by Tawna Fenske
I glance down and see my hand has somehow found its way to his thigh. I decide to leave it there and lift my eyes to his again.
“I—um—was thinking,” I tell him. “Curious how old you were the first time you—”
I trail off there. It’s not that I’m hung up on words like “sex” and “virginity.” It’s just that we’re inching into uncharted territory. Are we friends who’ve kissed a couple times, or something more intimate? Have we earned the right to ask prying questions, or is that crossing a line?
Mark shifts on the sofa, and my hand slips a few more inches up his thigh. I stare at it, aware that my fingers are lying there scant inches from the fly of his jeans.
I clear my throat and try my question again. “How old were you when you, um—”
“Found out about Santa Claus?”
His tone is deadpan, but when I look up, he’s smiling. With his arm around my shoulders, he leans down and brushes the gentlest kiss on my forehead. “Seventeen,” he says.
“Oh.”
“Assuming Santa is a code word for having sex?”
“Um—”
“Because seventeen’s a fucked-up age to still believe in a bearded fat man forcing his ass down the chimney to bring presents.”
“Right.” I giggle unexpectedly. “I was eighteen.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was—good, actually.”
I hold my breath again, waiting. Is that a threat to his masculinity? Am I supposed to pretend I’ve had only lousy sex because I’m waiting for someone like Mark Bracelyn to sweep me off my feet and show me the key to multiple orgasms?
“I’m glad.” Mark brushes his lips across my forehead again, and I swear I could have one of those orgasms right now. “I like knowing you’ve had good stuff mixed in there with the not-good stuff.”
My heart.
God, it feels like it’s going to bust right through my rib cage.
That’s not the only body part throbbing at the moment, but I order myself to hold it together. To keep this conversation going.
“Dating,” he says softly.
“What?” I look up at him again, and there’s definite heat in his eyes.
I can’t help it. I slip my hand up his thigh just a fraction of an inch. Not enough that I’m grazing his fly, but enough to watch his eyes flash.
“What’s the right age for dating?” he asks.
“Sixteen.” I’m just throwing that out there, positive we’re no longer talking about my daughter. “That’s alone in a car with a boy, but group dates are okay a few years before that.”
“How about things that happen on dates?” His voice is huskier than it was a few minutes ago, and I shift my hand another fraction of an inch.
“Such as?” My voice sounds funny, too, breathy and a little flirty.
“Hand holding.”
“Hand holding is nice.”
“Hmm.” He reaches for my hand, the one that’s not grazing his junk. Lifting it to his mouth, he plants a soft kiss across my knuckles. He releases it and lets his palm come to rest on my shoulder. “How about touching?”
I lick my lips and remind myself to keep breathing. “Touching where?”
I shift my hand another half-inch and watch his eyes flash.
“Breasts.” His hand glides to mine and I gasp. His fingers curl possessively around it, thumb skimming my nipple. The moan slips out as I press myself into his palm.
“Yes, please.” I move my hand a good three inches this time, no longer pretending I’m not going for his button fly.
Mark curses under his breath as my knuckles graze the hard length of him. Good Lord, he could pound nails with this thing.
“Chelsea.” He says my name on a strangled groan, and I look up to see his eyes are troubled.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not having sex with you.”
“Wh—why not?” I try my best to keep the disappointment from my voice, but I fail miserably.
“Because you’ve had one helluva scare tonight,” he says. “And I don’t want you to regret anything.”
“I swear I won’t.”
He smiles and shifts his hand to my other breast. The squeeze is rougher this time, and I know we’re not stopping. That’s not what he’s telling me.
“There will come a time when I slide hard and deep inside you,” he murmurs. “Any way you want it. You said something about liking it from behind?”
Jesus Christ, I’m drowning. Drowning in my own desire. I can’t see straight. Can’t hear over the buzzing of lust in my brain. I can’t speak. All I can do is nod.
“But not tonight,” he says.
I want to throw myself on the floor and scream like a toddler. I’m so keyed up that I swear I could come by crossing my legs. But that’s not what I want. I want Mark. I need his touch, so desperately I can’t sit still.
Maybe he sees it in my eyes. Or maybe he’s as worked up as I am. Looking into his eyes, I’m startled by the wildness there. He’s as hungry as I am, and he’s not hiding it.
“I need to taste you,” he says. “Please, Chelsea.”
I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about cupcake samples.
I can’t breathe. Is he seriously begging to go down on me? I’m nodding before my brain processes the words, and that’s all it takes. Mark scoops me into his arms and picks me off the couch. His legs don’t even wobble, and I feel like I’m made of air as he carries me toward the front door.
“Where are we going?” I breathe.
“Deadbolt.” He takes one hand off my ass and flips the lock, keeping me cradled in his arms the whole time. Then he moves across the living room and down the hall.
“Which room?”
“Left,” I pant. “End of the hall.”
My bedroom door is half open, and he kicks it wide with his boot. Then he’s tossing me back on the bed, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that leaves me clawing at his back. His beard is soft and rough at the same time, as he kisses his way down my throat, across my collar bones.
