Down On Me (Man of the Month Book 1)

by J. Kenner

  "Jenna." His hands clasped her upper arms, and he held her in place as he examined her, his eyes taking in every inch of her, his inspection so meticulous that she knew he must be seeing her disappointment, her embarrassment, her frustration.

  Her fear.

  Not of the dark. Not of the dangers of being stranded in a dark and secluded parking lot.

  No, this fear was new, and it stemmed from the wildness she saw in his expression. A fire so intense it could reduce her to ashes. And she saw something else, too. A promise. Or maybe a threat.

  She wasn't sure. But as he bent toward her, she felt her breath catch in her throat and her chest tighten in anticipation. He was going to kiss her.

  She drew in a sharp breath, and the sound acted as a talisman, breaking the spell. He froze, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly, but enough for Jenna to know that the possibility of a kiss had faded with that errant breath—and she wasn't sure if she should be relieved or very, very disappointed.

  "God, Jenna, you scared the hell out of me. Are you okay?"

  He pulled her close, crushing her against his chest. And at that moment, she realized just how worried he'd been—and how desperately she'd needed to see him tonight.

  His fingers dug into her arms as he eased her back away from him. This time, his eyes fixed on hers. He released his grip, then brushed her hair back from her face, the gesture so tender she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him close.

  "I'm okay," she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. "I'm okay now."

  "What happened? Are you hurt? Did someone—"

  "No. Nothing like that." She swallowed, gathering herself, then stepped back. Her emotions had been all over the place—she'd been all over the place. But now that he was here, she felt calmer. And all the more foolish because of it.

  "I—it's not as bad as you'd think from looking at me. Promise. It's just, I don't know. Everything piled up on top of everything else. I mean, I'd thought they were serious about me getting this job, but then—"

  "You didn't get it?"

  "Not even close," she said. "The whole situation was a crock. It was me and a half-dozen other candidates, and it was so damn obvious that they weren't legitimately interested in any of us. We were just there to be cost-free labor, and—" She clenched her fists at her side, because she didn't want to think about it anymore. For over an hour now, she'd been kicking herself for being so stupid. For getting her hopes up about something that had seemed like the perfect situation, but the truth was she should have seen the warning signs.

  "I'm sorry," he said gently, pulling her back into his embrace. He stroked her back, his hand going in small circles, and she smiled against his shoulder, feeling soothed and safe.

  "I just feel so stupid."

  "You thought you'd found exactly what you were looking for. And you were too close—and too excited—to see the dark underbelly."

  She closed her eyes and nodded against his chest. "Thanks for coming."

  "Are you kidding me? I'll always be here for you."

  "I didn't even tell them I was leaving." She gestured back toward the warehouse inside which the company was filming. "I just ran out. All I could think about was getting away from here, but then the car wouldn't start, and—"

  Tears clogged her throat, and he cupped her chin, looking deep into her eyes. "Hey, none of that. I'm here now. The power of three, remember?" He raised his hand, and she met him with a fist bump the way the three of them had all through high school.

  "But only two tonight," she said. "You didn't bring Brent."

  "Yeah, well, you didn't call him."

  She felt her cheeks heat and hoped he didn't notice. The only one she'd wanted was Reece.

  She didn't tell him that, though. Instead, she lifted a shoulder, looked down at the pavement, and said, "Well, you know. I figured you're the one who can fix the car." She lifted her head to look at him. "You can, right?"

  "I'll give it a whirl."

  She stepped back, giving him room to deal with the car. He popped the hood, then handed her his phone so she could aim the light at the engine. She had no idea what he was doing, but he pulled a small army knife out of his pocket, then fiddled with something, then tweaked something else.

  After a few minutes of that, he stepped free of the hood and stood up to look at her. "That should do it."

  "Thank you." She swallowed. "I'm—well, I'm meeting Easton in half an hour, and I don't want to be late."

