by Taryn Quinn
He tried to breathe past the obstruction in his chest. The angle as she leaned slightly backward made her body appear more lush than he’d ever seen it. Which made sense, now that he thought about it. But he’d never before been confronted with the pronounced swells of her breasts. Not that he paid attention to them as a rule. And even her stomach had a slight—so slight as to almost be indistinguishable—curve outward. Emphasizing her vulnerability and her beauty, both of which now seemed capable of knocking him flat on his ass if he didn’t watch his step.
His mouth opened. Words pounded in his skull. Urgent, vital ones. None completed the circuit to his lips.
“Sterling?” She blinked up at him, all innocent confusion. Perhaps not that innocent in light of recent confessions. “Are you okay? You’re breathing funny.”
Unsurprising, since he feared he’d soon be walking funny. The insistent press against his zipper evidenced that well enough.
It had been a year since he’d been in a relationship. Or had sex. As much as he saw physical release as a biological imperative, he wasn’t the type to have dalliances based merely on the whims of his loins. He believed in sex within the bounds of commitment. Some called him old-fashioned. He figured it was practical. He had no time for pleasure-seeking flights of fancy. A stable, long-term union called to him in more ways than he could name. He liked the familiarity of a known partner. Shared jokes, shared routines. The deeper intimacy that could be reached when involved with someone for more than the time it took to shed his pants and belt them on again.
But since Tricia had left him, he’d found himself looking at women more often. Not in a creepy fashion—he hoped—but in a curious one. From his reading, most men had a type. Long legs, big breasts, redheads, blonds. A particular combination that instinctively spun their cranks.
He’d been unable to decipher such a discernible pattern in himself. All of his exes looked different. Some short, some tall, some brunette, some not. He simply liked women. Their smells, their smiles, their softness against him. He’d begun to believe he had no particular thing that flipped his switch.
Until now. Now he knew the undeniable, vaguely disturbing truth.
Pregnant women made him hot.
Ang stepped closer and lifted her hand to Sterling’s shoulder. It required a bit of stretching, since he was a good half foot taller. “Are you okay?” she repeated. “Are you ill?” She had lots of experience with that nowadays, though she was willing to bet his sickness wasn’t caused by the same thing.
He caught her hand halfway up his chest, seizing her fingers in his iron-like grip. “Don’t.”
His abrupt tone surprised—and okay, hurt—her. He’d rarely spoken a sharp word in her direction. In anyone’s direction, that she’d seen. “Sorry. Nonsexy preggo chicks should look, not touch.” She tugged her now-cold hand back and pushed it into the pocket of her pants. Where it continued to tingle, oblivious to any and all pleas to just stop it already.
Sterling had never been in her sphere as far as inappropriate tingles went. Now he existed in a whole other solar system.
Pete Lamont was the sort of guy she fit with. A guy like Pete, not Pete himself, since hello, douche. But someone a little edgy, a little foul-mouthed, a little wild. The kind of man who wouldn’t balk at pushing her against the wall and taking liberties with her very willing person.
Sterling had probably never had sex outside of a bedroom. Classical music playing, silk sheets, slick bodies writhing…
She pressed a hand to her lower belly. Holy shit, could she come just from having a fantasy? Was that a pregnancy perk?
“You said Pete fathered your baby.” Sterling’s jaw tightened until she thought it might crack. “I only know one Pete. Surely you don’t mean Pete Lamont?”
“Surely I don’t,” she mumbled, hurrying away from him before the lower belly clenching stopped and her tears reappeared. With her current hormonal confusion, perhaps she could self-pity sob and climax simultaneously. She didn’t want to push her luck.
“You can’t be serious.” His impatient footsteps hitting the concrete followed. “He has a mohawk,” he finished as she whirled to face him.
“So?” she demanded. “So what? I have a tattoo. I have piercings. I might even get my nipples pierced. Does that make me less than acceptable to you too?”
