Sexy Beast VI. Lydia Parks

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      Jazzy sat on the railing out front. Late afternoon sunlight bathed this one little corner of the porch, and she’d claimed it for her own. Beth and Nick hadn’t come out of the bedroom for at least a couple of hours, and Matt was sleeping in one of the other rooms. She wasn’t sure exactly where Deacon had gone, but he’d wandered into the woods to check out the huge trees.

      Logan was the only one out here, but he wasn’t exactly with her. He’d gone down to the other end of the porch where he’d commandeered a deck chair. He sat there silently, staring at the dark forest.

      She might as well have been all alone, out here waiting on AJ, Mik, and Tala. From the muffled laughter and the soft scream she’d just heard from the master bedroom, there was no doubt in Jazzy’s mind what was going on behind their closed door.

      She felt that same ripple of sensation, the clenching of muscles, the presence of her clit rubbing against the thick seam of her jeans. Hell, she never thought of her clit. It was just there, a part of her body that usually stayed hidden until it was time to come out and play, but for some reason, lately the damn thing wanted to play all the time.

      She was so not going to be ruled by her sex drive.

      Like that was an issue.

      Desire’d pretty much been fucked out of her after a lifetime on the streets. So many little kids, brought into the country illegally. Sold like so much property. No rights, no home, no parents. Nothing but one man after another, all with the same thing in mind.

      When she was a cute little girl, they’d wanted to dress her up and then take off those same clothes. She’d had men purchase her time who wanted her to spank them. She’d actually sort of enjoyed that, especially when she was little.

      When you’re little, just about everything’s a game.

      She hadn’t liked it nearly as much when they wanted to spank her. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She did what they asked and they still wanted her over their laps with her pants down and her round little bottom in the air.

      Damn, she was so screwed. No way in hell could she ever be a normal woman. Not now. Not after all that had been done to her over the years. Twenty-two years old, not a penny to her name, no real identification, no Social Security number, no idea what country she even came from.

      She’d always figured her mom must have been Asian and her father black. Maybe a serviceman somewhere? She’d never know. Not that it would make any difference, but what kind of parent sold their child to a sex slaver?

      “Penny for your thoughts?”

      “Hey, Logan.” She snorted, but she was secretly pleased he’d come down to her end of the porch. “You wouldn’t want ’em. Not even if I paid you.” Jazzy scratched her arms.

      “They might be better than what I’ve got, which is a big, fat zero. I keep thinking I should remember something, but all I get is stuff that seems to come out of TV shows.”

      Jazzy frowned. “What kind of stuff?”

      He actually looked embarrassed. “Some medical show. I see doctors and nurses. Sometimes an operating room.”

      “That’s probably from when you were first hurt. You’re remembering the doctors and nurses taking care of you.”

      He shrugged. “Yeah. That must be it.”

      When he looked away, though, Jazzy knew he didn’t agree. She turned back and gazed out at the redwoods, but her arms and legs felt all twitchy. She stood up. “I’m going to take a walk. Want to go with me? Let’s see if we can find Deacon.”

      “Where’d he go?”

      She pointed toward a break in the forest. “He took that trail. Said he wouldn’t go far, but he’s been gone about an hour.”

      “Should we tell anyone we’re leaving?”

      Jazzy shrugged. “Who? Everyone else is either screwing or sleeping. Leave a note.”

      Logan went inside and came back a minute later with a water bottle he stuck in his pocket. “I just left a note on the table. Told them we’re taking a short hike and trying to meet up with Deacon.”

      Jazzy laughed. “I’ve seen your writing. By the time they figure out your chicken scratches, we’ll probably be back.”

      Logan flashed her a dirty look. Then he grinned. “C’mon. I need some exercise.” He grabbed her hand and tugged Jazzy along behind him. She went willingly, more aware than ever of the warmth of his hand, the tingle in her palm, and the matching sensations between her legs.