Her Shirtless Gentleman

by M. Q. Barber

  “I’ll overlook that because you’re young and drunk, but you might wanna think on what you’re saying about your friend.” He’d dropped into his gruff tone, a favorite for his square-your-shit speech. A touch of gravel worked great for rattling the nerves.

  The bile-producer dropped her mouth open, amazingly without the rim of a drink glass attached. The modest beauty wearing his shirt lifted her head.

  “I’m not the sort of man to take a beautiful woman in a bar bathroom for an audience.” Not on the first date, at least, and not unless he’d be fulfilling a fantasy for her. “And she seems like a fine lady who deserves a better class of friends.”

  “Did he just—who the hell are you to say what—”

  Lordy, Miss Martini could screech. The woman beside him stood silent, watching him with narrowed eyes. Not angry, so far as he could tell. Assessing, like she’d spotted something new. Good. She might spare more than a thought for something new, if he got the chance to correct her misunderstanding about his relationship status.

  “Shar, be chill.” The curvy blonde beside the screecher leaned forward.

  He averted his eyes from her gaping shirt. His daddy’d taught him to be polite. Daddy’d also taught his sisters to have more respect for themselves than these girls possessed.

  “Hey, rescue dude, your buddy took the spew monkey outside for some air or whatever. Said they’d wait for you out there.”

  Fuck. He’d offered to drive tonight so Brian could get smashed with his brother.

  “Right. Thanks for the message.” He turned to the woman in his shirt, torn between handing her down to her chair the way a gentleman ought to and asking if she’d care to go for a drive.

  He should’ve bought the extended cab. Nothing romantic about sitting four across in the pickup with a boy sick as a dog hanging his head out the window.

  Of course, he’d have the lovely lady beside him, her thigh pressed alongside his. Maybe the tickle of her honey brown hair on his shoulder. His cock twitched, eager as a teenager’s for a shot at action.

  “I’ll walk you out,” she blurted. “In case the staff gives you any more trouble. About the shirt, I mean.”

  Holy hell. He might have a better-than-nothing chance of getting her number yet. “My heroine. That’s right kind of you, miss.”

  She linked her arm around his, sweet as you please, and tugged him away from the table.

  “Yeah!” Stemware drained, martini girl slung the empty glass with loud, obnoxious, sloppy encouragement. “You’re halfway there, girl.”

  At sixteen, he’d begged every night in his dreams for that type of rowdy girl. At thirty-six, he had other ideas.

  “Take him out and ride him home, Ellie.” The girl’s shout followed them. “You deserve it!”

  The one who mattered tightened her hand around his arm, and her steps quickened. She’d already been taking the better part of two to his one. Five-five, he estimated.

  The top of her head came to his lips. The perfect height for tucking under his chin or dropping a kiss on. Or picking up and pressing to a wall to deliver a real kiss. Get those curvy legs wrapped around his hips.

  He cleared his throat in a vain bid to distract his cock. “So your name’s Ellie?”

  She scrunched her nose. Cute, but not a happy scrunch. “It’s Eleanora, actually.”

  Hell, he had experience with disliking his name. Points in common melted ice faster than taking a chisel to the deep freeze.

  “Eleanora.” Nodding, he held open the door. A classy name. Old-fashioned. No wonder she didn’t appreciate her friends’ butchery.

  The July heat slapped his face. Same as the inside of the bar, with all its sweaty bodies, but with added humidity.

  Eleanora released his arm.

  Loathe to let her slip away so soon, he extended his hand.

  “I’m Rob.” Leaning close, he kept her hand clasped in his. “My mama named me Robin, but don’t be letting that get around, all right? It’s another one of those things that’ll make a man nervous.”

  Had as a boy, more like. Calling him Robin constituted grounds for schoolyard fights. Though he damn well wouldn’t share how the guys in basic had settled on Sherwood, or that Brian had joked later his nickname ought to be “Sure Wood” for the string of ladies he’d taken to bed.

  “You don’t have anything to be nervous about.” Her smile held a trembling hint of shyness at the corners. “I know how to keep my lips sealed.”