Somehow, I get my hands on the hem of his shirt. He hesitates at first, like he’s not sure he wants me taking it off. Then he relents.
“God,” he growls as he helps me drag it off over his head. I rake my hands down his chest, which is springy with soft, cinnamon-colored hair. My gaze snags on a scar—a big one—just below his left shoulder. Before I can ask about it, he’s tugging off my shirt.
“Chelsea.” He says my name like a prayer as he tosses my shirt aside and lays me back on the bed to kiss his way down my torso.
Threading my fingers into his hair, I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensory explosion. My whole torso is a sheet of nerve endings, and he devours them all. Tongue, teeth, lips, beard—he uses everything to tease me to the brink of delirium. He’s making love to me with his face, and he hasn’t even gotten my pants off.
That happens next as he angles up and grips my waistband with both hands. He meets my eyes and I nod, and that’s it. There’s no need for words. He slides the leggings down my thighs and over my knees, and then I’m naked.
“Jesus Christ.” His voice comes out strangled as he parts my thighs and looks at me. Looks at me like he’s staring into a magical abyss or something. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
I don’t have a chance to make some self-conscious wisecrack. He’s on me in an instant, claiming me with his mouth. He devours me like he’s starving, lapping at my swollen folds and moaning.
That feels good, too. The vibrations, the brush of his beard, the swirl of his tongue. I had no idea not having sex could feel this good.
He’s got one hand cupping my hips but brings the other between my thighs. One long finger slips inside me, then slides back. I cry out, it feels so fucking good.
“Mark.” I grip his head, afraid he’ll take it as a cry of distress and stop. I don’t want him to stop. I never want this to stop.
He takes his cue from the rising of my hips and keeps working his magic. There�
�s thrusting and licking and swirling and sucking and somewhere in the middle of that I break apart.
“Oh, God!”
I scream like it’s the first time I’ve felt this, and maybe it is. I’ve never come this hard before, and it’s like a tidal wave of pleasure hitting me all at once. I clutch Mark’s shoulders and throw my head back, riding the shockwaves until I’m breathless.
He waits until I go still to plant a kiss on my inner thigh. Then he slides up my body and pulls me against him. His bare chest is warm and the hair there is so soft. I run my fingers through it, still eager to touch him.
“Rest,” he murmurs, turning me so my spine is cradled against his chest.
I can feel his erection pressing against my tailbone, and part of me aches to finish what we’ve started.
“Relax, Chelsea,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”
He does, so I let my body go slack in his arms.
The last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep is Mark brushing soft kisses down my earlobe.
Chapter 10
MARK
Austin calls early the next morning. “We’ve got some photos we’d like Chelsea to take a look at.”
He must know I’m likely to be awake before the sun is up. Chelsea set an alarm for seven, and I try not to make noise as I nudge open her bedroom door to check on her.
She stirs and opens her eyes, and the smile that spreads across her face is like the sun coming out. “Hey.” She sits up and pulls the sheet around her body, rumpled hair tumbling around her shoulders. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” God, she’s fucking beautiful.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“Some.” Not much. I couldn’t bring myself to take my eyes off the front door for more than a few minutes.
Just those twenty minutes I spent in fucking nirvana with Chelsea’s thighs around my face, my mouth on her—
“How’d you sleep?”
She must see something in my expression because her smile gets bigger, and she ignores the question. “Thank you for—everything,” she says. “Last night.”
The flush that spreads over her face and collarbones is a good indication she’s not talking about the bodyguard thing. I nod and fight the urge to push her back onto the bed so I can devour her again. “Austin’s got some mugshots for you to look at.”
That gets her moving. “You mean they got something off that fingerprint?” She’s fully awake now, scrambling out of bed with the strap of her tank top slipping off one shoulder. I do my best not to stare at her breasts under the thin cotton or her ass in those tight little sleep shorts or her legs beneath—shit, I should just look at the floor.
“We should go right now,” she says. “Before Libby comes home.”
“I have a proposal.”
There’s a flash of alarm in her eyes, and I hurry to clarify so she doesn’t think I’m dropping to one knee.
“For you and Libby,” I tell her. “The resort has swimming pools.”
She blinks, then seems to follow the subject change.
“I know, Libby loves it there,” she says. “Bree let us come out last summer and test drive the waterslides. It was the highlight of Lib’s life.”
“So, we pack some clothes, lock up this place, and you two come have a vacation at Ponderosa Resort.”
Chelsea tugs on a pink fluffy bathrobe, obscuring my view of her body, but allowing some blood to return to my brain. “I thought Bree told me the whole resort was booked for spring break.”
“The resort is,” I admit, hoping I’m not assuming too much here. “But my cabin has two master suites. For when my mom visits.”
Her expression is guarded. “You don’t have to put us up.”
“I want to put you up,” I argue. “I want you in a safe place with professional security. I want you to hike and get a massage and for Libby to swim in the pool and both of you to relax and not feel like you’re watching out for someone trying to scare the shit out of you. Libby especially.”
I have her there. I can tell from the flash of reluctant relief in her eyes. She wants her kid to be happy and cheerful and unaware that some asshole is trying to fuck with them.
