva, his tongue deliberately
not
remembering the shape of her nipples
.
He refused, unsuccessfully, to contemplate the way her wrists had felt, gripped against his palm, the way his knuckles had scraped the brick. He’d wondered if they’d be bloody when he was done, and he’d hoped they would, so that in the morning, the scrapes would remind him (he still had one tiny scab, which he ran his finger over sometimes, with an ambivalent thrill of memory). He’d hoped the skin along her spine or the skin of her ass would be similarly abraded, even though he shouldn’t want her to remember him.
Her clothes fit like a second skin—a light gray tank top and black pants that ended mid-calf—and she wasn’t wearing makeup. When he’d escorted her back to her car the other night, her mascara had been smudged under her eyes, and he’d imagined that her tears sprang from the same mixture of pleasure and pain he’d felt. Now her face was bare, but flushed bright with exertion, and it was impossible not to flash back on the way her breasts had heaved against him while he’d restrained her hands overhead, the way her breath had rushed hot on his cheek.
He was hiding from her, he realized. He was hiding there, squatting behind the wheelbarrow, hoping she’d pass without spotting him.
And hoping she’d see him. Hoping she’d glance between the black iron bars, over the top of the barrow, that her eyes would meet his. That she’d draw up sharp in shock, that she’d trot to the fence and grip the bars, that she’d press her face through the bars and—
And what? Demand he kiss her? Let him clutch her hands tight around the bars, trapping her there? Let him pull both her arms through the bars so the iron would press into the flesh of her breasts, then hold her tight while he worked his body against hers, the metal painful and pleasurable where it bit into
Several yards away from where Kincaid worked now, an ornamental iron fence defined the edge of this property, and beyond that was the road. Inside the fence, these owners had planted a grove of true cedars—the trees responsible for the blanket of needles—and Japanese maples to hide themselves from the rest of the world. In the shade underneath, ferns, hostas, bleeding heart, marsh marigolds, and violets grew in thick bunches. At least these people had been wise enough to choose sturdy, native shade lovers. Some people planted expensive, delicate flowers, then hired Rodney and his crews to keep them alive against all odds. It might have given Kincaid a rush to beat natural selection, but it was damn hard work.
There was a lone jogger coming up the road. He could see only that she was female, with breasts that bounced under her sports top and a ponytail that swung. As she got closer, he allowed himself to admire both those things. What had happened in the alleyway with the waitress should have taken the edge off the sexual need that had dogged him, sometimes painfully, during his captivity, but it had honed it, instead. Now, instead of being an abstract longing, it was a specific one: her, at the borderline between civil and unruly,
all the way.
Of course, Murphy’s Law being what it was, as the lone jogger came into more vivid view, it was
her.
Her. The waitress. He knew her name, of course, but saying it out loud, even in his own head, unsettled him. It made her seem real, and important, and the only way he could have done what he’d done the other night was if it was a one-off thing. A mistake he could pretend had never happened. That was why he hadn’t been back to the diner since then, because it made it easier to pretend it
hadn’t
happened.
He crouched behind the wheelbarrow he was filling with weeds and tried not to look at her, because now that he knew those were
her
breasts, his hands felt hot and itchy with the need to cup them. His mouth filled with saliva, his tongue deliberately
not
remembering the shape of her nipples
.
He refused, unsuccessfully, to contemplate the way her wrists had felt, gripped against his palm, the way his knuckles had scraped the brick. He’d wondered if they’d be bloody when he was done, and he’d hoped they would, so that in the morning, the scrapes would remind him (he still had one tiny scab, which he ran his finger over sometimes, with an ambivalent thrill of memory). He’d hoped the skin along her spine or the skin of her ass would be similarly abraded, even though he shouldn’t want her to remember him.
Her clothes fit like a second skin—a light gray tank top and black pants that ended mid-calf—and she wasn’t wearing makeup. When he’d escorted her back to her car the other night, her mascara had been smudged under her eyes, and he’d imagined that her tears sprang from the same mixture of pleasure and pain he’d felt. Now her face was bare, but flushed bright with exertion, and it was impossible not to flash back on the way her breasts had heaved against him while he’d restrained her hands overhead, the way her breath had rushed hot on his cheek.
He was hiding from her, he realized. He was hiding there, squatting behind the wheelbarrow, hoping she’d pass without spotting him.
And hoping she’d see him. Hoping she’d glance between the black iron bars, over the top of the barrow, that her eyes would meet his. That she’d draw up sharp in shock, that she’d trot to the fence and grip the bars, that she’d press her face through the bars and—
And what? Demand he kiss her? Let him clutch her hands tight around the bars, trapping her there? Let him pull both her arms through the bars so the iron would press into the flesh of her breasts, then hold her tight while he worked his body against hers, the metal painful and pleasurable where it bit into
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