No Kind of Hero (Portland Devils Book 2)

by Rosalind James

  Somehow, her hands were in his hair. “Evan,” she said again as he kissed her so high up, she had to rise into him. Or to try, because he wasn’t letting her go. “Please. Please.”

  “Beg some more,” he said, his fingers all the way under the hem of the shorts. “Go on.”

  “I . . .” she got out. “I can’t.”

  His fingers stopped moving, and she didn’t want them to stop. “Please,” she said again.

  “Please what?” he asked. He sounded different now. “You can’t what?”

  “I can’t . . . stop,” she said. “Don’t stop. Please.”

  Somehow, his fingers had found their way all the way inside her shorts, and inside the thong, too. Then they were inside her, and she was starting to rock under him.

  He kept it up. One finger inside her, his thumb rubbing the denim of the shorts and the silky fabric of the thong into her, stimulating her past bearing. And that other hand on her thigh, still, keeping her legs open for him. She was panting, and then she was moaning, rising into his hand like she could pull him inside her faster.

  “You want me to fuck you?” he asked, and she jerked hard against him, the excitement catching her in its spiral and swirling her up.

  “Yes,” she managed to say. “Yes. Please.”

  He took his hand away, and she didn’t want it to go away. She opened her eyes, started to rise, and he said, “No. Lie down,” and gave her a gentle shove on the shoulder. “Wait.”

  “I don’t want to wait,” she said.

  He laughed, low and soft, and she forgot to try to sit up, because he had his hands at the waistband of her shorts, and she felt the pop as he slipped the button out of its hole, and then the barely-there sound of the zipper lowering.

  “Know what I’m going to do now?” he asked her, and yes, her shorts were sliding down her thighs, over her calves, and then they were gone.

  “Well, I’ve got a . . .” She drew in her breath, because he was pulling her legs apart again, then he was between them, shoving her tank slowly up her body, his hands stroking their way over her skin. “Uh . . . pretty good . . . idea.”

  “Mm.” It was a low, satisfied sound, and he was popping the front clasp of her bra, spreading the two sides open. He didn’t bother getting her tank past her shoulders, and she couldn’t think about it anymore, because his mouth was at her breast, his hand shoving her arm up over her head, closing around her upper arm to hold her there, and his other hand was grinding her thong into her again.

  Too much stimulation. Too many places. Her hips started to move, and she was calling out. Which was when he moved down her body again, spread her wide open with his hands, and set his mouth to her through the silky material.

  Suction. The unfamiliar abrasion of the fabric, the heat of his mouth. The absolute vulnerability of being held like that, of being in his grasp. And this time, he didn’t stop. Her back was arching until her upper body was rising up off the bed and she was calling out. The spasms took her hard, and she shook and jerked and shuddered.

  And burned.

  Evan was sure she was going to kill him. He was going to die right here. He worked her through the long, rolling orgasm, focused on drawing every single bit of it out of her, and when she was limp and shaking, he pulled her thong down in one big hurry, right over her feet. And then he got that tank off and yanked the bra over her arms so she was naked.

  He could have been careful. Except he couldn’t. He was flipping her over, and she was drawing her knees up under her like she knew exactly what he wanted and couldn’t wait to give it to him. He had a hand in her hair again at the back of her neck, and the need pulling at him was nothing but savage.

  “Birth control,” he got out with the last brain cell he possessed.

  “Good,” she said into her hands, because she had her face pressed into them. “I’m good.”

  He’d been unfastening his belt and unzipping as she said it, and it was all he needed to hear. He was over her, not gentle one bit, and then he was inside her.

  Hot. Wet. So tight. He should have taken it slow, but he couldn’t. His hands were around her thighs again, and he was pulling her back, pulling her into him, stroking hard, driving deep. And she was going to come again. He could feel it. She was tightening, gasping, then keening, the pleasure too dark and hot to hold back.

