She held it in front of her, looked down at it, then back at Cal.
“Come out here with me,” she told him. “I want to talk to you.”
“Uh-oh,” Luke muttered.
Zoe barely heard him. She was stalking into the living room, as much as a short woman in a snowflake-patterned bathrobe and slippers could be said to stalk. He’d better be following her. He’d better be.
She turned around when she got there to find he had been, because there he was. Levi’s, black T-shirt, cowboy boots and all. Hard muscle, hard man. And she wasn’t one bit intimidated.
“What school of charm did you go to,” she asked him, “that you think you can come over here, barge into my closet—well, Rochelle’s closet—and tell me what to wear? I thought we were all clear on this, that my body belongs to me. I’d think that would mean that what I put on it is my choice, too, but apparently not.”
He had his hands out in front of him. “Whoa. Hang on. Okay, I’m going to apologize. You ready?”
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms, still holding the dress, and scowled at him. “Waiting.”
“All right. I’m sorry. I just started thinking about it, and I . . . I wanted to see it, all right? I wanted to be sure you wore it.”
“Wore what?” She looked down at the dress, then back at Cal. Her eyes narrowed. “You are kidding me.”
“What?”
“Don’t give me that innocent face. You bought me a dress? And then you came over to make sure I wore it?” She held it up in front of herself, confirmed her suspicions. “You did. You totally did. This is way too short for Rochelle. It would be up to her butt. For that matter, it’s kind of short for me. You bought this?”
“Well, me and Luke,” he said. “Online. And it’s not too short. You’ve got real pretty legs. Can I help it if I wanted to see them?”
“You and Luke went online and picked out a dress for me?” The image was too funny, and despite her earlier annoyance, she was having a hard time not laughing.
“Luke said red, and I got to thinking about it, and it sounded so good, I wanted to see you in it,” he said, looking a little sheepish. “I was thinking about going dancing with you, and it just . . . one thing led to another, all right?”
She had to laugh then. She couldn’t help it. “You and Luke,” she managed, “sitting in front of the computer, clothes shopping. For me. The planet’s most clothing-challenged woman.”
“Well, yeah.” He was grinning now, then laughing himself. “I wanted you to like it. I wanted to buy the right thing. And he’s better at it than me. I’m a little clothing-challenged myself.”
“But I would have liked it anyway. Couldn’t you have trusted that Rochelle would have told me to wear it, and I’d have done it? She’s obviously in on this, because somebody told you guys my size, although I wouldn’t put it past Luke to be able to guess it. And then she hung that dress up in its color-coded spot so she could, what? Pull it out and say, ‘Hmm. How about this?’”
“Well . . .” he admitted.
“Uh-huh. And I would have said, ‘Fine,’ and worn it. I’m not the most confident person in my fashion choices. And then you could have just . . . acted all surprised at how beautiful I looked when you came to pick me up. At eight. A way better strategy. Just for your information.”
“Right,” he said, still grinning. “In future, I’ll be much sneakier with my clothing purchases for you. And are we good? Am I forgiven? Because, baby, I want to see you in that red dress. I hope I didn’t blow it so bad that you won’t wear it for me.”
She was still shaking her head. “Stay here,” she commanded. She headed for the kitchen again, then turned around as a thought struck her. “You may be thinking you get to pick out my underwear, too,” she informed him. “But you’re just going to have to be surprised on that one.”
She went back into the bedroom, where Luke was leaning against the door leading to the courtyard, watching Rochelle put on her makeup at the dressing table.
“Looks like I’m changing,” Zoe told him. “Go talk to your brother. Contemplate your sins.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Cal talked his way out of it, huh? I should never have doubted it.”
“You’ve both got way more charm than is good for you.” She put a hand on the doorknob, jerked her head at him. “Out.”
When he was gone, she shut the door again, looked at Rochelle. “You could have told me.”
Rochelle was looking a little guilty. “I thought it was kind of romantic, and sweet. I thought I’d let Cal tell you, and it could be a moment.”
“It was a moment, all right.” Zoe was shrugging off her robe, tossing it on the bed, and pulling the sleeveless dress over her head. She settled the mock-wrap waist around her, adjusted the V neckline, looked in the mirror, and sighed.
“It would be a whole lot easier to be mad at him,” she told Rochelle, “if it didn’t look good.”
“Try it with your boots,” Rochelle suggested.
Zoe pulled on her socks, then the cowboy boots, stood up, and posed again. The skirt fell just below midthigh, and the deep red brought out the brown tones of her skin and hair. She looked . . . well, no doubt about it. She looked sexy, even without makeup.
“Purple and red,” she said dubiously.
“Yep,” Rochelle said happily. “Dynamite.”
ONE FOR THE SINNERS
“I told you so,” Luke said. “Bad idea.”
They were sitting on the couch, and Cal was flipping through a magazine from Rochelle’s coffee table.
“Huh?” Cal asked absently, because he was somewhere else.
You may be thinking you get to pick out my underwear, too, she’d said. But you’re just going to have to be surprised on that one. He hoped that meant what he thought it meant. Man, he hoped so.
