Talking After Midnight

by Dakota Cassidy

  She’d never seen him without his knit cap. He had amazing hair. Probably considered too long for Plum Orchard, but thick and shiny and curling over the edges of his collar. She clenched her fists to stop herself from reaching out and brushing the strands from his eyes. “So, Em cooked, I see?”

  He shook off his down jacket and hung it on the rack near the door, giving her a view of his incredible butt. He was officially killing her. “No. She helped me cook. I figured, if I premade stuff, I wouldn’t have to spend all my time in the kitchen, slaving over a hot stove, and that means we have more time to talk.”

  Marybell stuck her hands in the pockets of her pleather vest. “A resourceful man. Good on you.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “So, I’ll just stick this in the oven, you turn up Marilyn Manson and then while the lasagna cooks, we can plan our grassroots attempt at cult leadership. That work?”

  Of course he knew Marilyn Manson. What self-respecting god of beauty and insane body didn’t? He was making it harder and harder to maintain a hefty level of indifference. She shrugged and wandered into the kitchen, popping open the door to her fridge. “Wine?”

  He shook his head, his broad back to her. “Nope. Don’t drink. Water’s good.”

  Marybell pulled the bottle of Chardonnay out of the fridge and poured a healthy glassful. She’d drink straight from the bottle at this point, but she needed her wits about her to pull this thing off. “What’s with the not drinking?”

  He turned to face her, pot holders on his hands and looked her square in the eye. “Alcoholic.”

  Nice. You want to get rid of him, not dredge up his demons. “I’m sorry...I didn’t...”

  “Know? It’s not like I advertise it. It is what it is. I’m past the point of shame, and just focused on staying on track.” He turned back to the stove, pushing the pan into it without another word.

  She forgot to stomp when she made her way to the living room because of his confession. He was all kinds of open book, and she was one big ball of secrets. Dropping to the couch, she sat quietly, the way she always did when she was in unfamiliar waters.

  Tag was suddenly sinking into the couch right beside her, rocking her carefully balanced dinghy. He turned to face her, scanning her eyes. “You feel awkward now.”

  Bingo. “I didn’t mean to pry or put you on the spot.”

  “I don’t feel put on the spot. It’s something you’ll need to know for date two. You know, when I’m done impressing the life out of you.”

  “What made you drink?” Snap out of it, Marybell! This is not the way to fly your indifferent flag.

  “What makes anyone drink? Escape, a way to numb the pain.”

  His words touched her—made her identify. It wasn’t the tone of his voice or the words themselves. It was the brutal honesty he was so effortlessly laying on the table. If she’d had more money in her darker days, drinking might have been a solution she’d have considered. Now she hid it with hair gel and black eyeliner. “Pain?”

  Tag shook an adorably crooked finger at her and smiled, the brackets around his mouth deepening so deliciously she wanted to run her fingers over them. “Uh-uh-uh. I get a question now.”

  She swirled the wine in her glass and sighed as if it made no difference to her. “Okay.”

  “Did you like kissing me?”

  What woman, with lips on her face, wouldn’t like kissing him? “It was okay.”

  “Rate it.”

  “I thought I got another question.”

  “That wasn’t a question. It was a demand.”

  “On a scale of one to ten, or with letters?”

  “Whichever you prefer.”

  “It was a solid four.”

  “You lie.”

  She bit her lip to keep from doing that giggle. “Well, it was really a three, but I don’t want to trash your manhood in one fell swoop.”

  He lifted a raven eyebrow. “You’re crazy generous. Okay, your turn.”

  “Pain. You said there was pain involved in your drinking.” Why was she digging? To an outsider, it would appear she was taking some kind of perverse pleasure in his admission, knowing what she knew, but that wasn’t the case. She needed to hear it as a reminder to stay away from Tag so she wouldn’t invariably cause him more pain.

  “I said it numbs pain. Not that I had any pain.”

  “So then it was escape?”

  “That’s two questions. My turn.”

  She rolled her hand for him to proceed, the studded bracelet she wore catching the glow of the candlelight, reminding her she’d dressed this way to scare him off.

