My Reckless Valentine

by Olivia Dade

  He closed his eyes, his face burning. “Too tight,” he mumbled.

  “What did you say?” She looked confused.

  “They’re too tight!” he repeated, desperate to end this particular discussion.

  Jesus. If he’d ever felt more embarrassed in his life, he didn’t remember when.

  She scooted closer on the hood of the car, pressing her hip against his. Her hand gave his knee a soothing squeeze. “You know, Grant,” she said, “most men wouldn’t whisper that. I’m pretty sure most guys would print T-shirts bragging that their cocks burst through normal condoms like Bruce Banner in a rage. Or they’d air-drop pamphlets describing the prodigious size of their manly parts. Advertising in the local paper would also be an option.”

  He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “That’s not the kind of man I am.”

  “No,” she said. “Clearly not.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her again. “Is that a problem?”

  “Let me make sure I have this right. You’re asking me if I mind the fact that you’re well-endowed but don’t like to brag about it? Really?”

  He shrugged.

  When Angie spoke again, her voice had gentled. “I like you. The fact that you don’t boast about your—apparently ample—package only gives me one more reason to admire you. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or embarrassed you. I’ll try to be more thoughtful in the future. If I haven’t totally alienated you, that is.”

  Worry lines creased her high forehead, and she began to remove her hand from his knee.

  He reached for that hand and laced his fingers through hers. “No need to apologize. I can be somewhat . . . set in my ways. Staid. I suspect I could use a little teasing and upheaval every now and then.”

  “That I can promise,” she said. Then, uncharacteristically, she fell silent.

  For a minute, he simply sat on his hood next to Angie and enjoyed her nearness. Her long fingers, where they tangled around his own, warmed him. They felt strong. Steady. When a chilly breeze blew through the increasingly dark evening, her hair brushed softly against his cheek. And the feel of her soft hip against his . . . he didn’t remember such simple contact ever leaving him so tense with anticipation, but so comforted at the same time. Night had fallen in the last few minutes, but she somehow glowed like a beacon in the dim light.

  He was enjoying the silence. Oddly enough, though, he kind of missed the sound of her voice. Despite the fact that, only five minutes ago, he would’ve paid good money for a few minutes of peace, quiet, and condom-less thoughts. Apparently even limited contact with Angie and her wicked tongue could prove addictive.

  Speaking of which . . . did he dare? He didn’t usually make a move this soon, but . . .

  He brought their entwined hands to his mouth, pressing a careful kiss on the back of her hand. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t protest. And he already knew that Angie wouldn’t think twice about shutting him down if he went too far, too fast. A shy and delicate flower she was not.

  No, Angie more resembled a tropical hibiscus in the sun. Colorful, bold, and bright. Beautiful. Displaying that beauty to the world without apology.

  Mustering up every ounce of his courage, Grant released her fingers and clasped her face in both hands. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. Her cheeks lay smooth and cool beneath his fingers. She didn’t protest. Didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to breathe. He considered that a good sign and decided to go for it.

  Slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away from him, he lowered his mouth to hers. Unwilling to move too fast and scare her, he merely brushed his lips against hers. Explored her texture and softness. Accustomed himself to the idea of kissing a virtual stranger. Her generous mouth relaxed beneath the gentle pressure he exerted, and she slid a hand behind his neck to tangle in his hair.

  For a woman with such a tart tongue, Angie tasted unexpectedly sweet. Her lips parted when he pressed kisses on her bottom lip, and then her top. He wanted more. So even though part of his brain, the logical part that had directed his life for as long as he could remember, blared an urgent warning—too much, too soon—he ignored it. With a careful sweep of his tongue, he deepened their kiss.

  As soon as he did, both her arms wrapped around his neck, and her tongue tangled with his. She inched closer, pressing her body to his from the waist up. God, it felt amazing. He’d never held such a tall woman in his arms before. For the first time ever, he didn’t need to crane his neck. Didn’t need to struggle to make their bodies fit together. It just . . . worked. All of it.