He shoved a hand through his normally perfect hair. The dark silky strands slid away from the crown to fall over his forehead, and their inky blackness near the winter blue of his eyes only made them seem brighter. “One has nothing to do with the other. You’re free to tattoo and pierce whatever parts of yourself you see fit.” He waved at her body without looking at it. Actually, he was not looking at it so hard he was practically talking out of the side of his mouth. “But that doesn’t change that my impression of Pete Lamont has not been a favorable one, the mohawk being the least of his issues.”
“Then why did you mention it?”
“Would you rather I say he’s a known womanizer? I trust you’d prefer I besmirch his hairstyle in lieu of other potentially hurtful things.”
His fussy speech took some of the bluster out of her fury. Why did he have to be so cute? It made it impossible to be mad at him for long. “I know all that now. Even if I’d known before we hooked up, it probably wouldn’t have changed anything. Women like to try to fix bad boys.” She shrugged. “It’s a thing.”
“Why wouldn’t you just skip the bad boy altogether and get a man who was already fixed? In a manner of speaking.”
“That takes away some of the thrill. We’re no different than men. We like to conquer too.”
“That makes no sense.” Before she could rail at him, he cocked a brow. “And why on earth would you pierce your nipples? Wouldn’t that hurt?”
“You’re just full of questions today, aren’t you?” She started walking again to hopefully keep him from seeing the flush creeping up her throat.
“You opened the line of inquiry. Don’t slam the door shut now. I’m truly curious.”
She didn’t doubt it. Sterling seemed to be curious about everything. He also didn’t worry about discussing nipple piercings with his friend’s daughter in a church parking lot, because he wouldn’t see it as anything but a simple information exchange. It wasn’t as if he was…flirting with her.
Sterling didn’t flirt. Ever. He commanded, he planted his flag and he went home. He had no need to cajole.
He certainly didn’t when it came to her and her damp panties, that was for damn sure.
“Nipple piercings act as adornment, as do other kinds of piercings.”
“You already have ear, eyebrow and lip piercings. Why do you need more?”
“Then there’s the heightened sensitivity aspect,” she continued, pretending he hadn’t spoken. “Piercings in certain areas are supposed to increase sexual pleasure. Hardly a bad deal, right?”
He cast a dubious look at her midsection—though her tits weren’t where they’d been a month ago, they weren’t swinging that low yet—and frowned. “I’m assuming that hasn’t been a problem for you in the past?”
It took her a moment to catch his drift. Once she did, she hauled off and hit him in the arm. It felt good, so she did it again. “There is nothing wrong with a woman enjoying sex, you fifties’ reject.”
“What did I say? I merely indicated your condition suggests that perhaps you’d enjoyed sex without enhancements to your breasts. That’s all.”
“Newsflash, dude—a chick can get pregnant without coming. It happens. Our coming isn’t necessary to the process. As usual, it’s all about the men.”
Instead of looking put off by the conversation as she’d assumed—hoped, because seriously, this was not the time or place to be discussing the birds and the bees, plus she had to go wring out her panties—he appeared fascinated. Naturally. “I just assumed. Do you typically have trouble reaching climax through intercourse?”
“Sterling,” she gasped.
“What?” He tucked
his hands in his pockets and started walking again. “I’m not trying to talk dirty to you. I’m trying to understand why you’d mar what is undoubtedly perfect pink flesh with the same kind of rings that go through the nose of a bull. That is all.”
She stared after him, barely breathing. She must be imagining this whole conversation. There could be no other explanation.
Talk dirty? Talk freaking dirty? She didn’t know he even knew about such things. That wasn’t a usual boardroom prerequisite.
When she didn’t follow, he let out a heavy sigh and halted, swiveling to look at her for a slow, drugging moment. She half expected sultry music to swell in the background like they were in some racy movie instead of a short distance from a raucous bingo hall, complete with boisterous grannies and the smell of burnt popcorn hanging in the air. The zings she got from that simple glance were just not right in any way.
Then he had to spoil it by speaking.
“You need to get back to work. I’ll pick you up after. What time are you finished?”