  His jaw tightened. "No. Definitely wouldn't want that."

  For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then she wiped her palms on her skirt and cleared her throat. "Well. Anyway. I, um, guess I'll see if it starts now."

  She took a step toward the driver's door. She didn't make it. Instead, Reece's hand closed around her wrist, and he pulled her back, his arm looping around her waist as his mouth crushed hard against hers. Immediately, she melted, her body going warm and soft and pliable even as she felt him harden against her. She moaned, the sound coming unbidden, and he took advantage, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth. Taking. Tasting.

  Demanding.

  Something inside her cried out that she should be retreating. That this was a mistake, and she needed to push him away. To back off.

  But she didn't. She couldn't. Because this was Reece. This was what—who—she wanted.

  And so she did the only thing she could do.

  She surrendered.

  Reece had imagined this moment hundreds—no, thousands—of times over the last eight months. The heat of her in his arms. The taste of her mouth. The pressure of her lips against his.

  He'd spent long hours imagining the pressure of her body against his, her skin hot, her pulse rapid with desire.

  Again and again, he'd succumbed to the fantasy of this wild, perfect moment.

  And yet his imagination had never come close to the reality of the woman he now held in his arms.

  Still, though, it wasn't enough. He craved her. Needed her.

  Inside him, a dam had burst, and all of the desire he'd been fighting was spilling out, threatening to steal his reason and overwhelm his senses.

  His mouth warred with hers, taking and teasing, the kisses so wild and rough that he tasted blood. His cock ached, and with every low, passionate noise she made he felt himself grow harder, until all he could think about was tossing her into the back of the El Camino and burying himself inside her as the stars shone down on them.

  He wanted to feel her yield to him, to lose himself in her heat. He wanted to kiss every inch of her body. To memorize the texture of her skin and explore every crevice, every curve.

  Hell, he wanted her at his mercy, and the knowledge that she wanted him too both humbled and amazed him.

  "Jenna," he murmured, because he had to feel her name on his lips. Then he thrust his fingers into her hair and held her head steady so he could claim her mouth once more.

  He used his other hand to explore her body, relishing the small sounds of arousal as he cupped her ass through her skirt. He wanted to pull the material up and slide his hand between her legs, then explore her slick, wet folds.

  His cock twitched at the thought, but he forced his hand the other direction. Soon enough he'd lose himself in that sweet heat. Right now, the temptation was too great, and as much as the thought aroused him, he had no intention of fucking Jenna in the back of the El Camino.

  Not tonight, anyway.

  Instead, he moved his hand over her hip, along the curve of her waist, then higher until his fingers brushed the swell of her breast. He felt a shiver run through her, then heard her whisper his name.

  "Jenna," he murmured as he cupped his hand over her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple, hard now under the thin material of her bra and her blouse.

  She drew in a shuddering breath, her back arching in an invitation to a more intimate touch.

  He wanted to accept. Hell, he wanted to rip the blouse wide open, to tug her bra down and fl
ick his tongue over her nipple until she cried out for more.

  And she would—he knew she would.

  She was his now. No more waiting. No more wishing.

  His.

  Dear God, she was finally his.

  And he intended to take his time to explore every inch of her, punishing her with unrelenting pleasure until she screamed his name and begged him to please, please take her, and—

  "—please..."

  The word, so recently at the center of his fantasy, caught his attention. "Jenna, we—"

  "—can't," she finished, pulling away from him. She stood there, breathing hard, her expression miserable. "Reece, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But this is—I mean, it's not. I mean, we can't—"

  She cut herself off again, then bit her lower lip before swallowing hard and tilting her head up to meet his eyes. "Don't hate me," she whispered, "but I just can't."

  Chapter Eleven

  Reece opened the bottle of Jack he kept in the cabinet beside his sink, poured himself a shot, then hurled the damn glass across the room without even taking a sip.

  Fuck.

  He'd lost her.