  Boy, did it work. So much so that his hands left her face and—without his conscious permission—found their way to her back, sliding down until they reached her round ass. He hitched her even closer, until he could feel every possible inch of her upper body melded against his. She froze for a moment and made a tiny sound in the back of her throat. He began to draw away, worried that he’d gone too far. But she yanked him back with her strong arms, searching his mouth as if she were starving for the taste of him.

  He knew precisely how she felt. Without further hesitation, he kissed her as fiercely as he’d ever kissed anyone in his life, stroking her tongue with his and crushing her mouth under his own. She gave a pleased little hum and explored his back with her hands. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel the length of her body against his. So he stood, pulling her up with him without breaking the kiss.

  His hands slid up her sides. Right before his thumbs would have brushed the undersides of her breasts, he stopped. Ripping his mouth from hers, he looked into her eyes for permission.

  “Is this all right?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer in words. Instead, she grasped one of his hands and placed it directly on her breast. It was answer enough for him. As he lowered his mouth to string kisses down her jaw and to her neck, he allowed the hand she’d positioned on her breast to explore. Cup. Gently squeeze. His thumb gently played over her rapidly stiffening nipple through the smooth nap of her red sweater, and he grazed the soft skin of her neck with his teeth. Her throat beneath his lips vibrated as she gave a quiet whimper.

  “Oh, God, Grant, I’ve never—” she whispered, just as a car’s headlights pierced the growing darkness and swept over their vehicles on the side of the road.

  The SUV rounded the curve and disappeared, but it was too late. Reality had intruded on them. Reluctantly, Grant raised his head from Angie’s neck and slid his wandering hand down to the side of her waist and around her back. He refused to let go of her completely, though. His hands seemed drawn to her, unable to resist the sensation of her long, enticing body beneath his fingers.

  They sat back on his car and allowed their gasping breaths to calm. After a minute, she began to shiver. He could feel her tremble beneath his hands, and not in the same way she had such a short time ago. Shit. She was getting cold, and no wonder. They were perched on the metal hood of a car, with a stiff breeze whipping around them. In February. In the dark.

  Yes, you truly know how to treat a woman, Grant thought in disgust.

  He rubbed up and down her arms with his hands, trying to warm her with friction. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That went further than it should have, especially given where we are. I hope I didn’t embarrass you. I should have thought about other cars seeing us, but I . . . I forgot about everything.”

  She leaned over and planted a smacking kiss on his mouth. “Are you kidding? That was amazing. I was about half a second away from pinning you to the hood of your car and ravishing you in full view of the highway. I didn’t give a fuck who saw us. And God knows we have enough birth control to last for the next few millennia.”

  He felt the tips of his ears turn hot. Along with other body parts. “Really?”

  “Really. If what just happened was my reward, please feel free to whip luggage at the windshield of my car anytime you want.”

  “So you still want to have a drink with me?”

  She clasped his face between both her hand
s and came close. “Grant, what aren’t you getting here? The only reason I’m not deflowering you against the hood of your car is because I’m freezing, and I’ll be even colder if I have to expose my bare ass to the breeze.”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t think you can technically deflower someone who’s not a virgin,” he noted.

  “Believe me,” Angie said, “it wouldn’t feel technical when I did it.”

  He believed her. Oh, holy Christ, did he believe her.

  “I’m hungry, too,” she added.

  “Let’s go get dinner, then. My treat,” he said. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the sky above. For once, he actually knew the appropriate way to respond to something she’d said.

  Angie levered herself up from his car. “Sounds good. Get me warm, Grant. Get me fed. Get me a drink. Let’s find out what you get in return.”

  He sincerely hoped he knew. If any other woman had said that to him, he’d feel confident that he understood her intentions. But not when it came to Angie. She was reckless. Impulsive. Predicting what she’d do, what she wanted, what she’d say—it was risky. And he’d never considered himself a gambler before.