She gaped. A common reaction when it came to the man. “Thank you, but I have my car.”
“I will pick you up,” he said again, his expression turning to granite. “You can follow me in your vehicle if you wish.”
“If I don’t wish, what am I supposed to do with my car? Just leave it here to be towed?” She crossed her arms and gave up trying not to glare. She’d seen him strong-arm others, of course—he came from a long line of powerful men who didn’t take anything less than an enthusiastic yes for an answer—but she’d never gotten the personal treatment.
So far it wasn’t sitting real well.
“Where are you staying? At home with your parents?” As if he already knew the answer, he shook his head. “No, you’d be telling them you were still in your off-campus apartment, but I have a feeling you’re probably not there any longer. Clean break, right?” At her nod, he sighed. “Please tell me you’re not sleeping on a friend’s floor.”
“Of course not. My roommate’s boyfriend wanted to move in, and I didn’t really want to be around that crowd right now.” She rubbed her damp palm on her hip. “The good news is, I have full use of Brandy’s couch.”
“You’re pregnant. You need to be getting adequate rest without worrying about keeping a roof over your head.”
“I’m not worried. I have money.” Not a lot, fine, but he had no right to barge in and try to take over. Even if she couldn’t help appreciating it a little bit, since just lately the world had seemed quite content to let her fend for herself.
And Brandy’s sofa was lumpy. No two ways about it.
“You’re searching for alternative housing then?”
“Good guess, wise guy. I’m not some helpless, penniless waif waiting to be rescued.”
The beat that passed between them felt charged somehow, full of much more than just silence. His jaw firmed until she wondered if he could snap the bone through sheer irritation alone.
“So you’ll rescue me then,” he said finally.
“Come again?”
“I have plenty of room in my home. Lots of guest bedrooms. I also have a troublesome ex.”
So many questions yet one jumped to the fore. “Why do you have lots of guest bedrooms?”
He cocked a brow. “I’m planning for the future.”
Apparently a future where he created his very own Vance Bunch. She diverted her gaze, unsure of how to respond. Sterling having lots of pretty babies didn’t concern her one way or the other.
“Ang?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Consider this me extending an invitation to you.”
“For what?” When the implication dawned, she shook her head. “Uh uh. Nope. No way.”
“Your presence in my home would act as a deterrent to my ex. I can’t get her to stop pestering me.”
She rubbed the piercing above her mouth as her brain struggled to keep up, then dropped her hand when his gaze tracked the movement. No wonder she couldn’t keep up with this conversation. He kept looking at her like that between those times he pointedly refused to look at her at all. “Why is she so insistent?”
“She…wants intercourse, naturally.”
Ang blinked. Had he really just said that? “Are you that good?” she asked before her brain kicked in. Or maybe it kicked in just fine, because that suddenly seemed like pertinent information.
The question took him aback, but only momentarily. “Of course.”
“So let me make sure we’re square. You claim that you have an ex that is so demanding of your sexual chocolate that you can’t get her mouth off your fruit and nuts?”
“Is that even English?”
She grinned. “Yes. But in layman’s terms—she wants the D.”
Nodding, he gave her a smile. “Uh, yes. All the above.”
Unless she was mistaken, he didn’t even grasp which D she was referring to, thereby upping his cuteness quotient by fifty. “And you need help to get her off the scent? For real?”
“For real.” He cleared his throat. “So you see, your presence would assist me as much or more than I’d be assisting you.”
Damn man knew exactly which card to play, even if she suspected his deck was more than a little stacked. He was probably lying. But even if he was willing to prevaricate in this case, her well-being was important enough to him to cross a line he normally wouldn’t.
Sterling never lied. A cop had pulled him over once when they’d been getting supplies for one of her mom’s get-togethers. When the policeman asked if he knew he’d been speeding, he’d said yes and apologized for going “ten-point-six miles over the posted limit.” She’d never forgotten, mainly because she’d laughed her ass off at his expense.
The man was a saint in yuppie’s clothing.