He lifted the magazine he’d been leafing through, turned it around so Luke could see it. “Nine Ways to Drive Him Wild Tonight,” he informed his brother.
Luke grinned back at him. “Yeah. What I said. Show up and get naked. Two ways. Or even better, show up and let me know she’d like me to get her naked. Now we’re down to one. Guess that wouldn’t make for much of an article, though.”
By the time the door opened and the girls came out, Cal had gotten himself informed about all nine ways, and was about ten ways turned on himself, because those had been some pretty specific instructions. He’d had no idea that women were getting all that . . . information.
And then he was about eleven ways turned on, because here came Zoe. Her round brown eyes, which could look so sweet and innocent, were smoky with shadow and liner again, snapping at him like she was daring him to think she didn’t look good enough. As if that were going to be a possibility. With a spot of color on each cheek that he didn’t think was makeup, and her full lips, parted a little now, painted a deep red. Rochelle’s doing, obviously, because they matched the dress.
And damn. That dress.
That red dress. The style making the most of her curvy shape, all that leg showing between its hem and the tops of her cute little boots. And that wonderful deep V between her full breasts, that shadow that he knew he’d be sneaking a look down while he danced with her. Oh, yeah.
“Luke,” he told his brother without taking his eyes off her.
“Yeah?”
“You’re a real good shopper.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” she asked. She was still trying to be sassy, and he still loved sass, so that was fine by him.
She pirouetted in her boots, swung back around to face him, her perfectly mussed fall of dark hair going right along with her. “Am I acceptable?” she asked. “Or do you have any further instructions?”
“You’re acceptable,” he said, smiling at her. “And, yeah, darlin’. I might have some further instructions.”
L
uke coughed a little. “Pushing,” he muttered.
Cal didn’t think it mattered. He thought it had worked, because her color was even higher, and she dropped her chin, looked sideways at him with a flirtatious challenge he’d never seen from her before. Because she was feeling sexy, and pretty, and a little bit wild.
Nothing like a red dress to set a woman free. Nothing at all.
And when he was dancing with her in that dress, he was sure of it.
It was a different band tonight, featuring a girl singer with a sexy, smoky voice, taking turns on lead with the guitarist. There was a fiddle, too, and it sounded great. Cal was twirling Zoe, watching her dress swirl around her thighs, then catching her again, feeling her come into his arms, his palm firm against the warm, damp skin of her back.
The band was rocking, and she was, too. Dancing like she loved it, laughing up at him. He was forgiven, because she looked beautiful, and she knew it.
They danced fast, and they danced slow, and she still had her thumb on his collarbone, but there was a lot less tension in that arm, and the longer it went on, the less there was.
Another fast one, whirling her, doing some fancy double twirls, a few tricky moves, and then the band paused, and the girl singer was stepping up to the microphone.
“We’re going to slow it right on down,” she drawled, punctuating it with a toss of her blonde hair over one bare shoulder. “This one’s for the sinners out there. And yeah,” she added with a wicked smile, “I know you’re out there.”
No instruments to start it out, just a slow snap of fingers, and she had a hand on the microphone stand, was leaning in, cradling it, making love to it. Singing about how strong and wild that sin felt, creeping up on her, pulling her down. About fighting the temptation, and losing the fight. About wanting, and longing, and falling. About the hot, sweet release of giving in.
The guitar wailed, the drums offered up every hard beat, the male singer had joined in, and Cal had Zoe in his arms, was swaying with her. And the thumb was gone. Her hand was on his shoulder, all the way over on the other side where it belonged, her rounded arm resting right there against his.
One last moment when she looked up into his eyes, and he looked down, and his heart pounded with a slow, steady beat that matched the irresistible pull of the drums.
“The thumb’s optional,” she told him softly. “And I’m opting right now. I’m opting to give it up.”
She stepped right up into him, and he had every bit of her pressed up against him at last, strong and soft and . . . wonderful. Her feet moving, her body swaying softly like she was meant to do this, like she was meant to fit with him. Her cheek turning, pressing into his shoulder.
It was dancing, and it was making love standing up, a slow, sweet, delicious rock. And it was so good.
She’d known she was his from the moment she’d seen him look at her in the dress he’d bought for her, just because he wanted to see her in it. And every single song they’d danced to since, every single step she’d taken in his arms, had walked her a little farther down that path.
He hadn’t even pretended to want to dance with anybody else, and she was so very far past pretending herself. And now, she was all the way there. She was pressed into him, feeling him telling her how much he wanted her. His hand on her back, guiding her so surely. His other hand around hers, warm and strong. And the rest of him. That, most of all. Warm, and hard, and ready to give her everything she wanted. Everything she needed.
The song went on and on. She had a feeling he’d had something to do with that, could have sworn she’d seen money change hands. But she didn’t care. She just held on to him, danced to the music, with the smooth texture of his T-shirt under her fingers, covering all that hard muscle. With the roughness of denim against her thighs, his belt buckle against her lower ribs—and everything else, too. Feeling him wanting her as much as she wanted him.
Every song had to end, though, and this one did, too. The singer gave her hair one final toss, the drums offered a last emphatic beat, the guitar let out a last languid lick, and the room erupted in applause and whistles.
