Page 7 of I Hate Myself for Loving You
He stepped back from her, letting his arms fall to his sides. “That someone is still not going to get what she came here for. Whether she lets me play with her fun stuff or not.”
“Yeah? Well, that street goes both ways, stud! Playing with my fun stuff doesn’t mean I’m going to stop harassing you until you go away.”
The implication that she’d come to win by any means, even if that means was trolling, finished it for her. It simmered in her brain, boiling over.
Her temper did what it always did. Flared, zinged to an all-points bulletin, and then spilled out of her mouth. “Screw you, Lassiter! I don’t give a shit how many bulldozers you have or how much money you throw around. I’ll see you in hell before I’ll let you trash any more of the Adams’ land!”
Swinging around on her heel, Avery clomped out of his shabby trailer and into the night, letting her anger give her access to shift.
The morph of bone led to the ripple of muscle and tufts of fur appeared on her arms as she bent to allow the flow of her change. Her clothes fell away, pooling on the ground, shredding with the force of her growth.
She shook her now furry head, the snap of her ears satisfied her that she had indeed completed the shift. Once on all fours, Avery lurched forward, hitting her stride with a light jog, then allowing her fury to fuel a fast-paced trot.
The fucking son of a bitch.
The goddamned, thick haired, hard bodied, rippled abbed son of a bitch.
How dare he even imply she was willing to hock her wares for an environmental cause.
Though, she just couldn’t figure out why her cause didn’t stop her from allowing him access to the wares in question.
* * * * *
“Screwyou. Screwyou,” Bud chirped from his cage across the room.
“Okay, I get it. Shut up already,” Lassiter warned testily. “Don’t make me take your bird bath away, pal.”
Damn it. He hadn’t meant for things to get carried away. Avery had a way about her that either had him cocked and at attention, or so pissed off he couldn’t see straight. Her defiant arrogance, her flashing blue eyes, her rigid posture lent to a lust that took on a life of its own.
She wasn’t what everyone was calling beautiful these days. Her lips weren’t overblown, but soft and supple, nonetheless. Her body almost too lean and her hair, always falling down around her heart shaped face in unruly, silken strands of blonde the color of wheat in the sunlight, was always a mess.
Her nails were short and sometimes ragged—most likely from all of the chaining herself to inanimate machinery. Her clothes were anything but what he’d recently seen labeled as trendy on TikTok or Instagram.
Avery didn’t much care for female finery, he supposed. She didn’t wear what the current fashions were, but none of that stopped him from wanting her just the same.
She did things to his man parts no woman should be allowed to do. It could be called indecent, and all she had to do was show up. After almost a year since their last meeting, he still warred with the urge to hunt her luscious ass down and make her submit to him. Yet, there she stood at his door, fresh faced and blonde, fighting the obvious urge to wallop him in the teeth and it started all over again.
She turned him on. Her scent made his nostrils flare and his unrelieved cock swell, straining against his jeans. She engaged every last sense he had, and it infuriated him to find that he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.
Avery smelled like a warm summer breeze laced with a hint of jasmine. It clung to his nose and lingered there. Bringing his hand to his face, he caught the remnants of her desire on his fingers. Tangy and sweetly laden with the thick cream of her satisfaction.
In exasperation, he shoved a hand in his pocket. Fingering the well-worn, rumpled piece of paper that never left his hands, the reminder of why he was on Adams land to begin with, Lassiter resolved to get a better grip on his loins.
No one, not even Avery-juicy-lipped Palmer, was going to keep him from achieving that.
No one.
Chapter Four
Avery ran with the chilled breeze at her back. As if running could keep her ahead of Lassiter Adams. As if his sensual invasion of her body could be escaped.
She’d done exactly what she’d done in California.
Or, close to what she’d done in California.
Pausing under a barren oak tree, Avery lay down. Paws in front of her, nose buried between them, hunkering into the cold ground.
Aren’t you the little tart? her conscience called.