“Ang? Are you listening to me?”
She was, sort of. Then he stroked his tie and fixed that killer stare on her again and bam, her hearing shorted out. It had to be a coincidence, that stroking thing. His long fingers moving so slowly, mesmerizing her so that she didn’t hear what he said. His lips moved but she couldn’t concentrate on his voice.
Why, oh why did he have such sexy hands?
“Ang?”
“Yes.” Focus. If she didn’t, he was liable to have her booked on a flight to Milan before she checked back in to the conversation.
As it turned out, it was worse. Much worse.
“So it’s settled.” He smiled broadly. “You’ll move in with me.”
Chapter Three
In retrospect, perhaps he’d been too hasty.
Sterling glanced at his watch for the fifth time in the last five minutes and debated getting out and going to find her. She’d had to stay for evening bingo—who knew they did such things in shifts?—but she should’ve been done by now.
Not that she’d given him a time to pick her up. She’d been too busy fuming. No, he’d had to pump her coworkers for information before he rejoined his group. By then Jax and Cass were long gone and Summer had wrapped herself around Chase. He supposed newly engaged couples deserved some time to act foolish, but their cooing had led him to spend the next hour talking to Jax’s mom and Chase’s dad, who weren’t far from cooing themselves. All the while, he’d watched Ang bustle around the bingo hall, working hard.
And working hard at not acknowledging him.
It was just as well that Jax had left early. His buddy would’ve pumped him for information on the situation with Ang, and he really didn’t want to get into it with him. He also didn’t want Jax to draw the obvious parallels between his recent situation and Sterling’s current one.
Jax and Cass—who were also newly engaged, though less newly than Chase and Summer—had gotten together when she’d needed a bodyguard and he’d insisted on moving in with her to keep her safe. They’d had a long-term friendship-slash-antagonistic relationship, but evidently the threat of danger and close proximity made flesh collide.
Or something like that.
; Regardless, the same thing wouldn’t happen with him and Ang, though he knew Jax would take every opportunity to insinuate otherwise. Jax spent approximately 99.9 percent of his time focused on sex. The other .1 percent he spent unconscious.
Sterling could just hear his gleeful remarks now.
Ah, so you decided to skip the dating site for some live-in pussy? Smart move, man. Always knew you didn’t get ace grades in school for nothing.
In the first place, he didn’t refer to women’s body parts independent of the rest of them. Old-fashioned again, obviously, but so be it. In the second, he and Ang were not a repeat of Jax and Cass. Not only was he a trusted family friend of her father’s, she was too young and in a vulnerable spot. With child, for God’s sake. It would take a real predator to take advantage of her perilous situation in order to “pound one home” or whatever other sexual references Jax would pepper through their conversation. That they were usually baseball-themed in nature only made them more annoying.
So it was better he didn’t tell Jax a damn thing.
Besides, he’d made some very nice contacts through the dating site. He hadn’t progressed beyond chatting thus far, by design. Whether he was ready to take things into the physical realm remained to be seen. Somehow talking to attractive women online didn’t seem as bad as meeting them at a coffee shop and making small talk to get them into bed.
Not that he’d do that, of course. But in case baser needs prevailed, he was taking his time. And good thing too, because of Ang. Though this was just a situation between friends—and bodyguard and client—he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable right away by bringing home a new woman.
He grimaced. Bad enough he already had a fabricated, sex-obsessed ex to contend with.
Tricia might have been sex-obsessed in actuality, but if so, he’d never seen the evidence. Sure, she kept calling him, though he was reasonably certain that was only to be polite. They’d been friends before their brief relationship. He wasn’t one to inspire mad lust. Just as well, probably, since inspiring mad lust led to inevitable conclusions, like pounding one home on a regular basis. He didn’t have time for that beyond two to three sessions per week, tops. He’d wanted to put that in his dating site profile in the interest of full disclosure but Jax had talked him out of it. He still didn’t understand why. Didn’t women appreciate a respite from carnality?