  One hand, then, going to help her out, because he needed more of that. Her face was pressed hard into the mattress, her palms beside her head, shoving off, her cries muffled. The deeper he went, the louder she got, and when she started to contract around him, she pulled the orgasm right out of his body. He was shouting, and she was nearly screaming, shaking and spasming and sweating.

  Beth Schaefer. Getting fucked on her knees on his bed and loving it. And every single inch of her was his.

  He’d have thought she’d have rolled over, afterwards, to look at him. But she didn’t. Her knees were still drawn up under her, and he could tell by her shudders that the aftershocks were still coursing through her, like it felt too good to stop.

  He got his clothes off fast, and then he lay down beside her, rolled her so she was on her side, covered her breast with his hand, and kissed the side of her neck. A spot he hadn’t reacquainted himself with nearly well enough.

  “Wow,” she said on a long, shuddering breath. “That wasn’t exactly how I pictured this first time going.”

  He smiled against her neck, and then he kissed her again, and he did it well enough to get some more shivers out of her, not to mention a pretty damn nice hardening of that pretty pink nipple under his hand, too. So he did it some more.

  He could stay in this bed all afternoon and love her up good, except he couldn’t. But he wasn’t jumping right up and leaving, either. He couldn’t. He kissed her neck again and said, “Maybe I could’ve done it better if you hadn’t teased me that hard. But probably not. You drive me too crazy.”

  “Hmm.” She snuggled back closer like she was hoping he’d keep touching her, so he obliged. “I wouldn’t say you didn’t do it better,” she said on another sigh. “You did it great.”

  He laughed, and heard the complete satisfaction in it. “Worked for me. But next time, we’ll play longer.”

  “Could kill me.” It was a murmur.

  “You aren’t the only one. So what was that all about? Who was that woman who showed up today? I don’t think I ever met her before.”

  “Maybe I got impatient.” She stretched back against him. “When we were talking about you doing your best at everything yesterday, back there in the restroom, you know what I thought and didn’t say?”

  “Nope. But sounds like something I want to hear.”

  “I thought about how you loved me. Before. How you took your time, and you did everything so . . . so right. You could feel the way I liked it, and that’s what you did. Nobody else does that, do you realize?”

  He was in two places at once. He was hating that she’d been comparison shopping, and he was loving that he’d done it right. “You saying you wanted my body?”

  “You know I did. So if I pushed you a little, maybe I needed to see how much you wanted mine.”

  “How’d I do?”

  “I’d say you passed.” He could hear the smile in her voice, and he smiled, too. “So,” she said, “why did you put it off? That was my real point here. There. Somewhere. By legal standards, I’m not doing too well.”

  He held her closer. “I don’t remember putting it off. Seems to me I danced with you, I kissed you, and I felt you up good, too. If it had been up to me, I would’ve had your clothes off pretty damn fast that night. Somebody hauled her gorgeous ass back into that bar instead, and it wasn’t me.”

  “What happened to that careful guy who never swears anymore? Maybe I liked him better.”

  He grinned, slow and sure, because that was how he felt. “Nah.”

  She laughed. “You know—and here’s another point that’s been bothering me, so pay attention—people have sex with babi
es sleeping in the same house. Otherwise, nobody’d ever have more than one. The average American family still has two-point-four children.”

  “Which you know.”

  “Stable for decades,” she informed him. “So tell me why, when I throw my body at you—well, awkwardly present my body to you—you put me off for three days? You want to know where that woman today came from? She came from somebody who needed it bad and wasn’t going to get it until tomorrow night. Which was way too long. So why?”

  “Uh . . . what?” He wasn’t sorry he’d done it today—hell, how could he be?—but he was supposed to have—what? “Because I didn’t want to make you think you were some booty call? Because I wanted to make it special for you?”

  “Fine,” she said with a sigh. “You’re saying I’m not the kind of woman a man throws down.”

  “That’s how you read that? I’d say I threw you down. What else would you call it?”

  “I know you did. Eventually. I just wanted you to do it sooner.”

