Wishes and Stitches

by Rachael Herron

  “Interesting,” Rig said, his voice gruffer than he’d meant it to be. He stood and checked the pizza even though he knew it still had some time to go. Leaning back against the counter, he was as far as he could physically get from her and still be in the kitchen.

  Naomi frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t . . . get you.”

  She grinned, that loose, easy smile, and he couldn’t help smiling back at her. “I get you, though.”

  “You do? Tell me.”

  Holding the bottle against her cheek as if she was hot, she said, “You like women. You have one in every port. Or on every rig, as it were.”

  He frowned. It wasn’t true. “Where would you pick that up from? Have I given you that impression?”

  “No,” she said, sliding that heated gaze over him again. “But it would be all right if you did.”

  “It would be okay if I was a user like that? That’s not cool.”

  She looked surprised, as if she’d lit a candle and hadn’t expected him to blow it out.

  “I’m not, by the way,” he continued. “A user.”

  “That’s . . . fine,” Naomi said, her voice breathy. She fiddled with the old napkin dispenser that had come with the furnishings. She popped a napkin out, folded it, then unfolded and refolded it again.

  So she was nervous, too.

  Good. It wasn’t just him.

  She uncrossed her legs and stood, going to the window that looked into the side yard. Shirley’s flowers bloomed in planters, spilled from boxes. “It’s gorgeous out there,” she said. “Do you spend time in the garden?”

  He nodded. “It’s a good place for a book. And I hung a hammock out there that’s good for pretending to read while you’re really on the way to napping.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him in what seemed like surprise.

  “Yes,” Rig said. “I read.”

  “Sorry.” She gave an apologetic smile. “I just see you as the kind of guy who, if he’s not working, he’s out working on his motorcycle—”

  “We’ve already established how bad I am at that.”

  “Do you have it back yet?”

  “I got it taken to the garage. They haven’t gotten back to me on repairs yet. They’re a little slow.”

  “Oh.” She touched the glass with the tip of her finger, as if testing it. “But yeah, I see you being outside.”

  “Not reading.”

  “What do you read?” she asked. It sounded curious, not challenging.

  “Everything. Mostly I like to pick up old—”

  “Wait,” Naomi said, turning to face him. It felt like she’d made a decision, but he didn’t know what it was regarding. “Let me guess.”

  Rig cocked an eyebrow. “You won’t get it right.”

  “Old Louis L’Amour westerns. And John D. MacDonald. The ones you can get by the bag at used bookstores.”

  He gaped. She’d gotten it exactly right. “Did you—I must have some lying out?”

  “Nope.”

  “At the office? Did I take any there?” He thought for a second. “No, I didn’t. The one I’m reading is in the bedroom, and that’s where I put my boxes of books. How did you do that?”

  “Even if you’re not outside working on your bike, you’re still a man’s man. Tough.”

  “Would a man’s man be pleased that you said that? Would he preen like this?” Rig lengthened his neck and bugged out his eyes.

  She laughed. “You’re not going to read science fiction—too close to the science at work, too cerebral for relaxation. You’re not going to read romance, obviously. And most current crime novels are probably too long to carry comfortably in a pocket, which is where I’m guessing you sometimes carry your books. The smaller, older paperbacks are perfect for that. I personally love the westerns, and I like the older romances, myself, the regency ones. They tuck into just about anything, even a small purse or the pocket of my white coat.”

  “You’re good,” he said. “And you’re exactly right.”

  She dropped into the chair again and propped her elbows on the table. “I’ve read every single Louis L’Amour, everything he ever wrote. What’s your favorite?”

  “I’ll do better—I’ll bring out the box.”

  Ten minutes later, when the oven beeped, Rig barely heard it. Old western novels littered the table and they pawed through them, exclaiming and holding them up. If this was a way to have a date, Rig fully approved. Why hadn’t he ever done it this way before?

