Wildly Inappropriate (2 page)

He was a dinosaur and he knew it. The concept hadn't worked for Rafe and it'd worked out just as badly for Dan. Women were no longer content to stay home and raise a family. They wanted jobs and felt their equal paychecks gave them an equal say in family decisions.

Why was it was so barbaric to want to spoil and coddle one woman, and in return, expect her to honor his decisions in all ways? He'd given up trying to understand why that was true and just accepted it. He'd stay single, though, because apparently what he wanted was the new form of slavery to the current female way of thinking. Perhaps that was why he found the sight of the woman chained to his bumper so riveting.

* * * *

Cynda Avery paced, waiting for the old farmer to wake and find her, recalling what Kingsley Dazza had said when she begged him for more time. "You got two choices. Either go to this farmhouse and play this game to soften old Daniel De Marco up so I can buy a few acres of land he won't sell, or gimme nineteen thousand dollars," the loan shark had growled, yanking her hands loose from his shirt. "You got two weeks. Since I know you ain't got nineteen thousand dollars, you can either go park yo' ass in his yard till he listen, or start helpin' yo granny pack."

Recalling Dazza's low laugh still made her want to rake her nails across his shiny head and right down his bowling ball face. She pictured blood running into his cold eyes and felt somewhat better. He wanted her to come here and play sex games, in hopes she could soften up the farmer so he'd listen to King.
Sex games.
As though all men didn't play those. This game had some rules, according to King. The biggest ones were not to talk back and no matter what, to keep your eyes down. Good idea, that way this old farmer wouldn't see her contempt.

What kind of black man would force a black woman to show up at some old white dude's house, offering to reenact the Civil War—not the fighting part, but the slavery part?

She knew the answer. The kind of black man that claimed to be all about community, but in reality just stole houses from little old ladies like her grams.

She'd refused, but two days later had gone slinking back to his office, agreeing to try his plan. She'd had no other choice. Though she felt what he'd done to Grams was illegal, no lawyer in town would take her grandmother's case without payment. Tied like a dog to this truck, Cynda knew how abandoned puppies and kittens must feel when folks threw them out.

Something smelled wonderful, though. Now that the sun was up and she could see the butter-colored farmhouse, she thought the scent might be coming from the odd tree loaded with huge bell-shaped tangerine blossoms that anchored one end of the long back porch, but then, the delectable aroma might be from the Confederate jasmine vine scampering up the side of the two-story home to disappear over the tin roof.

Her grams would know. Grams would love the assortment of flowers growing around this place. Her grandmother was surely the reason Cynda let herself be chained in some strange man's back yard.

Honey chile, ever' woman's gonna pick her own pain.

That was her grams' favorite saying about men. Cynda had yet to find a man she felt was worth suffering for. She tried to see her beloved grandmother's face, to keep from unhooking the damn leash and starting the long walk back to the highway. She couldn't afford to dwell on the insult of being chained in some white man's yard, but fury burned within her that a black man would suggest this… this… outrage. It didn't take a genius to figure out this landowner must be some redneck who didn't want black neighbors.

Or maybe he sensed, as she did, that King wasn't the kind of man anyone would want nearby. She couldn't afford for it to be the latter. Besides, if the farmer was prejudiced, wouldn't King have sent a white woman?

* * * *

Dan forced his gaze away from the woman Brian had sent to soften him up about selling the family land to stare instead at the parallel rows of trees that began at the edge of his close-clipped back yard. He raised his gaze once more, to the gentle mountain beyond, crisscrossed with the verdant remains of what had once been the largest commercial peach farm in South Carolina. If he squinted, he could see the gaps in the rows where the fruit trees had died and he and his brothers had cut them for firewood but not bothered to replace the loss with a sapling. The family made their living from the garage out on the highway nowadays, a business Dan's father had begun after their mother walked out when Dan was nine. His grandfathers had jointly continued operating the orchards as long as they'd been profitable, but once Dan's mother disappeared, Rafe had wanted nothing else to do with the farm. Coaxing fruit from the land required love, the old man had said on many drunken nights, and Cammie had taken all of his when she walked out the back door without saying goodbye.