  He hoped not. It’d be a crying shame not to taste her sweetness. “Good to know.” He spotted Brian over her shoulder, leaning against the truck with a shit-eating grin. “Lucas will pay for the damage when he sobers up. You can text me the cost.”

  “Oh—that’s—he doesn’t have to.”

  He resisted the urge to drop his head and kiss away her frown.

  “But, I should probably get your number anyway.” Blinking like she’d startled herself, she pulled her hand free and dug in her pocket. “So I can return your shirt.”

  He didn’t give a damn about the lost shirt, but he rattled off his number when she produced her phone. A smidge skittish, a mite shy, and hanging with a crowd unsuited to her reserve. His Eleanora must’ve ended a long-term relationship not so long ago. She didn’t seem keen to hop on a rebound train.

  Good. Neither was he. Take things slow, help her build up her dating confidence, and with any luck she’d see the potential in him he saw in her.

  He walked her to her car, said a polite goodnight, and closed the door for her. Crossing the lot back to his truck, he waved off Brian’s laugh.

  “Lost your shirt to the newest Maid Marian, eh, Sherwood?” Brian opened the passenger door and swung into the middle seat, leaving the window for a green-around-the-gills Lucas. “Hope you got a little something in return.”

  Lucas groaned as he hoisted himself up. “Man, tell me I didn’t puke all over that MILF.”

  Rob turned over the engine. Christ. Drunk or not, twenty-one-year-olds were blind stupid about women. Anyone past twenty-five probably registered ancient-to-prehistoric on the Lucas scale.

  “Sorry, man, you did, and I didn’t.” The chance for something more, maybe, if she—

  His phone sounded with a text alert. Yanking the digital leash from his back pocket, he jammed his arm against the seat.

  The message originated from a caller unknown to his address book.

  Just checking. I hear people give out fake numbers sometimes, and I’d hate to leave my shirtless gentleman without his shirt for long.

  Well now. That was promising. Bolder in text than in person, was she?

  He typed a quick response.

  Brian craned his neck. “Still got nothing?”

  Lousy snoop. He threw an elbow at Brian’s ribs and tucked his phone away. “Maybe a little something.”

  * * * *

  The living room curtains glowed cheery yellow as Eleanora pulled her secondhand Civic into the driveway a skosh after eleven. The security timer would’ve shut off the light between eleven-thirty and midnight if she hadn’t made it home.

  One of the many things she’d gotten accustomed to remembering since David had moved out. A woman living alone couldn’t be too careful.

  Of course, in the two years since their trial separation started and the three months since they’d finally signed the damned papers, she’d never not come home for the night. And she still hadn’t brought anyone with her.

  Tonight, though. “Temptation, thy name is Rob.”

  The dashboard didn’t reply.

  She parked in the garage and navigated the dark kitchen with ease. Five years since they’d bought the place by the grace of a falling housing market and down payment help from David’s parents. Now she wished he’d taken the house in the settlement or they’d sold the rotten thing. Living here entombed her in a mausoleum of their dead marriage.

  She hadn’t been able to make herself sleep in the master bedroom, not one more night after David had left. Flipp
ing the mattress hadn’t helped. Dousing it and the sheets with lawn mower fuel had brought by a crew of very polite volunteer firefighters in their wailing truck. They’d explained the open burning ordinances while she’d raged and sobbed beside the mound of flames in the backyard.

  The spare bedroom she’d taken for her own bore the neutral tones of an inoffensive motel. Off-white rug, off-white walls, dainty floral wallpaper border near the ceiling. No reason for a makeover—no one else saw the place. No money, either. The plain double bed had been intended for family visits, the empty room across the hall for a nursery someday. Scant chance of children now, when she spent her Friday nights in pathetic attempts to attract attention at student-heavy bars.

  Not like she had much choice. David’s hometown didn’t contain all that many options. Cruising the classier places ran the risk of encountering David’s legal buddies. The dives held the dregs of boozehounds, the guys her age and older who hadn’t grown out of college binge-drinking weekends and never would. If she stopped tagging along with Chelsea and the girls at the places they preferred to shop for men, she’d be going alone. Hell no.

