Hot Maine Men Boxed Set (Hot Maine Men Series, Books 1 & 2)

by Remy Rose

  “No—quite affordable.”

  Laney pushes her sunglasses up on her head to look at me, her dark blonde eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement. “So what’s the issue? Did he creep you out or something?”

  “No, I just—”

  “OR...” Her blue eyes widen.

  Shit. “There’s no ‘or.’ I just haven’t responded yet.”

  She’s grinning at me in delight. “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

  “I would say he’s...kind of attractive, yes.”

  “Your face is getting all red.”

  “It’s the sun.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this, Maddie.”

  “Like what? I’m not like anything.”

  “Flustered over some guy.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Have you been baking?”

  She knows I tend to do that when I get stressed. “Delaney. Don’t make more of this than it is.”

  Thankfully, she backs off. “Okay. Okay.” Her eyes get gentle as she leans forward in her chair. “I’m just teasing. I know you’re not looking for anything, and if anyone gets that, I do. But hey—at least enjoy the scenery while you have him! Maybe you can invite your friends over to see his, um, big tool.”

  Laney raises an eyebrow and looks so comical that I burst out laughing. And then we’re both giggling like a couple of fifteen-year-olds, and I feel better about everything—like I’ll be able to take my best friend’s advice and just enjoy the scenery.

  When we go back in the house, I send an email from my iPhone: Thank you, Jack – you’re hired. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  I try hard to ignore my shivery spine.

  Chapter 5 ~ Jack

  July 13

  When I was a little kid, I was known as Jackie. My mom practically wore that name out, calling to me from the front porch in her shrill voice: Jackie, come eat your dinner! Do you have bug spray on, Jackie? The black flies are bad! Come sweep the garage before your dad gets home, Jackie!

  A lot of the time, it would be stuff I needed to do for Dad. Always had to keep the old man happy. I did, when I was a kid—it was my brother who was always pissing him off by dicking around. Ironic how things changed.

  I wonder what Mom would think, if she were still alive. I wonder if she’d understand my decisions, be proud of me.

  Annnd there’s the tight throat, which is my cue that I need to return to safer thoughts, especially since I’m headed to Madeline’s for my first day on the job.

  Where was I? Oh yes...nicknames.

  So it was Jackie when I was young, and in school right up until my sophomore year, it was just Jack, or sometimes big Jack. Then one day during football practice, one of the defensive backs gave me a name that stuck with me through college in my circle of friends: Big Deck.

  Just a reminder that my last name is Decker, in case your mind was going elsewhere.

  I’ve got to say, that nickname fits. I mean, when you’re 6’5”, 234 pounds...the word “big” is kind of a given, right?

  I know what you’re wondering. Does the name also fit, uh, in other ways?

  Yes. Yes, it does.

  Even before I really knew how to use my cock, it became evident I had something out of the ordinary down there. Other guys would tease me about it in the locker room—somewhere between admiration and jealousy—and after I did a little research, I learned that the average male penis is 3.5 inches when flaccid, 5.1 inches when erect. My first thought was, seriously, that’s it? My second thought was, poor bastards!

  My first girlfriend in high school was hornier than I was. She’d been with quite a few guys before me, and I was fine with that, because she was more daring and into experimenting compared to other girls her age. The first time we had sex was the first time I knew for sure that my dick was kind of legendary. We were making out hot and heavy down in her basement on our second date, and I was just about to whisper how much I wanted to fuck her when she started unzipping my pants. I had a hard-on so huge it was painful. We both tugged at my jeans, pulling them down, and the anaconda was released, popping out fully erect, like a fleshy exclamation point. All I wanted to do right then was put it inside her, but she stopped in her tracks and just stared, her eyes as big as hubcaps. After a few seconds, she caught her breath and said in this hushed voice, “Holy fuck, that thing is huge.”

  “Thanks?” I answered, kind of awkwardly, because it wasn’t like I had anything to do with creating it. I watched her expression go from incredulous to scared shitless, like oh my fucking God, how is that going to fit inside me?

