No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

  I’ll sure as hell use that effect to my advantage till I can handle standing upright again.

  Just long enough to get into a hot shower and let the heat do the work to get me loosened up enough to sleep.

  Might even go down to the station tonight, I think, after I’ve had time to rest. I crack open a second beer, sip it more slowly, then prop my hip against the counter and pin most of my weight on my good leg.

  Maybe some small part of me is hoping.

  Hoping if I go in, if I put myself out there over the airwaves, Peace will call in tonight.

  And maybe I can tell her over the radio what I can’t say to her face.

  The first thing being I’m sorry.

  The second being sorry as hell.

  The third being don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me when you're the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  All tidied up for FCC regulations, of course.

  That last one, I’m stuck on now, trying to get this girl off my mind. I force myself through the fog of pain and beer and into the shower. Temperature turned to scalding hot. It’s awful for the first few minutes I step into the steaming, scouring spray.

  After a while, though?

  Pure bliss.

  Water pours down my naked body, heat soaking into my thigh, the beer and the steam working through every muscle to leave me relaxed like nothing else does.

  Except for Peace’s touch.

  Goddamn, here we go again.

  The way her hands slid over me, teasing my skin, taming my hurt, it’s like I can feel her in the water trickling over my flesh.

  Every drip feels like a tongue licking over me, making me shiver as I close my eyes and tilt my head back into the spray.

  She’d touched me like she already knows me.

  Like she’s just been waiting to find me.

  And I can feel her little fingers on my skin, tracing my own fingertips down across my stomach, toward my throbbing, fast awakening cock.

  I can’t do it.

  Can’t let myself touch, feel, crave, need with this insistent hunger.

  That means admitting I want her just as bad.

  I want her fire, her softness, her wrapped around me and pressed up against my body and using those hands to do a hell of a lot more than therapy.

  I can’t get the thought out of my head.

  I tell myself I’m doing it because the endorphins of jerking off will do more to ease my pain than the steaming shower.

  That distracting shot of hormones, of bliss, makes me forget everything but raw, savage pleasure.

  Too bad I know the real reason I’m doing it.

  Because that girl’s gotten under my skin. Her sassy little mouth, her dyed up hair, her hips that could blindside any fool.

  I can’t stop thinking about the ripeness of her lips and how they’d look, gleaming wet, as if she’s here in the shower with me. I’d have her on her knees, my seething hands tangled in her hair, pushing her right the hell down on my full, throbbing, angry—

  Fuck.

  That does it.

  My cock’s up and hard and ready so quick I’m dizzy, blood draining down in a rush to make me stand up, the shaft rising with a jerk that bucks against my stomach.

  One thing Holt and I have in common—the only thing—no Silverton boy ever left a chick wanting.

  I groan, giving in, wrapping my hand around the base, squeezing like a vise. Makes me flushed that much faster, like I’m compressing this hunger down in my fist, squeezing it into my flesh, infusing me with this heady, groaning psycho lust.

  My hand’s not the one I want touching me, even if it does the job.

  It’s too rough, too callused.

  I want softness. Delicate touches, sweetness, and fuck I bet she’d be so shy at first.

  Then she’d dive in just like everything else, headfirst and reckless and completely unafraid.

  But my hand’s gonna have to do, stroking down over my length. I feel the pounding of my pulse in the veins against my palms.

  I shudder, thinking about what it’d be like to kiss Peace Rabe, up against the wall, thieving every moan out of her mouth like a starving beast.

  Yeah, dammit.

  That gets me going like nothing else, imagining the taste of her lips, wet and parted, the way they’d be all hot and soft and perfect. The little flick of her tongue.

  It’d be pink—no, strawberry red, and she’d taste me nice and slow. Taking sips before melting against me with a singsong moan as she lets me have my way and steal inside her and kiss her deep.

  I’d throw her arms around my neck, fusing her to me.

  Her naked body against mine, those full, heavy tits slick and round and gleaming and so fucking soft against my ribs.

  Her belly nudging against my cock between us.

  And maybe if I slipped my hand down between those lush thighs, I’d find her pussy hot and slick all over my fingers as I slid two of them along her folds and felt her moan and arch.

  My cock jerks against my palm, a painful little warning spurt surging from the tip.

  Shit, I’d almost forgotten I was even touching, so caught up in this perfect frigging fantasy of Peace that it’s like the sensations are real.

  And it’s not my hand making my cock swell, not my fingers making me gasp and catch growls in the back of my throat as pleasure rockets through me.

  It’s her.

  The crush of her body, the softness of her skin, everything feminine and lush and perfect, turning my body into hellfire.

  I’m lava. I’m lightning. I’m a human earthquake.

  I stroke my dick faster, harder, throwing my head back and reveling in the water pounding down on my back, just another hot sensation biting my skin with desire and pleasure.

  I just want to know her.

  Just want to know what it’s like to sink inside her with her hips wrapped around my thighs and her wet hot cunt sinking down to suck me in.

  And that’s when I’ve reached my limit.

  My cock swells in my hand. I see white-hot stars.

  That first long jet of warning pouring out of me is fuck-nothing compared to the money shot.

