by Olivia Dade
He snorted. “Did you give that as your professional explanation?”
“I might have worded it a little differently, but basically . . . yes.”
As he laughed, Angie plucked the napkin from her lap and laid it beside her plate. He did the same, knowing the time had come. Before they left the restaurant, he wanted to confirm one more time that he hadn’t misinterpreted her signals. Because once they got to a man’s house, women sometimes felt pressured to allow intimacies they hadn’t intended.
From what he’d seen tonight, he assumed Angie wouldn’t react that way. She wouldn’t let any man—much less one like him—pressure her into doing anything she didn’t want. But he didn’t know her well enough to feel absolutely sure.
How the hell was he going to ask her, though? And do it without showing her how nervous he’d become?
Sitting back in her chair, she regarded him with an intent gaze that turned his thoughts to ash. “Are you okay, Grant? You look kind of nauseated.”
Christ. Without even saying a word, he’d already given himself away.
“I’m fine. So . . .” He cleared his throat. “It’s getting late. We should probably head to my house soon.”
“Okay.” She smiled at him.
He licked his lips, searching for a suave way to ascertain her intentions and make his own desires clear. Trying to express himself like a guy who could attract a woman like Angie. Like a guy completely unlike the man he knew himself to be.
He managed a single syllable. “Um . . .”
After waiting for a minute, she prodded a bit. “You’re right. We need to go to your house to drop off your suitcases. Are you worried about what might happen there?”
He had no fucking clue what to say. Actual sex he could handle. But the lead-up to lovemaking with a virtual stranger—for that, he had no experience from which to draw. No context. Just a healthy respect for this ballsy woman and a whole hell of a lot of lust.
After another minute of silence, those telltale lines reappeared on her forehead. She reached over and patted his hand. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to pressure you into anything.”
He desperately wanted to respond, but his mouth refused to shape the words. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make himself speak.
She pushed back her chair and stood. “Let’s go. Sorry I misinterpreted”—she waved a hand, indicating the two of them—“this. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
Shit. Shit. I need to say something. She has this all wrong, goddammit!
With a polite smile, she dropped a few bills on the table. “That should cover my meal. I’ll follow you to your house, you can unload your luggage, and then I’ll be on my way. I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Grant. Thanks for an interesting evening.”
He didn’t recover his voice until she turned to walk away. “Angie, stop!”
She looked back at him, her eyebrows raised.
Where the words came from, he didn’t know. Some part of himself he’d never accessed before, that was clear. He didn’t even recognize the voice that emerged from his throat. It seemed rougher, deeper than he’d ever heard it.
“Put the money away,” he told her. He folded his arms on the table in front of him, leaned forward, and met her stare boldly. “I’m paying for dinner.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “I’m paying for dinner, Angie. First, I ran you off the road earlier tonight. I owe you. Second, I want to. Third, I need to, because no woman in my bed is going to pay for her own goddamn meal. So put your money back in your wallet. I’ll pay the bill. You’ll follow me home. And then you’re going to come inside with me. I want you. In my arms. In my bed. Tonight.”
He paused, watching her expression closely. “If that’s what you want. If not, you can walk away now.”
No, she can’t, his stupid brain reminded him. She has your suitcases in her car.
Shut up, he told his brain. What I said sounded awesome. I’ve never felt manlier in my life. Don’t ruin this for me.
Angie looked at him with wide eyes. A flush rose on her cheekbones, and she took a step toward the table. He opened his wallet, threw down enough money to cover the bill as well as a generous tip, and rose to his feet. Striding within a foot of her, he held out his hand.
“Are you coming with me?” he asked.
He fought the urge to crow with male satisfaction when she immediately placed her hand in his. They left the restaurant together with fingers intertwined and not another word spoken. After handing her into her car, he started his own and led the way.
On the drive to his house, he struggled to explain to himself what had just happened. Exhilaration warred with apprehension, the conflicting emotions making coherent thought difficult. All he could see was Angie. In his arms, sitting on the hood of his car. Smiling at him from across the table. Standing naked before him. Spread beneath him in bed. On the floor. Her head thrown back, her eyes closed, and her face flushed with the pleasure he’d given her.
His. All his. At least for the night.
He had no idea what the morning would bring for either one of them. Would she regret this? Would he? He didn’t know. There was no way to predict what would happen.
But for once in his life, he was taking a fucking chance and finding out.
5
Angie grabbed the last small box from the backseat of Grant’s car and bumped the door closed with her hip. Just as she’d done with the last few loads, she set the box inside the front hall of his small, spotless house. Off to the side, near his dining room, so they didn’t block the path into the rest of his home.
Not that she’d made it any further inside. But she intended to. Soon.
Grant wrestled the last suitcase from her car up the two front steps and over the threshold. The screen door banged shut behind him. In the silence of his dim hallway, it sounded like a starter pistol. She hoped he got the hint.
The alpha male bravado that had overcome him at the restaurant . . . Gone. Like it had never existed. It had disappeared the moment they stepped into his house. Since then, he’d avoided her gaze and said little, only thanking her several times for her help. But she didn’t want his gratitude. She wanted his hands on her body and his cock inside her. She’d thought he wanted the same, but now she wasn’t so certain.
