“Gee, was I speed-walking?” I toss out, mainly to keep him standing there, because I’m mesmerized next by his tattoos. Sunbursts and tribal bands curl over his sinewy arms, and I’d like to lick them. I’d like to know if he’s inked elsewhere and how far, or how low, the artwork on his body descends.
To his hips? The top of his ass? The V of his abs?
A woman can dream.
With a tilt of his head and a far-too-knowing grin, he answers, “Let me guess. You either didn’t realize it, or you have someplace real important to be?”
“So important. I have to . . .” I trail off then make my voice as husky as can be as I set down my avocado, “. . . make guacamole.”
“You don’t say,” he rasps, his low baritone caressing me all over. “I could help you with that, officer.”
“Are you Mr. Avocado Farmer?”
“I’m Mr. I Can Show You How Ripe They Are.” He steps into the booth, moving next to me, getting into my space.
Closer than he needs to be.
A tremble rolls over my shoulders as he crowds me. “Let’s see.” He strokes his neat beard, and I rein in a whimper. I want my hands on that scruff.
He studies the sea of avocados, reaching for one at last and then sliding even closer, so his shoulder touches mine. It’s the match to my kindling and strikes a fire inside me.
If anyone tried to tell me a woman doesn’t have a type, I’d call that person a liar.
I have a type, and the type lights me up from sea to shining sea.
He cups the fruit in his palm, then brings it near my chest. I draw a quick breath, then flick my hair off my shoulders.
“By the way,” he says, “I like your hair up, but I fucking love it down.”
Dead.
I am dead from desire.
Before I can reply—I’m honestly not sure I can form intelligible words—he rubs his other hand over the rind. “See, you want to find the one that’s ripe and”—he pauses and turns his face to meet my gaze, his dark eyes holding mine—“ready to eat.”
A shudder hijacks my body. “Is that so?”
I don’t need a tutorial in picking avocados. Please. I know how to pick them just fine.
But I want his lesson. Want to hear his voice. Watch those hands move. Feel him slide closer.
“It’ll feel slightly soft, and it’ll yield to just the right amount of gentle pressure.”
And that pressure builds between my legs, an insistent throb. “How do you tell if it’s enough pressure?”
He pushes a thumb against the flesh of the fruit, making a husky hum low in his throat. “Just like that. See how it responds?”
“How’s it responding?”
He turns, angling his body nearer to me, his dark eyes shining with desire as he roams them over my face, my hair, my breasts. “Just the way I like it.”
This man is going to ruin me in the best possible way.
While I don’t have the time or inclination for dating, dinners, or fitting someone into my very busy schedule, I’m pretty sure I could deal with a little ruination.
Yes, I could definitely do with getting ruined.
7
Derek
Today is my lucky day.
I’d like to thank my sister for getting my ass out of bed.
I’d like to thank my niece for telling me the nice lady with the paints had just made her way down the veggie aisle.
And I’d like to thank fate that this avocado stand is in an out-of-the-way corner of the market, and that the farmer running it must have had to take one hell of a leak.
It’s just us.
This woman is fiery, flirty, and already driving me out of my mind. The stream of market-goers has thinned to a crawl as we near closing time, and left us in a cocoon of raw lust.
I place the fruit on the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth, brush my fingers over her hip, and tug her against me. She lets out the sexiest little sound. “Tell me your name. I’m dying to know.”
“Why do you need it so badly?”
“So I know what name to say when I’m fantasizing.”
A murmur crosses her lips, and she leans her head back against me, her hair spilling down my chest. “Are you fantasizing about me?”
“Every. Single. Night.”
“You must be having a lot of long nights, Mr. Trouble.”
“Long, hard nights . . . Miss Demeanor,” I say with a smirk, trying that nickname on for size.
“Well played.”
“Thank you. It just came to me.”
She glances back at me, her green eyes looking rife with dirty thoughts. “Do you want to come down to the station with me?”
“I want your name, beautiful. Give me your name,” I growl into her ear, commanding her.
“Perri,” she says breathlessly, her voice betraying her longing. A longing that matches mine.
“Perri,” I repeat, tasting her name on my tongue.
Her voice tightens to a warning and sharpens as she speaks. “Don’t say it.”
I narrow my brow in question. “Say what?”
“Don’t say it’s a guy’s name.”
I laugh lightly in her ear, jerking her ass closer to my hard-on. “Do you honestly believe I’m thinking for one second about guys right now?”
She lets out a gasp, chased by a soft moan. “I don’t know. What exactly are you thinking about?”
I drag my scruff against her neck. “How close I am to getting a ticket for indecent everything.”
She wriggles her sexy rear against me. “I’d say everything feels way more than decent.”
I groan as a dart of lust shoots down my spine. I’d like to find a way to kiss the breath out of her right here, right now.
She tenses against me, her body straightening like a ruler, and my gaze flicks to the new crowd of people streaming around the corner, heading toward us.
Fuck me.
She twists around, and I’m staring at her stunning face and lips that look like they desperately need to be kissed.
I tuck a finger under her chin. “Nothing indecent about touching your gorgeous face.”
“No, I suppose it’s not indecent at all.”