  For the woman standing like a Valkyrie before him, though, he would take that risk. No doubt about it.

  He smiled at her and said with wholehearted sincerity, “I can’t wait.”

  4

  “It occurs to me that I know a hell of a lot about your underwear,”

  Angie said from across the table. “More than I usually do until the third date.”

  Grant looked up from his slice of cheesecake. “The third date?”

  Typically, he didn’t see a woman’s underwear until date five or later. He liked sex, sure. But it had never overridden his innate caution and reluctance to commit too much, too soon. He wanted to make sure he knew what he was getting into before he . . . well, got into it.

  “Okay, okay. Sometimes the second,” she admitted with a shrug of her shoulders.

  Angie clearly didn’t approach sex the same way he did. No surprise. He suspected that they wouldn’t react the same way to most situations. After their interlude by the highway, however, he was coming around to her point of view. Her tongue and hands had made a very convincing argument.

  When he didn’t respond to her comment, Angie’s shoulders slumped a little bit. “Oh, Lord. Please tell me you’re not one of those guys who judges a woman for knowing what she wants.”

  She held his gaze steadily and with a bright smile plastered on her face, but creases appeared across her forehead. Worry lines. He’d already noticed that even when she seemed brash and confident, those little lines told him the truth. Angie didn’t like to show it, but she worried too. She simply concealed it better than he did.

  “No,” he told her. Under the table, he extended a foot and nudged her calf through her jeans. “As I’m discovering, I like a woman who knows what she wants. Makes it easier on a man.”

  “Are you calling me easy?” she asked. “Because that’s not very gentlemanly of you.” She shifted her leg away from his foot, crossed her arms across her chest, and tilted her head in affronted inquiry.

  Oh, shit. Had he somehow managed to imply that Angie was . . . free with her favors? Because he hadn’t meant that. Not at all. He needed to clarify what he’d said, and as quickly as possible.

  “No!” he exclaimed. “Of course not! I only meant that—”

  Then he noticed the little grin playing at the corners of her expressive mouth.

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  He settled back in his chair and exhaled slowly, fighting his own relieved smile. “You’re a cruel woman, Angie—” He frowned. “Wait. What’s your last name?”

  “Burrowes.”

  “You’re a cruel woman, Angie Burrowes.”

  “Poor baby.” She reached across the table and gave his cheek a gentle pat.

  “Then again, I’m sitting across a table from a beautiful woman who dodged my homicidal suitcase and helped me remove twenty bajillion condoms from a highway in the middle of winter,” he said drily. “I’m not sure I deserve a great deal of pity.”

  She abandoned the half-eaten slice of Death by Chocolate cake on her plate and beamed up at him. “That’s nice to hear,” she said.

  “Which part? The homicidal suitcase bit? I was kind of proud of that turn of phrase myself.”

  “The beautiful part.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m a woman, Grant. Of course that was my favorite part.”

  “I’m sure you hear that all the time,” he said. He waved a hand up and down and indicated the entire length of her, from her pretty face to her boot-clad feet. “Look at you. You have the brightest smile I’ve ever seen. Amazing green eyes. Not to mention the fact that you’re tall, strong, and . . . um . . . built.”

  He could feel himself turning a bit pink. Usually he preferred not to describe a woman’s attributes in such detail, especially on a first date. Something about her loosened his tongue, though, allowing him to say what he really thought. And from what he already knew of her, his words wouldn’t make her uncomfortable. Wouldn’t make her blush and stutter in embarrassment.

  Not outspoken Angie. Not the woman who’d blown into his life and made him doubt every inhibition he’d ever possessed. Not the woman who lit up every space she inhabited like a bonfire. Not the woman who’d forced him to readjust his pants in the men’s room a few minutes ago, after she’d sighed in pleasure at her first bite of dessert.