No matter what happened, though, one thing remained certain: They wouldn’t run out of condoms. She’d made special note of that navy suitcase, ensuring its accessibility among the boxes, bags, and other luggage. At this point, she suspected keeping track of it might prove a wasted effort, but whatever. If she drove home soon, she might still be able to get through a few smutty chapters of Long Train Coming and go solo with her sex life tonight. No condoms necessary.
She looked up from the suitcase to find Grant only inches away, much closer than she’d realized. He took her hand in his and lifted it to rest flat against his chest. His heart beat beneath her palm, strong and fast, matching the rhythm of her own racing pulse.
“Angie . . .”
She waited for a moment, but he didn’t say anything else.
“Yes?” she prompted.
He sighed. “I’m terrible at this. As I’m sure you’ve already realized. I’m a cautious man. I love numbers and plans and spreadsheets. I generally only date women after I’ve known them for months, and I only sleep with them after we’ve dated for weeks. If then.”
“If you’re not comfortable with this, I can—”
He pressed her hand tighter to his chest. “Let me finish while I have the courage. Please.”
She shut her mouth, mentally preparing to smile and make a gracious exit. Again. Jesus, why couldn’t this man seem to make up his goddamn mind about her?
“Like I said, I don’t usually bring a woman to my home after knowing her for less than a day. I don’t know what to say. What to do. How to be the sort of man who can sweep a woman like you off her feet.”
Angie could have told him she didn’t n
eed to be swept off her feet. She just wanted to be . . . wanted. By a good man. But he’d asked her to let him speak, and she would respect his wishes. So she stayed silent and waited for whatever was to come.
“That said,” he continued, “I know one thing for sure. I want you. I’ve wanted you from almost the first moment I saw you. Definitely after I was certain you hadn’t suffered some sort of traumatic injury from my airborne luggage. I can’t stop thinking about the two of us together.”
He appeared to screw up his courage before he spoke again. “And by that, I mean the two of us together and naked. In bed. I don’t want to rush you into anything. But if you’re willing, I’d be honored if you’d spend the night with me, Angela Burrowes.”
It was the sweetest, shyest invitation to lovemaking Angie had ever experienced. And he wasn’t even finished.
“You bring something out in me I didn’t know existed. I like it. I like you. I don’t intend for this to be a one-night stand. So if that’s what you want, you should tell me now.”
She shook her head, gazing up at him. Apparently, she should have trusted her initial conclusion. The man was a miracle.
He gave a relieved grin, and his shoulders relaxed. “Good. Then come here, Angie. I’ve wanted to hold you for hours.”
Before he’d even finished speaking, she lunged for him. Her body landed against his chest with a thump, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. He didn’t budge or stagger. One of the benefits of a tall, solid man. If she’d tried something similar with a few of her previous lovers, they’d have landed on the floor.
It didn’t sound like such a bad outcome at the moment. She supported any plan that got the two of them horizontal.
Giving him a firm squeeze—holy shit, he felt strong beneath her hands—she met his eyes. “Can I talk now?” she asked.
“Of course.” He smoothed down her hair and stroked her back. Gently. So gently.
“Good.” She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, channeling all the anticipation and wonder she felt into the meeting of their lips. He responded immediately. His mouth . . . God, he was killing her. It was warm and soft, and he was paying attention to what she liked. When he lightly nibbled at her bottom lip and sucked it into his mouth, she shivered. So he did it again, garnering the same reaction.
He pulled back a scant inch, and she tried to tug him back. “Didn’t you want to say something?” he asked, his voice husky.
“Nope. Just checking for future reference. I tend to chat a bit during sex.”
He laughed against her mouth. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Angie closed her eyes when his mouth lowered again. His tongue rubbed against hers in unhurried exploration. His hands tangled in her hair, cupping the back of her head and making sure the pressure he exerted with his mouth didn’t strain her neck. No man had ever kissed her with such deliberation or made her the object of such focused attention. She couldn’t get enough of the sensation. Of him.
Her head swam, and she had the sense of movement. Through the haze of increasing desire, she realized he was walking her backwards, moving them both out of the hall. But she didn’t worry about stumbling or falling. Grant would make sure she was safe. She knew it as well as she knew the most basic facts of her existence.
Within moments, her ass bumped lightly against a hard surface.
“Up you go,” he said and gave her a small boost onto—she turned her head to take a quick glance—a very large, very sturdy desk. Immaculate and free of all clutter. Maybe because he was in the midst of moving in, but she didn’t think so. No, she suspected his desk always looked this neat.
An unexpected twinge of anxiety ripped through her. Why would a man this controlled and organized want someone like her? If he truly knew her—the mistakes she’d made, the impulsiveness that had driven her actions for so many years—would he continue to treat her with such tenderness? Or would he walk away, regretting his recklessness and the night they’d spent together? Would she disappoint him, as she so often disappointed the people she loved?
He traced a finger lightly over her forehead. “What’s worrying you?”
“Nothing.” She tried a shaky smile.
