Except no one treated her like an outsider, not with Bren around. "I'll come. I want to."
"Good. Trix'll want you to be there."
Something he'd been careful not to mention until after she agreed, just as he'd kept any hint of encouragement from his own voice. Smiling, she clinked her beer against his. "Then it's a deal. As long as I can scowl at Ace if he tries to make me dance."
Bren downed half his beer in several long swallows. "Scowl at Ace for whatever you want. He probably deserves it."
"Yeah, but he probably likes it, too." At least he'd stopped tossing her those flirtatious smiles, the ones that were all charm and dirty promise--and all the more alarming because she didn't think he did it on purpose. "But he's not so bad anymore. Did you tell him to stop hitting on me?"
"Might as well tell the sun not to shine, sweetness."
She laughed. The sound was so foreign it still startled her sometimes, another way her body turned traitor around Bren. The warmth and the tingles and the smiling and now laughter, and even if it was low and a little rusty, it was real. "Are you almost done working?"
"Yeah." He pulled down the metal rod propping up the hood and let it slam shut. "Want me to walk you to your place?"
"Sure." She slid off the workbench and tried not to let her gaze linger on his shoulders. This was always the most dangerous time, when she was loose and relaxed enough to remember a time when sex had been more good than bad, when she'd appreciated a man with a hard body and beautiful shoulders.
White looked good on him, especially with all the engine grease. His T-shirt clung, the sleeves stretching wide over flexing biceps. Aside from his O'Kane cuffs, his arms were free of ink, but a black swirl curled up his neck from beneath the white fabric, hinting at the tattoo that covered his entire back.
She loved watching him fight in the cage, watching all those muscles move together so perfectly she thought the prissy bastards in Eden must be at least partly right. Only a higher power could have created something as graceful and beautiful and deadly as Brendan Donnelly.
He turned and caught her staring--he must have--but he didn't call her on it. Instead, he finished off his beer and held out his hand. "Come on."
Exhaling, she slipped her fingers into his. His hands still bore smudges, the kind that would rub off on her skin as tangible proof of contact. She knew she'd stare at it later, at the dark grease on the back of her hand that marked the spot he'd rubbed his thumb over, and she'd remember the way it felt. This jolt, the way his touch shivered along her nerves as if her instincts couldn't decide if he was blissful safety or delicious danger.
Her gut already knew. Her body was safe with Bren, but her mind, her heart, her soul... Hell, Wilson Trent had shattered her into a thousand razor-edged pieces, and he hadn't felt this dangerous. Bren could grind those shards into dust.
If she had half a brain left, she'd run.
About the Author
Kit Rocha is actually two people--Bree & Donna, best friends who are living the dream. They get paid to work in their pajamas, talk on the phone, and write down all the stories they used to make up in their heads.
Beyond Control is the sequel to Beyond Shame, and their second dystopian erotic romance. They also write paranormal romance as Moira Rogers. You can learn more about their work at www.kitrocha.com & www.moirarogers.com.
Meet the Bloodhounds
While you're waiting for your next taste of a dangerous future in Beyond Pain, consider a trip to an alternate past. Written as Moira Rogers, the Bloodhounds stories are short category-length erotic romances featuring a group of vampire-hunting super-soldiers with some very other-worldly needs in the bedroom. Enjoy the following taste from Wilder's Mate, the first in the Bloodhounds series.
* * *
He'd almost managed to get to sleep when a timid knock sounded on the door that led to Satira's adjoining room. "Wilder?"
He fought the urge to slam a pillow over his face. "Yeah?"
She must have taken his reply as permission to enter, because the door inched open and she slipped through, a slight shadow wrapped in a blanket. The floorboards creaked as she took a step closer to the bed. "Do you mind...?"