Melt Into You

by Lisa Plumley

  Natasha grinned. “If that’s some kind of double entendre—”

  “It’s not. I promise.” Damon’s serious, slightly panicked look made her wonder exactly what he thought she was proposing. “You’re you, and I’m me,” he blathered uncharacteristically, “and there’s always Pacey to think of… .” On that baffling note, he paused. He smiled straight at her. “So can I come inside?”

  No, her good intentions nagged. Out of sight, out of mind.

  “Yes.” Natasha stepped aside. “But you’ll have to hop.”

  Damon went still. “You want me to hop in?”

  “Like a bunny,” she specified. Just to clarify matters, she added, “I’m not through messing with you yet. So … hop.”

  Hop. With his whole future hinging on his ability to make like Bugs Bunny, Damon took a deep breath. He glanced at Natasha. She still looked unbelievably luscious, even while wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a worn-thin T-shirt with nerdy cartoons on it. She confirmed her outrageous request with a grin, then waited for him to deliver on his promise.

  I’ll do anything you want. Just name it.

  “I never pegged you for the dominatrix type,” he grumbled.

  “I never pegged you for a welsher,” Natasha said cheerfully. With offhanded curiosity, she looked him over. “After you’ve done all this—to my satisfaction, of course—”

  To her satisfaction. At that, Damon almost groaned. He was trying to be good. He was. But with Natasha tossing out naughty jokes, looking fairly adorable, and (after his stupid dance) practically devouring his body with her “I want you” gaze, he was having a hard time with the whole concept of staying honorable. So far, he hated it. It was not a natural fit.

  “I can deliver satisfaction,” he couldn’t resist saying. Hell, machismo was baked into his nature. It was part of him. “Don’t worry about that. But as far as the hopping goes, I—”

  “—exactly what,” Natasha persisted, “do you get in return? Why are you so keen to do what I want? I don’t have anything—”

  “You have everything,” Damon told her, and it was true.

  She had everything he needed and more. Because this afternoon, contrary to his deeply held hopes, Damon hadn’t become magically lucky again. Things were as bad as they’d ever been. That meant he still had more work to do. With Natasha.

  Ignoring her perplexed expression, he gestured grandly.

  “Stand aside. I’ll need lots of room,” Damon told Natasha intently. “Because my hopping is going to blow your mind.”

  Grinning now, Natasha complied. As she did, he couldn’t help noticing that her nipples poked against her T-shirt in an especially mind-scrambling way. Galvanized, Damon could think of nothing else. For a split second, his whole being focused on …

  Hop, you weasel! his inner drill sergeant commanded. Hop!

  So Damon did. Desperate, confused, and suddenly horny, he hopped like crazy. Two paces in, he crumpled to the ground.

  “Oh my god!” Natasha rushed toward Damon. “Are you okay?”

  “Um, I’m fine. Mostly.” From his awkward position on her floral welcome mat, he grinned up at her. “It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt, right?” He got to his feet, then gave a short, shuffling, one-footed hop. Still standing conspicuously on his left foot only, Damon spread his arms in triumph. “See? Ta-da! I told you I’d do it. Is your mind appropriately blown?”

  “Like never before,” Natasha assured him. Geez, he was like a child sometimes. A charismatic, fun-loving, stubborn child.

  Why had he actually hopped for her? That was a bad idea.

  “Here. I’ll help you.” Worriedly, Natasha wrapped her arms around Damon’s taut midsection for support. “Come inside. Be careful, though! Don’t trip over the threshold. I’ve got new weather stripping installed. It’s tricky to get over.”

  “I have a minor sprained ankle, not a concussion.” Damon gave her an exasperated-looking grin. “I can comprehend simple instructions. You don’t have to be so careful with me.”

  “Yes, I do! It’s because of me that you’re hurt.”

  Feeling awful, Natasha navigated them both into her apartment, keenly aware that she’d just injured a man by making him hop for her trivial amusement. Hop! He’d done it, too.

  “Give me one little power trip, and I become a maniac.” She eased Damon into position on her sofa. “I’m very sorry, Damon.”

