Devlin's Dare

by Sabrina York

  Annoyance slithered through him. “Why?”

  She wriggled from his embrace and found her bra. He hated watching her put it on. “Holt.”

  He shot up and frowned at her. Jealousy skewered his gut. “Holt?” She was thinking of another man? After that?

  She chuckled at his dismay, which was irritating as hell. “He’ll be wondering where I am.”

  Devlin couldn’t hold back his snarl. “Are you and he…”

  Her chuckle became a full bodied laugh. “No. Nothing like that.” She found her shirt and slipped it on. And her panties. Realizing he was falling behind, he rooted around in the blankets for his underwear. “Bella would kill me if I looked at him sideways. Besides, he’s always been like a brother to me.”

  Devlin gritted his teeth. He knew guys like Holt Lamm. Brother was not in their vocabulary. Not when it came to women like Ponytail. But he didn’t want to fight about it. Didn’t want to fight about anything. So, grudgingly he yanked on his shirt. She picked up his jeans and he gently pried them from her grip. “Not this time, sweetheart,” he murmured as he tugged them on.

  She smiled.

  He loved her smile. Unable to resist, he pulled her into his arms. “I don’t want this to be over,” he said.

  She stared at him. “This?”

  “This thing.”

  “This thing?”

  Was he speaking English?

  “Sweetheart…”

  “We should get back.” She untangled herself from his hold and headed for the door. He followed, but he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. So when she opened the door, he reached over her shoulder and held it shut.

  “When can I see you again?”

  “Devlin.” She turned and gazed up at him with a confabulating expression in her eyes. He’d always been able to read a woman. This, he could not read. Or maybe he didn’t want to read it. Maybe he didn’t like what it said.

  It kind of felt like: It’s over.

  Fuck. He hoped not.

  “Didn’t you enjoy this?” He sure as shit had. It was incomprehensible to imagine she had not. He glanced at the bed, remembering her growls, her moans, the wild response of her body when he’d buried himself deep inside her.

  She tipped her head to the side. “Enjoy it? Of course I did.” She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him.

  “Then when can I see you again?”

  A shadow flickered over her features, one that made his gut curdle. “Devlin—” God he hated that tone. “I’m not…in the market for a relationship.”

  He stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not proposing marriage.”

  “I know. But these things have a way of…evolving into something more.”

  Something more sounded great. Something more sounded fan-fucking-tabulous. He wanted her…but having her on her terms would work for him. “What if we make a pact?”

  Her brows knit. “What kind of pact?”

  “No relationship.”

  “Just…fuck buddies?”

  Discomfort drizzled through him. “If that’s that you want to call it. Sure.”

  “No emotions? No crazy jealousy? No stalking?”

  He forced a laugh. “What kinds of guys have you been dating?”

  She blew out a breath. “You know what I mean. I have a busy life. I don’t have time for…drama.”

  “Drama?” He glanced at the bed again. Had that been drama? Why did women have to be so damn inscrutable?

  “You know. Jealousy. Possessiveness. Demands on my time.”

  Her words rang through him with an eerie familiarity. He knew them well. He’d said them himself. Many times before. He’d been a player most of his adult life, dating girl after girl. Like a horny bee flittering from one flower to the next. He’d never liked drama in a relationship. Never liked when she got jealous or possessive or started checking his cell phone for messages. That was usually when he ended it.

  It had never bothered him before—ending it.

  But now he was faced with this. This woman, spouting the same idiotic philosophy.

  And it was…idiotic.

  She wanted a fuck buddy. Someone who would show up for a booty call, give her what she wanted and then quietly leave.

  Oddly enough, the prospect irritated the hell out of him.

  Because suddenly, incomprehensibly, he wanted more.

  And he wanted more with her.

  And while he would do just about anything to be with her, to his astonishment, he realized he didn’t think he could offer her that.

  For some reason the thought of nothing but casual sex with this woman—whose name he did not know—sent a piercing shaft through his heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  He’d said no.

  Tara stumbled over a root as she followed Bella and Holt up the path back home, her mind awhirl. She was thankful for the shadows. She didn’t think she could explain away the tears on her cheeks.

  He’d said no.

  Even though it had been his idea in the first place. Or had it? She thought back to their conversation but couldn’t remember it clearly. All she could see in her mind’s eye was his face as, all of a sudden his smile had faded, his brow had knit and he’d said, “No. I don’t think so.”

  And why the hell did it bother her so much? It was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? To fuck him and walk away?

  Surely there wasn’t a teeny tiny part of her that had expected him to bristle and say, “No. Damn it woman. I want you and you alone.” And then maybe pull her back into his arms and ravage the shit out of her.

  But he hadn’t.

  Quietly, gently, devastatingly, he’d said, “No. I don’t think so. I can’t be your fuck buddy.” And then he’d tenderly laced up her corset, kissed her on the forehead and left.

  She should be happy. She should be delighted. She should be delirious with glee. She’d gotten her itch scratched by the hottest man on the planet and walked away unscathed, unfettered. Absolutely free of him.

  Her mood sank deeper at the thought.

  Holt tossed a glance at her over his shoulder. “So what’s the deal with you and Devlin?” he asked.

