by Lori Wilde
And there she went. Melting again.
Bare-chested and beautiful, he moved to the porch, readjusted his chair, then dropped into it. He was so close now that his forearm, warm and damp, kissed hers. The brief brushing of his skin to hers sent shivers of regret to her heart, leaving a wake of pain.
Pain that did not make a lick of sense. She barely knew this man.
“Is that chili I smell?” Clay asked.
“Yup,” Pete said.
Clay looked at her. “You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten Pete’s chili.”
“It smells good.” She refocused on her paper.
His arm brushed hers again, and needing to clear her head, she shot up and went inside. She felt him watching her leave.
Standing just inside the living room, she heard him ask Pete, “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Pete said, but his tone seemed off. He knew what he’d done.
And so did she. He’d stopped her from making a big mistake.
She took several minutes before coming back outside. Needing an excuse for her departure, she brought Clay a glass of iced tea.
He studied her, smiled, winked, and offered a sincere thank you before he downed the entire glass. The phone rang, and Pete went in to answer it.
The second the screen door banged shut, Clay slipped his hand into hers. “You okay?”
“Great.” She put on her best smile and pulled her hand free. She felt him staring.
A few minutes later, Pete came back out. “That was Ralph’s grandson.”
“Ralph?” Clay asked.
“The friend I went to see yesterday who has a heart condition. His grandson’s been staying there, but the grandson’s wife’s been in a small accident, and he needs to go be with her. I’m gonna go stay with Ralph. Probably sleep there tonight.”
“Yeah. Go,” Clay said.
Jennifer realized what that meant. She and Clay would be alone.
She remembered those warm kisses on the blanket. The hum of her body wanting more. The emotional echo of his hand squeezing hers when she’d told the truth of her mother and sister’s death. How odd that She’d told him something she’d never even told Charles.
What the hell did that mean?
Was there a chance, even a small chance, that Clay wanted the same things out of life that she did? Or if she didn’t stop this craziness now, was she going to fall head over heels in love with another guy who would make her happy for the now, but never for the later?
Bundy had started at one side of town. He drove every neighborhood, every street looking for another black Chevy. If it took him all night, it didn’t matter. He’d find that truck. Find that junkyard guy.
Sure, some of the houses had garages. But on a day like today, most of them had the garage doors open, working on the yard, or changing oil. He took mental notes of the streets with a lot of closed garage doors, and after going over every house in the fucking town, he’d come back.
He found only one black Chevy truck, but was certain it had been an older model. When he’d covered the north and east side he headed south, back to the junkyard side of town.
As he reached the junkyard, he slowed down. There wasn’t a truck, and the sign wasn’t lit. Where the hell was this guy?
Pete quickly gathered his stuff and kissed Jennifer’s cheek before he walked out. “Tomorrow’s my day to feed the stock, so I’ll be back early. How about I bring you some cinnamon rolls from the diner? They’re finger-licking good.”
“Sounds great,” she said.
“If you cook another pie, don’t let Clay eat it all.”
She laughed and hugged him. He smelled like hay and chili and comfort. She gripped him for a few second, needing to hold on to something.
When she pulled back, he studied her with aged gray eyes, and she sensed he was about to impart some kind of wisdom.
“Even horses need to be broken in.”
Yeah, but they always seem to break me first. A few minutes after Pete walked out, she heard him say something to Clay, who was still sitting on the porch.
“Just use my truck,” she heard Clay say.
A few minutes later, she peered out the window and saw Clay changing a tire on Pete’s old truck.
She heard Pete’s words. “He’s a good man,”
An hour later, Jennifer cut up a salad to go with Pete’s chili, while Clay made toast. Part of her felt the need to explain her change of heart, another part said it would be too awkward and make her look like some husband-hunting woman. How could she say, If you’re not promising me forever, I don’t have the time for you? It sounded messed up after only knowing him a few days.
A lump formed in her chest. Did it just sound that way, or was it messed up? Was it her who was messed up?
Dinner was big on flavor, shy on conversation.
“I’ll do the dishes.” She got up.
“I’ll help.” He stood up, too, no longer smiling. Grumpy and quiet Clay was back.
She washed. He dried. When they were on the last dish, he finally let go of a gulp of air. “Can we talk about the elephant in the room?”
She looked at him and went for her first line of defense. Humor. “You mean the one wearing a pink tutu?”
He didn’t smile. “Look, I don’t know what happened. I mean, I thought we . . . I really enjoyed being with you at the lake, and then we came back, and we’re back to . . . this.”
She nodded, the guilt on her shoulders felt heavy. “I enjoyed it, too. But I just . . . broke up and--”
“Don’t lie!” he said. “You didn’t love him. This isn’t about him.” He looked hurt. “If this is about sex. Well, I don’t want . . . I mean, yeah I want it, but--”
“It’s not that. Not just that. I want . . . I’m not sure if…”
He tossed the dishtowel on the counter. “I’m not a funeral director, huh?” His tone rang hard and angry.
“Who told you?”
“What does it matter?” he growled. She’d heard him frustrated before, but never angry.