“When are you done? I need to see you.”
“You need to see me?” she challenges.
My gaze travels up and down her curves, noting the rise and fall of her shoulders, the flush in her cheeks, the parting of her lips. “Absolutely. And it goes both ways, I’d say. I need to see you, get my hands on you. And you need to be kissed so fucking hard that you stop sassing me.”
A grin takes over her lips as she grabs two avocados—the one she touched and the one I was holding. “What makes you think a kiss would get me to stop sassing you?”
I smile back, shaking my head. “You’re right. Why would I think you’d stop dishing it right back at me?”
“I think you like how I dish it.”
“I believe you know I fucking love it.” I reach for her belt loop. “Now listen, Perri. I’m done helping my sister in thirty minutes, and the way I see it is we can either grab a cup of coffee and gab about favorite TV shows and movies, then go for a stroll along the river and talk about what we do and where we went to college . . .” I quirk an eyebrow and lower my voice. “Or we can meet someplace where we can finish what the avocados started.”
She nibbles on the corner of those sexy lips—lips I intend to get to know biblically well—and then lifts a hand and grabs the neck of my T-shirt, jerking me closer. “My friend runs the waffle truck on the outskirts of the market. Meet me there. I’m entering a kissing contest for charity, and if you can blow my mind in thirty minutes, you’ll be my partner. That’s your mission, should you choose to accept it.”
I shake my head like a dog shucking off water.
A kissing contest? What the hell? I’d like a fucking contest, thank you very much. But fucking starts with kissing, so there’s no earthly way I’m turning this chance down.
“Are y
ou auditioning other candidates?”
With a sultry, confident stare, she shakes her head. “No. I’m waiting for you to blow me away.”
“Funny. I was waiting for you to blow me away.”
Her eyes take a tour of my body, stopping at my crotch. “We’ll see about that.”
I grab her wrist, grip her hand. “No one else is going to be kissing you in any contest, or by any waffle truck. Got that?”
“I guess you need to prove you have what it takes to make my knees weak.”
“And your panties wet.”
She wiggles an eyebrow, dips her face close, her soft cheek brushing against mine, and whispers in my ear, “You’ve already done that.”
Then she tosses a five-dollar bill to the farmer, who must have returned at some point, says, “Thanks, Bob,” and walks away.
Unabashedly, I tilt my head to the side, staring as she saunters down the aisle, giving me the chance to enjoy the sight of her ass, so fucking spectacular in those jeans.
As surreptitiously as possible, I adjust myself, then a pang of guilt stabs me.
We just practically dry-fucked in Farmer Bob’s stand. The least I can do is pay for the privilege. I buy a bag of avocados and hope to hell someone in the house wants guacamole.
By the time the market ends, guac is the last thing on my mind.
The waffle truck is first and foremost.
8
Derek
Thirty interminable minutes later, I make my way to the food truck, eager to see her again. Maybe we’re going to don aprons and hats and whip up Belgian waffles, an entrée to the main course of kissing that would also go well with whipped cream and strawberries.
But I don’t want to play patty-cake drop-a-dollop-of-whipped-cream-on-your-nose-and-get-to-know-you games. I’m not interested in dating, and I don’t have the bandwidth to fit that in—not on top of the new job and taking care of my family.
Those are my priorities, and there’s no room for anything else.
But I do like the idea of kissing the taste of strawberries and whipped cream off Perri’s sweet, pouty lips.
When I reach the truck, a closed placard is perched at the window, and I curse.
But a second later, my red-haired beauty appears at the window, leaning over the steel edge, wiping a waffle crumb off her lips, a hint of mischief in her green eyes.
“So sorry, sir. The truck is closed.” Her tone is the definition of coy.
I lift an eyebrow. “What if I’m not here for the waffles?”
“Interesting,” she says, taking her time with the word. “Whatever would you be here for, then?”
“I believe I’m here for the one-fifteen appointment to prove I can make your knees weak.”
A naughty smile is my reward, then she glances down, checking out an invisible schedule. She taps the imaginary page with a finger. “Why, yes. I do see you, right here. But I have one question.”
“Hit me.”
She bends closer in the window, resting her chin in her palm. “Do you like sweet or savory?”
I take a beat before I answer. “I have a healthy appetite for . . . everything. But I especially love to eat sweet things.” I reach for a strand of her hair, twisting it in my fingers. “Sweet red things.”
A gust of breath seems to cross her lips, then she whispers, “I need to warn you. My lips might taste like cucumber and tomatoes.”
“I’d be open to taste-testing.”
“Then I’m open to your appointment.” She leans over the edge of the window, those tits pushing up in her white T-shirt, sending my dick speeding into full-speed arousal. This is when she should give me a ticket—semi to flagpole in less than a second.
This woman is a temptress like I’ve never seen before.
I stare at her, my jaw tight, my desire already stoked high. I exhale sharply. “Open the fucking door to the waffle truck, Perri.”
A little murmur tells me she likes the command, and it also makes me curious if she’s the kind of woman who’s so used to giving orders and telling people what to do all damn day that she likes a few orders in the sack.
“Come around to the back,” she whispers.
