“Do you really think you’d be here if I had a husband?” She glared at him. “I’m not sure what women you usually sleep with, but I’m not a cheater.”
He ignored the dig. On this occasion, he deserved it. “So you’re divorced.”
She sighed, plunking the glasses down on the dining table before turning on her heel. A minute later she returned with a bottle of Hendricks. “I have a feeling I’m going to need a refill.”
“Probably wise.”
“Bring the album over.” She waved a hand in the direction of the couch. “I guess if we’re going to play, this is a good place to start.”
He did as she asked and took a seat. “Well,” he said, holding his glass up to hers. “Here’s to fucked-up families.”
“Maybe they continue to chip away at our resolve to succeed.” She laughed. “Gosh, that was a bit dramatic, wasn’t it?”
“A bit.” He sipped his drink.
“So in answer to your question, no. I’m not divorced.” She drained half of her G&T in one go and reached for the album. “I was about to get married.”
She flipped through the album, a sad smile on her lips. When she found the page she wanted, she turned it around to show Reed. The picture brought an instant smile to his lips. Darcy stood, flanked by two women—one brunette, one blond. The wedding dress she’d worn on page one was no longer a pristine white, but instead was covered with splatters of green, pink, orange, and something murky-looking that was probably a combination of all three. The other women wore matching dresses in two different colors—pink and blue—and were also covered in paint. They looked like some kind of crazy, psychedelic warrior princesses.
Darcy’s head was thrown back in laughter, her cheeks smudged with paint. The blond to her right was midshriek as the brunette hurled what appeared to be a water balloon at her.
“This is the best wedding photo I’ve ever seen,” he said, laughing.
“They’re called ‘wreck the dress’ photo shoots and they’re popular with divorcées and jilted brides, apparently.”
His chest clenched. “I’m guessing you’re the latter then.”
“Great deductive powers you’ve got there, Sherlock.” She finished the rest of her G&T and refilled it—straight gin, no tonic this time.
“How long before the wedding?”
Her bravado wavered then, a ripple of sadness starting with a shimmer in her eyes and ending with the tiniest quiver of her lips. “The day before.”
Ouch. “That’s rough.”
“I’m just glad I caught him… Well, I wasn’t at the time but I am now.” She sighed. “It would have been worse to go on living a lie. For both of us.”
Oh, fuck. So not only had she lost her fiancée the day before her wedding, but she’d caught him in the act too? Brutal.
“But he’s still with the guy now, so I guess I’m happy at least it meant something for him.”
“Who was he?” Reed drained the rest of his drink in solidarity and refilled his glass.
“Our best man.” She waved a hand in his face. “No sympathy, okay? But I told you I’d win fucked-up family bingo.”
“I don’t even know what to say.” He shook his head. “I’m not often at a loss for words, I’ll tell you that.”
“Your turn.” She flipped through the album, leaving it open between them so he could see the photos. He got the feeling this was an intensely private and painful moment for her, and yet here she was sharing it with him.
He wasn’t worthy.
“Come on,” she said. “You can’t leave me hanging.”
“Well, you know my ma left when I was fifteen, but that’s not the whole story.” He swallowed his gin and poured another. Screw it. He wasn’t going to leave her tonight, so he could use the alcohol to numb his pain. And hers.
“Okay.” Her bright-blue eyes were trained on him and he wondered if it might be possible to drown in those crystalline depths. He’d been attracted to her from the first time they’d met—but this was something else. She wasn’t just attractive… She was beautiful. On the inside.
“Dad was really cut up when she left.” His gut churned at the memory. It’d been years since he’d told anyone what happened—years since he’d allowed himself to remember. But it was like finding an old scar: it might look healed, but remembering the pain came far too easily. “It was like he was sad…but it was something else. He refused to talk to anyone about it. Then he took up smoking.” Reed let out a long, slow breath. “My dad was the kind of guy who would bike to work every day. He’d go for runs, throw the ball around with me for hours. But after she left, he stopped caring about his health. He went from a guy who wouldn’t have a piece of chocolate after dinner to a guy who smoked two packs of cigarettes a day.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Two years ago, he started feeling short of breath. I’d been telling him to give up the smokes, but he wouldn’t.” He rolled the glass between his hands, his eyes on the half-melted ice cubes swishing in the dregs of his drink. “Then the coughing worsened. It was this god-awful hacking sound that shook the whole house.”
“And that’s when he found out he had emphysema?”
“Not for a few months. The stubborn bastard refused to go to the doctor.” He set the glass down and swallowed, trying to force down the lump in his throat. “But the damage was done, whether he wanted to accept it or not. Stage two at the time. I threw out every last cigarette, but he was still mobile then. He could easily buy more. I think he wanted to kill himself with those damn things.”
“Oh, Reed.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
His instinct was to shake the gesture off, to pack the memories back into that heavily guarded box and go back to denial. But her skin was soft, her touch like a soothing balm for his soul.
“He used to be this incredible man. Sure, he never had the best job. He was a school janitor, so we didn’t have much money, but he used to try. He used to care about his life.”
