Incidental Contact (Those Devilish De Marco Men)

by Connor, Eden

  She threw both hands in the air—still clutching the two balls in her fists—and her eyes went wide inside the web of wrinkles, making him laugh. “If you wanna tickle me, be my guest.” She gave him an outrageous wink.

  Eric figured he wouldn’t be getting any extra ammo from the little old man, based on his sharp retort. “Woman, if you want to be tickled, I reckon I can handle that.” A second later, Eric felt another ball hit him in the back.

  “Damn decoys. Whose side are y’all on, anyway?” he demanded of the elderly pair.

  The woman laughed. “Amy’s side, hot stuff. I need that quarter.” She waggled her brows. “You won’t be-lieve what Woodrow will make me do if he wins.”

  He landed his next four balls. Amy was laughing so hard, she missed twice.

  “I have one left. How about you?” Eric asked, making sure his palm covered the last two balls in the clear cylinder.

  “Just one.”

  What’s the score, Woodrow?”

  “Pretty dang sure y’all are tied,” the old man announced.

  The recliner salesman agreed. “Yep, he evened up.”

  That wasn’t possible, based on his spare ball... if she was telling the truth. The little sneak was competitive. For all he knew, she bought spares.

  “Go... cute male person!” the woman selling the shirts cried, clapping.

  “His name’s Eric.” He glanced around a second time to see Tina, standing with one hip cocked and her arms crossed. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Tina wouldn’t be caught dead playing a game like this. Because, yeah, it was more fun to make a guy blow a week’s pay on one bottle of wine that made his mouth feel like it’d turned inside out.

  A small crowd gathered while they ducked and hid, both feinting to get the best shot. A woman, holding the hands of two little girls in pigtails, stopped under the awning on the sweatshirt cart. The toddlers squealed and pointed, begging for a gun like “those crazy grown-ups have.”

  “Double-dog dare you to a High Noon showdown, De Marco,” Amy called from behind a chair. “We’ll stand back to back, walk ten paces, turn, and fire.”

  “Deal. Come out from behind that chair.” Eric squeezed in beside the recliner where the old man perched, easing the barrel over the arm of the adjacent chair.

  “Psst.” A hand landed on his shoulder. He glanced up. The old man shook his head and whispered. “Son, you know the unwritten rule, right?” The man’s eyes were youthful pools of blue in his leathery face.

  “What rule is that, sir?”

  “You gotta let your little lady win.” The old man nodded. “It’ll be worth it in the end. You give her the small things. She’ll pay you back with more’n you got any right to expect. Trust me on that.” He tipped his head at the old woman. “Forty-nine years and countin’. I know a good’un when I see her. Your girl’s a keeper.” He thrust his thumb in Amy’s direction.

  Losing would mean Woodrow would lose, too, but the old man knew that. Eric’s nod felt like a solemn pact, stupid though that notion was. Something important hinged on his missing a shot any child could make. Something important about being a man of character. About what a man did to deserve the type of woman he’d always secretly wanted, yet feared he couldn’t satisfy. Because a woman of depth and intelligence would demand more than good looks.

  Or, this was just a stupid game and the whole situation with Carpenter had fucked up his ability to think straight. Eric got to his feet. “Okay, ten paces. Prepare to be tickled. For the record, I’m showing no mercy.”

  She rose to her knees, still screened by a recliner at the opposite end of the carpet. Her cheeks were pinker than makeup accounted for. Her hair stuck up in spikes on top of her head. Her shoulders shook with laughter. Eric sauntered to the center of the carpet.

  When Amy began walking toward him, something weird happened inside his chest. That tight band of anger had dissolved somehow, and now his chest felt like it couldn’t stop expanding. She raised her gun, puckered her lips, and blew across the end of the barrel.

  When she was close enough that he could see the mischief dancing in her eyes, she raised her chin. “Your ass is mine, De Marco. You’re going down.” Tough talk, considering she couldn’t stop laughing. She poked him in the chest with the end of her gun.

  He leaned down until their noses nearly touched. “Oh, hell yes. I will go down. Count on that. Bet a quarter, I can make you cry with just my tongue.” Her cheeks darkened, and for a moment, her eyes had that unfocused look.

