Mr. Write (Sweetwater)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  “It’s very pretty tissue paper,” she informed him coolly, even as laughter wanted to tickle her throat. But when she fished into the bag, drew out a large, square book with a gorgeously illustrated cover, the tickle became something else. “Grimm’s Fairy Tales.” She slid her fingers under the front cover, turned the first page to examine the date of publication. “Nineteen-oh-four. This is beautiful. Where did you get this?”

  “Mason dragged me into this antique store yesterday. He has a thing. But they had boxes of books from some old estate. I’m not sure the proprietor even knew what all she had in there. My mom…” he trailed off, cleared his throat before he continued. “My mom would have been turning cartwheels. She worked at a vintage bookstore back in New York.”

  And suddenly his reaction the first time she’d seen him made perfect sense. “I see.”

  “I owe you an apology.”

  Understanding how difficult this must have been for him, Sarah was careful to keep her tone light. “For denigrating my preference for happy endings?”

  “Everyone’s entitled to their preferences, and their opinions.”

  “You know,” she tapped a colorful illustration of Rapunzel in her tower. “This version of the story has the prince being blinded by thorns.”

  “Really.” He flicked a glance at the row of bushes behind her.

  “Viburnum. They don’t have thorns,” she informed him. “And in any case, you’re hardly a prince.”

  His gaze shot back to hers. “No, I’m not.”

  “Tucker.” She closed the book on a sigh. “As much as I enjoy kicking you, metaphorically speaking, I’m not inclined to do it while you’re down. So this was a lovely, but unnecessary, gesture.”

  “I shouldn’t have…” He stabbed a hand into his hair, cursed. “Look, I’m not above using my size to intimidate assholes. Hell, I enjoy it. But I’ve never used it against a woman. And I’ve never used sex as a power play in my life.”

  “Believe me, if I thought otherwise, you’d be eating this book right now.”

  “I’m sorry.” He sounded very nearly miserable. “After… what you went through, I should have been more cognizant.”

  She held up a hand, not caring to go down that road. Particularly right now, with the remnants of her flower bed strewn around her.

  And because she didn’t want to be seen as some kind of helpless damsel in distress, climbed purposefully to her feet. “Speaking as someone who has been on the receiving end of that kind of power play, I can tell you that what you did…” She made herself meet his gaze. “It wasn’t even close. I didn’t feel threatened when you kissed me, Tucker. Surprised, yes. In any kind of physical danger, no. Mostly I felt sympathetic.”

  The remorse that had been plain on his face changed into something she associated with male ego. “You felt sorry for me.”

  Oh, that strangled growl was a definite sign of irritation. “In a nutshell.”

  When his eyes locked on hers with the unerring aim of a Sidewinder missile, she felt a shiver of anticipation climb up her spine.

  “Maybe I need to kiss you again.”

  Sarah acknowledged the various reasons that was probably a bad idea. And discarded them.

  “Maybe you do.” She scooped up the shears, her gift and its trappings. “Come on, then. I’ll open a bottle of wine.”

  SARAH tipped more of that wine into Tucker’s glass, shaking her head at the cat stretched belly-up across his lap.

  “You may end up regretting rescuing him from your tree.” She leaned over to sit the bottle on the table. “I think he’s got a healthy case of transference going on.”

  “Once again, you’re underestimating my raw charisma.”

  “Is that what it’s called,” she said dryly.

  “Worked on you.”

  “You think so?”

  He pushed off with his foot, sent the daybed on which they sat swaying. “You force me to point out that you invited me into your bed.”

  “It’s a bed, smart guy, although it’s primary function is comfortable seating. In case you hadn’t noticed, this place isn’t exactly long on space.”

  He sipped his wine, smoky eyes playing a hot riff over her skin. “It’s hard to complain just at the moment.”

  Because she agreed, Sarah kicked off her sandals, settled more comfortably into the cushions. “You have a scar.” She touched the side of her own chin. “I never noticed it before. I guess because you’re rarely clean-shaven”

  “Most likely.”