About my life.
These days it felt like Reed was the fly in his father’s ointment—the constant thorn in his side that wouldn’t let up with all the rules: Don’t smoke. Don’t forget your appointments. Do what the caregiver says.
“He might only have a few more years left.” Reed didn’t recognize his own voice—it was as cracked and peeling as the paint on his father’s house. “And if I don’t fix this shit storm at work…who the hell is going to hire a PR guy who can’t manage his own public image?”
It wasn’t the ruined reputation that frightened him. Reed had never cared much for other people’s opinions in truth. But his job was the only thing that gave him purpose. He poured the money into his father’s health and squirreled the rest away for when the day came that he might need it. Knowing he could take care of the man whom he’d admired for so long, who’d cared for him when his own mother had abandoned him, was the thing that got Reed out of bed in the morning.
“What are you going to do?”
Her hand was still on his, the genuine warmth and concern radiating through his skin until he felt the ice thawing in his veins. It’d been so long since he’d opened up to anyone—each year that passed made his heart grow harder, cementing his stubborn desires to go it alone. But now this quirky, unusual, sexy woman had slipped past his defenses and started to bust down the walls that protected him.
He needed to regain his composure, to get back into a situation where he felt control firmly in his grasp.
“Right now?” The mask slid back over his features as he turned her hand over in his, pressing his thumb to the pulse point at her wrist. “We’re going to have another drink and then you’re going to show me where the shower is.”
Uncertainty flickered in those big, blue eyes. “Okay.”
He reached for the bottle of Hendricks and refilled both glass
es. The alcohol had loosened him up, enough that his muscles no longer felt bunched and tight. A hot shower would set him right again—no more of this emotional shit. He was done talking, done acting like words made an ounce of difference.
“By the time I get out of the shower, I want to find you naked on your bed with your hands between your legs.”
That put a bit of color in her cheeks. “I guess conversation time is over.”
“Yes.” He knocked his drink back and pushed up from his chair. “The only words I want to hear out of your mouth for the rest of the night are all the ways I can make you feel good. Acceptable alternatives include ‘yes,’ ‘oh God yes,’ and ‘fuck.’”
“Acceptable alternatives?” She grinned. “You know alliteration gets me hot and bothered.”
She left the glasses on the table and motioned for him to follow her toward the bathroom. Focusing on that pert little ass beneath her jeans sent familiar lust coursing through him, hardened him.
Yes, this was exactly what he needed to concentrate on right now.
* * *
Darcy lay on her bed per Reed’s instruction. The sound of rushing water from the bathroom that separated her bedroom from Remi’s should have soothed her. Continuous sounds always had the effect of restoring her equilibrium. But tonight she was a bundle of nerves…and not because she was about to sleep with Reed for a second time.
The whole day had thrown her for a loop. Here was this guy who, by all accounts, was a waste of air. And yet he’d broken her heart in two with the story about his parents. While he’d kept the focus on them, she could see plain as day that he still hadn’t gotten over the rejection. First he’d lost his mother, and now he was at risk of losing his father.
Guilt twisted in Darcy’s gut. His story had made her realize that she took having her mother for granted. Sure, their relationship was the stuff Dr. Phil episodes were made of, but she knew her mother cared, even if she had an odd—and sometimes damaging—way of showing it.
The faucet squeaked and the sound of water ceased. She could see what Reed would look like, beads of moisture smattering his broad chest and muscular stomach. The urge to confirm whether her fantasy met reality surged through her, but she stayed on the bed. He’d told her to be here, laid out like a gift for him… Oh! And she was supposed to have her hands between her legs.
She flushed at the thought. It felt so…brazen. But that was Reed. When it came to sex, he was totally out in the open. He knew what we wanted, what felt good. There was no shame, but there was no vulnerability either. Not from him at least.
Stop thinking. You didn’t bring him up here to have a full-blown psychoanalysis—this isn’t therapy.
Yet being with Reed today had unlatched some compartment inside her. It’d opened up a part that had been dormant for as long as she could remember.
Closing her eyes, she allowed her head to loll back against her pillow as she slipped her hand down her stomach to the edge of her panties. Were they supposed to be on or off? He hadn’t said.
At least this time he hadn’t watched her undress—so she’d had the opportunity to slip out of her boring basics into something a little more occasion appropriate. Nothing fancy, because that wasn’t her style, but this pair had a hint of lace at the edges—and not an incorrect day of the week in sight.
“If he wants them off, he can damn well take them off,” she said to herself. Her fingers brushed the neat section of hair behind the soft cotton before dipping lower. She was already damp, her fingers sliding easily through her sex.
Even with her eyes closed, she could see the glow of her bedside lamp. Touching herself with the lights on felt like a new level of naughtiness. Knowing he could walk in any moment and see the pleasure scrunching up her face was the icing on top of the kinky cupcake.
“You’re much better at following instructions than I thought you would be.” His deep voice caused her thighs to clench, trapping her hand between them.
Darcy snapped her eyes open. “Only when it suits me.”