  Spoiler alert: it did. Many times.

  Since then, the python has explored many a cave—too many to count. I’ve been with enough women to know that size does matter. They want big bathrooms, big bank accounts, big cocks. I thought it was interesting when I heard that women valued larger-than-average penises in one-night stands. This meshes perfectly with how I roll: long on dick, short on time.

  Speaking of time...it’s 6:50 a.m., and I’m just pulling into Madeline Callaway’s driveway. I’m surprised to see her out front since it’s so early. She’s leaning over a rosebush with a basket on her arm, clipping some of the bright pink flowers. She has her hair in a neat bun—no loose strands this time—and she’s wearing mid-length plaid shorts and a sleeveless blouse with a high neckline. I can’t help but wonder if she’s looking more conservative on purpose, to give me the impression that she’s not to be seen as a sex object.

  Sorry, Ms. Callaway—I’m not buying it.

  She turns as I climb out of the truck, cinching the tool belt around my waist. “You’re early.” Her face immediately colors. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that to sound like a criticism.”

  Love it. She’s already adorably flustered, and I just got here. “I didn’t take it that way. I am a little early. One of my flaws is being overly-punctual.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s a flaw! It’s like the opposite of a flaw. It’s—it’s—I can’t think of the word.”

  She’s about as pink as the roses in her basket. I’m trying like hell to hide my smile. “No worries. I get what you’re saying. I’m flawless.”

  Madeline’s lips curve into a frown as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I didn’t—” and then she’s laughing softly and shaking her head, looking at me like she can’t believe I’m for real, and man, I’ve never felt this strong of an urge to hug a woman.

  “So...good morning,” I say, going to the back of my truck and opening the tailgate. “Are you all set for me to start in the bathroom, or do you need to get ready for work?”

  “I’m on vacation this week.”

  “Oh...nice.”

  “I won’t get in your way.”

  “What if I want you to?”

  She looks at me, startled, her deep brown eyes searching mine to see if I’m kidding. I’m not.

  “Are you this direct with all your female clients?”

  “Only the ones I’m attracted to.”

  “What if I’m offended by it?”

  “Madeline…” I come around the side of my truck to stand in front of her. She’s holding the basket in front of her chest, like she needs the protection. She is looking at me steadily, trying to act like she isn’t keyed up, but the rise and fall of her perfect breasts under her blouse is a dead giveaway. “I would never be talking to you like this if I thought you were offended. Like I said before, I read women well. And from the first couple chapters of your biography, I’ve learned that you’re not only hoping I’ll make love to you…you’re counting on it.”

  Her jaw drops open. I’ve rattled her, and I won’t let her know this, but I’m a little shaken up myself. There’s that feeling again, surging through me, of wanting to take her in my arms. Which is competing with some X-rated thoughts of what else I want to do to her.

  She has absolutely no idea what to say, and that’s fine, because I want my words to caress her thoughts like my hands are going to stroke her body.

  “So I’m
going to head upstairs and get the demolition process under way. I’m looking forward to this project. And getting to know you better.” I flash her a smile as I take my cordless screwdriver and tool bag and go into the house.

  Fuck, I want to kiss her. And I will. Today.

  Chapter 6 ~ Madeline

  July 13

  Ten minutes after our exchange, my heart’s still pounding like a jackhammer. God damn it, leave it to me to pick a simile with his name in it. It’s just pounding, period, like it’s out of control. And that’s how I feel when I’m around him, which I do not appreciate.

  He is in my house, which is why I am out of my house, walking toward the water so I can hopefully find some calm in the sea, as I have so many times before. It occurs to me that he might be watching me from an upstairs window. Let him. It is utterly absurd, the effect this man is having on me, when I hardly know him, and when his purpose is to simply renovate my bathroom.

  I didn’t need a bigger bathroom. My bathroom is just fine. Maybe I should go up there, right now, and tell him that I’ve changed my mind. That he was wrong about women wanting palatial bathrooms.

  Wrong about me wanting him.

  I should be so offended by the things he said.

