by Aycart, Elle
“Have you considered the possibility that I might install an alarm to keep undesirable strangers out?” She tried to sound serious, but she couldn’t pull it off. First, he wasn’t a stranger, and second, he wasn’t undesirable at all. Two days ago, at the dock, she’d been so tempted to jump his bones. The impressive half-erection he’d sported while sleeping hadn’t helped matters. She’d covered him with the quilt, holding on to her self-control, trying and failing not to imagine Con rumpled from sleep and with full-blown morning wood.
He scoffed. “Please. No alarm would keep me out. Why are you turning red?”
Why? Because she was not only remembering how she’d wanted to fuck him on the dock, but also how she’d gone to her room, so turned on that she’d been drenched, and had come explosively just by pressing her legs together. The second orgasm had required her to touch herself, but again, just the thought of him fucking her had made her come, whimpering in pleasure.
As fantastic as that flying-solo sex session had been, she was positive it would pale in comparison to having Con over her, those dark eyes trained on her, all those gorgeous muscles glistening and bulging while he rammed into her. Just imagining it made her shiver.
A pity she would never get to try the real thing, so she should put all her horny feelings in the freezer, because they weren’t reciprocated. If that unconscious hard-on had proven anything, it was that he had no problems down south. It was simply that he wasn’t interested in her. She’d grabbed his hand as a gesture of comfort, but the way he’d tensed and flinched had been a clear tell. Her touch had been unwelcome. As mortifying as the realization had been, she should be happy he was saving her from herself. This stupid infatuation wasn’t what she needed now. She’d been living on fear and adrenaline these past eight months. She had more important things to take care of than her undersexed body and overeager imagination.
Connor walked in and inspected the place. She cleared her throat, trying to ignore how his proximity affected her. She could preach to herself all day long, but the fact remained-- she was attracted to Connor. Very attracted. “It’s hot in here,” she mumbled, fanning herself with her hand.
“You need any help? Wallpapering is trickier than it seems.”
“You got experience with it?” He hadn’t elaborated about his deployments, but even if he’d been in relief operations—which she very much doubted—he’d hardly been wallpapering.
“Before I enlisted, I spent all my summers working for Nathan Bowen’s construction company, the one that Cole runs now. We worked in hardhat areas mostly, but sometimes he had us help with a remodel.” He chucked off his jacket and gave her a roguish smile. “What do you say? Let’s get cracking.”
God forgive her, but for a moment she’d heard “let’s get fucking,” and she’d nodded like a madwoman before realizing her mistake. “Yes. Let’s get… um… cracking.”
She was wearing a bikini underneath her T-shirt and shorts. She’d planned to take a dip in the pool to cool down after working on the cottage. As things stood, she should take that dip now—preferably in the chilly lake—and then come back to work.
The guy wasn’t interested. And neither should she be. So what if he got her motor running with just one look? She’d only recently gotten out of a very shitty relationship and wasn’t looking for a new one. If it was physical relief she was after, she had her faithful vibrator—which would have to suffice for the next decade, because running this inn was the only project she’d have energy for. The Bob, true, was somewhat lacking in comparison to a boyfriend who would listen to her and hug her, but it was much less problematic too. As long as she kept it stocked with batteries, it would give her orgasm after orgasm. And when she was done, she could shove it in a drawer.
Connor, as sexy and mouthwatering as he was, would be more than a tad problematic. She’d seen the devastating effects of PTSD in her brother, who had been one of the firefighters first on the scene of a horrifying train accident some years back. It had taken him a long time to get back to his normal self. Con had combat PTSD by the looks of it. That was a different order of magnitude altogether.
“Okay,” she said, pulling her head out of her ass. This was a friend helping another friend.
He grabbed his cell. “Let me warn Mike and Rachel that something came up and I can’t be on watch.” He typed fast. “Done.”
“If you have other plans…”
“Nope. Being on watch means making sure the OGs don’t get into trouble.”