  She'd been right there. His. Right in his arms, exactly where she was supposed to be. And somehow he'd fucking lost her.

  He dropped down onto the sofa, then took a swig straight from the bottle, closing his eyes as the whiskey burned its way down the back of his throat.

  Why the hell should he be surprised? He knew damn well that even if he had her, he'd never be able to keep her. Each and every one of his relationships had fallen apart. He just hadn't expected the end with Jenna to come only minutes after the beginning.

  With a groan, he let his head fall back while he rubbed his chest in a futile effort to heal the jagged wound she'd inflicted when she'd ripped herself away from him so that she'd be on time for Easton.

  Fucking Easton, a goddamn pretty boy attorney. One who didn't live in an apartment over his father's garage. Who was steady. Interesting. And who hadn't gambled away his life's savings to help a friend.

  Hell, he was probably good for her. And, God knew, Jenna deserved the best.

  So, no, Reece didn't begrudge the man. Even if he did want to kill him.

  He took another swallow and sighed as the liquid fire lit his veins. It had been one hell of a crappy night. And the worst of it? That the one person he wanted to talk to was the one person he couldn't call. Fuck.

  He couldn't even ring Brent. For one thing, Reece had no interest in confessing the truth. For another, he happened to know that Brent was still at The Fix. He was on until closing, and after that, he was crashing, planning to grab a few hours of sleep before spending his day off tomorrow with Faith. A school day, but considering Faith was still in kindergarten, he'd told Reece that he was willing to break the rules.

  Maybe he should call Megan...

  She might not be able to burn the thought of Jenna out of his mind completely, but she could at least give him a few hours peace.

  He started to reach for his phone, then pulled his hand back. It wasn't peace he wanted; not really. He'd rather feel this way and crave Jenna than have another woman in his bed. Because no matter how much he might like the woman or how good the sex might be, it couldn't be anything but hollow.

  And Reece didn't think he could ever settle for hollow again.

  Frustrated, he took another sip, then closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He didn't intend to go to sleep, but the next thing he knew the light from his east-facing window was streaming in, warming his skin and urging his eyes to open and face a new day.

  A day without Jenna.

  The thought made him groan, and he forced himself off the couch. His muscles protested—he'd slept all night sprawled half-on and half-off his sofa—and his head ached with the dull throbbing of a hangover and the uncomfortable residue of Jenna-filled dreams. He felt like shit, but he was determined not to spend the day watching a mental movie of Jenna rolling around in bed with Easton.

  By seven, he'd shoved a faded concert T-shirt over his head and had tugged on a pair of threadbare jeans. By seven-fifteen, he'd washed down a piece of toast with a glass of orange juice. And by seven-thirty he was under the carport, a power sander rumbling in his hand as he stripped a layer of cracked, faded varnish off the final door of his dad's kitchen cabinets.

  He worked slowly, meticulously, letting the work beat back all other thoughts until there was nothing but him and the wood and the promise of turning something old and battered into something shining and new. Soon enough, he made the final pass, then switched off the machine and turned around to find a tack cloth.

  It wasn't hard to find. As soon as he reached out, his father put the grungy brown cloth into his hand. "Little early for carpentry, isn't it, son?"

  "Oh, hell, Dad. Sorry. Did I wake you?"

  His dad waved the question away. "You know me. I'm up with the sun. And Edie's never slept past six in her life. But I haven't seen you up this early since, oh, never."

  Reece smirked. He'd never been an early riser, but his father was also prone to exaggeration. "Just trying to make some progress." He'd taken on the cabinet project a few weeks ago after his dad's current girlfriend, Edie, had made an offhand remark about how battered they were looking. Reece figured he'd do the kitchen cabinets first, then tackle the bathrooms in the summer.

  "I saw you come in," his father said, leaning against one of the carport's support posts, then lighting a cigarette.

