by Lisa Plumley
“Oh,” Natasha said perkily. “I’m all out of sunscreen.”
Thank God, Damon thought. Also, noooo! He wanted more.
Standing behind him, Natasha sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to redistribute the sunscreen I already applied, then.”
Unbelievably, she reached her arms around him, then began rubbing her palms over his midsection in an ostensible attempt to “redistribute” the sunscreen. “I want to be thorough!”
Her hands dipped perilously close to his pants waistband. Desperately, Damon hauled in a ragged breath. He felt himself surge into a state of hardness that rivaled the concrete block fence outside. Any second now, his zipper would break.
This was, this was … there was only one word for it.
“Is this a test?” he demanded suspiciously.
“A test?” Natasha went on diligently applying sunscreen.
She sounded a little out of breath. This time, Damon was damn certain he could feel her breasts rubbing temptingly against his back. She was practically Heimliching him!
“Are you testing me to see if I can be good?” Damon asked curtly. “Because I think I must have passed by now.” He swore, then swiveled around. He wound up face to face with her. “I surrender. I can’t stand it. You have to stop touching me.”
“You … don’t like it?” Natasha appeared wounded. And a little flushed. And kind of squirmy. “I was only trying to help.” She raised her shiny, well-moisturized hands. “Was I too rough?”
If only. Damon closed his eyes. “No. I like it rough.”
Her eyes widened. Good. Maybe he’d scare her into behaving.
Suddenly reminded of his original mission in coming inside, Damon assumed a more deliberate stance. “What would Pacey think if he were here right now? What would he think if he saw us?”
Natasha didn’t even have the grace to look sorry. Her upward jutting chin and belligerent expression confused him.
“Paul would probably say he’d rather be in Mexico.”
Damon didn’t believe her. She must have been testing him to see if he was worth intervening for with Jimmy. But he wasn’t getting very far by asking her. He’d have to try another tactic.
“Your husband can’t be that much of a jerk,” Damon said.
“You don’t know that,” Natasha shot back. She looked at him, still all hot and flushed and breathless and bold. “Maybe I just like men who are bad. Maybe I like it rough, too.”
This time, Damon’s eyes widened. If Natasha was going to meet him halfway in the bad behavior department, how was he supposed to resist her? He could have withstood her innocent sexiness. He’d done that for years. But this naughty, playful, challenging side of her? Damon hadn’t even known she’d possessed one of those. He hadn’t even considered she might like mischief.
She might like him, Damon realized, just the way he was.
“But I guess you’ll never know,” Natasha said. “Will you?”
Then she flounced away, leaving Damon alone and covered in SPF 30 and wondering dazedly … what the hell was going on here?
And what the hell was he supposed to do next?
Chapter 16
Using way more force than the situation demanded, Natasha yanked open the door of her garden shed. She stepped inside, switched on the lights, then slammed shut the door behind her.
Inside, the place was everything Natasha was not just then.
It was tidy. It was clean. It was safe. It was ready for anything. The lingering smells of hot metal and solder reached her, underlaid with the still-raw freshness of cut grass from outside. Sunlight streamed over her gemstones and wire, her templates and sketchbook, her bead boxes and gold leaf and the found objects that would eventually find new life in her art.
Outside, Milo bounced a basketball in Carol’s driveway. A hybrid car hummed past. Birds sang. But inside the garden shed, all Natasha could hear was her own unsteady breathing—and, she imagined, her own heartbeat. It felt as if it was still racing after her encounter with Damon in her bathroom.
She touched her chest. Yes, it was.
But what else had she expected? she demanded of herself as she leaned against the closed door in exasperation. She’d let herself touch Damon. Ignoring every sensible, self-protective instinct she had, she’d let herself run her hands all over Damon’s brawny, muscular body. She’d touched his chest. His shoulders. His back. His arms. His midsection.