  Tara glared at him, though he could hardly see it through the darkness. “Nothing.”

  Bella blew out a laugh, winding her arm around Holt’s. “It hardly looked like nothing when he was giving you that lap dance.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “And where did you and Devlin go off to?”

  “Off too?” Why didn’t they both just shut up?

  “Yeah.” Holt slowed and waited for her to catch up as the path widened enough for them to walk three abreast. She was hardly appreciative. “We finished the Dom Pong and you were gone.”

  Damn him. She used to think his protective streak was cute. Not anymore. “I’m a grown up, Holt.”

  “But I thought you didn’t like him,” Bella murmured. “You said he was a douche.” Her nose wrinkled. “Didn’t he give your bakery a bad review or something?”

  “There’s nothing between us.” The words came out sharper than she intended.

  Bella fell silent and then, after a moment, murmured. “It didn’t look like nothing. When he was giving you that lap dance.”

  “Will you please stop talking about the lap dance? It was only a game.”

  Bella didn’t respond. But Tara didn’t miss the frowns she and Holt exchanged.

  No one spoke again until they reached the deck of their place. Holt nodded to Bella to go on in, but he snagged Tara’s arm as she tried to pass.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “Nothing much, Tara,” he murmured. “Just, if that douche hurt you, I will rip him apart.”

  “He didn’t hurt me, Holt,” she said, wrenching free and slipping past him through the slider.

  In order for Devlin to hurt her, she had to have feelings for him. And she didn’t.

  Not at all.

  Not hardly at all.

  And the fact that she
couldn’t stop thinking about him had nothing to do with the fact he’d said no.

  Nothing at all.

  Really.

  On Monday it was back to the grind. Tara went to bed early on Sunday so she could face three am, but she found herself tossing and turning and—most annoyingly—thinking about Devlin. Replaying their trysts in her mind. Over and over.

  It aggravated her that she was mooning over him. She’d never mooned over a man in her life. She resolved to put him from her thoughts.

  But that turned out to be more difficult than she’d anticipated.

  As she stood next to Jose at the butcher’s block, rolling out pastry dough, she found herself reflecting on Devlin’s chin, and that rough burn of scruff that had felt so exquisite scraping over her nipples. And later, as she whipped up royal icing, she imagined what his cock would look like, slathered in the stuff. How delicious it would be to lap it off.

  Later still, when the shop was open, and she was serving her usual morning customers, she’d caught a glimpse of a sandy brown head of spiky hair from the corner of her eye and her heart had skipped a beat…and then plummeted when she realized it wasn’t him.

  Damn it all anyway.

  He was only a guy. Like every other guy she’d fucked. Why he had such a hold on her was a mystery.

  She was miserable for most of the week and it pissed her off. Rather than enjoying every moment at her bakery, she found herself wishing she could be on the island. With him. Entangled. She wanted to pack up her things and head over there right now, but she couldn’t.

  She had a business to run.

  Besides, there was no guarantee he would be there.

  And she wasn’t thinking about him.

  She wasn’t.

  When she had a free moment and logged onto his website to read his most recent review, it wasn’t because she wanted to know where he’d eaten, or how he was doing or whether or not he was thinking of her. It was stupid of her to be disappointed when there was nothing there but his usual fare, clever and acerbic comments about Le Bon Popuet, a pretentious French Restaurant that had opened in the SoDo District.

  She hadn’t expected him to revise his review of her bakery and give her more burps.

  Really.

  She hadn’t.

  So there was no reason for her to slam her laptop shut the way she did.

  “T?” Jose’s low voice wrenched her from her misery. She took a moment and forced a blasé smile.

  “Yes?”

  “You still need Louisa to cover next Wednesday?”

  Tara stared at her assistant, trying to make her brain work.

  “Your sister’s still coming, right?”

  Oh. Yeah. Tina was flying into SeaTac at nine in the morning—the bakery’s busiest time. “Yes, please, if she could.” Louisa, Jose’s wife, had been a godsend, picking up hours here and there when Tara needed to leave the shop. She’d been thinking about bringing her on full time so Tara could concentrate more on marketing, but then business had dropped off. It was just starting to pick up again. She liked to think that had little to do with the revamped menu…which included a wide range of gluten-free offerings.

  Jose tossed a towel over his shoulder and chuckled. “She loves to come in. Anytime.”

  “She’s great with the customers.” No one could up-sell a pastry like Louisa. And she wasn’t bad in the baking department either. “In fact…” She checked her calendar. “Can she cover Sunday as well? I made reservations to take Tina out to dinner on Saturday.” Dinner out usually meant a late night. Ten at the very least. Getting up at three would be a bear. Tara didn’t eat out often, but this was a special occasion. The first birthday she and her sister had been able to share in five years.

  “Sure thing.” Jose winked. “I’ll let her know.

  “Awesome.”

  The bell on the door jingled and Jose leaned back to glance into the shop. He grimaced. “It’s for you,” he muttered. The way he slunk back into the kitchen was indicative of who their customer was.

  Tara checked at the clock and winced. Five after three. She should have been paying attention. She should have been there at three on the dot to flip the sign and lock the door. She should have known.