  Because no woman had ever understood his penchant for thrifting old books, or his need to stop at every yard sale in case a rare John D. MacDonald was lurking in the bottom of a box of DVDs. Sure, he read some new stuff, plenty of it when he was in the mood, but nothing beat drinking a beer in the hammock, reading a yellow-paged western until the book dropped out of his hand and his eyes slid shut against the sunset.

  He pulled out the pizza, sliced it quickly, slid a few pieces onto plates and put one in front of her.

  “It’s not fancy,” he said, “but it’s good.”

  “The best,” Naomi said.

  It was good pizza, his favorite in town so far, and Naomi seemed to agree with him. She put away slices as fast as he did, three in under fifteen minutes. Most women said they liked pizza and then claimed to be full after one slice. He’d never understood that. He and Naomi barely spoke around the pepperoni, but damn, it felt good just being near her.

  After they’d killed the medium pizza, Rig handed her a second beer and took one for himself. They moved into the living room as if there was a plan.

  There wasn’t. He wished he had one.

  “Now what?” he said. “We’re supposed to be talking about the dance, right?”

  She nodded, slowly. “Yep.”

  He thought about kissing her. He wouldn’t, though, even if she looked so good he could barely take his eyes off her. That red shirt was so silky, moving with her like water clinging to her skin.

  “Right.” He coughed. “Like I said, I know you can rent things like soda fountains—and if you tell me a couple of your favorite restaurants, we can get it catered.”

  “I like that.” Naomi sank into the small couch, putting one arm over the back, crossing her legs so that those heels, and the long, curved line of her leg, were all he saw.

  Standing, feeling awkward, Rig said, “What else do we need?”

  “It’s just drinks and food, right?” She waited a beat, her green eyes locked on his, long enough for Rig’s pulse to speed up. Then she went on. “Easy. You and I can handle the drinks section—we can make a big sign that says—Oh! ‘The doctor is IN.’ You know, like the booth in Charlie Brown?”

  Rig laughed. “That’s good.”

  He sat next to her. It was really the only place in the small living room to sit. He had to get real furniture at some point; there just hadn’t been a reason to do so until now. He was careful not to brush her knee, but he felt the warmth of her body near his, smelled the sweet light perfume, and got that strange zooming rush in his blood again. If it weren’t completely inappropriate, if she hadn’t made that clear last month, when she’d shaken his hand while saying good-bye, Rig would kiss her. Right now. Hard.

  “ . . . a list?”

  “Excuse me?” He’d lost track of the conversation at some point.

  “Should we make a list?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He’d misread her in the office. Misread her badly. Pizza and beer was very friendly. It was what pals did. Coworkers.

  Did pals lean their knees against each other like they were doing, though? He’d thought it was an accident, that she’d pull her leg away any second, but it stayed there, resting on his. Just that lightest touch was enough to render him speechless. He hoped he didn’t have to say much more than that “oh,” because it was possible he’d forgotten how to speak English.

  She went to his head like no alcohol ever had. He practically had the spins.

  Leaning forwar
d, she reached across him to the coffee table, where he had a pad of paper advertising some drug company or other and a pen. He held his breath. Lord, she was practically in his lap. If he were sixteen and in a movie theater, this would be his version of yawning so that his arm would come down around her shoulders. The only difference was that that she’d come up with it first.

  And at the last moment, before she settled back into her spot, Naomi turned her head and brushed his lips with hers.

  “Thanks,” she said. And then she did it again.

  Her lips pressed chastely against his, drew away. He opened his eyes and, while the touch of her mouth was light, he was damned if she wasn’t looking at him with something akin to pure lust. Just about what he was feeling, actually. Those green eyes of hers, just the color of the Gulf at sunset, when the blue had worn off and the dark night was rolling in.

  He should put the brakes on before the car even got rolling. “Should we—maybe we should start with things like cups? Napkins?”

  “Nah,” she said as she wound an arm around his neck. Now she really was in his lap.

  “Plastic forks?”

  “Plastic’s fine.”

  “So . . .” Should he pull away? Why wasn’t she moving away from him, scooting off him? Instead, she stayed exactly where she was.