He ran all ten fingers through his hair. “Do you know how screwed up that is?”
She frowned. “You don’t understand--”
“Stop,” he said. “You don’t owe me an explanation. You don’t want to even give me, or us, a chance.” He started to the bathroom, got almost there, then swung around. “And the whole small dick thing. It’s crazy and insulting. I mean, you take away the one thing a guy is most proud of. And you act like having a few extra inches is a bad thing! Do you know I actually found myself wishing my dick was smaller today? I mean, I know tons of women who liked the size of my dick!”
She stood there as embarrassment roiled in her chest, heated it, then raced to her face. Then another emotion took over. Anger.
She tilted her chin back. “Did you really just say that?”
He ran one hand over his face, then scrubbed the other one down it. His gaze met hers. “Yeah, I did.” Gone was the cracking anger. “And right now, I’m internally kicking my ass for it. It was crude and . . . there’s no excuse for it. I’m going to take a shower.”
This time he got to the door before he turned around.
His gaze met hers. The deep emerald pools of his eyes reflected regret and a hell of a lot of hurt. She dug deep for something to say, but before she got it out, he started talking.
“You see, the problem is that I like you. Do you know how long it’s been since I liked a woman? From the second you rested your head on my shoulder, I wanted to be the kind of guy who could . . . I wanted . . . I wanted. . .”
He reached back and squeezed his neck. “It’s been a long time since I wanted anything. First it was from killing the kid, and then from Sheri bailing on me, and it stopped me from . . . from wanting anything. I slept with women just so I could feel something, then I stopped because it felt wrong. Cheap. And then you come along, and I feel all sorts of shit just standing next to you. And it didn’t feel cheap. It felt pretty friggin’ awesome.”
He locked his fingers behind his neck. “Maybe we’re all wrong for each other, but it didn’t feel wrong today or even yesterday, or the day before. Damn it, I have no idea what this is. I can’t promise anything—we just met. But you managed to get under my skin. And as happy as I was about that this afternoon, right now, I want to go back to not wanting. And not feeling.” He let go of another deep gulp of air.
“I didn’t. It’s not . . . I’m just…” Words danced on the tip of her tongue, too bad none of them made sense.
He held up his hand to silence her. “That’s your choice. I don’t respect it, but I don’t have to.” He swung back around, but made the compete circle and stopped when he faced her again. “And I’m sorry about what I said. Believe it or not, I was raised better than that. If my mama was here, I’d be spitting up soap suds for a month.”
He swung back around, and this time he went into the bathroom and shut the door.
That soft click when the door closed rang so loudly it echoed in her chest. It sounded so final. So much like the end of something. The fact that she didn’t even know what that something was made this all that much harder.
Tears filled her eyes. She stood there on shaky knees, hearing and rehearing his words. Knowing he’d saved her life, he’d been nice to her, he’d bought new sheets for her, he’d cooked her dinner, taken her horseback riding, listened to her deepest, darkest secrets and held her hand. He’d shared his own pain.
He’d made her want things, too.
She wanted him to be a forever guy.
Ashamed, she started to her bedroom like a guilty teen. She got almost to the threshold then she swung around.
A crazy idea hit. She tried to talk herself out of it, but everything she wanted was behind that bathroom door. And fearing something wouldn’t last was a stupid reason not to try. Even horses need to be broken in.
She slipped off her capris and her shirt. Her panties and bra landed at her feet. She tilted up her chin, reached for the doorknob and took a leap of faith.
Chapter 13
Clay stood under the spray of hot water, his palms pressed against the shower wall, calling himself a fool. He heard a click, but ignored it to continue raking himself over the coals. He shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. He shouldn’t have let himself want her. He shouldn’t have let himself care.
Then he heard her voice. “I’ll wash your back if you’ll wash mine.”
He swung around, too fast. His left foot shot up, his right followed. His ass landed on the old, cast-iron tub with a loud, wet thump. Crunching his butt cheeks, assuring himself nothing felt broken, he yanked the curtain back. Jennifer stood there, wearing nothing but an insecure and nervous smile.
Not a word left his lips. He couldn’t speak. He tried not to stare, but it was hard not to.
Wiping a hand over his wet face, ignoring his sore ass, he managed two words. “I’m confused.”
Her round blue eyes blinked. “I’m scared.”
Standing up, he continued to stare. She did her share of looking, too. He could have used the shower curtain to cover up, but he didn’t. She’d already seen it, anyway.
“Is your butt okay?” Her shy, teasing tone filled the small bathroom.
“It’s bruised.” He reached behind and rubbed it.
“Sorry.” She smiled, but tried to temper it. “Do you want me to look at it to make sure it’s not too bad?”
He lifted a brow. “You want to look at it?”
“I probably should,” she said, her smile widening.
Turning around, he glanced over his shoulder at her.
“It looks fine,” she said.
He faced her. The sound of the shower spray was the only noise filling the bathroom. Steam rose up. The sweet tightness low in his belly had other things rising.
“You were right,” she said.
“About?”
“I wasn’t giving us a chance. I want to give us a chance.”
“I like chances,” he said.