  “Built like an Amazon.” She glanced down at herself. “I’m not every man’s fantasy.”

  “You don’t have to be every man’s fantasy. Just one man’s.”

  At that, her eyes raised to his. Held them. “One man’s?”

  “Mine,” he said. “My fantasy.”

  Holy fuck. I’ve never said anything like that before to any woman. Ever. Never ever. I wouldn’t blame her if she ran out of this restaurant right now, far away from the crazy man looking at her like she’s his next meal.

  Angie took a deep breath. “If you want to—”

  “Let’s change the subject,” he interrupted. “Maybe we should get to know each other better before we start talking about . . .”

  “Fantasies?” she supplied.

  “Yes. Those,” he said, and fiddled with the cuff of his shirt. “So, Angie, what do you do for a living?”

  She held up a hand, palm out. “Let’s not.”

  “Huh?” he asked. “Let’s not what?”

  “Let’s not talk about work. I had a tough day. Entirely due to my own stupid decisions, which made the whole situation even more humiliating. And I don’t want to think about it, much less discuss it. Can’t we chat about the other parts of our lives and leave work for another time?”

  Another time? She was planning to see him again? Grant’s back straightened, and something in his chest loosened and warmed.

  “Okay. What would you like to talk about instead?” he asked.

  “Tell me about those boxes in your car and the suitcases on your roof,” she said. “Are you moving to the area?”

  “The suitcases on my roof now reside in the trunk of your car,” he pointed out. Which meant she was going to end up at his house later tonight, a thought that filled him with both excitement and anxiety. How would she respond if he asked her to stay? Could he even drum up enough courage to make the request?

  “True, but that doesn’t explain why you need them.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table, trying to figure out how much to explain. Did she need to know about his father? The topic seemed too depressing for a first date. But what else could he say?

  “I’m moving here from Baltimore, but I grew up in Nice County. I came back because I saw a job opening at—” he began, and then paused. “Sorry. I forgot I wasn’t supposed to talk about work.”

  She reached out to touch his hand. “You can if you want. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Nah. Let’s leave work for next time, like you said.
For now, I’ll just say I moved here for a job. And to live near my parents.” He watched her scrape up the last crumbs of her cake. “I don’t remember you from my childhood, and I’m sure you were unforgettable, even as a kid. So I’m guessing you’re not from around here.”

  “I moved from Annapolis for my job.”

  “Which you won’t discuss.”

  “Nope.”

  “Because you’re Batman.”

  She laughed. “I promise I don’t spend my nights fighting crime. Nothing that exciting.”

  “And you won’t tell me anything more?” he asked.

  “Not tonight. I will say, though, that I wonder sometimes how on earth I ended up in Nice County, Maryland.” She tapped the table with a forefinger. “This is a truly random place to live.”

  “I still wonder why it’s called Nice County,” he said. “I grew up here, and I have no idea. I asked a teacher once, but she didn’t know. She said maybe the people here were especially friendly, but Mrs. Dingler herself provided evidence to the contrary. I’m reasonably certain she ate kids in her spare time, like that witch in Hansel and Gretel.”

  “I know the answer to that!” Angie exclaimed. “It’s one of the things I had to research for—” She suddenly stopped. “Never mind. Job-related.”

  Did she work as a local historian? Or a social studies teacher? Somehow, Grant couldn’t picture her moldering away among decaying manuscripts and artifacts, much less being entrusted with the social and intellectual development of young children. But who knew? He’d only met the woman today, after all.

  “So what’s the answer? Why is it called Nice County?”

  “Some of the county’s founders had traveled to France. Don’t ask me why or how. The existing records don’t say. The founders visited Provence, including the city of—”

  “Nice,” he finished for her. “Of course, how the hell our county resembles Provençal France will forever remain a mystery. If that’s the story behind our name, though, why do we pronounce it like ice instead of niece?”

  “Because we live in rural Maryland, and most people don’t give a fuck about how the French pronounce their words.”