  Her fingers reached up to play with his hair, sending shivers down his spine. Could she feel how hard he was under her? She had to be able to. He should move, should do something . . .

  Rig forgot what he was supposed to do as she kissed him again. This time it wasn’t chaste, it wasn’t closed mouthed, and it wasn’t casually friendly. This was for her, he could feel it. This was what she wanted, as much as he did.

  Sweet hell. He’d give it to her, then. He kissed her with all the heat that he’d stored inside, ever since she’d let down her hair in the reception area, ever since she’d walked in here with those red fuck-me heels.

  When her mouth parted under his, his tongue stroked hers as he plundered her mouth with his. He sucked the delicious plumpness of her lower lip and heard her gasp, a tiny inhalation he gloried in. The temperature of her skin soared right along with his, and he didn’t know how he was going to get enough of her.

  Rig didn’t think it was possible.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  All lace looks different by candlelight.

  —E.C.

  Naomi started out totally in control. But what was supposed to be a sexy romp turned heavy in seconds. She couldn’t breathe when he was kissing her, and she didn’t want to breathe when he wasn’t.

  Bad sign. It was a very bad sign.

  She could feel him under her, hard as a rock, ready. And she could feel herself, slick and heated. She wanted one thing, but this wasn’t the way she wanted it. Naomi had planned on guiding him, leading him, turn by turn, as they both shook this insane wanting out of their bodies for once and for all.

  But it seemed like he’d arrived at this ready, and it was seriously throwing off her concentration.

  Damn. The arm that he’d been using to hold her on his lap trailed down her spine until he was touching the small of her back. While he did that thing with her bottom lip again lightly, that lick-suck thing that made her insides melt, he lifted the hem of her silk shirt, moving his fingers across the sensitive skin he found. The heat of him was so intense that she felt a fine trail of sweat break out wherever his fingers touched.

  Naomi tugged her lip back and tried to regain her focus—she sucked his tongue, so soft, so wet, as she moved against him. She ground into his hips. For the love of God, if she just shifted six inches, if her damned panties were off and gone, she’d slide his zipper down, and he’d be in her, and she’d . . . God . . . Who was she? Was this what she’d . . . Her brain stilled and focused on the most important thing—the way his fingers slid up her spine again, and then—

  If he’d just bring that hand at her back up and around, like that, until it was under her shirt, pushing her bra aside, touching her nipple just like that, yes.

  Naomi wasn’t sure which one of them gasped as she pulled her head back to look at him again. His dark eyes were even darker now, stormy, his lids half dropped, a satisfied look on his face as he tugged gently on her nipple. The touch sent an electric jolt to her groin and she arched her back, pushing into him again. His eyes grew even blacker, and he sank the fingers of his other hand into her hair, pulling her mouth back up to his.

  “Tell me to stop,” he growled against her mouth.

  “No.” Naomi ran her hand down his side and tugged his shirt up. “You can’t.” His skin underneath was so soft, a fine layer of hair covering a hardness underneath, the muscles matching the ones in his forearms.

  “Do you know what you’re saying?” His voice was low.

  “Take me to bed.”

  He pulled away one more time. Naomi didn’t think he’d pause like this for much longer. Thank God. “And you’re sure? I want to know that you’re with me in this.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Boy, did he not know how with him she was. She’d come over for this. Why, then, did she feel like she wasn’t keeping as tight a rein on things as she’d thought she would? Why was her breathing this ramped up, catching in her throat, when he wasn’t even in her yet? From just his kiss and a light touch?

  She slid off his lap, careful not to hurt him—good lord, he was big—and stood. She wobbled on her left heel and tried to make it into a sexy sidestep. Curling her first finger in a come-hither gesture, she winked.

  “Wanna show me your bedroom?” Crap. It came out sounding silly. Rig’s laughter showed he obviously thought so, too. But he stood and pulled her close, flush against him. He dipped his head to her ear, touched the lobe with a flick of his tongue and whispered, “Okay. I’m going into my bedroom. You going to come, too?” The double entendre made her knees wobble again. Damn heels. She was never wearing these again.