“So who’s going to keep watch if you’re here?” She didn’t want to be responsible for making a mess of things.
His cell beeped and he checked it. “Mike says he’ll cover me and do a pass by the bowling alley to make sure all is in order. Adrian refuses to go there. He says he doesn’t have a death wish.” At her quizzical frown, he added, “We formed a group chat to be more effective dealing with the OGs. The three grandchildren plus Adrian and Kyra.” He left the cell on the coffee table. “Ready to start?”
“Yes. Full disclosure: I’ve never done any wallpapering. I may suck.”
“Unroll the paper over that table, brush glue on it, grab it by one end, make sure it’s straight, press it on the wall, and smooth it out so there’s no bubbles. Easy peasy.”
She was sure it was going to be more complicated than that, but she nodded. “Easy peasy.”
Ten minutes in and she was damn glad Con had offered to help. If she didn’t hurry with the glue, it dried before the paper made it to the wall. If she used too little glue, the paper didn’t stick. If she used too much, it squeezed out along the seams and made a mess. Never mind climbing the ladder while trying to keep the paper straight.
“I told you it was tricky,” he said with a soft smile as he expertly repaired the bubbles she’d left on the last sheet of wallpaper.
“No shit,” she cursed, blowing away a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail. It landed right back on her face, so she tucked it behind her ear, getting glue all over it.
“Team effort,” he said while she inspected her fingers. Yep. The tips were sticky. “I unroll the paper over the table, you brush the glue on it, I put the paper on the wall, and you smooth it out.” He looked around. “A room this size, I say we’ll be done in three hours.”
Right.
Once they re-assigned the tasks, though, everything went along smoothly. “Look at us,” she said, proudly. “We’re like a well-oiled machine. Total military precision.”
He nodded but said nothing. No time to chat. They were in military mode. She knew—she’d grown up with a soldier.
Halfway through, Suzy knocked on the open door, bringing something quick to eat. They were busy with a stubborn sheet of wallpaper, so she placed the tray on the coffee table and, giving Audrey the side-eye, left. This was so going to get Red and Suzy on her case. Whatever.
“You hungry? Doesn’t matter if you aren’t—I’m under orders to feed you whenever you spend time here,” she said, inspecting the tray. Sandwiches and a bowl of fruit. “These sandwiches Red makes are great. Much better than mine. You’ll like them.”
“Yours were plenty good,” he said with a shrug as he climbed down the ladder.
Turning around, she managed to get her feet tangled in some plastic on the floor and was about to topple over when Con steadied her. She grabbed his shoulders for balance and felt knots of scar tissue under her fingers. She frowned. “What—”
He stiffened and wrenched away. “It’s nothing.”
It wasn’t nothing; she could tell. His skin had felt bumpy, almost carved—the kind of texture that only heavily scarring left. But his expression was forbidding. Whatever it was, it wasn’t open for discussion.
“Fine, soldier.” She reached for a triangle of sandwich and handed it to him. He accepted it without a peep. By the time she’d eaten one, he’d wolfed down three. “You were hungry, huh?”
“I seem to get hungry around you,” he admitted, looking somewhat dumbfounded.
“You should check it,” she said.
He grabbed the cell and checked. “Holy shit.”
“What?”
“Rachel sent a message to the group.” He cleared his throat. “Read it yourself,” he said, showing her the screen.
Rachel: Good evening, ladies, how’s it going? Done bowling?
Wilma: Yep.
Wilma: We’re admiring Rebecca’s collection of crotch pictures.
Mike: Where the fuck have you been pointing that camera of yours?
Audrey choked back laughter.
Rachel: You saved the dick pics I got from the wackos in that dating app?
Greta: What dick pics? We have dick pics? Why did no one tell me?
Wilma: **CROCHET pictures **CROCHET
Wilma: Stupid phone! I’m getting tits.
After three seconds:
Wilma: ***RID of it ***RID. OF. IT
Rebecca: Can we go back to the dick pics? We saved them?
A facepalm emoticon from Rachel.