Mocking silence from the six-bedroom farmhouse combined with his half-hard cock made him step onto the back porch without bothering to grab pants or a shirt, uncaring of her delicate feminine sensibilities, assuming she had any. She was trespassing, goddammit, and if she didn't want to see a dick, then she had no business letting Brian chain her to his truck.

He was going to use the diesel fuel left in the barn and burn the farmhouse to the ground this week, too, Dan decided as his bare feet hit the gray-painted boards. He'd been thinking about doing it for years. Maybe he'd roast fucking wieners and marshmallows while he watched his old man's ghost twist in the flames. Then, he'd build a one-bedroom cabin on top of the mountain and send Brian Case a picture of it. Because while none of the brothers cared to operate the eight-hundred-plus acres of orchards, every last living De Marco would burn in hell before he'd sell the land to some asshole like Brian, who wouldn't be satisfied until he'd crammed a few thousand families into overpriced homes set so close together people couldn't step foot outdoors without tripping over each other.

"I expect you to unlock that damn chain and get the fuck off my land or I'm gonna bend you over my knee and spank your ass for letting Brian Case chain you to my bumper," Dan drawled. She nearly tripped in her hideous shoes when she spun, causing Dan to grin despite his anger. Her brown eyes went wide when she realized he was bare-assed, her gaze dropping to his erection. Her succulent lips opened to form a perfect circle.

Leaning against the porch post, Dan replaced his hand around his newly-throbbing shaft, stroking his fist along the waking length while watching her through narrowed eyes. "You can get in your car and go tell Brian the orchards still aren't for sale." His grin got wider as she continued to stare at his hand rather than his face. "But do tell him I thank him for finally figuring out the skinny bitches he's been sending aren't my style. Give him my compliments on picking a woman with an ass a man could really get into, not to mention how fucking fine you look in a collar. But sugar, your taste in clothing is wildly inappropriate."

Chapter Two

The deep male voice nearly scared Cynda out of her borrowed shoes. She stumbled as she turned, her heart pounding so loudly she almost didn't hear the rest of his words.

She had no idea who Brian Case might be. Case and King must work together, Cynda decided as her mouth rounded in shock. There had been another man in King's office both times she'd been there—a white dude. Made sense he'd refer to the white man rather than King, if racism could be said to make sense.

The farmer wasn't old, and he was a good-looking devil. Dark brown hair would've hung past his collar, if he'd been wearing a shirt. His eyes were light, maybe green. Very tall, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist and she couldn't see an ounce of fat on him. No wonder he strutted around buck naked. He was built like a god. He was more than naked. He was hard. And getting harder by the second.

Oh yes, I'd give a lot to see King Dazza on his knees, bleeding to death at my feet
, Cynda thought angrily, unable to stop watching the stranger stroke his cock. If the bastard was dead, Grams wouldn't be worrying herself sick about having to live in government-assisted housing when she was used to her own home, and Cynda wouldn't have to beg this stranger to let her suck that big dick.

She kept her gaze lowered because she figured she might as well get used to looking at his cock, and she doubted he gave much of a damn about her eye color. King had been pretty clear that she should keep her eyes down as much as possible.
Sign of respect, bitch
. King's mocking words rang in her head. Wasn't nothin' respectful about the way he was rubbin' that thing, right in her face.

She jerked her chin up and propped a hand on her hip, but she found she couldn't look him in the eyes, not while he was playing with himself. She addressed his chest instead. The dark hair defining his muscles blurred. She blinked faster and found her voice, shame and outrage making it husky.

"Well, then, let's make a deal. I'll be your slave girl. You can dress me your way, and I'll do anything you say, so long as you give me two weeks to change your mind 'bout sellin' some land I hear you don't even use." She ventured a glance at his face. "We can get as wildly inappropriate as you want." Pointing toward his slow-moving hand, she couldn't resist adding, "I see you already started."