  He had to laugh. No choice. He kissed her again, and then he moved his hand all the way down her body, over her hip and thigh and back up again. “I hope I got it done now. I could get all huffy here and say I’m not your repairman fantasy, except seems I’m willing to be whatever you want. If you want to be thrown down some more?” Another lazy graze of his hand over her responsive body. “I’ll see what I can do. For now, though . . .” He gave her a little slap on the ass, because he wanted to and because he could. “I need a sandwich, because you about wore me out. And then I need to get back to work so I can take off on time tomorrow and take you out, and after that . . .” He sighed. “That bath with the candles sounded good. I think I might need a long, slow date with you next time. See what I can make you say if I drag it out long enough.”

  She rolled over, sat up, tossed her hair back, and didn’t even pretend to be shy. Rumpled hair in every shade of gold there was, pale, silken skin with a little beard burn messing it up here and there, long legs, and big blue eyes. Looking like a million bucks, and like a woman who’d been loved hard by a man who knew how. “You just want to hear me beg some more.”

  He lay on his back like a satisfied man and smiled at her, nice and slow. “Well, yeah, baby. I do.”

  Beth didn’t go straight back to Dakota’s when she left Evan outside the theater, even though there was plenty there for a housesitter to do. Dakota had obviously been telling the truth. She really didn’t do anything when she was making her glass. The kitchen garbage had been emptied, and the house didn’t stink. That was about as much as you could say. This morning, Beth had unpacked her limited wardrobe into Dakota’s half-empty closet and drawers, thrown the sheets and towels in the laundry, done some grocery shopping . . . and then she might have gotten a little sidetracked by checking out Dakota’s remaining wardrobe. After that, she might have gotten a lot sidetracked by going to see Evan with mischief in mind.

  It had worked, too. Who would’ve thought that doing something that crazy would have worked . . . well, like crazy? She might even have to find something else she could do. Pushing Evan’s buttons, watching him lose control? Oh, yeah. She had a lot of ideas.

  Anyway. Back to the plan. It wasn’t that she didn’t have things to do now. It was more that there was something else she had to do first. She drove the familiar road around the lake and down the drive, but she didn’t follow it around to the cottage. Instead, she went back into her parents’ house, and this time, she didn’t sneak in.

  The moment she walked through the door, Henry came rushing out to greet her, skidding to a stop and plopping down on his haunches at the last moment and looking up at her, his pink tongue hanging out of his mouth as if to say, See? I’m a good dog. Pet me. She was still giving him scratches down near his tail, his very favorite spot, and he was responding with total tail-thumping bliss, when her mother came out of the kitchen.

  “There you are,” Michelle said. “I just went over and left you some groceries. I also wanted to invite you to the hairdresser’s with me tomorrow. Arlene told me she had a spot, so I snagged it for you while I had the chance. I left you a voicemail, too. Really, how long does it take to respond to a message, especially when you’re not doing anything else? It’s not very considerate, is it? Arlene’s trying to run a business.”

  “Well,” Beth said, “considering that I didn’t ask for the appointment, I’m not sure I’m actually responsible for that one. Although I am getting my hair cut tomorrow.” She knew she was lobbing it out there like a grenade. It was all she could do not to duck. “At the new Aveda salon downtown. I asked around, and people say they’re the best. Really up on it.”

  “You don’t need ‘up on it,’ her mother said. “You have beautiful hair that looks just fine. A classic cut is always best. You need a trim and a deep condition, that’s all. And, darling.” She took a glance at Beth’s hands, then looked away as if the sight pained her. “Please get a manicure. I don’t know how many times I’ve asked you, and I certainly don’t know what you’re thinking with that color. It’s better than that horrible gray, but that is not tasteful. And I know you’ll say I’m too interfering, but I’m going to say something else. I know you’re relaxing, but those shorts—no. You have some perfectly appropriate shorts. I’ve seen them. Or a pretty skirt. You can never go wrong with a skirt or sundress.”