  Like a storm ripping through me, surging out of me, making everything hurt in all the best ways as I come, cock jerking and spilling, overflowing in my shifting fist.

  Like that one hot burst rips everything out of me and leaves me weak—my breath, my blood, my pain, my desire, all of it emptying out in searing, thick jets.

  Growling, I sag against the shower wall, closing my eyes and just letting the rush bleed out of me, gasping for breath.

  Fuck, that felt good.

  And now I feel even guiltier.

  After the way I snapped at her?

  I got no damn right to have her in my thoughts if I don’t make things right.

  I wonder at all the things I don’t know.

  Do I have it in me to try for someone like her?

  What do I have to offer her besides stress, an angry kid, and a whole lot of pain?

  She keeps wanting to see me like Warren and Leo and Doc.

  I ain’t no hero.

  I’m damaged goods, trying to be useful while I’m still here, while people can figure out what they can use me for.

  That’s why I push myself so hard on my leg.

  I know I only got so long with it. One day, it might give out on me for good.

  When that day comes, I won’t be able to do much.

  I’ll end up like Ma.

  In a wheelchair or something, with my poor kid looking after me.

  You can’t do that to Andrea, this furious voice in the back of my head whispers. You can’t turn bitter and ugly like Ma did to you, and the only thing you got left when you’re stuck and lonely and helpless and hateful is fucking with people just to feel a little bit of power again.

  I used to go to physical therapy.

  Years ago, I’d drive all the way to Missoula to see this quack who’d always tell me I wa
s never gonna get better, but I could figure out how to live.

  I didn’t want to hear never gonna get better, so I didn’t listen.

  I just walked out and didn’t look back, then tried to act like I wasn’t hurt at all.

  Maybe it’s time for me to admit I need Peace’s hands.

  No, not to do the unspeakable shit I just imagined in the shower.

  I’m starting to think I need her light, too.

  I can’t remember the last time I laughed the way I did when I went crashing down that dumb old hill on a sled five sizes too small for me.

  I’d wound up right on top of her, pressed in close and gasping and wanting to just grind my entire body against that pixie girl trapped under me.

  Ow.

  I can’t be thinking about her under me now. Not again.

  My cock’s still too sensitive, and dirty thoughts like to chase each other.

  If I have another go with her dancing around naked in my head like that, might just give myself a stroke.

  At least my thigh ain’t feeling too bad anymore.

  I reach to turn the water off—then freeze as the doorbell rings, echoing through the house.

  What the hell?

  Who’s here this late?

  Whoever it is, they get to deal with me stark fucking buff.

  I’ll put a towel on. Fine.

  But I ain’t hurting myself wrestling into jeans when I just got the pain to subside.

  I grab a towel off the rack and drag it around my hips, knotting it on one side, then limp out of the shower. My leg still can’t handle my full weight, but it holds up all right as I stagger to the door and yank it open, growling “What?” before I even see who it is.

  Only to find myself looking into glacial green eyes, blinking up at me, a little too wide. Peace’s cheeks are almost as red as her hair as she stares.

  She’s got her big folding table balanced under her arm.

  And a bag slung over her shoulder, standing there like she means business.

  I blink at her.

  She blinks back at me.

  “What’re you doing here?” I blurt, wondering for a second if she’s even real.

  Not the first words I wanted coming out of my mouth when I spoke to her again.

  Ain’t I smooth?

  Peace cocks her head, eyes flashing for a moment before her mouth sets. “You have an appointment.”

  “Huh?” I scratch the back of my head. “We didn’t schedule nothing.”

  And I’m pretty sure last time we talked was a pretty clear “fuck off,” not that I meant it but...well, damn.

  And well damn again as she gives me an up-and-down look before marching right past me, her thick coat brushing against my naked, still too-sensitive skin, making my stomach jump hard as she struts her way into my house like she belongs here.

  Girl’s got stones. Lady stones. I’ll give her that.

  And she’s flexing them at me right now. She nudges my coffee table aside with her calf and then snaps her folding table open, plunking it down with a decisive thump.

  “Since you’re already kind enough to be dressed down for the occasion,” she says, stripping those ridiculous purple gloves off and lifting her chin, “you can just set yourself right down on the table. And don’t even try to hide your limp. You’re only standing on one leg right now.”

  She’s got me.

  And after I got my head all turned around and confused, I’m a little too flustered to deal with this hurricane standing here, staring at me like she’ll fight if I argue.

  You know what?

  I think she just might.

  And I’m not gonna risk getting knocked out by someone I could pick up with one hand and palm like a basketball in my bewildered state.

  * * *

  That’s how I find myself on her table five minutes later, lying on my back, adjusting my towel.

  Trying real frigging hard not to think about the fact that I just got off to this woman.

  At least it means I got maybe ten minutes or so before I have to worry about embarrassing myself under her hands.

  She busies herself setting her bag down on the coffee table, then shrugs out of her coat and drapes it over the couch. She glances around the living room, taking my place in.

  Whatever, I ain’t worried about her judging my house. I keep it tidy to set an example for Andrea.

  But there’s still something about having this woman up in my life that makes me feel a little too naked, y’know?