Cal wasn’t clapping. He couldn’t, because he still had hold of her hand, had barely stepped back from her. He was taking her back to the table, grabbing her coat and his own, holding hers for her, helping her on with it.
“Going so soon?” Luke asked, sitting back with a beer in his hand. Rochelle must be dancing with somebody else, Zoe realized hazily, although she didn’t much care.
Cal didn’t even answer. He had hold of Zoe’s hand again, was leading her between crowded tables, the cluster of patrons by the bar, barely acknowledging the greetings he gathered along the way.
The cold hit, as always, when they got through the outer door, but for once, Zoe barely noticed it.
It seemed to sober Cal up, though. He stopped, looked down at her. “I’ve got this right, haven’t I?” he demanded. “If not, tell me now.”
“You’ve got it right,” she managed. “Please.”
He let out a breath. “Then let’s go.”
“Rochelle,” she began.
“Luke,” he answered, and that was that. He had his hand around hers still, was hustling around the corner toward the spot where his truck was parked on a side street. He was taking her home.
INSPIRATIONAL
They reached the truck, and Cal was there at her side, his keys in his hand. He looked down at her, his breath puffing out in a cloud of white that matched her own.
“Got to kiss you first,” he said. “Cold and all.” He reached for her, pulled her against him, and his mouth was on hers.
Not sweet this time. Hot, hard, and demanding. She uttered a little sound of surprise into his mouth, and his tongue was there, plunging, retreating, his hips rocking into her in the same urgent rhythm, and her hands were on his broad shoulders, grabbing him, pulling him down to her, trying to get him closer.
“Too small,” he said on a gasp, and he was reaching under her, picking her up, turning her so her back was against the door of the truck. Her legs wrapped around him like they needed to be there, and she was grabbing either side of his head, her fingers curling into the short, dark hair. She was kissing him right back, giving him everything she had, tasting beer and salt and man, drowning in him.
One of his hands stayed underneath her, holding her up, and the other one was on her bare thigh, the short dress and coat falling away. His hand was on her, broad and hard, stroking up, and up some more, and she was gasping into his mouth.
Male laughter from the sidewalk beyond brought her back to herself with a start. “Man, get a room,” she heard somebody call.
Cal must have heard it, too, because he pulled back, set her on her feet, and finally got her door open. “Yeah,” he said, sounding shaken. “Good idea. Up in that truck, sweetheart. Slide right on over there next to me, because I’m going to need to hold on to you.”
She should care that he was ordering her around again, but she didn’t. She got up there and slid, catching her breath as her bare legs hit frigid leather.
He was around, up in his own seat, turning the key. “What?” he asked as she shoved her hands under her thighs.
“C-c-cold,” she managed.
He turned the dial for the heat, and the fan blasted. More cold air, and she was shivering. “We’ll get you warm,” he said. “That’s a promise.”
“It’s my th-th-thighs,” she said. “F-f-freezing.”
“Them, especially.” His forearm was on the back of the seat behind her again, his head turning to back up into the street. He got the truck pointed toward Main, then stopped. “But where are we going?” he asked. He shook his head, laughed a little. “I just wanted to get you out of there, get you someplace where I could take off your clothes. Please don’t tell me we have to go all the way back to my place. I don’t think I’ll make it. We need a bed, not
my truck pulled over to the side of the road.”
“My apartment,” she said, pulling the keys out of her little purse.
“You feel safe enough there?”
“With you? Oh, yeah. But could you quit talking and drive? Please, Cal. Take me home.”
He breathed out a laugh. “Hell, yeah. I could do that.” He put his foot down, and they were turning onto Main.
She put her hand on his hard thigh, exactly the way she’d wanted to do on that high school stage, and she could swear he jumped a little, so she did it some more. She curled a little bit closer, got her right arm around his chest so she could stroke the side of his face, then leaned over and kissed his neck, thrilling at the rasp of whiskers under her lips.
“Zoe,” he ground out. He was stopped at the light. Almost on Maple. Five blocks from home.
“What?” She kept her hand stroking over his jaw, twined it around to the back of his head where the hair was cut short, and rubbed her fingers over his nape, while she licked her way to where the pulse beat steady and strong under his ear, and kissed him there.
The light had turned green, the driver of the car behind him blasted out his impatience at the delay, and Cal started up again with a jerk, took off up the Maple Street hill.
“One minute,” he told her. “Sixty seconds. And you aren’t going to believe how fast you lose that pretty little dress.”
“Promises, promises.” Her fingers were still playing, her hand moving a little farther up his thigh. “You sure you’ve got something good enough for me?”
“Oh, darlin’,” he said, pulling onto Jackson at last and turning into her driveway. “I’ve got so much for you. And I can’t wait to give it to you.”
He cut the lights and the engine, leaped out of the truck, and was around to her side before she’d had time to do more than slide over and get a hand on the door handle. Then he was lifting her down. He kept his arm around her, was taking her keys from her, hustling her along the sidewalk to the basement door, fitting the key into the lock, shoving the door open and hitting the light switch, all in about fifteen seconds.
Carry Me Home (Paradise, Idaho) Page 23