  “Why did Landon give you a job at Call Girls?”

  “Because I’m really good at phone sex, and have you heard my voice? It brings all the boys to my yard.” She ramped her Southern drawl up a notch.

  He acknowledged her with nothing more than a nod. “Your turn.”

  “The escape. Was drinking a way to escape?”

  “It absolutely was. I didn’t want to be me anymore. When I drank, I definitely wasn’t me.”

  She’d done that to him. Not directly, but indirectly. She was responsible for being too naive and stupid to know what she’d gotten herself into until it was all too late. Her chest became so tight she had to move away from him, move away from her guilt or she’d explode.

  “Beautiful People” thumped out its angry beat and she leaped on the opportunity to move off the couch and turn it up, hoping it would block out her pain—Tag’s pain.

  Marybell kept her back to him, clenching her teeth to ward off tears.

  “It’s your turn,” Tag whispered in her ear, his lips brushing against the eight or so studs she had in her lobes.

  Tag’s hot breath sent a wave of shivery delight skittering along her spine, making her nipples spike. Her fists pressed into her thighs to keep from leaning back against him, letting her head lie against the solid wall of his chest. Swallowing hard, she muttered, “I’m good for now.”

  Tag apparently wasn’t done. He planted his hands on her hips and turned her around to face him. “Hit a nerve?”

  Do it, Marybell. Tell him. Just say it. Then there’ll be no more secrets. He might leave hating your guts, but at least he won’t be chasing after a lie.

  No. Don’t do it. He’ll tell Dixie and you’ll get fired so fast you won’t know your corn bread from your chicken-fried steak. Then, you’ll be run out of town so quick your head’ll spin around Exorcist-style, and you’ll lose everything you’ve worked so hard for—again.

  Remember the streets, Marybell? That’s what will happen if you tell Tag. You don’t have enough money in your savings account to last you more than a year. Landon pays you well, but life’s expensive. The streets will eventually be your playground again. No one hires someone lookin’ like you. Not for a respectable job with benefits and a retirement plan, at least.

  She affected a cocky expression, stiffening in his embrace, ignoring the strength of his hands and the havoc that wreaked. “Nerve? I’ve got lots of it, but not much hits one.”

  Tag stared down at her so hard, surely his gaze would leave a mark. “I think that’s what you’d like everyone to think, and you’re pretty good at it.”

  “But you see the real me,” she said dryly.

  “I think I do.”

  He tugged her closer, their hips meeting until Marybell didn’t think she could hold her breath any longer. The closer he brought their bodies, the harder it was to resist him. Instead of pushing her way out of his embrace, she reacted with her heart, not her head when she asked, “What do you see?”

  He leaned in low, letting his lips hover at a very tender spot on her neck, his breath warm against her skin. “I see a nerve I’m about to hit.”

  And then Tag nibbled, splaying his hands across her back until their chests touched and his lips were skimming over the sensitive flesh, slow, hot, achingly gentle.

  Her hands were supposed to go to his shoulders to give him a shove the way all girls shou
ld who weren’t supposed to rub up against the men whose lives they’d been a part of trashing. But Tag made her forget everything and instead her fingers sank into the caps of his shoulder, clinging to him as her eyes slid closed.

  She’d promised herself that no matter how manly, sexy, irresistible he was, she’d stick to the hands-off plan.

  When his lips traveled along the column of her neck, leaving her swollen and achy in places she had no right to ache, she managed to forget everything.

  Everything.

  So much for sticking to the plan.

  Seven

  “Note,” he mumbled when he skirted her jaw, “I’m not kissing you.”

  Why? Why aren’t you kissing me? she wanted to scream in frustration when his hands strayed to the back of her head. That he got a handful of stiff spikes of her hair didn’t deter him.

  It didn’t deter Marybell, either. She arched her back, letting the heat of his chest seep into hers, sighing when Tag licked just behind her ear, a shiver of longing pulsing through her body.