Good God. His midsection. Damon, Natasha had learned firsthand today, had abdominal muscles you could bounce a quarter off of. Or, if you felt like it, lick. He had dark, springy chest hair—exactly as much hair as she liked a man to have. He had warm, nice-smelling skin. He had responsive reflexes, an apparent love of closeness, and an unbelievably impressive cock. If he’d thought she hadn’t noticed that …
Well, he was crazy. Because Natasha had noticed. She’d noticed, she’d appreciated, she’d wondered how he would feel in her hand if she stroked him a little lower. Probably he would feel really good, she’d decided. He would feel hard and velvety and wonderfully thick … and then she’d forced herself to snap out of her sudden erotic reverie and apply sunscreen to his back.
Because while a girl could pretend that applying sunscreen was an innocent activity, there was no way she could pass off unzipping a man’s pants and grabbing his cock—and maybe sliding her lips along its erect length—as a bit of harmless caretaking. Or even an innocuous getting-to-know-you exercise. Or even, as Damon had so gallingly accused, as some kind of test. As if.
On the other hand, Natasha reflected as the experience came hurtling back to her again in all its heat and nearness and confusing intimacy, she had purposely rubbed her breasts on Damon’s back like some kind of trashy lap dancer looking for a bigger tip. She hadn’t been able to resist. And she had fibbed about running out of sunscreen as an excuse to touch him longer.
Even worse, she had felt herself growing increasingly certain, the longer she’d contemplated Damon’s getting-up-early, mowing-the-lawn, reading-to-Milo, getting-along-with-Carol, and petting-Finn Mr. Nice Guy routine, that inviting him to stay with her, even temporarily, may have been a huge mistake.
Speaking of huge … wow. Damon was gifted in every department. From his smile to his charisma to his willingness to help her, Damon was even more affecting than she’d expected. He was considerate and funny and attentive. He was nice. No wonder she’d sent so many “sorry I broke your heart” bouquets. Upon closer reflection, Natasha was surprised there hadn’t been more.
Although maybe some of those women hadn’t liked it rough … .
With a shiver, Natasha remembered the feel of Damon beneath her hands again and knew she was lost. It wasn’t just that he was handsome (he was). It wasn’t just that he seemed to have regained all his lost charm and then some (because he had).
It was that Damon made her feel special, somehow. He made her feel as though everything bad that had ever happened to her had been a terrible oversight on the part of the universe, and Damon was there specifically to fix it for her with his capable hands, easygoing smile, and inventive intellect.
Because Damon still had all those positive attributes. Natasha could see them. She could feel them. Damon still possessed every ounce of talent he’d ever had. Some of those qualities were aimed directly at her right now, but most of them were available to keep building his family’s company into a global chocolatiering mega power. If anything, this new, humbler Damon seemed more ready to take Torrance Chocolates to the top. He seemed more ready to work hard, sacrifice, and take risks.
Whatever had happened to make Jimmy and Debbie insist on Damon’s current leave of absence, Natasha reflected, it had to be a fluke. It had to be a mistake. She was sure of that.
What she wasn’t as sure of—yet—was that she could really help Damon. Sure, she could give him a place to live. She could feed him cheese-free, gluten-free, all-veggie pizza. She could play Donkey Kong and spy on him in his underwear. She could even rile him up with an
impromptu erotic massage, challenge him with an outrageous boast, then bolt away like a scared nitwit at the first sign of reciprocity.
Maybe I just like men who are bad.
Maybe I like it rough, too.
Well, that might be true. Natasha didn’t know. If she was smart, she wouldn’t try to find out. Instead, she’d focus on trying to help Damon—however she could—and then getting him safely out of her house, out of her life … and out of her heart.
First, she needed more information, Natasha decided. Giving her worktable a regretful look, she did the one thing she’d promised herself she wouldn’t: She abandoned her plans for herself. Just for the time being, of course. With the need for speed more evident than ever before (lest she rub herself all over Damon even more shamelessly next time, leading to events neither one of them would want to control), Natasha jingled her car keys, drew in a fortifying breath, then headed to La Jolla.
Left on his own with Milo and Carol after Natasha’s mysterious “errand” took her away for the afternoon—once she’d given him explicit instructions about what Milo did and did not eat, of course, complete with a detailed tip sheet, a website to visit for more information, a YouTube video playlist of songs by “the Raffi of Food Allergies,” and a handy iPod app—Damon decided to try some further adventures in being responsible.
