Delicious

by Lori Foster, Lucy Monroe, Sarah Little

  For years, Stan Tucker had wavered in and out of trouble. As a much younger man, he’d narrowly missed spending time in jail. He’d been married and divorced, a celebrated playboy, and now . . . he planted flowers.

  Jenna sighed softly. She had no doubt Stan could retire comfortably, but his extreme energy level forced him to always do something, to be active, in the sun, sweating, working his muscles . . .

  Oh, she knew what he could do with her—if only he were interested. How he’d use that energy in bed teased at her senses every time he got near. To call Stan handsome would be very misleading. He was far too raw, too rough, to be termed anything so pretty. He could appear cruel—wow. Like he did now, glancing at her with those fierce eyes as if he knew her thoughts and didn’t like them one bit.

  Hands shaking, Jenna pretended to straighten the paperwork behind her counter. In truth, she couldn’t seem to keep him off her mind. Maybe the idea of turning forty next month had caused her hormones to go on a rampage. Or maybe three years of celibacy was three years too long. Whatever the cause, she wanted sex. Hot, gritty, sweaty sex.

  With Stan.

  She craved it, aching with the need at night in her lonely bed, unable to sleep. Whenever she daydreamed, which lately seemed to be all the time, it was Stan Tucker she saw. In his prime, he had thick but natural muscles and undeniable strength. His light brown eyes looked almost golden at times. Working in the harsh sunshine had streaked his brown hair that was usually unkempt and so sexy she wanted to touch it.

  She wanted to touch him.

  All over. Both of them buck naked . . .

  With a clatter, Stan suddenly shoved back his chair. Pulled out of her current fantasy, Jenna jumped.

  Stan stared at her, all that severe attention startling her while the reporter simply waited in stunned silence.

  Stalking toward her, Stan leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath and smell the rich musky sweat of his skin. God, he was so male . . .

  Voice rough edged, almost desperate, he whispered, “Jenna, honey, do you think you could find something to do in the back? Or better yet, go take your lunch break.”

  He wanted rid of her?

  Cursing low, Stan ran a big, darkly tanned hand over the back of his neck. His eyes lifted, his gaze boring into her. “I’m going to sound dumb as shit, but you’re making me nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re listening in.”

  “Oh.” She licked her lips, trying to understand—and got distracted by the way he stared at her mouth. “I . . . I always listen.”

  “This time it’s bothering me.” His gaze caught hers again. His voice lowered to a ferocious growl. His eyes narrowed. “I keep thinking of you instead of what I’m saying.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced over her from head to toe. “You look great in that dress.”

  The reporter cleared his throat. “Is everything okay?”

  He likes my dress? Flustered, Jenna pushed off her stool and tried an uncertain smile. “I understand. It’s all right. I was getting hungry anyway.” She glanced at her watch. “Half an hour okay?”

  Stan hesitated, appearing angry, then annoyed. Taking her totally off guard, he caught her around the neck and pulled her forward over the counter while he leaned in. Then, as if he had the right, as if he’d done it a million times, he put his mouth to hers, firm and warm, lingering, one heartbeat, two . . . and he lifted away. “Thanks.” No smile, no softness.

  Jenna touched her lips, tingling from her mouth to her breasts and down into her womb. “Oh, uh . . .”

  Face hard, expression harder, Stan went back to the reporter. “Now, where were we?”

  The reporter said, “You were telling me about . . .” In Jenna’s mind, the words trailed off. Who cared what they said? Stan had just kissed her. A brief, almost nonsexual kiss, except that she wanted to melt on the spot.

  Knowing she needed a breath of fresh air and a few minutes to figure out what had just happened, she grabbed her purse and made a hasty retreat, pausing only long enough to put her CLOSED sign in the door so Stan and the reporter wouldn’t be interrupted.

  At a fast clip, she went down the walkway to the Mom and Pop diner next door, on the corner of Jonathan Ave. and Winesap Lane. She darted inside. There were a few customers present, the normal lunch crowd, but no one paid her any attention. And thank God, because she just knew she breathed too fast and looked the fool.