  “Still not kissing you. I could, you know, if you wanted me to. But no pressure.”

  His rumbly voice, thick in her ear, slow and lazy against her flesh was her undoing.

  Marybell didn’t think. She didn’t process. She didn’t debate. She reacted by putting her hands on either side of his jaw and dragging his head upward. Her fingers sank into his thick hair as she planted her mouth on his with a sigh of instant pleasure at his grunt of surprise.

  Firm, yet soft, delicious and perfect, she explored Tag’s lips, burrowed closer when he widened his stance and invited her between his hard thighs.

  He was an amazing kisser, thorough, intense. “I’m kissing you,” he murmured teasingly between the duel their tongues were having.

  She didn’t care. Nothing mattered but his lips. Nothing mattered when she put her arms around his neck and molded her body to his, loving every hard ridge, every dip and plane in his stomach.

  Nothing mattered when her hands suddenly weren’t in full cooperation with her brain and began to pop open the buttons on his fitted shirt.

  Nothing mattered, not even when Tag began to make comical protests against her lips. She couldn’t hear them. She couldn’t see anything but Tag naked.

  Without another word, she pulled Tag toward her bedroom, ignoring everything but the dull throb between her legs, a humming need for satisfaction.

  The soft glow of her robin’s-egg-blue lamp cast a romantic hue on her one luxury. A king-size bed covered in white-and-blue pillows with a thick white duvet she snuggled under every night was the only furniture aside from the whitewashed nightstand she’d bought at a yard sale.

  Tag made her room look small—he made everything look small.

  Marybell didn’t waste any time. She peeled her vest off, dropping it on the floor, vaguely wishing she had cute underwear on, or at least a lacy bra. All she had was some Hanes, white and practical.

  When she dragged her black T-shirt over her head, Tag hissed, moving in closer, the heat of his body matching hers. Circling her waist, he knelt in front of her, brushing his mouth along her naked belly before bending his head and untying her work boots.

  It was a small gesture, nothing big or overly romantic, but this big man, at her feet, unlacing her shoes brought a sting to her eyes. A stinging she attributed to the overload of emotions racing through her, but still, they stung.

  So Marybell closed her eyes and sought the place she’d been in just moments ago—the place where Tag made love to her, his muscles scraping against her skin, his mouth hot and wet on her, all over her.

  Tag dragged her zebra-striped leggings downward, taking her underwear with them. He carefully lifted each foot out of them until she stood in nothing but her bra.

  She wasn’t ashamed of his scrutiny, or his assessments. She had small breasts, a narrow waist and more back end than she’d like. But she was okay with her body—she worked enough at it to know she was in fairly decent shape.

  What she wasn’t okay with was his next question. “Who’s Doby?” He fingered the tattoo just above her hipbone, making her angry and hot simultaneously.

  Marybell wobbled until he firmed up the grip he had on her waist. “He was my dog.” A long time ago when she’d lived on the streets. A stray she’d found, knew she couldn’t possibly keep when she couldn’t even feed herself but kept, anyway. They’d spent five months together—five amazing months in alleyways and abandoned buildings.

  The answer seemed to satisfy him. “He must have been a pretty great dog to earn a tatt.”

  Her throat tightened. The best dog ever. She’d gotten the tattoo after she’d landed the job with Landon—in honor of the one living, breathing thing on the planet that had accepted her as is.

  A deep breath later, she was looking down at the top of his head, mesmerized by his tanned fingers running over her fair skin.

  He dipped them between her legs, slipping into her cleft, parting her flesh with such agonizing care her eyes rolled to the back of her head. No preamble, no skirting the issue, Tag’s lovemaking was as straight up as he was.

  Marybell widened her stance, allowing his surprisingly gentle fingers to roam, but when he slid the pad of his thumb over her clit she had to find the tops of his shoulders to steady herself. His tongue slipped into her as easily as his fingers, rough and soft at the same time, circling the aching nub with a wisp of a touch.

  The groan that escaped her throat was husky and thick. It had been a long time since she’d been this close to a man, and if she’d even entertained reservations before, they flew out the window when Tag drove a finger inside her.