Maybe, he thought, he could pick up some tips from Natasha’s mother-in-law. Carol seemed to have her life pretty well together, if her successful management of the duplex, thriving social life, and conscientious manner were anything to go by. Or maybe he could glean some insight from Natasha’s son.
What was it that people said? “Out of the mouths of babes”? There was always a chance Milo could help him learn more about Natasha, Damon reasoned. That way, he’d be concentrating on seeing Natasha as a mother instead of a potential playmate.
That meant that the next time Natasha came at him with some SPF 30 and a sexy smile, he’d be ready. He’d be tough. He’d be fortified with good intentions and innocent motivations.
He wouldn’t be tempted, Damon reasoned, to rip off Natasha’s clothes, kiss her from her collarbones to her ankles, then make passionate love to her wherever they happened to be standing. Like outside the hall closet, where it smelled “springtime fresh” all the time. Or against the rough-sided wall of the outdoor garden shed (which clearly fulfilled some as-yet-unknown, non-gardening function for Natasha), feeling the sunshine and ocean breezes caress their bare skin. Or even in her undoubtedly feminine bedroom (which Damon hadn’t yet glimpsed, out of respect for Pacey and for Natasha), with a soft mattress and hard bodies and an urgency that couldn’t be denied.
He and Natasha would be doing something useful, like making the bed, Damon imagined. Their eyes would lock across the acres of messy sheets. He’d take her in his arms. He’d kiss her, hot and deep and breathless, and she’d get that big-eyed look of wonder he loved so much, and then he’d realize Natasha looked that way because she’d unzipped his pants and grabbed his cock, and the next thing Damon would do was groan, because she was just that incredible at touching him, and somehow Natasha’s clothes would be gone, just like that, and he’d be bending her over the side of the bed, stroking her thighs, making her ready, feeling her tremble and pant and moan in his arms, and suddenly—
“You look engrossed in something.” Carol stepped into the sunny kitchen with an armful of paperback books and an impish smile. She nodded flirtatiously at Damon, making her stylishly highlighted hair bob up and down. “Would you care to share these deep thoughts of yours, or are they strictly X-rated?”
Damon started. Carol grinned. She’d flirted with him earlier, too. Of course, he’d flirted right back—in the sense that all flirtation was really just connecting with people on an attentive and positive and open-minded level. But this time, Carol wasn’t merely flirting, he realized. She was asking him a question.
Deliberating how to answer, Damon propped the heels of his hands on the countertop behind him. He leaned back, then checked on Milo to make sure the boy was still busy eating his lunch. He was.
“I’ve been wondering …” Damon began as he watched Carol sort her paperbacks. “What’s Natasha doing in the garden shed?”
Carol shot him a knowing look. “I saw you just now, remember? That’s not what you were wondering about.”
“I never said it was.” A grin. “So … can you tell me?”
“Natasha probably wouldn’t want me to.”
“Hmmm. Okay.” No one ever got what they wanted by force. Not in Damon’s version of Life 101. He could wait until Carol felt ready. So Damon pushed away from the counter. “Are you hungry? I made sandwiches. That’s all I know how to make. This gluten-free sprouted bread isn’t half bad.” He held up the twist-tied package. “Right, Milo? ‘Food Allergies Rock’!”
That was the name of one of the songs that now resided, improbably, on Damon’s iPhone. At the table, the kid gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up signal in response. Then, still chewing, Milo went back to reading his heavily illustrated Donkey Kong hint guide. He was undoubtedly preparing to show up Damon’s paltry Diddy-operating “skills” later.
“Oh, and you’re out of sesame-seed butter, by the way,” Damon added, really getting into grown-up mode now. “I started a grocery list, because Milo said that’s what Natasha does.”
At Damon’s indication, Carol glanced at the pad of paper.
“Beets. Sesame-seed butter,” she read. “Gluten-free bread without high-fructose corn syrup or trans fat in it.” She quirked a brow at Damon. “Really?”