  Jeans shucked and tossed aside, she slipped her bra out from under her borrowed shirt. She shambled into the bathroom to brush her teeth and chug a glass of water. Beer mouth, that cottony, swollen tongue and stale taste, wasn’t a joy to wake to.

  Not like Rob would be. His tongue, in the morning, on her—

  Choking, she spat toothpaste into the sink.

  Thirty-one had to be too young for hot flashes.

  She abbreviated her bedtime routine and scurried to the thermostat. Boosting the air conditioning would end this foolish heat chasing her. Life would return to normal by morning. The air kicked on. She sprawled under the thin top sheet, snug in his t-shirt and her panties.

  She’d been so unlike herself at the bar. Asking Shirtless Gentleman for his number. Calling him by that name in her text message. She hadn’t dated since college. Ten years. David had walked into her life, and she’d been head over heels.

  Not like tonight. With David, she’d experienced a girlish fluttering in her stomach. With Rob, the quaking in her body danced closer to…heels over head?

  Dragging the sheet over her face, she groaned. Hiding from a nonexistent audience solved nothing. She flung the sheet back.

  Spreading her legs failed to ease the ache. Closing them triggered the dim memory of adolescent explorations. Back when she’d still listened to her own body and chased pleasure by herself, for herself. Before David’s wounded act the one time he’d walked in on her, and oh, how she’d believed him.

  “Is this where your love goes, Eleanora? To yourself? I give you everything you need, and you don’t want it. Not the jewelry or the lace negligees or those perfumed bath scents to make you feel like the wife you’re supposed to be.” Sagging to the bed, he sold his performance with his bowed head and his lips against the ring on his left hand. “You’re betraying our marriage vows, touching yourself when you should be touching me. No wonder our bed is so cold.”

  She’d stopped. A lifetime ago. Those pleasures belonged to them as a couple. Going after pleasure herself was no better than trawling bars for strangers to excite her. David said so, and he only wanted the best for her because he loved her.

  Lies. Every word from his mouth, a lie.

  Hand drifting across her belly, she rubbed the soft, soothing cotton. Such an undemanding cloth, accepting her strokes without quibbling over speed or direction.

  Rob’s dark brown hair might be soft. She’d have to touch to find out. As she dragged his shirt up, the bottom roughed her fingertips. Maybe his super-short hair would be more like the hem, all bristle-brush and tingly.

  He had a handsome face. Kind, with quiet strength and gold-flecked hazel eyes that had never seemed to leave her. Whenever she’d looked at him, he’d been looking back at her.

  She dipped her fingers inside her panties and yanked them back. Wetness, thick and slippery. Her rare brushes with desire since David’s reprimand had always produced far less evidence. Even headed down the road to divorce, she’d obeyed his edict. In the months since they’d signed the papers, her furtive, aborted attempts ended in numbness or sobbing—rewards not worth the hassle.

  Burying her face in her shoulder, she breathed in an earthy warmth, the freshness of a garden in spring as the spade turned over the old soil and exposed the new. Rob’s scent. So unfamiliar, untainted by the rank stench of fail-sweat and unshed tears. A cocoon rather than a grave. Snuggly and humid and sparking with life, warming under—her fingers. Moving with purpose between her legs. He hadn’t handed over his shirt for this.

  But he’d never know how she fisted his shirt in one hand and succumbed to her body’s compulsion with the other. She’d launder the cozy cotton before she gave his shirt back to him. Another meeting, returning his unexpected generosity, would present a second chance to appreciate his strong grip. To imagine more places he might lay his hands.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she blocked out the bland bedroom where she lived like a guest in her own home. This body belonged to her. The wetness, hers. The spreading heat, hers. The musk mingling with Rob’s earthy embrace, hers. She pushed herself faster, her fingers controlling the knots tightening her muscles, making them dance and shake from one central point. When her breath stuttered, his voice delivered the words of his reply to her text.

  I’d rather see my shirt go home with you than me.

  And I promise you there won’t be anything fake between us.