  Her teeth clenched tight and her hips bucked forward as his tongue lashed against the sensitive bud. A deep ache in the pit of her stomach grew, hot like a liquid fire, spreading to every nerve, reminding her she was still alive.

  Tag stroked her with his tongue, with his finger, until her legs began to weaken and her nipples tightened, scraping against her bra. She pulled him closer, luxuriating in the feel of his hair against her belly, his silken mouth exploring the most intimate place on her body.

  The first vestiges of her orgasm were vague, a fleeting tingle of bubbling awareness, making her rock forward until it grew, wending its way across her flesh, forcing her to acknowledge her need to climax.

  Marybell bit her lip to keep from crying out, to keep from begging Tag to keep doing what he was doing. Keep stroking, licking, torturing her. But she didn’t need to; he sensed the tightening of her muscles and kept pushing until her toes curled.

  When she came, it was, for lack of a better word, like enlightenment. Hot and sweet, a sharp sting, a full-bodied shudder of release.

  That was her moan, one she tried to stifle, but it was still hers, low and hoarse. She clung to Tag’s shoulders and rode it out.

  Tag’s arms tightened around her waist, his tongue buried deep inside her as she swayed until the moment passed and her vision cleared.

  But that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough that he’d made her come—she wanted more. She wanted him naked, she wanted to see what was inside those jeans. She wanted all of it—now.

  Giving his shoulders a tug, she pulled him upward, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt as he slid along her naked flesh, dying to run her hands over his chest, her palms itching to feel his skin.

  Tag cupped her face, skimming his tongue over her lips, reviving the heat between her legs. “Bad news.”

  “No, no, no. No bad news allowed,” she said, and she meant it. She wanted this, more than she was able to apply reason to. More than was like her.

  “No condoms.”

  “Oh. I thought it was actual bad news. No worries—I have some.”

  His hands cupped her naked breasts, tweaking her nipples. “Do this often, then?”

  She sighed into his neck, her spine arching her breasts toward his hands. “What if I did?”

  “I’d have to wonder with who. There are all of three available me
n in Plum Orchard. I think one of them is Sanjeev.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, letting her body stretch the length of his. “Dixie sponsored a health class on safe sex for Plum Orchard High. The condom company sent boxes and boxes. She shared.”

  Tag nudged her jaw upward, raining kisses under her chin, blending their bodies together until she felt the hard ridge of his cock, pressing against his jeans. “Boxes and boxes? So much pressure.”

  As he unhooked her bra, she teased back. “You’re letting me down here, Hawthorne. Don’t blow it. They’re in the nightstand.”

  “Well, then, let’s do ’dis,” he said in a comical New York accent, setting her away from him and unbuttoning his jeans while kicking off his shoes.

  Marybell knelt on the bed, yanking open the nightstand drawer and pulling the box out. She grabbed one and planned to throw it at him until she caught a glimpse of Tag naked.

  It left her struggling to breathe or even move. He was, of course, as close to perfection as she’d ever seen. His shoulders were wide, covered in muscles, his abs tight and defined, his hipbones sharp and even more defined.

  Narrow hips led to thighs that bulged, thick and sprinkled with dark hair. They were the thighs of a man who spent many hours going up and down a ladder.

  She didn’t look away when she glimpsed his hard cock. Thick and erect, it gave her giddy pleasure knowing she’d inspired that.

  But Tag’s forearms, as thick and as rigid with muscle as his everything else, caught her attention. They held myriad tattoos—a snake, winding its way up toward his elbow, his sister Harper’s name—and a Chinese symbol.

  When he knelt on the bed, she ran her finger over the black ink, the pads of her digits skimming through the dark hair. “What does that mean?”

  He slid one of those forearms under her waist and hauled her close. “Family,” he whispered. “I got it when I got sober.”

  Her heart shuddered. Family.

  She shivered when their flesh finally met, letting her hands roam over his broad back. Hiking her leg up over his hips, she handed him the condom. “You have a nice one.”