  Hand pressed to her heart, Jenna glanced around and located an empty booth in the very back, away from windows and other patrons. Normally reserved for the few smokers who came into the diner, it stayed almost abandoned, and so that’s where Jenna headed. She needed the privacy, and the lack of prying eyes would help her get collected.

  Legs shaking, she hurried over to the plastic seat and slid in. Her mind in a riot of mayhem, she covered her mouth.

  Just what had happened? One minute, Stan was merely a friend, then in the next, he’d kissed her. Or had he meant it as a friendly gesture and she, being a widow with desperate clichéd lust, read more into it than she should have? Whatever it meant, wow, what a hot smooch. She’d always known it’d be that way, that with Stan, every sense would be magnified and a simple kiss could never be simple. No two ways about it, the man turned her on, always had.

  But being a mother took priority over everything else, making an affair taboo. No matter what she felt for Stan, all she could indulge were fantasies. Now, if Stan was the type who wanted to settle down and enjoy domestic bliss . . . but he wasn’t. She might be half in love already, but Stan Tucker didn’t feel the same way.

  She’d do well to remember that one small fact.

  Ten minutes later, the waitress noticed Jenna buried in the corner and, full of good spirit and sunshine, hustled over to take her order. Jenna finally shook off her daze. She didn’t want anyone else to read the carnal hunger on her face. For crying out loud, at her age, with her family responsibilities, she had to be very discreet about her shameful hankering for one very hot landscape and gardening expert.

  “Hey, Jenna.” Marylou Jasper, an eighteen-year-old working toward college funds, pulled out her white pad and a pen. Because the owner of the diner liked to experiment with new things, they didn’t offer a regular menu. On any given day, it was anyone’s guess what would be served.

  Trying to appear normal, rather than ravaged with lust, Jenna smiled and said, “What do we have today, Marylou?”

  “I just made a pot of coffee, the peach pie is still hot, croissants are fresh from the oven, and we have some really awesome chicken salad to go with them. There’s also chili, hamburgers, and lunchmeat sandwiches. So what can I getcha today?”

  Maybe food would help settle the churning in her stomach. Jenna smiled. “The chicken salad on a croissant, a pickle slice or two, please, and a diet cola.”

  Marylou rolled her eyes. “Why you always wanna drink that nasty diet stuff, I’ll never understand.”

  Of course she couldn’t understand. Being a typical eighteen-year-old with a slender body and not an ounce of fat, Marylou could eat anything she fancied. Her brown hair shone with natural highlights, and her blue eyes were always smiling. Jenna had no doubt the girl could have her pick of beaus. “That’s because you’re young and shapely, but I’m old and—”

  “Very shapely.”

  Ohmigod. At the sound of that rough male voice, Jenna stiffened. Eyes wide, heart hammering madly, she swiveled around to see Stan stepping past Marylou. Without an invitation, he joined her at the booth, placing his perfect body on the opposite bench, directly in front of her.

  Sexual tension, thick as soup, suddenly hung in the air. Marylou just stood there, her mouth gaping, her eyes going back and forth with a ping-pong effect.

  Unconcerned, Stan glanced up at her and said, “I’ll have whatever Jenna ordered—but make my cola nondiet.”

  “Oh.” Marylou shook herself. “Right.” Then with a big fat smile, “I
’ll get right on the order.” And whistling, she took herself off with telling haste, no doubt on her way to the kitchen to relay a whole lot more than a simple order.

  Confused, excited, giddy with expectation, Jenna soaked in the sight of Stan. She savored the wild beating of her heart, the dryness in her mouth, and the curl of excitement deep inside her. It had been so long since she’d felt such wonderful things.

  Stan smiled with shrewd calculation. “The interview finished early.”

  Jenna wondered if he’d rushed through it. She cleared her throat. “After that unexpected compliment . . .” She hesitated. What if he hadn’t meant it as such? What if instead, he’d been remarking on her weight? She could stand to lose a few pounds—

  “A compliment you deserve,” Stan interjected, his gaze intent on her face. “Your figure is spectacular.”

  “Oh.” A blush of happiness warmed her from the inside out. “Well, thank you. But you realize Marylou is going to start some ripe gossip.”