  —Your Shirtless Gentleman

  Pleasure shot through her in shuddering waves. God, how had she forgotten the thrill of this peak and the stealthy contentment creeping in after? Embarrassed and giddy, she wiped her fingers on the bottom of his shirt.

  G’night, Rob.

  * * * *

  He dropped Brian and a healthier-looking Lucas at Brian’s apartment with the promise to meet them Saturday afternoon for the game. “Swear you’ll keep Lucas outta the beer cooler. He throws up while tagging a runner out at second, and we’ll have a brawl instead of a ballgame.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Brian flipped him a friendly bird. “Go meet up with your damsel in distress. Don’t get so much action that you’re sluggish running the bases tomorrow.”

  No chance of that.

  He pointed the truck for home and cruised on autopilot, every turn one he’d made a thousand times before. Sometimes with a woman, but less and less so in the last year.

  One place he and Brian disagreed. They’d marked the same number of years on the planet, but Brian wasn’t looking to settle down and probably never would. He lived for short-term romance. Rob craved the family life.

  He’d bought this old farmhouse five years ago with the hope of having a wife and a toddler or two to fill the place by now. The sort of family he’d grown up in, with laughing siblings and loving folks and room to run. Between his older brother and his two baby sisters, his folks had eight grandkids to spoil already.

  So far, he had a yard to mow and an upstairs full of empty rooms.

  The shine wore off every relationship. The girls crawling the bars dreamt of luxurious suburban mansions or penthouse apartments in distant cities. Their ambition didn’t extend farther than a man’s wallet. Fun for a night or three, but not interested in or interesting enough for more.

  Desire ate at him for a real woman, one with the ability to stand on her own two feet. One who chose to lean on him when he made her weak in the knees. One worth protecting and cherishing for the rest of his life.

  One like the woman at the bar tonight.

  Eleanora.

  Made of stern stuff. Able to laugh off a disaster. Compassionate, too—covered in sick up and still asking Lucas if he needed help. Fuck, she had good mom instincts, and humor, and brains, and blue-gray eyes stirring as a summer storm and honey brown hair robust as dark lager. He prayed for the opportunity to drink deep.

  Standing at the kitchen sink downing a gl
ass of ice water to stave off dehydration, he unzipped his fly and eased the pressure on his hardening cock. He set the glass down and pulled himself free, hissing at the chill of condensation from his fingertips. Mixed with his heated thoughts, the slick pleasure promised steam.

  Out the window, beyond the empty clothesline, the tall grass waved in the moonlight. The lone bur oak in the lawn proper waited with leafy arms for a tree house. He had plans aplenty. What he lacked was the right woman to share them.

  “How about it, honey girl?”

  Her shy smile mesmerized him. Fuck, the sight of her in his shirt. He stroked his cock with a loose grip. He’d claimed her in front of the whole bar tonight, whether she’d recognized the move or not. Scoped out his target and draped his shirt over her in a warning to any idiot who thought he had a shot.

  He stretched his jaw, tension building at the idea of any other laying a hand on her.

  She was the one.

  His mind and body united in that truth. His thoughts on her ran in directions no other woman had matched. Oh sure enough, he wanted her in his bed. Wished he’d be seeing her still in his shirt in the morning as she rolled on top of him and he teased the fabric off to feast on her flesh.

  His grip tightened. His motion quickened. Icy chill forgotten, he imagined her soft heat cradled him.

  But he wanted her in the yard, too. Hanging sheets on the line together and dancing between them. Chasing her through the billowing fabric and bringing her to the grass. Fingers fumbling at buttons and zippers, her laughter turning to moans that soared on the wind the half-mile to the neighbors’ place.

  “That’s right, let the whole world know I’m loving you. Deep as I can go.” He splayed his left hand on the counter, grunting at the rush pooling in his balls. “Gonna make you mine. My Nora.”

  Tension and relief climbed up his cock and sprayed the window over the sink, blurring his vision with milky white streaks. Bedsheets, waving in the wind.

  Sleep tight, honey girl.

  Chapter 2