Mike: Grandma!!!
Audrey blinked several times, making sure she’d actually read what she read. Thank God she hadn’t had any food or water in her mouth. She would have choked on it. Or spit it all over the wallpaper. “This is…”
“The OGs in full swing,” Con offered. “Wilma’s autocorrect fiascos are legendary. It’s like she has a dirty old man in there. They call him Alfred, even. It’s a full-time job keeping them out of trouble.”
She cleared her throat. Better to get the bad news out of the way fast. “Speaking of which, they were here earlier and saw the Jet Ski.”
“Fuck.” He looked up at her. “My dad wants Greta declared mentally unfit and has filed for guardianship. He says she’s a menace.”
“And you don’t agree?” she asked carefully. It was her experience that military guys weren’t the concession-offering type. Too short a fuse for what they considered civilian nonsense.
He sighed deeply. “I do agree she’s a menace, but seriously, if you aren’t allowed to do whatever the fuck you want when you’re eighty, then when? The OGs aren’t mentally incompetent. They understand very well what they’re doing. They just don’t give a rotten ass whether others like it or not.”
“I’d say that’s a great life philosophy,” she said. “Wouldn’t you?”
He pondered for a long second. “Honestly? I think my dad doesn’t like the fact he can’t control her the way he and my granddad used to. Greta always said that if she got a second chance at life, she’d do things differently. I think being the obedient, self-sacrificing wife she was for most her life was one of the things she’d chuck.”
“Too much of a free spirit.” It looked like the three old ladies had been born in the wrong decade. Heck, the wrong century.
“Probably.” And just as he’d opened up, he clamped down again. “Come on, let’s get this done.”
After putting glue on another sheet, she took out her phone. Choosing a playlist, she let it rip. “Open up,” she ordered as he climbed up the ladder with the wallpaper.
“What?”
She put a bonbon in his mouth and tried to talk while eating hers. “Heaven forbid you not get something from all the food groups.”
He stiffened, and for a second she feared he was going to reject the bonbon, but he took it with a curt nod. Ha! And that was without mentioning the possible glue on her fingers, which she maybe should keep to herself.
He gestured at the tray. “Fruit.”
“You smooth this out, then,” she bargained, letting go of the brush and rubbing her hands on her shorts to make sure she didn’t poison them. She picked up two grapes and fed him one.
Until they finished the bowl of fruit, he did all the wallpapering and she did all the feeding—of which she was grateful, because it gave her the opportunity to ogle.
Soon enough they went back to splitting tasks. Con didn’t talk much on the best of days, but today his silence was impressive. “You’re unusually quiet today,” she baited him.
“This is my normal self. Talk is just a distraction. Music is too.”
Of course. Despite that, however, they were done much sooner than she’d expected.
“I don’t know what your plans for the future are, but you’d have a bright career as a handyman,” she said when they finished. She was dirty and sweaty, a total mess, while he looked immaculate.
“Not bad.” He glanced at her watch. “Merely two hours behind schedule.”
“Yeah, yeah. My bad. Come on. Let’s go for a dip in the pool. You wearing boxers under those jeans? I’m afraid we’re short on male employees you could borrow trunks from.”
“I’m wearing boxers, but I don’t think—”
“Oh, shut up,” she admonished him, grabbing his hand and dragging him along. For a second she thought he was going to wrench it away, but he gave in. “You’re the one who said talk is just a distraction. It’s a bit past midnight, so we should be alone in the pool. Or do you have something else to do—like, I don’t know, go home to sleep?”
Low blow. He scoffed, not appreciating her sarcasm by the sounds of it. Whatever.
As she figured, the pool area was empty. She kicked off her shoes, lost her T-shirt and shorts, and jumped into the water. “Come on. It’s warm,” she said, treading water.
It was rather dark and she couldn’t see his face properly, so whether he was going to join her was anybody’s guess. Maybe she should have suggested this when the lights were on—you know, just to improve the experience. Not that he was going to come close to her anyway.