  I keep it to myself, though.

  She drifts closer to the big glass aquarium against the wall. Inside, under the heat lamp that keeps him alive during winter, Mr. Hissyfit coils in miles and miles of pale ivory and yellow scales, lazy on the branches Andrea had meticulously arranged inside.

  Peace makes an appreciative sound, whistling under her breath. “Whoa. That’s one big snake.”

  “That’s what she said,” I say, before I can stop myself—and she laughs, her eyes brightening as she glances over her shoulder at me.

  “Yeah? You got a lot of shes saying that to you?” Her smile is coy, teasing, and I’m amazed she’s not holding a grudge for what a Hissyfit-sized dick I was the other night. “All those ladies calling in to see if they can tap into your heart line?”

  I roll my eyes. “Listen, don’t you start with that too. My fucking brother told my daughter about all the girls I dated in high school not too long ago, and now you’re acting like I’m some kinda player?”

  She turns to face me, sauntering playfully with a little skip of one step, lacing her hands together behind her back.

  Tonight she’s wearing a filmy, almost fluffy off-the-shoulder top in some kind of lilac fabric. The material floats around her with her every step.

  Instead of hiding her body, it just teases.

  The shirt wafts against the curve of her waist, the swell of her chest, their curves pushing up against that plunging neckline I could bite.

  I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the way it lifts over a thin strip of her stomach, above jeans so low they’re damn near obscene.

  There’s a certain thing that happens when a lady’s got this mix of softness and tone, where her belly swells out with a little plumpness. All perfect and lush to the touch, but she’s got muscle under it, too.

  The creases where her belly blends into her thighs get real deep.

  Real high, too, almost to her hips.

  Peace has got it going on in droves.

  Holy Hades, do I want to nibble my way along those little lines of flesh bared with her every movement.

  “So,” she asks sweetly, tilting her head, her hair falling against her bared shoulders in a wash of twilight and flame. “Are you a player, Blake Silver Tongue? Do you ever use that tongue for more than sweet-talking?”

  “Goddammit, Broccoli!” I sputter, damned if I ain’t blushing at the things this little monster’s suggesting without an ounce of shame.

  Especially when I still got the thought of her wrapped around me on my mind, and now I’m wondering what she tastes like.

  Spent or not, my cock stirs again, painful and throbbing.

  Peace just laughs, covering her mouth with one hand.

  “You’re so easy,” she says, hounding me to kiss the insolence right out of her. “Now relax. If you’re tensed up, this won’t really do any good.”

  Relax.

  Right.

  When she just asked me if I use my tongue for something other than pretty words, and there’s no missing what she means.

  I want to use my tongue on you, I want to say.

  I don’t dare.

  Still too many things left unsaid, unresolved.

  Don’t even know how to broach that apology now. Not when she’s acting like my bad attitude never ever happened.

  Okay.

  Shit.

  Relax.

  I can do that.

  Yeah.

  I close my eyes, trying to chase out all the dirty thoughts
with pitchforks.

  Doesn’t help when I hear a bottle cap pop and catch that musky scent of the oil she used on me last time.

  My body’s instantly alert, aware.

  Remembering how it felt to have her touching me.

  Relax.

  “Hey,” she says softly. “Are you hurting today? You’re so stiff.”

  I’m in pain, all right.

  But my thigh isn’t the appendage giving me the most trouble right now.

  “I’m fine,” I say, gazing into those pretty green eyes looking down at me with clear worry, sweet and soft, while she warms the oil in her hands by rubbing them together. “Just spent a lot of time standing at work today.”

  She tilts her head. “You had a lot of fires to put out today?”

  I can’t help a small laugh. “I ain’t a full-time fire chief. We don’t have those salaries around here. I do welding work when I can, just to pick up the slack. I’m mostly set with my military pension and the skimpy pay from the town for fighting flames, but I can’t not work.”

  “Sounds more like the type who can’t stand to be idle.”

  She smirks and reaches for me—but I guess she remembers how I snarled at her the first time.

  Instead of resting her hands on my chest like she’d started, she goes straight for my thigh.

  I must be losing my mind, feeling sad to lose the feeling of those soft hands against my skin.

  I did this to myself, being a defensive dick all the time.

  Her brows knit as she smooths her hands over my thigh. I hiss as the muscle instantly jumps, locking as hard as a cramp, pain flaring.

  “It’s bad right now,” she says softly, just resting her hands against the knot, trying to soak the pain into her warm, oil-smoothed palms, her gaze locked intently on my leg. “Worse than it was before. Blake...you’ve been stressing, haven’t you?”

  “You could say that,” I grit out through my teeth.

  Fuck, that hurts.

  But I almost welcome the pain. It’s keeping my cock under control.

  No way that thin towel’s gonna hide how I react to her.

  Peace bites her lip, shaking her head. “You can’t keep doing this. What will Heart’s Edge do without its fire chief if you permanently disable yourself?”

  I exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s gonna happen anyway. The physical therapists told me I can’t stop it. Just delay the inevitable. Sooner or later, my leg’s gonna snarl up for good. Might be able to get around with a brace, might not.”