  Beth may have gotten a little distracted at that. She needed that sundress. That one that unbuttoned. She was still thinking about it when her mother added, apparently having decided to go nuclear, “Your bra straps are showing, too, and I don’t care what the magazines say, showing your underwear has never been anything but trashy. If this is how you dress in Portland, I don’t know what to say. I really don’t. None of that sends the right message. Certainly not to a man.”

  Beth had continued to scratch Henry all through the catalog of her sins. Now, she stood up. “Depends what message you want to send, don’t you think? And to whom.”

  Her mother, who’d turned to straighten the flowers on the hall table like a woman who’d laid down the law and was moving on, turned around. “What?”

  “I came by to grab some cleaning stuff to do the guesthouse,” Beth said. Adult. Not eighteen. And there is zero need to respond to any of the rest of it. You don’t need to engage.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” her mother said. “Chantal can do it when she comes.”

  “I’d rather do it myself, though. I’ve really appreciated being able to use the place these past couple weeks, but it’s time to move on. Call it the next stage. I moved my things to a friend’s house today. I’m going to be housesitting for the rest of my time here, but I’d like to clean the guesthouse before I go.”

  All right, that last part was a tiny bit weaselly. Put on those big girl panties, sister. “I’m housesitting for Dakota Savage, in fact,” she said. “Actually, for her dad. Russell.”

  Her mother’s mouth opened for a moment, then she snapped it shut and said, every word coming out as carefully shaped as cut glass, “Dakota’s obviously . . . changed her circumstances lately, and I’m sure everybody’s very happy for her that she’s been able to rise above her past. And her . . . stepfather. But that doesn’t mean you rush to become her best friend. Being civil is fine. A lady can always be civil. But going out with her to a bar, and now staying in her house? Do you really imagine she’s going to be in those circumstances for long? Then what? You choose your level, darling, so you’d better make sure it’s someplace you’ll be happy to stay.”

  Beth was tired of smoothing things over. Tired of being nice. “What past?” she asked. “Exactly what?”

  “This is a small community,” her mother said. “There’s no need to repeat gossip, but reputation matters.”

  “You’re right.” Henry was pressed up against Beth’s bare legs now, his warmth comforting her. She saw the relaxation in her mother’s expression before she went on and wrecked it. “And that’s why I’m going to trust what I’
ve seen instead of what I’ve heard, because that’s what I know for sure. I’ve liked Dakota since I first met her. She might not have had money or reputation or whatever people’s problem is, but she’s . . . all sorts of things. Straightforward, for one. Incredibly talented. And kind, which I’ve decided is about the most important thing a person can be. Not sticky-sweet, because that means a big fat zero. It’s not what somebody says about what kind of person they are. Look at my boss, for instance. He couldn’t be less cuddly. But look at what he did. Told me to take the time. Of course, he’s trying to take it back now, but he did it.”

  She was on a roll, and when her mother tried to speak, Beth talked straight over her. “And as for Dakota—everybody I’ve ever heard laughing about her? I have no idea what happened in the past, and I don’t care. I know what I know, and I’ve known those girls since kindergarten. They aren’t people I’ve ever cared about, and I care less now. Dakota’s done me a couple favors, and now we’re doing each other one. And before you get all excited about that,” she went on, throwing the last piece of restraint to the wind, “I’ve got something even better for you. I’m going out with Evan O’Donnell tomorrow night, and after that, I’ll bet I’ll go out with him again. Somebody will probably see us and tell you, so I may as well tell you first. I was holding his hand on Main Street today, so they might even tell you before that.”

  Her mother’s hand was at her chest. Another woman might have sunk into a chair, but Michelle Schaefer was made of sterner stuff. A couple spots of pink may have appeared on her still-smooth cheeks, but that was all. “I don’t even know what to say,” she said. “Do you want to throw your life away?”

  “Maybe.” That recklessness was taking her over again. She was skydiving, falling free, wondering if the parachute would open when she pulled that cord. “The one I’ve got doesn’t seem to be working all that well. Might as well try doing it differently.”