  So why aren’t I?

  I’m at the water’s edge now. The waves are gentle, frilly, foamy...lapping at the gravelly shore. Flip-flops in hand, I’m in my bare feet, gripping the wet slabs of rock with my toes and avoiding the prickly, dried seaweed. The water is refreshingly cold and interrupts the steady staccato of my heartbeat. The Atlantic has saved me time and time again. The mind-clearing scent of the salt water, the pull of the waves, back and forth, in a hypnotic, soothing rhythm, the sparkling vastness of the ocean, making me feel humble and small, my problems insignificant.

  And what are my so-called problems, anyway? This incredibly gorgeous, dirty-talking, huge hunk of a man whom I find enormously attractive is making me a new bathroom. And…

  That’s it. There is no “and.”

  Is this even really a problem? I am single. Jack, to my knowledge, is also single. He has made it clear that he is interested in me. He will be working at my house for a few weeks at most. And then—he’ll be gone.

  There is a muffled strumming from my pocket—my ring tone. The word Mumsie is on the screen. I’m smiling as I answer the phone, because I always feel better after talking with my mom, the perpetual optimist.

  “Hey, Mum.”

  “Sweet pea. How are you?”

  Confused. Horny. Pretty fucked up. “I’m good. What’s new?”

  “Oh, nothing really...just calling to check in with my baby girl.”

  “Is Daddy ready for his surgery?”

  “Ready for it to be over with, that’s for sure. He’s looked up surgical complications and all the ways you can die from them.” She sighs. “Your father always likes to be prepared.”

  “Aw, poor Daddy. He shouldn’t worry.”

  “No, he shouldn’t, but it’s what he does. What’s been going on with you?”

  “Not much...really busy at work.”

  “Busy is good. Just make sure it’s not all work—have some fun, sweetie. You deserve it, after what that wanker Paul put you through.”

  I stifle a laugh. Mum’s always got my back.

  We talk a few more minutes—about the book club my mother started, the blistering Arizona heat, the jackfruit recipe they tried last night. I do not mention my renovation. Before we hang up, Mum tells me again to do something for myself—something fun.

  Sex is fun.

  So you could say I am basically being encouraged by my mother to have sex. Reckless sex, even, with someone I’ve only just met.

  I’m not looking for a relationship. But a fling...maybe that is something I should consider. A fling with no strings.

  My heart begins to pound again, but this time, it’s accompanied by a pulsing in another area. An area that hasn’t had any action except self-induced in an embarrassingly long time. I’m shocked to find that I am dipping my toes in the pool of possibilities.

  I breathe in the air above the sea, let it cleanse my mind and soul.

  Okay...I feel calm. Somewhat confident. Enough so that I am walking up the slope to my back lawn, across the grass, along the flagstone walkway and into the sliding glass door of the kitchen. Enough so that I can use the excuse of needing to get something out of the upstairs bathroom so I can see Jack Decker.

  I can hear him working. It sounds like he’s using a drill. Something noisy, which means he won’t hear my footsteps coming up the stairs. Or the pounding of my heart, which seems to have started up again.

  The bathroom door is open. He’s hung plastic, presumably to prevent dust from getting through the house. So he’s also thoughtful.

  Feeling a bit like an intruder, I pull back the plastic from the doorway. Jack is bending over his tool bag, and oh my God in Heaven, his ass. I realize I am most likely going to hell for using the Lord’s name in the same breath I’m lusting over man buns, but Jesus. His jeans are pulling tight, the dark denim accentuating his well-muscled backside.

  It looks even better than when I saw it the first time. I have a ridiculously crazy urge of walking up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, resting my head against his strong, muscular back...my hands reaching around to his belt buckle, unfastening and slipping my fingers down inside to—

  He is straightening up, the expanse of his broad upper body filling my vision. He has a pry bar in his hand, and when he turns and sees me, a slow grin spreads across his face.

  “Hi,” I say, stupidly.

  “I’m glad you came up. I was hoping you would.”

  How can he speak so directly? I can barely manage stringing a few words together, and here he is, sharing feelings...