“My housekeeper says those things are bad for you,” Damon told her. “I can’t believe that information stuck with me.”
“Me either.” In a droll fashion, Carol put her hands on her hips. She gazed at him straight on. “Look, Romeo. I think you’re getting ahead of yourself here. The last thing Natasha needs is another full-time man around this place. I can say that with authority, too, because she married my son!” Carol gave a good-natured laugh. “Sure, Natasha could probably use a good roll in the hay right about now. Who couldn’t? But that’s no reason to—”
As Carol chattered on, Damon couldn’t help wondering …
Exactly how often did Pacey travel? Was he in Mexico—or elsewhere—a lot? Did he leave Natasha alone often? If he did, that would explain a great deal about Natasha’s eager and sweet (but bafflingly close to adulterous) response to Damon.
He knew she was an honest woman. He depended on that from Natasha. But lately she’d been giving him a lot of unmistakable go-ahead signals—like kissing him back, rubbing him all over, making provocative comments … signals that didn’t go along with being devotedly married to Pacey. Sure, she could probably use a good roll in the hay right about now, Carol had said. But why?
Maybe, Damon thought, Natasha was simply feeling neglected by her husband—by the real “full-time man” around the place.
Did Pacey not see to her needs? The idea was unthinkable.
“… and I know I just told you I wouldn’t spill the beans about what my daughter-in-law is doing out there in her garden shed,” Carol was saying, “because Natasha really wouldn’t want me to. But if you’re going to go all Mr. Mom on her, making sandwiches and grocery lists and getting goo-goo-eyed over her in her own kitchen, then I guess I’ll have to take matters into my own hands this time.”
That piqued Damon’s interest. “‘This time’?”
“I was a little slow to see what was really going on with Natasha and Paul. You now, before,” Carol admitted, further stoking Damon’s suspicions that the two of them had experienced marital problems. “I felt a little guilty about it afterward, to tell the truth. I probably overcompensate with Natasha sometimes to make up for it—God knows, Paul didn’t exactly represent the Jennings family like a superstar. But can you blame me for not wanting to believe what he was doing? He’s my son! I didn’t want to admit he was acting like a jerk. He’s an artist. Artistic types can be difficult s
ometimes. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I? You’ve known Natasha for ten years now.”
Confused, Damon said, “Yes. Ten years.” Wow. No wonder he felt close to her. No wonder he trusted her and relied on her. “But what does that have to do with difficult artistic types?”
Carol peered at him. “You really don’t know?”
He shook his head.
“I thought Natasha would have told you by now. If not about her garden shed, then at least about … Well, it makes sense, I suppose. She did take a job with you rather than follow her own dreams. She decided to be practical and supportive, and she put up with a lot of grief from you to do it, let me tell you.”
Aha, Damon decided upon hearing her aggrieved tone. This was the mother-in-law Natasha had expected he’d meet.
“I’m sorry for all that,” Damon told Carol. “I’m trying to change.” He gestured at the paper. “I made a grocery list!”
“If you’re waiting for me to applaud … don’t.” Carol grinned. “But yes, now that I’ve met you, several things are clearer to me about Natasha’s job—and about why she stuck with you.”
“I don’t know if I should take a bow or apologize.”
“It’s too soon to decide either way.” Calmly, Carol waved off his concern. “Anyway, just like my son, Natasha is an artist. A good one. She does metalworking, mostly jewelry, all of it exquisite and creative and delicate. All of it by hand, in the workshop she set up in the garden shed. She was an art major at UCSD until she met Paul. But not long after he had his first showing—at a gallery near Balboa Park—Natasha switched majors.”
“Let me guess: to business administration.”
“Right. Not long after that, she and Paul got married,” Carol said. “Natasha got a job at Torrance Chocolates to help support them both—her feckless artist husband included. Then Milo came along, and …” She sighed. “Well, sometimes life steers you in unexpected directions.” Carol gave Damon an inquisitive look. “You didn’t actually think Natasha’s personal dream was to become someone’s administrative assistant, did you?”