  “Hold on.” Turning, Eric waved his gun at the toy dealer. “Can we get an equipment check, please?” The seller hurried over, taking their guns. The man pumped both, handing each weapon over with a formal bow. “What’s the range on these things?” Eric asked.

  “About twenty feet.” The man scurried back to the line of customers waiting by his cart.

  Eric gazed at the crowd. Animated faces now surrounded the recliner display. Clerks had stepped out of stores. A few more shoppers stopped to watch. He winked at the two little girls, pointed at Amy, and turned his thumb down.

  “Noo!” the smallest one squealed. “She’s gonna get you.”

  He turned, then felt the soft warmth of Amy’s back pressed against his. “From your dimples to your belly button,” he muttered over his shoulder.

  “One!” Woodrow called. Eric took a step, slowly pumping the gun.

  “Two!” A few spectators joined in the chant. The recliner salesman began clapping again. More voices joined in with each pace, until he stood at the edge of the carpet and it seemed most of the crowd yelled, “Ten!” Eric spun and settled into his best cowboy stance.

  Amy raised her gun with both hands wrapped around the grip. Her eyes, looking over the barrel, were serious. He slid his thumb over the top of the gun, depressing the plastic tube at the spot where the rubber seal connected the inner and outer sleeves. Air hissed over his hand as the pressure equalized.

  His ball sailed about a yard, then bounced on the carpet before rolling to a stop at her feet. Hers struck him in the heart. Clapping a hand to his chest, he dropped to his knees, groaning loudly for the benefit of the little girls. They squealed and jumped up and down.

  Amy turned in a triumphant circle, kicking her feet up and waving her gun over her head. Her impromptu Highland fling made Eric laugh until tears trickled from the corners of his eyes.

  Turning his head, he spied Woodrow, digging a gnarled hand into his front pocket. The quarter he produced glittered under the mall lights. The old man leaned down and kissed his wife’s cheek. She cradled his face in her wrinkled hands, kissed him on the lips, then plucked the coin from his palm, grinning like the quarter was pure gold.

  Feeling like he’d taken another punch to the gut, Eric felt as though he saw the loss of his mother through his father’s eyes. Turning away from the painful reminder, he stared at the metal beams and ductwork along the high ceiling.

  Could I have that?

  He’d been drawn to Amy since the day he’d met her. She’d slipped under his defenses like rainwater over rock. Every time they were in the same room, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Do I deserve that?

  He might not be as wise as his new buddy Woodrow, but he knew Amy couldn’t be earned merely by letting her win a pretend gun fight.

  Problem was, he didn’t know another way—besides sex—and even that wasn’t reliable, all of a sudden. She was too smart to settle for a mechanic. It wasn’t like he could drop a cargo net over her.

  Cargo net. Wait a minute. He squinted at the black-painted tangle of ductwork and beams overhead.

  She dropped to her knees at his side, grinning like a mischievous monkey. “We’re done with these, right? I wanna give ‘em to your fan club.”

  Eric raised his toy, turning his wrist while he examined the gun. “You wanna repossess my brand-new, hot pink, sponge ball shooter? That’s harsh. I was gonna figure out how to hook a compressed gas capsule to mine and show you how the game is
really played.” He couldn’t help but smile.

  She grabbed the barrel. He didn’t let go. “Amy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  The look in her eyes made him ache to wrap up in the warmth he saw there.

  Their playful interlude aside, the real-world bad guys were up today, two to none, and that was unacceptable. He was due—maybe overdue—for a little talk with Phillip, but he needed to check out a few things first. Like Amy’s lips. He pulled her head down, reluctantly letting her go after one chaste kiss.

  “Eww, Mommy, why’d she wanna kiss a loser?” the older girl asked.

  He pondered that question while Amy grabbed his gun, jumped to her feet, and approached the mother. “Do you mind if they h-a-v-e t-h-e g-u-n-s?” The mother looked surprised, but agreed. Amy knelt in front of the bigger tyke. “Sometimes, just playing is a win. No losers here today.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Who invented high heels anyway?” Amy grumbled while she and Eric walked toward the department store so she could retrieve her packages. The hose itched and the elastic band around the tops pinched her thighs. “Only someone with zero knowledge of physics would think standing a woman’s entire weight on the balls of her feet was a good idea.”