  She blew out a breath, and girding her loins, went to face her nightmare.

  Chet stood in the shop, hands on his hips, pretending to survey the pastry case. Tara knew better. Sure enough, as soon as she entered the room, his head snapped up. He grinned.

  He was handsome when he grinned. Well, he was always handsome, but more so when he grinned. He was tall and muscular and had a lush head of thick curls. And eyes that crinkled at the corners.

  By rights, she should be swooning, but when she looked at him, she felt nothing. Oh, sure, he was great in bed. A real tiger. But that passion had burned out long ago—for her, at least. It was hard to say exactly when the relationship had ended. Probably the day she’d woken up to find him on her computer reading her emails. Or maybe the time he’d yelled at her for smiling at a male customer. She’d been too friendly, he’d said. Or the time he’d told her—told her—she couldn’t go with her girlfriends to the island on a girls-only vegan weekend because he wanted to be with her. And then he’d spent the whole weekend on her couch playing Call of Duty and eating her pastries.

  Or maybe it was the day he’d brought his toothbrush into her apartment.

  “Chet.”

  “Hey baby.” He came around the counter and pulled her into his arms. When he bent to kiss her, she turned her cheek.

  “I thought I told you not to come here anymore.”

  “No one’s here.”

  “Chet—”

  “Since you get off at three, I thought maybe we could go grab a late lunch.”

  Get off at three? The shop closed at three. There was still a lot of work to do. “I can’t.”

  His brow puckered. “Tara, baby. I told you I was sorry. When are you going to get over this snit thing?”

  “This snit thing?”

  “You know. You’re pouting.” He pulled her closer and nestled his crotch against hers. “I’ve missed you baby.”

  Was it wrong to notice how much less of a man he was than Devlin?

  Probably not.

  He was. Less of a man. In so many respects.

  The realization irritated her.

  She pushed back. “There is no snit. This thing is over.”

  “This thing?”

  Oh shit. She knew that look. The one right before he started yelling.

  “You need to leave.”

  Chet bristled. Inched closer. Tara glanced around for a weapon—should she need one. The day-olds were hard, but probably not hard enough to make a dent. What a pity she didn’t have a spatula.

  Jose saved the day, poking his head through the doorway, warbling in a sing-song voice, “You want I should call 9-1-1?”

  Tara stepped back, away from this looming threat and crossed her arms. “Well, Chet? Should he call?” She wasn’t afraid of Chet, but he did have a temper. And frankly, she didn’t want to deal with the drama.

  He glared from her to Jose and back again and then, muttering, “Fucking bitch,” slammed out of the shop.

  Tara followed him to the door and bellowed “And don’t come back.” Then, with what felt like a wave of finality and relief, locked it behind him.

  She turned to find Jose leaning against the doorway to the kitchen shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “Baby, you sure got bad taste in men.”

  Tara blew out a breath. What an understatement.

  Never once had she landed a nice, normal guy.

  It pissed her off that she thought of Devlin just then. He’d seemed like a nice guy. A normal guy.

  But honestly…what nice, normal guy gave a woman three burps and then tried to insist it was a good thing?

  It was a relief that he’d said no to her offer. It was awesome that the thing between them—whatever it had been—was over. She’d never see hi
m again. Not ever.

  And she was glad.

  Truly she was.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday was particularly busy. From the moment they opened there was a steady stream of customers, so Tara hardly had time to think about Devlin at all. But when she did, she realized why she was so obsessed with him, even now, a full week after their tryst.

  It wasn’t that he was the hottest guy she’d ever met, or the fact that his voice resonated with a spine-tingling rumble. It wasn’t the cut chin, or the sculpted abs. It wasn’t his smell or his taste or his presence.

  It was the fact that he’d said no.

  He’d refused her offer.

  No one had ever told her no when she’d offered sex before.

  No one.

  That’s what she couldn’t wrap her brain around.

  She realized how stupid it was to mope. Women got shot down on occasion, didn’t they? Her friends complained to her about it all the time. But it had never happened to her.

  She needed to get over it and move on.

  There were lots of fish in the sea.

  But…none of them were quite that cute.

  Bending down to refill the marzipan pig tray, she glanced up when the bell dinged over the door. As though she had conjured him with her mind, Devlin strode into her shop. She gaped at him through the glass, marveling at how gorgeous he looked in a Mariner’s jacket and jeans.

  It should be illegal for a man to look that hot in a baseball jacket.

  He didn’t see her at first, glancing around at the cases and running his fingers through his spiky hair. When he lifted his hand, his jacket opened, revealing a black t-shirt molded to his chest. She nearly swallowed her tongue.

  “Ahem.” She shifted the tray and stood, pinning an enormous—fake—smile on her face. “Hi there! Can I help you?”

  His attention snapped to her. His eyes widened. He grinned. “Hi there.”

  Oh, lord. Rumbly. Low. Seductive.

  She steeled her spine. “Can I help you?” she repeated.

  As he stepped closer his grin widened, but then he must have noticed her smile, and how fake it was, and his mood deflated a little. He studied the cases and stroked his chin.