  Rig led her forward through the door on the right, the one room she hadn’t yet seen. He reached left and turned on a desk lamp that gave off only a soft glow. Through the dimness she saw a large bed, the simple brown quilt kicked aside. A low bookcase ran along the wall under the windows, and two boxes sat near the bed. She could see from where she stood that they were filled with more of the old paperbacks.

  Two black-and-white prints hung above the bed, one of an oil derrick shot in bad weather—the rain clouds hung low, the deck of the rig was ominous, almost frightening. The other had been taken from the same vantage point, but on a sunny day. Naomi couldn’t believe how cheery—pretty, really—an oil derrick could look.

  “Those are great,” she couldn’t help saying. It wasn’t part of her seduction technique, but he grinned when she said it.

  “Thanks. They’re both taken from a helicopter on the approach in.”

  “Wow.” In the second, bright one, she could see a gull in the upper-right-hand corner, swooping away, on his way out of the picture. Naomi pointed at it. “Is that you?”

  Rig turned her in place, his hands on her shoulders. “No one’s ever seen that in there before. But yeah.”

  For a second, as he looked at her, Naomi felt giddy. As if he was her first crush. As if she’d gotten an A for getting the answer right to a test question she hadn’t studied for.

  “Please,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking, trying not to let him see how tangled her emotions were. She knew she was here to accomplish a goal. And even though she couldn’t remember the point of it anymore, Naomi knew it was the most important goal she could remember having in a very long time. She stepped closer into the circle of his arms and said, “I need you.”

  “Whoa,” laughed Rig, pulling her closer. “You’re not shy.” He dropped his head, his mouth nuzzling the soft place in the crook of her neck, just above her shoulder. She shivered.

  No, in this, she couldn’t be shy. This she knew. Stepping back, she pulled her shirt up over her head, slowly, so that he could discover that the red lace demibra mat
ched her heels. He murmured something, and his hands came forward to touch the soft skin between her breasts, but she shook her head.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Ah, I get it. You’re running the show.”

  “Yes, please.” And she’d give him a show, all right, if her heart didn’t stop first. She unzipped her skirt, sliding it slowly down her legs, then stepped out of it.

  She stood there, in front of Rig, in her red bra, matching panties, and red high heels.

  This was where she’d predicted she’d feel in control. Powerful.

  Where the hell was that feeling? Why did she have the shivers, deep in her stomach, a quivery feeling that in about a second he’d be able to see? Why this incredible nervousness? She wanted to run to the bed and pull the covers over herself. Damn it.

  Rig stood in place, watching. He liked what he saw, she could tell. That intense heat poured off him in waves, warming her, lessening the inner shivers.

  She would act like she was brave, then. Act like everything was normal. This was just sex, right? They both understood the human body as a mechanism and the clinical state of arousal: part A fit into slot B, add friction, achieve pleasurable state of relaxation. As she moved to sit on the bed, she told herself he could be anyone.

  But he was Rig. That was the difference.

  She draped herself over the bed in the most seductive pose she could imagine, her knees crooked, left ankle draped over right ankle to show her shoes to best advantage. She sucked in her belly, inclined her head, and patted the spot next to her.

  “Want to join me?”

  Rig shook his head as if to clear it. “I’m still getting used to what I’m seeing.”

  “Don’t you like what you see?” Big, brave words. Now she was getting the hang of it.

  “I do,” he started. He paused. “But I’m not buying it.”

  She straightened a little, heart racing. “What are you talking about?”

  He put one knee on the bed, just below her foot, and half knelt. “This isn’t you. The only time you’ve really been you since you got here was when we were talking books, and when you saw my photography.” He gestured to the prints above her. “This sexy-siren thing? It’s working for you, and goddamn, you look amazing, but I’m just going to keep waiting until the real you shows up again.”