His hand didn't stop moving like she'd hoped. She'd rather do many things than touch herself with someone watching, but men seemed to think the act was like breathing. He tugged his heavy-looking shaft upward, drawing her attention again. His dick reached his navel. The head was flushed dark red, a color she wasn't used to seeing on a cock. Involuntarily, Cynda squeezed the muscles inside her pussy as she studied the crisply-defined edge of the helmet shape, imagining it inside her. A bead of pre-cum welled onto the surface. He swiped it across the soft-looking skin with a thumb that appeared much rougher.

"I suppose you're willing to put that in writing?" His fist finally stopped moving. He released his hard-on and strutted down the few steps from the porch. Mesmerized, Cynda watched his heavy shaft bounce as he moved. At its base, she doubted she could close her fingers around it. She swallowed, feeling a little aroused in spite of her fear, finally recalling what he'd said.

For the hundredth time, she assessed King's plan, wondering whether she had the courage to see this through. She ticked off the points in her mind with each step he took toward her.
Offer to be his sex slave. Offer to cook for him. Offer to clean for him
. All things she could handle, if he let her through the door. He had this big place to look after, and some garage he ran, according to King. He wouldn't be around much, Cynda reminded herself.

The collar bit into her neck, the idiotic chain King forced her to wear like some dog weighing on the slender strap.

What is it with men and contracts?
Still, he hadn't said no. Her heart took a leap. A contract meant yes. For the first time, she felt a glimmer of hope this might work. "Yes, I will. If you'll agree to listen to what I have to say about sellin' your land for one hour every day."

Laughter rumbled from his chest. "Of course. I choose which hour, though. And, I think it's only fair I see how serious you are first." He leaned down and unsnapped the leash from the hitch. Muscles rippled beneath his bronzed skin.

He was a long way from the old farmer she'd pictured. Her head barely cleared his shoulder, even in platform heels. He appeared older than her, maybe in his forties. She wasn't very confident about her guess. White folks always looked older than they were to Cynda.

She had no idea what to do next to show him she was serious. Drop to her knees and suck him off? The gravel underfoot made that less than appealing. Maybe she could ask him to lower the tailgate and sit down? What she really wanted to do was go inside where it was cool.

Her common sense returned. Men agreed to anything when you had their cock in your hand. His was heavily veined, and now that she'd thought of it, she wondered whether she could get her fingers around it. Unsure, she glanced up at him again. His dark brows went up, and his lips curved into a smile. Tiny lines formed around his attractive eyes, making him look kind. Up close, she saw gold flecks around his irises, set off by mingled green and blue. To her shock, he dragged one finger along the short length of her nose.

"It's cute." He answered her look of surprise with a shrug as he wound the chain casually around his fist like people dropped off strange women wearing collars in his yard every day. "Those hideous shoes go first. I don't suppose you'd let me toss them in the burn barrel?"

Shaking her head, she felt blindly for his dick. He took a step back as her fingers brushed the head.

"No."

She reached for his shaft again, faking a grin though she wanted to slap him. "It's okay, Mister. The black don't rub off."

Her world became a spinning swirl of green as he yanked her off her feet. Her breath left her with a swoosh as he tossed her over his shoulder, gripping her legs tightly with one huge arm. His other hand came down hard on her ass, leaving a large handprint that stung. A second blow followed. Thanks to the scant length of her skirt, he found bare skin, and it hurt.

Cynda shrieked, beating his back with her fists. It felt like she was striking concrete. His hand dropped again. This time, he struck the opposite cheek. The twin fires seemed to join at her core.

"Ready to listen?"

He didn't yell. His voice was low, but she
felt
it. It rumbled through her like thunder, vibrating her thighs and raising goose bumps that raced up her spine. The tiny hairs on her arms stood at attention. Her nipples started to harden, making her aware they pressed against his back. He caressed the spots he'd struck, rubbing the searing heat into her skin.
Oh, Lord, did he have to find the one thing that turns me to jelly right off the bat?