She inched forward and stepped over the bathtub’s edge.
The water hit her right in the face, and he turned and adjusted the nozzle. When he swung back around, she stepped closer.
He leaned down and kissed her. Soft. Wet. Wanting more.
His sex, standing at attention, brushed up against her flat abdomen. She reached for the bar of Ivory in the soap dish. She soaped-up her hands and ran her palms over his chest, up to his shoulders and then down . . . down . . . down. She cupped her fingers around his sex, pulling a low moan from somewhere deep in his chest.
As sweet as the torture was, he pulled her hand away before he exploded in her palm like a horny teen. He reached down for the soap, lathered his hands and then knelt down. He reached down to her calf, gently rubbing up from her ankle. His face came level with the small triangle of dark curls. He knew some girls who waxed, but he liked the natural look. He leaned in, pressing his cheek against her abdomen, kissing the tiny dimple that was her belly button, while sliding his fingers up between her legs. When his wet hand found the wet Y of her legs, she hissed.
“What was that?” he asked.
She moaned again, and her hands came down to grip his shoulders. He slipped his fingers between the soft folds of her sex.
Determined to draw it out, to make her want him so much she begged for it, he stood up and cupped her breasts. Ran his thumbs over her tight nipples.
She leaned her head back, and her lips parted. He took her mouth again, wrapped his hand around her tiny waist and pulled her to him. Their bodies kissed, sliding against each other. Then his hand went back to the soft weight of her breasts, the taut feel of her nipples.
“Turn around, and I’ll wash your back,” he said.
“My back’s fine,” she muttered.
He laughed, but stopped when she reached down, gently cupped his balls then slowly traced a finger up his sex, circling his tip, making him tighten with pleasure so sweet he almost lost it.
Damn, he had to stop her. After one deep breath, he pulled her hand back.
“What’s wrong?” The tease hung in her words.
“Not a damn thing.” Shutting off the water, he stepped out of the bathtub, then reached in and scooped her up in his arms. She squealed.
Light as a feather, shower-warm and wet, she curled against him. He carried her to the bedroom and placed her on the bed. Leaning down on one knee, he kissed her, then brushed his hand up her thighs. The sweet moisture between her legs told him she was ready.
For one second the question came back to him. Was he ready?
And not just for sex.
But for the chance she offered him. Something inside said that if he didn’t want this, he’d better run now. One look at her, her sexy smile, an eagerness to please him in her eyes, he knew there’d be no running. Except for…
“Be right back.” He hurried into the living room naked, hard, saluting the ceiling, and pulled out a suitcase where he knew he’d thankfully kept some condoms. Right before he returned to the bedroom, he turned and locked the door, and snatched his gun from a side table drawer.
He hid the gun behind him and placed it on the dresser, then slipped into the bed beside her. Devouring her sweet, curvy body, he set the condom on the bedside table and kissed her. And kissed her. Her neck. Her breasts. She kept reaching below his waist, and he kept catching her hand.
“Let me have some fun first,” he whispered.
Her gaze was all sultry-like. “That’s not fun.” She leaned up on her elbow and reached over and picked up the condom. “I personally think this could be fun.”
“Impatient little spitfire, aren’t you?”
Grinning, she pushed him back on the bed, tore the packet open with her teeth, then placed the condom on the tip of his sex. Slowly, tightening and releasing her grip, she moved it down his length, teasing him to a new hardness.
She went to climb on top of him, but he caught her by her shoulders and pushed her back onto the bed
.
“I like being on top,” he said.
She laughed. “So do I.”
“I guess we’ll have to take turns.” Shifting his leg between hers, her settled on top of her, keeping his weight on his elbows. When he found his spot, he eased himself in. He had to think about baseball, mucking out the stalls, and getting a root canal to keep from coming the second her tight muscles surrounded him.
She let go of a moan and started moving. He pumped into her deeper, deeper still, and then, good to his word, he rolled over and let her take the top spot.
Sitting up, her palms pressed into his chest. She started moving, easy, long back-and-forth strokes. Up and down. Slow, then faster. He watched her breasts jiggle. The way her blue eyes clouded with passion. Then he caught her by the waist and moved her faster still, rocking her hips just so in an effort to heighten his pleasure and hers.
Hell. Maybe he didn’t mind being on the bottom.
She rode him, rode him all the way to heaven. Being the gentleman that he was, he made sure she arrived first.
When they stopped shaking, he rolled them both to the side, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Placing his forehead to hers, he stared into her baby blues.
“That was amazing,” he said, still catching his breath.
A smile curled up in his gut, in his mind, in his soul. He couldn’t stop grinning, at least not until he saw her eyes grow instantly wet.
“No.” Gently, he brushed a hand over her cheek. “No tears.”
“Happy tears.” She sniffled and put her hand over her trembling lips.
“No tears,” he said. “Laugh. Smile. Tell me I rocked your world. That you saw fireworks, or danced on the Eiffel Tower. But no tears.”
She stared at him, chuckled, then slapped him on the chest. “Danced on the Eiffel Tower? Mr. Connor, am I picking up an insecure streak?”