  “I’m not sorry.” His dazed gaze met hers. In the lamplight, he gave her a loopy smile. “You have very nice hands.”

  Oh God. “You are concussed! I’ll call a doctor—”

  “No, I’m not. It’s just that you were holding me—”

  “Feeling up your six-pack abs,” Natasha agreed. “Right.”

  “—and I thought your hands felt good. That’s all.” There was a lapse in their conversation as Damon took in her living room and its furnishings. She’d never been more cognizant of her penchant for overstuffed upholstered furniture, big random throw pillows, and polished wood. Then, “I like your place,” Damon announced approvingly. “It’s really cozy. Just like you.”

  “And doesn’t every woman want to be ‘cozy’?” Natasha joked. “That ranks right behind ‘beautiful’ and just above ‘funny.’” She gave him a sober look. “That wasn’t charming at all, Damon. That proves it. I still think you might be concussed.”

  Maybe she was concussed, too. After all, she’d just announced that she’d felt him up. Kind of. Was she crazy?

  “I’m not charming anymore,” Damon confided. “I’m just me.”

  “Right. And you are charming. Your charm is elemental, like pink bubble gum and blue window cleaner and green guacamole. You can’t have one without the other. You can’t have you without charm. It’s just so much a part of you that you don’t notice.”

  “Oh,” he assured her wryly, “I notice.”

  “So I’d say the fact that you’re currently being less than perfectly charming means that I’ve injured you pretty seriously.” Natasha piled a few pillows on her coffee table. “Here,” she said, grabbing Damon’s leg. “Let’s get your ankle elevated. I think I have an ice pack around here someplace—”

  Belatedly, she realized that bending over to hoist his leg had effectively put her face in his lap. Helplessly staring at his groin, Natasha lapsed into silence. She was pretty sure she could tell which side he dressed on. His pants looked as if they were made of nice, soft, expensive fabric, too. She bet it would feel good to touch them. She bet he would feel good to touch.

  Wow. Was that ever an inappropriate thought.

  Feeling her cheeks heat, Natasha turned away. Determinedly, she busied herself by heading to the kitchen for a bag of frozen peas. When she came back, she couldn’t help being aware of how surreal it was to have Damon—Damon—there in her living room.

  He didn’t belong there. Yet she wanted him there. The contrast between those realities felt deliciously … forbidden.

  Completely unable to get a grip on herself, Natasha did her best to breeze back in, all the same. “I couldn’t find the ice pack. But these should work just as well. Frozen peas.”

  Gently, she laid the bag over Damon’s ankle. She patted it.

  “You do that really well,” he said, giving her a semi-sappy, grateful look. “You have a soothing touch.”

  “Right. Just call me Florence Nightingale.”

  “Okay, Flo.” Damon glanced up at her. “Hey. Where’s Pacey?”

  “Who’s Pacey?”

  “Your husband. Pacey.” He looked around. “Is he here?”

  “Why?” Glibly, Natasha asked, “Do you plan to seduce me?”

  Damon looked aghast. “No! I told you about my philosophies. Remember? Pop-Tarts, kung fu, and—”

  “—not sleeping with married people. I know,” Natasha finished, patiently reciting his long-held mantra. “But I—”

  I’m not married anymore, she’d been about to say.

  But then, looking at Damon spra
wled there on her sofa, all sexy and fascinating and handsome and muscular, Natasha had a better idea. A safer idea. An idea that would assure that even if she couldn’t keep Damon out of sight and out of mind, she could protect herself from her own inescapable feelings. She could avoid having to resist him any more than necessary.

  “I should have told you before,” she hedged, “that Paul is in Mexico right now. So he’s not here. I don’t expect him back …” Ever. Thank God. Vaguely, Natasha waved her arm. “Anyway, the more important thing is … how does your ankle feel? Does it hurt?”

  “No more than it did when I got here. It’s nothing.”

  “Quit being macho. Of course it—wait. It already hurt when you got here?” Maybe she hadn’t crippled him with her egomaniacal demand that he hop for her. “What happened?”

  Damon shrugged. “The same kinds of things that have been happening to me ever since you left me.”