  Eric’s shoulders shook with laughter. “They’re sexy.”

  “Sexy, my chapped ass.” She drove her elbow into his side. “I double-dog dare you to try walking in heels.”

  The minute she reached the carpeted area in the Petites Department, Amy stopped to yank off her shoes. “I’d rather wear the fucking box,” she announced with a grin.

  “My turn to dare you.” He popped her lightly on the butt. “You sound like a woman in need of a little stress relief.”

  “What are you doing?” She could barely squeak when he pulled her through the dressing room door.

  He closed the curtain in a cubicle midway down the row and sat on the narrow bench. The space was smaller than the average bathroom stall. Her spine seemed to melt. Common sense went right out the window when his eyes went all moody blue. Her mind was saying Oh, hell no, but her body hummed like a live wire.

  His legs bracketed hers. His scent overwhelmed the plastic-and-dye smell in the room. Propping his elbows on his thighs, he slid his fingers up her new hose, boldly easing his hands under the hem of her dress. The gentle touch was such a contrast to his rugged appearance. “You look beautiful. Now, I’m gonna make you feel beautiful.”

  “Not here.” She gaped, but arousal spiraled inside her. “What if someone comes in?” His eyes were intent. This was the kind of rush she only got from... she tried to find a comparison and failed. Nothing seemed as addictive as the damn jolt she got from the look on his face.

  Even though she could touch every wall, she had the urge to look over her shoulder for the woman he was really looking at. She knew better than to go all girlie-stupid over the idea he’d come to the mall to find her, but she felt like someone had filled her with helium. It wouldn’t have mattered what he wanted her to do, she couldn’t have refused.

  Turning her, he tugged her onto his knee. The possessive, confident way he handled her body made her wet. She didn’t dare look at him, so she focused on his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh. He pressed his lips along her jaw and nuzzled her neck. Of course he’d know better than to mess with the paint job. The spot he was kissing made her nipples harden.

  “Look in the mirror,” he ordered. “Don’t close your eyes.”

  She didn’t recognize the woman looking back. Plain, pudgy Amy didn’t have trysts at the mall. Only in the dream could this happen. The flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded, smoky eyes, the traces of lipstick—all unfamiliar. Someone else sat on Eric’s lap, yearning to be touched. When he eased his hand up her thigh, she felt that damn sizzle again. He traced the tops of her hose, but in the mirror, his eyes locked on hers.

  “I like these.” He dragged a finger along the lace biting into her thigh. The itch, the pinch, the annoyance—all suddenly worthwhile. She held her breath when his fingers brushed her slit. He lifted his other hand to cup her breast. He massaged a nipple. The touch felt direct through her thin bra. He moved his lips to her ear...oh, God, not my ear. Goosebumps rioted down her spine. Fear fed her excitement. The same exhilaration she’d felt the night before, running through the snow, made her want to giggle.

  He whispered sweet nonsense between soft licks, nips, and kisses on her earlobe. Somehow, her skirt was around her waist. “Mmm. So pretty.” The bottoms of the underpants had no elastic. She watched, wide-eyed, while he pulled the soft fabric aside, exposing her slit. Each small nip on her earlobe made her folds swell and her nipples throb.

  No air moved in the cubicle, and yet, an invisible force seemed to swirl around her clit.

  She felt more wicked than she had at seven, when a five fell out of the collection plate and she’d set her feet over it until no one was looking. On some level, she expected to be punished equally hard as when her mom found that money, because this felt more sinful than anything she’d ever done. His breath danced across her neck and jaw. He bracketed her slit with his fingers, spreading her folds. Their eyes met in the mirror, then his lids lowered. She followed his gaze. The jolt from knowing he was looking at her sex made her back arch. “Somebody’s wet.”

  He only stared. She tried not to squirm, ashamed of the urge to beg for his touch.

  “Hook your knee over mine, baby doll.” She couldn’t refuse. Following his order spread her folds wide. This felt daring and reckless and sexy as hell. His groan echoed along her collarbone and got trapped inside her nipples. Slowly, he extended one finger, moving it by millimeters to her clit. The light touch sent shards of lightning streaking through her. She swallowed her moan.