  She waited for him to elaborate. “This must be the ‘raw’ part of your charisma.”

  That earned her a slanted look. “I got it in a fight. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Yes. And in such rich, vibrant detail. I almost feel as if I were there.”

  He scratched her cat’s belly. “I was working late, saw a woman pass by the site. Pretty woman, pretty clothes. Hobbling along in those thin, spiky heels that look like ice picks. Another man saw her hobbling along and decided to take advantage. By the time I arrived on the scene he had her down on the ground, so I waded in. We fought. I had the size advantage but he was coked to his eyeballs. One of her shoes had come off in the attack, and he grabbed it, caught me in the chin.”

  When he glanced up, saw her expression, he huffed out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah. That story just sets the perfect tone, doesn’t it.”

  “What happened?”

  “The woman managed to call for help. The police came, hauled the other guy off to the ER and me off to jail.”

  “Wait a minute.” Outraged, she sat down her wine. “Why did you go to jail?”

  “He had a concussion and a broken jaw, and the woman was so hysterical she had a tough time getting her story straight. But then she did, I went home, and the asshole got slapped for assault. Everybody’s happy.”

  “That was gallant of you.”

  “Breaking someone’s jaw is gallant?”

  “In this case?” She picked up her wine, nodded. “Hell yes.”

  The chain creaked, and Useless’s purr buzzed the air like a motor. “I didn’t want to bring up bad memories for you,” he said after a beat.

  “I got that.” And the consideration eased whatever discomfort had wanted to coil in her belly. “You didn’t.”

  “Good.”

  When he met her eyes over the rim of her glass, heat coiled low, surprising in its intensity. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d felt this sort of need, that leap in her pulse that presaged a kind of breathless desire.

  Sarah liked to think that she was sensible about sex.

  She enjoyed it, certainly, and she was pragmatic enough – despite her fondness for fairy tales – to realize that it didn’t necessarily go hand-in-hand with happily-ever-after. She’d had relationships, of course. Nice, comfortable relationships, with nice, comfortable men.

  She’d imagined that when she was more settled into the business, had more free time, that she’d ease into another of those relationships as casually as one slides into a favored pair of slippers.

  But she’d taken some risky steps these past few months. Taken chances with her career, her life that had left her nerves jangling. And she felt better, stronger, for taking them.

  Wasn’t taking charge of her sexuality again just another kind of step?

  If she allowed things to progress along their natural course, she had no doubt they’d follow up the wine, the surprisingly easy conversation, with pleasure of a different sort.

  Tucker wasn’t what she’d call nice – though he seemed to have a code of personal integrity that he strove to live by. What she thought of as Yankee take-no-shit washed faintly with southern gentleman.

  And he certainly wasn’t comfortable.

  But she liked him, more than she would have guessed. Aside from the physical attraction, which was potent, she admired his work – even if he had killed off his heroine. She admired him.

  He was witty, intelligent, straightfor
ward. And he’d basically given Carlton the finger. It was hard not to be impressed by that.

  He’d brought her a vintage book in a pretty bag.

  There was no reason she couldn’t share the wine, and her bed, without tying it up in heartstrings.

  The overhead fan churned the heavy air, as awareness grew in the silence. Tucker picked up Useless, shooing him to the floor. And then sat his glass on the table. “I want you.”

  “Well.” Sarah clutched her own glass, slightly taken aback at hearing her more convoluted sentiments so succinctly expressed. “That’s blunt.”

  “That’s honest. And it’s not telling you anything you didn’t already know. You want me.” His eyes were steady on hers. “Or else you would have told me to take that book and go to hell.”

  He was right. She’d invited him in, eyes wide open. “I don’t like games, so I’m going to tell you that you’re right. And that I’ll take honesty over charm, any time.”

  “Right now, then.” He leaned forward, his hand brushing hers as he took her wine. “Take me.”