I peer inside the window, confirming the truck is empty. Only her. I head to the back, and she’s there holding the door open.
She slides a finger over her lips. “Listen.” Her tone turns serious. “My friend Staci took off for about ten minutes to pick up her regular grocery order from the farmers. No one can see us in here, but we don’t have—”
I drop my head, claim her mouth, and shut her up with a kiss. A hard, punishing, powerful kiss for a woman who seems to want it that way.
“Oh God,” she gasps into my mouth, looping her arms around my neck. We crash against the wall next to the sink, utensils clattering. She yanks me closer, and we claim each other.
There’s no prelude, no buildup. Just kissing at sixty miles an hour. Pure need and adrenaline. Heat jolts down my spine. A wild storm of lust surges in my gut.
I grind against her, letting her feel my length, letting her know I’m so goddamn ready to go.
Push. Grind. Press.
She responds to every move with a tighter grip around my neck, with her fingers lacing around my head, with a sharp tug on the ends of my hair.
She’s so fucking fiery. Maybe I’m wrong about her liking orders. But I want to find out every little detail about what turns this woman on.
Or turns her on even more. Judging from her moans and whimpers, she’s already on a fast track to the pleasure zone.
She breaks the kiss and slides a hand down my shirt, dancing over my abs, setting me alight. Her hand reaches the outline of my dick, cupping me. “That feels way more than decent,” she purrs.
I lean my head back and groan. A feral, filthy groan. Because this woman is going to kill me with lust. She’s in my head and under my skin, and I want her more than I want world peace, and hey, I’d really like world peace.
But I’d also like to fuck Perri and make her come again and again. I’d like this truck to be rocking. “I promise you will feel indecent, incredible, indescribable pleasure when I get you naked and under me, above me, and bent over.”
She squeezes harder. “I see you’ve already picked out a wide selection of positions.”
I drop my mouth to hers and bite the corner of her lips. She yelps, then presses her pelvis against me, the perfect angle for friction. “And I see you’re trying to get a piece of my cock right now,” I growl.
Her lips open in a startled O. “I’m going to have to arrest you for filthy language.”
I shake my head and plant a hard, bruising kiss on her pretty mouth. “I think you like filthy language.”
“I think I like what you’re doing to me,” she murmurs and slides her hands around my hips to my ass, squeezing it.
I bend to her again, capturing those pouty lips once more in a searing kiss. I consume her mouth, sweeping my tongue across hers and savoring the flavor of her kiss. I don’t taste tomatoes and cucumber. I taste salt and desire. I taste the sweetness of a hint of gloss. And I smell her want. I fucking inhale her lust. It’s heady and intoxicating, swirling around me, and it makes me want to drag her back to my—
Fuck. There’s no “my place” to go to.
So I kiss her impossibly harder since this is not a woman who likes slow. The thought makes me laugh.
I chuckle as I kiss her, and she slams her hands against my pecs. “What’s so funny about kissing me, Mr. Speedy?”
“I was just thinking how I could give you a ticket for kissing too fast.”
“You don’t like the way I kiss?”
I laugh again, grab her hand, and bring it back to my shaft. “Kitten, I’m so fucking turned on that you’re going to have to lock me in this waffle truck for an hour for my dick to go down. I love everything about the way you kiss. I love that you’re not a slow kisser. I love that you’re ferocious and fiery.” I slide her hand down my length, watching a
s her eyes go hazy. “I love that you’re as ready for this as I am.”
“Do you think I’m wound up?” Her voice is breathy as she strokes me.
“I bet your panties are soaked and you’re aching between your legs.”
She whimpers, then grabs my jaw and slams my mouth back to hers. “Kiss me hard.”
“As if I’d do anything else.”
I do as the lady asks, devouring her sweet mouth. Our teeth click, our tongues lash, and our breath comes in fast, sharp pants.
I grind against her, and she grinds right back. I half wonder why we’re not fucking right now, but I also have enough brains to know she’s a cop, and even if this truck is on the edge of the market, and even if we’re out of sight, she’s still a bit of a public figure.
But that doesn’t stop me from letting my fingers wander. They slide down her body, over her belly, and to the waistband of her jeans. I slip a hand under her shirt, feeling the soft flesh of her stomach.
“You feel so fucking good.” I unbutton the top button on her jeans.
Her hand darts out, stopping me. “Derek.”
Her tone is 100 percent warning. I heed it, stopping. “What is it?”
“If your hand goes any farther south, I’m going to fuck your fingers.”
My mind officially goes haywire, wires tripping, nerve endings fraying, my brain combusting. “That’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said in the history of the world.”
“But we can’t. We have to stop.”
I nod, getting it, even as my cock and fingers have other ideas. I cup her jaw. “How did I do with my appointment? Did I pass?”
Her lips quirk. “With flying colors. The only question now is what category we’re going to enter in.”
“There are categories?”
Her green eyes dance. “Oh yes. Sweetest, most passionate, best reenactment. I’m not sure which one would be best.”
I thread a hand through her hair. “We should practice again. Meet me later.”
“Like on a date?” Her tone drips with skepticism, and I believe I’ve met my non-dating soul mate.
The Feel Good Factor Page 4