  Reaching across the booth, Stan took her trembling hand, holding her firm. “Gossip implies rumor or hearsay.” His rough fingers moved over her palm. “But if what she says is true, how can it be gossip?”

  Two

  Damn, he liked the way Jenna’s cheeks warmed and how her fast breathing shimmied her breasts. And that tiny pulse fluttering in her throat gave everything away, even if he didn’t have access to her every emotion and sensation.

  Stan brushed his fingertips over her palm again, felt the undulating wave of growing response that rolled through her, and he pushed up from his seat.

  At the same time, Jenna pressed her shoulders back in the booth, not out of disinterest, but from utter surprise. That didn’t deter Stan at all, not when he knew she wanted him, that her longing was so strong it scared her a little.

  Holding her hand so she couldn’t completely retreat, he leaned over her, hesitated with his mouth a breath away from hers, building the anticipation, then gave in to the urge.

  Jenna made a small sound as his mouth covered hers, and this time he made damn sure she wouldn’t mistake his claim as some forward form of friendship. As he deepened the kiss, her mouth softened, her lips parting, and Stan used just the tip of his tongue to taste her, just inside her lips, over her teeth, touching against her own tongue—and retreating.

  Jesus. Heart thumping hard, thighs tense, Stan pulled back. He’d meant to tease her, to make her understand what he wanted from her. But while Jenna did look more heated than ever, Stan felt ready to self-combust. Hell, at his age he’d done his fair share of necking. It shouldn’t have been any big deal.

  But not once could he remember enjoying the feel and taste of a woman’s mouth quite so much. He wasn’t a sweaty-palmed, hair-triggered kid anymore, not by a long shot, but damn if he didn’t want to drag Jenna out of the booth and rush her to the nearest form of privacy they could find.

  A simple kiss had him primed, and he knew it was the woman responsible, not the kiss itself.

  As he settled back in his seat, a little disconcerted by her effect on him, Jenna touched her lips. Voice faint, gaze searching, she whispered, “What was that?”

  Stan made a sound of disgust. Her confusion mirrored his but probably for different reasons. “I thought it was a kiss.”

  Her gaze dropped, and she looked around the tabletop, at her hands, at his. “Yes.” Her green eyes lifted. “A kiss, but . . .”

  Stan flattened his mouth. “I know. A punch in the gut, huh? Kissing is nice, but kissing you flattens me. It makes me think of a hell of a lot more than mouth on mouth, that’s for damn sure.”

  Her hand went to her stomach, and she nodded. “I don’t understand, Stan. What are we doing?”

  Marylou reappeared, her expression filled with titillated nosiness. “Got your sandwiches and stuff.” Wide-eyed, she looked between the two of them, plopping down the plates and glasses without the attention necessary to the task.

  Stan scooted his plate back a little so it didn’t end up in his lap. “Thanks.”

  Jenna wouldn’t look at Marylou, and that bothered him.

  Marylou lingered, and that bothered him even more.

  “That’s all we need for now, Marylou. But save me a piece of pie, okay?”

  “Oh.”

  At least the girl knew a dismissal when she heard one.

  Wearing a smile, she nodded. “Yeah, ’kay, sure. No problem, Stan.” With a lot of reluctance, she eased herself out of hearing range.

  Jenna moaned and put her face in her hands. “It’s starting already.”

  It had started the moment he stepped into her shop and knew she pictured him naked. Over her. With her naked, under him, anxious and ready to come.

  It was Stan’s turn to groan. “When do you get off today?”

  Her head shot up. “Why?”

  Rolling his eyes, Stan said, “Honey, something’s happening between us. You know that as much as I do. I want to see you. I damn sure intend to kiss you again.” He shifted his booted feet under the table until they caged her smaller feet in. “So tell me, when do you get off?”

  Her regret bombarded him before she answered. “At five, but I have to get home to Ryan because Rachelle has a date.”

  Her son Ryan was a rambunctious ten-year-old, and her daughter Rachelle was a beautiful eighteen-year-old young lady. Stan had met them both several times now. Jenna sometimes kept Ryan at the bookstore with her, and with the town so small, you eventually ran into everyone at one time or another. He’d seen them in the grocery, at the fountain in front of the town square, and at the diner.