  He’d kissed her before, but not like this.

  No one had kissed her like this.

  The heat of it seeped into her as Sarah tasted him. Spicy wine and sweet breath and a kind of possessiveness that seemed inherently male. Her eyes slid closed as he leaned into her to sit the wine on the table.

  His lips were soft, his chin scratchy, the sweep of his tongue absolutely sure.

  He didn’t hesitate, didn’t tentatively lick at her lips to part them. He simply came in and established dominance.

  It should have annoyed her, but it was tough to be annoyed when your brain was shorting out.

  He nibbled on her lip, sucking on her tongue, while his big hands cradled her head and threaded into her hair, igniting little fires.

  He plucked out the pins, tossed them carelessly to the floor.

  “Your hair drives me crazy.” He ran his fingers through the mass of it, toying with a lock that tumbled down to curl just above her breast.

  “Me, too.” She drew an unsteady breath. “Although I think you might mean that differently.”

  “I never know how you’re going to be wearing it. Up, down. A riot of curls, or board straight. I knew, when I started noticing it, that I was going to have to have you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Got you in my system, Red. Now I’m going to get into yours.”

  The daybed swayed gently as he shifted his weight, taking her down into the pillows. Several of them hit the floor and a protesting Useless.

  “Go away, cat.”

  His hand slid around her hip, up her stomach, lifting the edge of her Snoopy tank. He traced the edge of her bra, rasped his thumb over her nipple.

  He pushed the lacy cup aside, then simply sat back and looked his fill. “You know the great thing about breasts?”

  “That women have them?”

  “That goes without saying. But then,” he flicked his fingers to undo her bra’s front clasp “there are all the really pretty things you put them into. It’s like opening a gift.”

  He lowered his head, and amusement fled as he sent her senses reeling.

  Oh, his mouth was skilled. And his hands – big, and just a little rough.

  When he pulled back, blowing across the sensitized tip, Sarah’s toe’s curled into the mattress.

  “God,” she breathed, the need coiling tighter. Her hands clutched at his hair, slid desperately toward his shirt.

  She needed to touch him. Somewhere. Anywhere.

  “Off,” she said, unable to manage anything more articulate. Tucker sat back and dragged at his shirt.

  Delight pumped through her in greedy spurts. He pulled her up and against him.

  Then she was straddling his lap, her breasts smashed to his chest, the hair there rasping against her so deliciously that she shivered. “Cold?” he asked and she said “Not a chance” and ran her hands along his shoulders as she kissed him.

  His jeans brushed her thighs, the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her. The chains on the bed creaked as she pressed back. His fingers slid up her leg, dipping beneath her shorts and finally into her, so hot and sure that Sarah’s breath strangled on a gasp.

  Her mind – what she could find of it – simply went blank.

  “That’s it.” His voice was rough, his hands… God, he hadn’t been kidding when he’d said they were dexterous. His mouth was wet on her breast as he worked her with his thumb. Harder inside her and faster outside her until the need coiled tighter and she was lightheaded from the pleasure.

  “Tucker. Oh, God. I’m going to –”

  “I know. Just let go.”

  She did, then drifted down, like a feather dropped from a shimmery cloud. When she pressed her forehead to his, she realized that she wasn’t the only one who was shaking. “Please tell me you have a condom.”

  “I brought three.” When she pulled back, blinked at him, he shrugged. “I figured you’d either send me packing, or invite me in. No point being unprepared.”

  Tucker sat her aside. And lowered his zipper.

  Sarah would have liked to be the kind of woman who was above checking out the equipment. But decided to accept her failing with grace.

  “At least Mother Nature was kind enough to compensate you for your sparkling personality.”

  He faltered, but only for a second. “It’s a burden.” And with humor burning bright in his eyes, ripped the condom open with his teeth. “But I try to live with it.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “I hope your brother got those eyebolts into the joists.”

  “If it falls, it’ll still be a bed, just on the floor.”