  Pressing harder, he massaged the small nub, intensifying the throb in her channel. Now she ached to press her thighs together, but dared not move, for fear he’d stop the delicious kneading. He raked her nipple with his nails, setting off sparks he seemed to soothe with the finger between her thighs. She had to hold her breath when he entered her.

  This wasn’t sex the way she was used to. These white-hot streaks of pure want were foreign, keeping her in his thrall.

  “Put your hands around my neck.” Doing as he commanded made her breasts thrust forward. While she strained to listen for footsteps, she couldn’t take her eyes off their reflection.

  Feeling penetration was one thing. Watching his finger disappear inside her felt so naughty—and so good—she could barely breathe. The canned department store music submerged beneath her heartbeat and his rough breathing. Listening to the wet sounds her body made while watching each thrust made her clench around him. He rewarded her by thrusting faster. She couldn’t help moving her hips to meet his hand. Tension spiraled in her core, made tighter by the dirty words he muttered in her ear.

  “So fucking wet. Look at that tight little pussy. Should I finger you till you come, or make you wait until later?”

  Fear he might stop made her clench with need. “Don’t stop.”

  He rewarded her by adding another finger. The stretch felt so delicious, she moaned. Suppressing her urge to cry out only made her more aroused. With his other hand, he teased moisture over her clit. She let her eyes drift closed, focusing on the sensations, but soon opened them again. She was so close to coming. The slick friction when he circled her clit, combined with the hard finger-fuck, felt delicious.

  “Come for me, Amy.” She turned her head, panting from her need. His lips came down on hers. Her body, roughly penetrated from both ends, seemed to shatter.

  She couldn’t help pressing her mound into his palm while the waves wracked her. The way he cupped her sex, driving the pair of fingers firmly into her convulsing channel, felt possessive and far more intimate than any touch she’d ever had.

  When he eased out of her, he caught her gaze in the mirror again. Raising his hand to his lips, he suckled her wetness from his fingers. Caught in his gaze, sh
e didn’t move when he leaned forward to press his lips to hers again. Her taste exploded on her tongue, driven deep into her mouth by his fierce thrusts. Then his kisses tapered off to gentle presses of his lips.

  “I hear someone coming. Get changed. I’ll walk you to your car,” he whispered, helping her stand. Unsure her legs would hold her, she pressed a hand to the wall. He sauntered out, yanking the curtain closed. Amy stared at the swinging drape. The only sound she heard was him walking away, her hard breathing, and her thudding heart.

  He’ll always walk away.

  Chapter Ten

  While Dan double-checked the locks on the garage’s big roll up doors, Colton bent over a clipboard, filling out the paperwork on the GMC van in his bay. “Lila wants to go shopping for a crib tonight. Dunno why we have to go all the way to Greenville.”

  “I need to pick up something for dinner. Cynda says Gram’s vision is already improving. Can’t wait to see her.” Dan slid home the bolt on the side of the center door.

  “You wanna drop Jonah off at my place?” Eric asked, looking at Colton. A fourteen-year-old wouldn’t want to go baby shopping.

  “Nah, he’s outgrown his winter coat.” Colton groaned. “Another hundred bucks bites the dust.”

  They were shutting him out again, withdrawing into the lives they led with their women. Eric swiped his fingers through the waterless soap, scrubbing at the grease staining his fingers and trying to beat back his emotions. What was there to say any damn way? They’d get together Sunday and look for something that didn’t exist. And between now and then... what? Who gave a rat’s ass about installing cabinet doors when John Carpenter was going to walk free in just a few years? If there’d been a four-wheeler in the paper today, he’d have gone to check that out, but not a single one had been listed.

  Times like this, he almost wished he drank. The instant that thought split his skull, he saw his father. Sitting in the kitchen at the farmhouse where Eric and his siblings had grown up, a half-full glass of booze in one hand, the bottle in the other, staring at the back door, like he could will Cammie to walk in. Heard Rafe’s slurred voice, yelling for Colton and Sarah to turn down their music. Rafe hadn’t begun drinking hard until Eric had been fourteen. Watching his old man’s slide into the bottle had been scary as fuck. Eric used dating as his excuse not to stay home much. Long before he’d turned sixteen, he’d turned to fucking. Older girls would pick him up.