  “Bad things,” Natasha surmised. Because she’d been lucky, Damon hadn’t been. The natural order of things was totally out of whack. But he didn’t confirm her guess. Stoically, he took in her living room’s minor clutter, letting his gaze fall on her lamps, her rug, her TV, the Nintendo Wii console attached to it … .

  Uh-oh. As though wondering why a thirty-four-year-old woman owned a clearly used video game console and several assorted video games, Damon transferred his puzzled gaze to her face.

  “Do you babysit for Jason and Amy’s kids?” he asked. “I thought toddlers were a little young to play video games, but—”

  “—but what do you know about kids, right?” Natasha laughed. “Yes, I babysit sometimes.” Technically, it was true. She did babysit Isobel and Manny. Plus, maybe that would make Damon quit wondering about whatever child-friendly items he might spot next. “So, your ankle looks …” She squinted. “… like maybe it’s been put on crooked. I think you should have that looked at.”

  “It’s just a sprain. Some kid on a skateboard collided with me. I was only trying to grab a peaceful nap on a park bench—”

  “On a park bench?” Natasha gawked, completely diverted from her own troubles. “Why were you sleeping on a park bench?”

  “Because the car wasn’t as comfortable as Wes claimed.”

  Damon appeared very disgruntled by that fact. Confused, Natasha gave him a censorious look. “You’re not making sense. Were you drunk? Because you’ve been known to have a few too many, Damon, and do things you regret later. And Wes, well—”

  “No.” Wearing an earnest expression, Damon laid his hand over his heart. “I haven’t had a drink since Las Vegas. Which hasn’t been easy, believe me, because I’ve been hanging out with Wes a lot lately, and that man knows how to have a good time.”

  “And you don’t.” With a deadpan look, Natasha examined him. “But if you weren’t drinking, why the park-bench nap-a-thon?”

  “I’m, uh—” Damon looked into the distance. “I’m temporarily homeless at the moment. It’s no big deal. All I have to do is—”

  “Homeless?” Gripped by remorse, Natasha sat beside him. She imagined him wandering the streets, sitting on sidewalks, napping on benches. The weather in California was nice, but that didn’t make this okay. “Damon, what’s been going on? Tell me.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “No. No way. This is no time to pull that tough-guy routine.” She grabbed his hand, pulled it toward her, then squeezed with all the compassion she could. “Are you okay?”

  “Well …” He aimed his beleaguered gaze at her. Too late, she noticed that his shave job wasn’t quite as precise as usual. His eyes weren’t quite as merry. His expression wasn’t quite as carefree. In fact, Damon looked worried. Careworn. Seeing her examining him, he cracked a smile. “Aside from the identity theft, the frozen bank accounts, the flooded beach house, the impounded car, and the unwanted sabbatical from Torrance Chocolates … I’m awesome.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “How about you? Are you okay?”

  Natasha felt too stunned to answer. Slowly, she nodded.

  “Good. Anyway, the reason I came back is that I need you to come to work with me again. Please,” Damon said. “I know I made a mess of things in Las Vegas, but I swear I can do better.”

  Judging by the heat he was generating in her thighs just by having his hand resting there, joined with hers, Damon could do anything, Natasha thought. Even do better at work.

  With effort, she focused on his face. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I know you don’t want to work with me, but—”

  “No. I mean about your house and bank accounts and car and sabbatical—” None of that sounded right to her. “Did you really leave Torrance Chocolates? I didn’t think Jimmy would ever—”

  “That’s right. You probably still don’t know what happened. Jason said you quit following the industry news,” Damon mused. He seemed relieved, but she didn’t understand why. “But yes, Jimmy would and did. He asked me to take a leave of absence, and my mom went along with it. Hell, everyone did. Even Louis.”

  “Louis the security guard? I know him. He’s a peach.”

  “He thinks highly of you, too,” Damon said. “He also lives to eat tacos. I had to sell another tie to get enough of them down at the Embarcadero.” He shook his head. “So the upshot is, I’ve been crashing in Wes’s guest room, but that’s out, thanks to Destiny, which is probably just as well given how I’m trying to be good now, and of course Louis is counting on me to come back to work so he can win the betting pool, and I’m not sure—” Stopping in mid rant, Damon gazed at her. “No, I know I can’t go another day without you. Please come back, Natasha. Help me.”