He seemed to struggle with himself. It wasn’t clear if he won or lost, but he let out a sigh. Kicking off his shoes and socks, he unzipped and got rid of the jeans. Damn and damn the lack of illumination. Tomorrow she was going to break her piggybank and go to town to remedy this.
She expected him to pull his black T-shirt off next, but he never did. He jumped into the pool with it on.
When he resurfaced, they were a good ten feet apart.
“Why didn’t you take that off?” she asked, treading water. “It’ll be uncomfortable to walk home in a dripping shirt.” Nothing she owned would fit those broad shoulders.
No answer. Afraid he wouldn’t want her too close, she didn’t approach.
“If being shy is the issue, I promise not to look. Heck, I can barely make out your face, so you don’t have to worry about that. Not that you would have anything to worry about even if there were lights.”
Still no answer from him. Although she couldn’t see him properly, intensity radiated from him.
She sobered up and lowered her voice. “Keeping the shirt on… you do that for the same reason you wrenched away at the cottage when I touched your shoulders?”
Another non-answer, but he’d started moving toward her. He stopped in front of her, his expression grim, and remained silent for a long while, never breaking eye contact. “This is a fucking bad idea,” he said in a low voice as his gaze dropped to her mouth. He seemed spellbound—and angry at the same time.
“What is a bad idea?” she whispered back.
She didn’t want to move, but it was as if he had his own gravitational pull and it was drawing her in. Yet the last time she’d grabbed his hand, at the dock, he hadn’t responded well. She did her damnedest to resist, until he cupped her neck and brushed his thumb over her lips, watching her intently. She couldn’t stand on the bottom of the pool, so she kept moving her feet until he realized and grabbed her by the waist, bringing her to him.
His erection poked against her, huge and demanding. She stilled. “Is that because of me? I thought you didn’t like me.”
His voice was gruff and gravelly. “What gave you the idea I don’t like you?” He sounded pained. “I want you so fucking badly, most of the time I can’t think straight when you’re close by.”
“Remind me never to play cards with you. Your poker
face is unbeatable.”
He felt so high-strung. All his muscles were bulging. “You should tell me to fuck off and leave. Now. Keep my hands off you. For both our sakes.”
My, such a drama queen. “Why would I say that? Is it okay if I touch you?” She wasn’t sure where to put her hands. She didn’t want to spook him.
He didn’t answer. They were a breath apart now, staring into each other’s eyes, when she placed her palms against his pecs. “I’ll do the touching,” he growled at the contact, taking both her hands and holding them in one of his at the small of her back. Then he slid their bodies toward the wall, until she felt the cold metal of the stairs against her buttocks.
For the longest time he did nothing; he just stared at her, looking conflicted, keeping her hands trapped. She would have loved to take the initiative, reach out to him somehow, but she couldn’t move—not to mention she was afraid to break the spell he seemed to be under.
Finally, Con leaned into her, tentatively at first, only brushing her lips with his, but she opened for him and he groaned in surrender, deepening the kiss until his tongue was inside her mouth and he was ravaging her. She loved assertive kissers, the ones who took charge and knew what they were doing, and boy, did Con know. That kiss alone turned her on more than many of her lovers had managed to do with their dicks inside her.
Unable to stop herself, she wrapped her legs around him and he tensed even further, grimacing. “Sorry.” She moved to disentangle herself, but he stopped her, keeping her flush against him, his massive erection pressing against her open folds. The small triangle of her bikini and his boxers weren’t really much of a barrier. She could even feel the engorged veins on his shaft.
Cupping her head, he shifted them away from the stairs, so her back was braced against the smooth tile of the pool wall and positioned himself perfectly so that the whole length of that huge erection would rub against her clit on the upstroke and on the down. She could barely breathe. She hadn’t thought feeling overpowered and restrained would work for her, but damn if it didn’t. She was so turned on that she was already hanging by the thinnest of threads—and that was before his hips started rocking against her, forcing her to accept the deep caress of his cock with each movement.