He had one of her towels around his waist—soft, baby-blue fabric hung low on his hips, enhancing the sharp V of muscle at his waist. The hair on his head glistened darker from the water, almost black. He was so attractive it bordered on obscene. But all that traditional attractiveness was nothing compared to what she’d uncovered today—the softness behind all the quick wit and bravado.
“Please.” He motioned for her to continue. “Don’t stop on my account.”
It was one thing to do it knowing she’d get caught, but it was quite another to keep the camera rolling after that. She was leaning on her Dutch courage, but she’d need more than a few standard drinks to take her to that level.
“How about I unwrap my present?” She crawled to the edge of the bed and reached out.
He stepped forward, hands by his sides as her fingertips brushed the knotted fabric at his waist. She smoothed her hand over it, tracing the hard ridge hiding beneath. How long had he been watching her lay there, pleasuring herself? Her sex pulsed. She still wasn’t used to how out in the open sex was with Reed—nothing was furtive or blanketed in darkness.
“You waiting for a personal invitation?” he asked, brushing her hair over her shoulder.
“How would you word it exactly?” She looked up, flattening one palm to his abs and tracing the line of hair that extended down from his belly button.
“The honorable Reed McMahon requests the presence of one very naughty Darcy Greer for an evening of fun and frivolity.” He grinned. “And cock.”
“Fun, frivolity, and cock. How could I possibly say no to that?” She tugged on the towel until it opened, revealing him.
He was magnificent. Intimidatingly so.
“You thrill me, you know that?” He ran his hands through her hair, the firm touch against her scalp sending a shiver running down her spine. “You somehow manage to be totally innocent and yet insatiably sexy at the same time. You’re an enigma.”
The compliment spurred her on, and she wrapped her hand around his length. “Enigma, hmm. You should have gone with that instead of telling me I was interesting.”
He chuckled. “So ‘enigma’ isn’t a code word for anything?”
“Nope.” She worked her hand up and down, her eyes turned up to watch the pleasure roll over his face.
He swore under his breath. “Glad I managed to find the right adjective. I should have known a librarian would be picky about words.”
“I’m picky about everything.” She climbed off the bed and dropped to her knees, one hand on his stomach to steady herself and using her other to pleasure him. When she gave him a squeeze, his hips jerked into her.
“That feels so good, Darcy.”
“I want to…” She swallowed, unsure exactly how to voice her desires. Talking dirty wasn’t her forte for sure, but stating her needs wasn’t something she felt confident doing either. “Umm.”
He caught her chin between his fingers and tipped her face up, his eyes blackened with arousal. “You can say anything you like here. There’s no judgment.”
Her eyes fluttered shut, because looking at him as she said the words that were swimming in her head seemed like too much. “I want to take you in my mouth.”
“God yes.” His voice was shredded and rough.
It was the most perfect sound in all the world. Hearing the effect she had on him was all she needed to keep moving, to push past the barrier of insecurity and indulge in the fantasy reel playing inside her head.
She opened her mouth and guided him to her lips. The velvety slide of his head along her tongue was exquisite, as was the sound of breath hissing out between his teeth. Not to mention the clean and fresh scent of him, where her citrus soap mingled with his earthy maleness. An incredible feeling of feminine power rushed through her. She’d never once thought that being on her knees could make her feel ten
feet tall.
“Darcy.” Her name was followed by a string of incoherent, half-formed words.
She ran her tongue up and down, working him with her hand. Experimenting with what moves gave the best response—what caused his hips to jerk or his breath to catch. Toying with the stud in her tongue, she rubbed the metal ball over the head of his cock and he grunted. Oh yes, he liked that very much.
“Do it again.” His grip tightened in her hair. “Whatever you did just then.”
“Like this?” She nudged the piercing against the sensitive underside of his head, back and forth until his swore under his breath.
“Enough. Otherwise, I’m going to embarrass myself.” He pulled back and looked her in the eyes. “You’re too good at that.”
She scooted back onto the bed and crooked her finger. “You can always even the score.”
“And now you’re giving orders.” The crooked smile turned her into a puddle of female hormones. “Who are you and what have you done with my Darcy?”
His Darcy? Her breath stuck in her throat, but as he stalked forward, panther-like, she tried to act unaffected. Only a fool would believe she’d become his. Wasn’t this why so many women were tearing him to shreds online? Because he made them believe it all meant something?
She shoved the wrenching fear aside. Darcy Greer was not one of those dumb girls who turned words into what she wanted them to be. She was sensible. Logical. Cynical enough to protect herself.
She was not his girl.
“I’m an alien,” she teased, pulling back the covers.
His hands captured her. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her beneath him. “Well, you are into monster smut. It makes sense.”
Damn him. Why did he have to be so funny and charming…and sexy? Confident. Kind.
“Shh.” She pressed her fingertip to his lips. If he said any more, she might not be able to keep the line drawn between them. “Enough talking.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He eased her back into the mattress and settled between her legs.
She was going to enjoy this, and her heart wasn’t going to have a say.
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