  "Those things will kill you," Reece said automatically. He'd been trying to get his dad to quit for his entire life, with no luck. For that matter, his dad's three ex-wives—including Reece's mother—had been equally unpersuasive.

  "Might do," his dad said, just as he always did. His father had been smoking since he was fifteen years old, and had told them all that he didn't see any reason to quit now. "Was pretty late," he added, and it took Reece a second to realize they were back to talking about what time Reece got home last night.

  "Well, what with being thirty and all, I thought I could stay out without calling home first."

  "Stayed up pretty late, too," his dad continued, clearly ignoring the sarcasm. "Saw your light on," he added, by way of explanation. "Now here you are, up with the sun."

  "Your point?"

  His dad exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Just wondering if there's something on your mind."

  Reece sighed. He should have known it was coming. "No," he lied. "Okay, yes. I was thinking I might want to stay in the apartment a little bit longer than I'd originally planned. I'm not quite ready to dive into building the house yet, and so long as you don't mind me living in your backyard, I'd rather not deal with the hassle of moving all my stuff."

  The lie rolled out easily. The last thing Reece wanted to do was tell his miserly father that he'd essentially given his savings to Tyree in exchange for part ownership in a failing bar.

  Not that Reece was pessimistic about their chances—he wasn't. He just didn't want a lecture from his father. Reece might be thirty years old and able to bench press over two hundred and fifty pounds, but as far as Charlie Walker was concerned, Reece was still the skinny fourth-grader getting picked on by the sixth-grade bully.

  "Should be okay," Charlie said. "Edie was thinking about letting young Oliver stay there starting in late August."

  "Oliver?"

  "Her youngest grandbaby. Starting at UT in the fall. You figure you'll still be in the apartment then?"

  Reece raised a brow. "You figure you'll still be with Edie?"

  "Don't be impertinent, boy. You think I don't know what a good thing I have with that woman?"

  "I think you go through women like some men go through handkerchiefs."

  His dad made a rough noise in the back of his throat. "If you need a place, the apartment's yours. Anything else you want to talk about?"

  "Not a thing."

  His father stubbed out his cigarette, then gave him a long, thoughtful look.

  "Somethin
g else on your mind?" Reece asked.

  "You're a good man."

  A frown tugged at Reece's mouth as he glanced toward the cabinets. "What? These? I should have been finished by now."

  "The cabinets. Fixing up that apartment even though it's not going to be yours forever. The truck."

  "Truck?"

  "Your granddad's old El Camino. I heard you gave it to Jenna."

  "She's tight right now," Reece said, his senses sharpening at the mention of her.

  "Not criticizing. That girl's like family."

  "Right." Reece shoved his hands into his pockets. "Anything else?"

  "Talked to Tyree last night."

  "Oh?"

  "He told me about the partnership." His dad's voice had softened, and although it might have been Reece's imagination, he thought he heard a hint of pride. "The apartment's yours for as long as you need it."

  A lump formed in Reece's throat, and he swallowed it down. "What about Edie's grandson?" he asked, reaching for a fresh tack cloth.

  "Phfft. Dorms are good for a kid. And don't worry about getting your house."

  Reece looked up sharply, surprised. The straight-forward acknowledgment of what Reece had done for Tyree—and what he'd given up in the process—was uncharacteristic for Charlie.

  "If it's your dream, you'll make it. Sometimes dreams take a while," Charlie added. "Hell, sometimes you don't even know what your dream is until it's staring you in the face."

  An unfamiliar twinkle danced in his father's eyes. "Dad?"

  But Charlie just waved the words away. "Don't mind me. I'm just an old man rambling. Bottom line is that I'm proud of you, son." He pushed away from the post, standing up straight. "Now Edie and I are off to breakfast, then we've got an appointment with a travel agent."

  "A travel agent? Dad, I keep telling you that it's simple to book flights on the Internet. You don't have to go through an agent."

  "We're thinking about taking a cruise. Figure we should do it right."