“I did already plan to take the whole week off for Lib’s spring break.” She bites her lip. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Positive.”
She’s still working that lip, and I’m overcome with the urge to claim her mouth again. “Get dressed,” I tell her. “Or go shower. Do anything besides standing there looking like sex on a stick.”
“Sex on a stick, huh?” She grins and tosses her hair. “That’d be a big seller at the bakery.”
She turns and sashays toward the bathroom, and it’s everything I can do not to follow her into the shower.
“That one,” Chelsea says, pointing at a photo laid out on the desk in Austin’s office.
Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s gripping a mug of coffee like it’s a life preserver. She’s pale and nervous, but determined. If I could, I’d cover her in bubble wrap to keep her safe from everything.
Austin’s studying her face, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Are you positive?”
“No.” She sits back in her chair still gripping the mug. “Like I said, he wore a mask. His eyes were the only thing I could see, but that guy’s look the same. Sort of a strange blue like pictures I’ve seen of icebergs.”
Austin nods, frowning a little more than he was when we walked in here. “And you’ve never seen this man before yesterday?”
“No.” Her ponytail sways as she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I really think I’d remember him.”
She’s telling the truth, I’m positive. All along I’ve had the feeling she’s holding something back, not filling in the full picture for Austin or me. But right now, she’s being as truthful as she can be.
I stare at the photo she pointed to. The guy has weird blue eyes and a tattoo on his neck that might be a chicken. Or a rooster. What the hell kind of idiot inks poultry on the space between his face and body?
“Who is he?” I ask Austin. “The prints are his?”
Austin folds his hands on the desk and gives a curt nod. “Yes.”
His expression is guarded, and I’m guessing Chelsea isn’t the only one holding something back. “Name is Arthur Klingman,” Austin supplies. “Goes by Artie. Small-time criminal, mostly burglary and petty theft.”
“So, he tried to rob me.” Chelsea says it halfway between a statement and a question, but I can tell she’s not buying it. Not as the full story.
Neither is Austin. He clears his throat and leans back in his chair. “The thing about Artie is that he’s a thief for hire,” he says slowly. “He’s not known for B and E without some motive. Without someone paying him for his time.”
“You’re saying someone hired him,” I say slowly. “Who? And why?”
“I don’t know.” He looks pretty annoyed about that, and I’m betting he hates saying those words as much as I hate hearing them. “It’s possible I’m wrong. Artie’s got some charges for identity theft. Could be he was just looking to get his hands on credit cards or birth certificates or something.”
He doesn’t believe that, and I can see from Chelsea’s face that she doesn’t, either. She takes a long sip of her coffee like she’s fortifying herself to ask the next question. “So now what?”
Austin nods at me. “I think Mark’s got a solid idea about you staying out at the resort for a while,” he says. “As far as Libby needs to know, this is just her spring break surprise.”
Chelsea frowns. “What if he goes back? This Artie guy, what if he tries to get back into my house?”
“We’ll be watching,” Austin says. “We’ll have an APB out on Arthur Klingman. He’s not known for being the savviest criminal mastermind.”
I wonder what else Austin’s not saying. If he were a shitty cop, I’d wait for him to tell Bree, and then I’d badger her until she filled me in
. But Austin’s the best cop I know, so no member of the Bracelyn clan is going to get any details until he’s damn good and ready.
Chelsea glances at her watch. “We have to go get Libby. Is there anything else I can tell you?”
“Nope.” Austin unclasps his hands. “You’re good to go. Thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
“I wish I could do more.” Chelsea stands, ponytail swinging over her shoulder as she pushes in her chair.
Austin stands, too, and I wonder if he’s even scheduled to work today. It would be just like him to come in early on a day off. Call me crazy, but I don’t think petty criminals are usually the domain of the police chief.
“We’ll let you know if there’s any news,” he says. “Thank you for your help.”
We say our goodbyes and head down the hall and out the door. We’re halfway across the parking lot when Chelsea turns to me. “Would you mind driving?”
“No problem.” I take the keys she’s holding out and head around to the driver’s side.
“Thanks,” she says. “I got a text from the sleepover mom. Everyone’s up now, so I’m going to see if we can swing by and get Libby instead of them dropping her at the house. That way we can go straight to your place.”
“Good plan.” I adjust the driver’s seat while Chelsea taps out a message on her phone. I’m damn relieved we’re not going back to her house. The sooner I get them both to the resort, the safer I’ll feel.
“You doing okay?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer right away. “I think so.”
I shouldn’t ask this next question, but I do anyway. “You’re positive you have no idea what anyone would want from you? In your file cabinet or—”
“No.”
No, she’s not positive, or no, she has no idea? The curtness of the answer makes me think I shouldn’t ask any more damn questions.
“I’m sorry, I’m just—” she hesitates, and I feel her eyes on the side of my head. “I need to think something through, okay?”
“Fair enough.”
“Thank you.” She’s quiet for a few long minutes. “Really, Mark. I appreciate that you don’t push. That you don’t demand answers or information or things I’m not ready to talk about.”