He shook his head. “No. I know that’s not true. Tell me.”
“Maybe I’m a little anxious,” she conceded. “About what happens tomorrow. Whether you’ll still want me if we do this on the first date.”
She hadn’t lied. Not technically. She might not have revealed everything, but she’d revealed enough for now.
“I will,” he said. “I promise you. Let’s make a date for tomorrow night. I’ll meet you at Sallie’s Diner at”—he appeared to make some calculations in his head—“eight. I should be done with work by then.”
After a soft kiss on her cheek, he let her go and walked over to a small closet nearby. He opened the doors wide and reached inside one of the many, many different shelving units built into the alcove. Everything lay neatly in its own little compartment, with no space wasted and each cubby labeled with its contents. A clipboard hung from a hook, a pen attached to it with an elastic band. The paper on the clipboard read Items Running Low and featured many, many blank lines to fill.
She craned her neck to take a closer look at the single line he’d written. The only item he apparently needed to restock: Paper clips—silver, jumbo, 100 count (maybe 250+, just in case?).
She couldn’t help herself. “Holy shit, Grant. I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified by this level of organization. Do you actually have a cubby set aside for your ‘Ancillary Stapler’? And who the fuck even uses the word ancillary when referring to office supplies?”
She grinned at him. “Don’t get me wrong. I love nerds. A big vocabulary turns me on. I think seeing the word ancillary gave me a tiny little orgasm.”
His eyes flashed her way at that, hectic color climbing his cheekbones. He shuffled his feet. “I’m not always this organized. I set up my office in here yesterday. No time to get cluttered yet.”
“You’re lying. I can tell. Never play poker for money, sweet pea. You’ll end up naked and missing a kidney.”
“I’m not lying!” he protested. “I really set this up yesterday. Scout’s honor.”
Of course. Of course Grant had participated in the Boy Scouts. Given the quantity of condoms she’d seen earlier, she figured he had the Be Prepared motto covered. She stifled a snicker at the thought.
“But . . . ,” he admitted, “it’s possible that the closet might look this way most of the time. The good news is that I knew where to find a pad of paper and a pen.”
He leaned over the desk and carefully printed out his name, home and e-mail addresses, and phone number on the top sheet of the pad. Below that, he wrote: Dinner at Sallie’s Diner with a very eager Grant Peterson. Tomorrow at 8 p.m. He ripped the paper off the pad with one decisive tug and strode to where her purse lay in his front hall. Laying the paper on top of it, he came back to stand in front of her.
“I gave you all my vital information. I’ll want to see you again, even if this ends up being the worst sex in the history of intercourse. Count on it.”
She snorted. “Aiming high, huh?”
“Making sure you know I want more than sex. I want you. Tonight, but in the future too.” He hesitated. “Though I won’t deny I’m anticipating the sex. A lot. I have a feeling we’ll be great together. The best I’ve ever had.”
“Let’s test that theory,” Angie said.
He met her gaze and smiled slowly. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
6
He stood very still for a moment and simply looked at her. Taking his time, he scanned her from the top of her wind-tossed hair to the brown, slouchy boots on her feet. She reached for the hem of her sweater, and he covered her hand with his own.
“No,” he said. “Let me enjoy this. I’m figuring out the best way to unwrap you.”
He crouched in front of the desk and tugged off her boots. Her socks landed in the
hallway when he tossed them carelessly over his shoulder. Rising to his feet, he tilted his head in thought. “I’m not sure where to go next. Do I uncover those gorgeous long legs, or do I remove the sweater?”
“I have an idea. While you’re thinking about the issue, why don’t you start taking off your own clothes?” she suggested. “Before I get impatient and rip them off of you?”
“Where do you want me to begin?” He gestured to his button-down shirt, his charcoal-gray pants, and his shiny oxfords.
“I don’t give a shit where you start. I just want you naked, Grant. Get a move on.”
Obediently, he kicked off his shoes, peeled down his socks, and unbuttoned his shirt. She watched each inch of his chest appear—the light cover of crinkly dark hair, the faint ridges of muscle, and the cute indentation of his navel.
At some point tonight, she was going to lick inside that little spot and skate over his belly with her tongue. See if it tickled him or turned him on. Or both.
When he pulled the shirt completely off, she could see his broad shoulders and firm chest for the first time. A flush of warmth rose from her chest, carried by the rapid beat of her heart at the sight of him. The man must work out with the same discipline he accorded everything else in his life. It showed. And she appreciated it.
Jesus, those strong shoulders could shelter her from the world. Support her and keep her safe from everything—from her fears, her insecurities, and her worst memories. Even from herself. In her entire life, she’d never wanted that from a man before. Maybe she never would. But somehow she knew Grant could do it. Would do it, if she requested it.
He leaned past her, bending over the huge desk and stretching out his arm to lay his shirt on the lone chair in the room. The heat rising from his big body, the sight of the flexing muscles in his arms, and his faint, woodsy scent—it all made her dizzy. Hungry.
“Fuck,” she said, inhaling more deeply. “You smell amazing.”
The tips of his ears turned pink again, but he smiled. “Cedar soap. That’s about it.”