  “Good point.”

  Then he was between her legs, parting their not inconsiderable length with his hips. He slid into her with the same swift confidence as he’d taken her mouth. Sarah clutched his shoulders and cried out because he’d filled her so completely.

  “God, that’s good,” Tucker breathed as he held himself deep inside her. Then she pulled her legs up, thighs squeezing his hips. He wrapped one hand beneath her knee, leaned down to kiss her. “Hang on,” he said, and reached over her head. Then he shoved a pillow beneath her butt.

  “Generally, there’s not a question of my ass having enough padding.”

  She tried not to lose the desire to have sex with him in the desire to hit him. Because he chuckled.

  “No.” He saw her expression and toned the laughing thing right down. “Just… trust me on this. Okay?”

  “You betcha.” And he chuckled again anyway as he pulled out and slid back home. She started to say something smart, but then he shifted his hips, moving a little higher. “Oh my God.”

  “So I found it? Good.”

  Sarah felt like she should be contributing more – she liked to be an equal partner during sex – but she was too stunned to do much more than whimper.

  Then there was no more talking, just Tucker pulling out and thrusting back, harder, faster, hitting home again and again, the bed rocking on its chains, his skin sliding slick beneath her clutching hands.

  His breath was hot against her cheek, her cries growing louder as she moved her hips to meet him. And when he breathed “fuck,” the word tense because he was clearly trying to hold off his own release, Sarah all but screamed, breaking into a million pieces.

  Tucker was silent, shaking the bed violently in his pleasure. He collapsed on top of her, two hundred pounds of sweaty, satisfied male.

  And Sarah lay beneath him, completely unconcerned that she couldn’t breathe.

  Minutes passed. Maybe years.

  “I should move.” But he lay there, boneless, and Sarah thought vaguely that she might pass out. Whether from complete satisfaction or oxygen deprivation, she couldn’t say. And really, did it matter? She’d just had the best sex of her life.

  Tucker slid out of her, rolled to the side.

  “It held.” He put his hand against the porch rail to stop the bed fro
m swaying. Then he raised his head a little to look at her. “Have I finally figured out a way to shut you up?”

  Sarah ignored his sarcasm and moved her leg to test for muscle control. “I might be partially paralyzed.”

  She had to smile. There was something wonderful about the sound of a serious man laughing.

  “It’s even easier to hit that spot from behind,” he told her and she turned her head to find him looking at her, the devil in his eye.

  “I’m not sure if I should trust you,” she said primly. “You northern boys are kinky.”

  “You southern women are repressed.”

  “Not that repressed, apparently. We just had sex on the porch.”

  “The benefits of country living.”

  She started to remind him that they were in the middle of town, but he took her hand, kissed her fingers.

  And something fluttered inside her chest.

  “If I had one of these,” he murmured. “I’d sleep outside every night.”

  “I used to.” She pushed the flutter down, pushed it away. “Lately, it hasn’t seemed like such a good idea.”

  When he turned his head, his eyes were suddenly, coldly fierce. “You want to sleep out here tonight, I’ll stay. I guarantee that bastard won’t get near you.”

  “I don’t need a bodyguard, Tucker.” Or a lover who spent the night because he felt obligated to protect her.

  He searched her face. “Your call. In the meantime.” He rolled until she was beneath him. “It’s a very nice body. I might as well use it again.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TUCKER glanced up from his computer screen when the pile of mail hit the porch table. Mason stood, tanned, toned and healthier-looking than Tucker ever remembered seeing him, with a bland smile fixed on his face.

  “Your correspondence.”

  “I’m going to have to get you fitted for a coat and tails.”

  “I’d melt,” he said with feeling. “And anyway, word on the street has upgraded my position from mere household help to turncoat mafia capo, deeply embedded in your witness protection program after testifying against the New York don.”

  Tucker stared. “You’re English.”

  “It’s a front. Apparently, my accent isn’t all that believable.”