  She had nice kids, polite and happy and healthy.

  A family get-together wasn’t quite what Stan had in mind, but he knew he’d go nuts wondering about things if he went home alone. “Why don’t you let me take you both out on the boat?”

  Turbulent puzzlement warred with buoyant desire. Stan’s heart wanted to melt. How long had it been since a guy asked her out? Had the fact of her kids been a deterrent? Hell, as a divorced bachelor with no close family, the idea of her children pleased him. He liked kids—always had.

  Jenna was a terrific mom, and that appealed to him as much as everything else. It emphasized her loving nature, her sense of responsibility, and the loyalty she had for those she loved. Important qualities. More important than her sexy good looks—which he appreciated, too.

  Filled with wariness, she licked her lips and said, “Ryan would love that, I’m sure.”

  Stan leaned one elbow on the table and cupped her face with his right hand. “I’m glad. But what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You enjoy boating?” His fingertips brushed over her cheek, down to her throat and across the very top of her chest. “You’re so fair. You don’t get out in the sun much, do you?”

  Her eyes sank closed. “Stan, you have to stop touching me.”

  “But I don’t want to stop.” And if she’d be truthful, she wanted more touches, not less.

  She drew an unsteady breath. “I don’t really want you to stop.”

  Stan stared in amazement.

  “But I can’t think when you touch me.”

  Her honesty astounded him. And left him shaken. He thought of his ex-wife, of the lies he’d learned during a blue moon—no, forget that. He’d gotten over her and her deceptions ages ago, and he wouldn’t mar his time with Jenna by thinking of that.

  “All right.” Stan dropped his hand, but said, “I like it that you tell me what you’re feeling.”

  Horrified, she gave a shaky laugh. “Oh, no, never that. Well, maybe some of what I’m thinking, but not all.”

  A predator’s delight curled through him. Too late, sweetheart, he could have told her, but she wasn’t ready to hear about his whacky relationship with the moon. He didn’t want to send her running from him with truths she couldn’t handle.

  “Why not?” he asked, just to tease her. “What is it you’re thinking, Jenna?”

  “I’m th
inking that this is happening awfully fast.”

  “We’ve known each other six months.”

  “I know. So . . . Why now?”

  Deliberately dragging things along, Stan took a bite of his croissant and contemplated her while chewing. Flustered, Jenna nibbled on her own sandwich while she waited.

  “Tomorrow night, there’ll be a full moon,” Stan finally told her, deciding it might be best to ease her into the idea of his lunar-inspired intuition.

  “And so you’re going to change into a lycanthrope?”

  “A werewolf?” He hated that stupid legend. Whenever he researched the moon, he invariably ran into the myths.

  She grinned. “I remember the whole wolf transformation really ramped up Jack Nicholson’s libido in the movie.” She toyed with her sandwich. “Are you telling me you’re the same? Should I expect you to sprout hair on your back and start howling at the moon?”

  Stan gave her a long look. “I might howl, strictly out of sexual frustration, you understand. But I won’t actually turn into an animal.” He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “Hell, I’m hairy enough as it is. Any more would be overkill.”

  Her gaze went to his chest, then his forearms. Her voice again grew quiet, a sure sign of her mood. “You’re just hairy enough. It’s sexy. Very manly.” Then she shook her head. “So tell me, what does a full moon have to do with you kissing me twice, when in six months, you’ve never given me a second look?”

  Disbelief left him speechless, but he could tell by her expression—as well as her thoughts—that she believed what she said.

  “Jenna, honey, there’s not a man alive who doesn’t give you second looks. And third and fourth looks, for that matter.”

  “Right,” she said in exaggerated tolerance. “I’m almost forty. I’ve had two kids. I’m hardly a sex symbol.”

  “Wrong. You’re incredibly sexy. Warm, friendly . . . and sweet enough to eat.”

  He tacked that last on just to prod her, and sure enough, she caught her breath—then got exactly the visual he wanted. Watching her, seeing what she saw, made him feel it almost as if he had her spread out on his bed, completely naked, twisting with pleasure while he showed her his favorite way to make a woman come.