  In that moment, Natasha desperately wanted to. “I can’t, Damon.” Empathetically, she stroked her fingers over his hand. “I had good reasons to quit. Those reasons are still valid.”

  “But I’ll do anything. Anything,” he pleaded. “Just name it. I mean it. How can I prove to you how much I need you?”

  He was off to a pretty good start already, Natasha thought. She’d waited a long time to hear Damon acknowledge how important she was to him—how valuable her work and her presence were.

  But she had to be smart. She’d already let Paul derail her plans for herself; she had the abandoned garden shed work space to prove it. Now that she was finally getting back on track again, she didn’t want to risk taking a distracting sideways swerve. It was pretty obvious that Damon’s place in Sexy Fun Town wasn’t really built for two.

  Plus, there was more at stake here than her own well-being. She had to think about that. She had to proceed carefully.

  She also had to get more of Damon’s hands on her thigh, she thought in a dither. She’d swear his palm had slid a little higher on her leg, inciting a heat wave that began at their joined hands and then raced toward her groin. Her body actually pulsed with enthusiasm, getting warmer and warmer… .

  Breathlessly, Natasha squeezed together her thighs. If she could just generate a little more pressure, she might feel—

  Damon noticed. He whipped away his hand. His gaze met hers. It dipped to her overheated thighs, then hastily lifted again. It seemed obvious to Natasha that he knew exactly the reaction he’d incited in her. Oddly, though, he didn’t seem pleased.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, raising his palms. “I’m taking advantage of your kindness. Again. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “You couldn’t help it,” she assured him. Besides, I wanted you to do it. “Besides, I wanted you to do it.”

  Damon stared at her. She stared at him. A stunned silence fell between them. Oh God. Had she actually said that out loud?

  Usually Natasha was so good at suppressing her wilder impulses. At least she was when Damon was around.

  Maybe their separation had weakened her ability to be sensible. Or maybe she simply felt guilty because she’d been enjoying good fortune and Damon … hadn’t. He’d been struggling. Her resignation from Torrance Chocolates seemed to have had something to do with kickin
g off that awful cycle.

  Damon cleared his throat. “This was a mistake.” Gingerly, he lifted his injured ankle from the pillows. “I’d better go.”

  Desperate to recover from her erotically charged gaffe, Natasha crossed her arms. “You just told me you’re temporarily homeless. Exactly where are you going to go?”

  “I’ll find someplace.”

  “You will?”

  Stoically, he nodded. She’d never seen him be stoic.

  She’d thought she’d seen everything Damon had to offer.

  Ridiculously irked to realize she hadn’t, Natasha nodded, too. “I hear the park benches at the Torrey Pines preserve are scenic,” she volunteered. “Some of them have ocean views. From the bluff, you can see for miles on a clear day.”

  “Right.” Damon grimaced. His ankle must have gotten worse. Clenching his jaw, he hobbled forward. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You can take my frozen peas with you. No extra charge.”

  “That’s gracious of you.”

  “I might have a spare blanket around here someplace, too.”

  “I think I’d rather just leave.”

  “When your ankle heals, you can eat the peas!”

  Damon cast her a long-suffering look. “Thanks.”

  Exactly how far was he planning to go with this? Natasha wondered as she watched her lunkhead ex-boss make his way to her front door. Did he honestly believe she was this heartless?

  Probably not. But he clearly believed she was truly wounded by his antics in Las Vegas—and in all the places they’d been together. He clearly believed she was holding a grudge.

  Damon had come there to try to make amends. Now she was letting him leave—hobbled, homeless, and alone. Resolutely, Natasha tried to hold her ground. For the sake of her future. For her own happiness. But the one-two punch of potential culpability and unrealized lust was just too much for her.

  That double whammy made it practically impossible to do the levelheaded thing—especially while her thighs still tingled with the memory of Damon’s touch and her heart still overflowed with compassion for the troubles Damon had been dealing with.