  “I needed to ask you if there were any fixtures you wanted to re-use.”

  Oh. “Um, I guess not. You can just get rid of everything.”

  “So towel rings, towel bars, medicine cabinet?”

  I nod again.

  “I’m going to have a dumpster delivered in the next couple days. If you don’t mind, I’ll pile the stuff outside for now.” He steps over to the towel bar beside the shower and positions the tip of his rechargeable screwdriver into one of the screws.

  Everything about what he is doing screams sex.

  I am sick. Pathetic.

  I lean against the door frame, trying desperately to look casual and nonchalant and like I’m not thinking, how can I do you? Let me count the ways. I realize I am supposed to have come up here for something, and then I realize I’m looking at it.

  “So how’s the real estate business?” He’s on one knee, taking the towel bar off the wall.

  “Busy. Doing a lot of showings, especially this time of year.”

  “Putting in a lot of hours, then?”

  “Oh, yes. And you?”

  “Busy as well. But I live by the ‘all work and no play’ proverb.”

  “So Jack isn’t a dull boy?”

  He fixes his devastating blues on me. “No, Callaway. He’s not. And I can prove it.”

  My fuck. I need to get away from him. “Let me just grab my, um, sunscreen, and I’ll get out of your way.” I walk into the bathroom in the direction of the linen closet, tripping over his tool bag and wincing at the sharp jab on the top of my foot. Jack is at my side in an instant, holding my arm at the elbow. The nearness of him, his hand on me, shifts my focus from the pain.

  “Are you all right?” His eyes are earnest, concerned.

  “Yes—just clutzy. I’m sorry...” I look down at my stinging foot, which has started to bleed. “Oh, shit.”

  Let’s recap, shall we? Coffee stain, tampons on the counter, and now bloody foot. I really know how to make an impression on a man.

  “You must have poked your foot on my screwdriver. Sorry about that...I shouldn’t have left it sticking out of the bag. Do you have bandaids up here?”

  “In the linen closet,
I think. I’ll get one, thank you...” But before I can reach the closet, he’s there, opening the door and finding Kleenex and the box of bandaids. He dampens a tissue under the faucet and returns to me, bending down so I am looking at the top of his thick, wavy hair, his shoulders.

  This absolutely gorgeous man whom I do not know is on his knees, dabbing at my foot with a Kleenex, and I feel so idiotic and embarrassed that I have no choice but to make a joke. “Really attractive, huh?”

  He tears open the bandaid and places it carefully on my wound. I feel the light pressure of his fingers. “Madeline,” he says, as he straightens up, “everything about you is attractive.”

  And then, it begins.

  “Your hair,” he continues softly, his fingers reaching out to brush the side of my head, tracing the curve of my ear and trailing down my neck.

  I start to tremble. I cannot speak. His touch has rendered me incapable of any intelligent thought except the realization that he is making my skin tingle and burn, and he hasn’t even gone anywhere good yet.

  He leans in closer, his cool, peppermint-scented breath mingling with my gaspy inhales. “Your cheek,” he murmurs, as he skims his lips across it. There is an unbearable tickle inside my mouth, and I part my lips slightly in anticipation of his kiss. “And your other cheek,” he says, a playful smile in his voice, and I clench my fists to keep my hands from going places they shouldn’t quite yet.

  He presses his lips ever so softly just beside my mouth. It is utter agony, cruelty in the highest form, and I love every second of it.

  “Jack.” A hoarse, pleading whisper from me. I’m embarrassed to hear how much need is in my voice. I don’t want to sound desperate. But right now, with him, this is exactly what I am.

  “Madeline.” One word, but hearing him say my name is panty-melting.

  I close my eyes. Just when I think—I hope—he’s going to kiss me, I feel his fingers at the top of my blouse, unbuttoning the top button and gently pulling the fabric to the side.

  “Your collarbone.” He lowers his head, his thick hair brushing against my chin, and gives me the softest of kisses there. The urge to put my fingers in those unruly waves is almost unbearable.