No Kind of Hero (Portland Devils Book 2)

by Rosalind James

  Evan leaned against the doorjamb and watched her. Her eyes were closed, but her arms were wrapped around Gracie, cradling her so carefully. His little girl was nearly asleep. He could tell that from the relaxation in her body. But she was falling asleep with a handful of Beth’s blonde hair clutched in her fist, and Beth was singing, soft and low. A song that had been popular that summer, about a woman leaving a man behind to pursue her own life. A song that said the fairy tale was over, because the princess was running away. A song he’d turned off every single time it had come on the radio.

  And Beth was sad. He heard it in her honey-sweet, husky voice, saw it in the set of her shoulders and the naked emotion on her face when her shifting feet turned her his way. She slowed at last, stopped singing, and kissed Gracie on the top of her head, then brushed her cheek over it, the same way he always had to do, and said in that same low voice, a little falter in it, “You’ve got such a good daddy. He’s going to love you forever, too. He’s good at that. You can cry if you have to. He’ll still be there.”

  He shoved off his door frame, and he couldn’t even say how he made it to her side. He was there, taking Gracie gently from her arms and cradling her close, then wrapping an arm around Beth, too, and holding both of them. Kissing Beth’s forehead, feeling the trust in the way she put her own arms around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder. He kissed her once more and told her, “I’ll put her to bed.”

  She nodded, took a deep breath, and said, “I’ll get the burgers. And the beer.”

  Slow down, he told himself as he picked up Gracie’s diaper bag and took it into Russell’s bedroom. You’re not stupid anymore. You don’t need to do this. Rein it in. He spread out Gracie’s quilt on the plain blue bedspread, set her gently onto her back, covered her with a blanket he pulled from the linen cupboard, then arranged a barricade of pillows at the edges of the bed. Her mouth pursed, her eyelids fluttered, and she gave one of those deep baby sighs, then was still.

  When he came back, Beth was sitting cross-legged on the couch, beers poured and two foil-wrapped packets of burgers and fries sitting neatly on plates in front of her on the coffee table. She had the remote in her hand and was flipping through the Netflix offerings. Which was better. They didn’t need to dive so deep. Deep was dangerous.

  She looked at him, pushed her hair out of her face, and asked, her voice back to something less vulnerable, “How about Gentlemen Prefer Blondes? Or is that pushing it too much?”

  “Not pushing it for me,” he said, sitting beside her. Not too close, and not too far. He’d decided he liked watching her put the moves on him. He wanted to see it again. “This gentleman prefers them, anyway.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “It’s Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell.”

  “Then I’m probably good.”

  The movie was actually not half bad, and the scenery wasn’t exactly painful, either. There was a reason everybody still knew Marilyn’s name. He just hadn’t realized she’d been so funny. And when Beth finished eating her hamburger—all of her hamburger—she lay back against the arm of the couch, shoved a cushion under head, and—yeah. She draped her legs over his lap.

  “If you need another beer,” she said, sounding a little sleepy, “it’s in the fridge. But I’m too lazy to get it for you.”

  “Nah. I’m good.” The brunette was singing a song now, and it was pretty funny too. After a while, though, the screen froze. “Hey,” he said, then realized Beth had paused it.

  “Question,” she said.

  He stroked a hand over her smooth calf, down to that slender ankle, and held it. “Shoot.”

  “Which one do you like better? Jane or Marilyn? I read an article once about what a man’s choice said about him. I mean, which of their characters in this movie.”

  He scrutinized her for a minute. “Feels like a trick question.”

  She laughed. “No. Honestly. Just tell me, and then I’ll tell you what the article said.”

  “All right. Marilyn. No contest. But then, like I said . . . it’s all about the blondes. Now tell me what kind of hole I’ve dug for myself.”

  She stretched her legs out a little more comfortably, like she loved snuggling up with him. “No hole. What the article said—it’s not about blonde and brunette, at least not according to this woman. Opinion piece, you know. Jane Russell in this movie—she’s bold, she’s smart, and she’s completely confident in her sexuality. Well, they’re both confident in their sexuality, but Marilyn would be peeking back over her shoulder with her robe slipping off and her eyes all wide, so a guy would make his move and feel powerful, you see? And Jane—she’d be walking up to him with her hand on her hip, look at him from under her lashes, and say, “Got room for two?”

  “Yeah. Huh.” He considered that a minute. Beth and her research, but he had to admit, it was pretty interesting. “So you get a guy who wants to pursue and wants to feel like he’s in charge. But he also loves that she’s sending him those signals. He still wants to know she wants him. She’s a little more of a tease, maybe.”

  “Mm. Maybe. So you like that?”

  “Only with everything I’ve got.”

  “So when I was a little forward today . . .”

  “See?” he said. “I knew there’d be a trap. I knew it was going to get personal. You want to know why you set me on fire so bad all that time ago, and why you still do?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind hearing. And after you told me, I could tell you. If you wanted to hear.”

  “I could want to hear. And I could want to tell, too. Since it seems I’m still pretty crazy about a certain kind of woman. Maybe a woman like you.”

  His hand might have moved beyond her calves now. It might have been on her thigh, while the other hand held that ankle. What was it about her ankles that got him like this? “What do you think about an ankle bracelet?” he asked.

  “What?” She laughed. “I don’t think they’re in style anymore, are they? I never know. Anyway, I thought we were talking about, um . . .”

  “Sex. We are. And your legs turn me on. I don’t know if that’s Marilyn or . . . whoever. Or I do know. It’s not. It’s you. I think you’d look damn sexy in one of those. I don’t care if they’re in style or not. That would work for me.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well. Good.” He’d flustered her, clearly, but in a good way. Or maybe it was his thumb, stroking up her thigh again. Seemed he could get into that twice in one day, and so could she. “And, um, you were going to tell me. About . . . me.”

  “Yeah. Right.” He got both hands around her calves and pulled her right on over, so her knees were draped over his thighs.

  Oh, yeah. Access. Her ribbed tank had ridden up to just below her breasts with the movement. She really did have almost nothing on, and she obviously wasn’t wearing a bra, which raised another very interesting question. He kept petting her, keeping it light, almost absent-minded, so she’d be wondering what he was thinking, whether she was the only one getting turned on. “I was going to tell you,” he said as he did it, “that I love the way you turn pink just from me looking at you. I love the way your legs get shaky when I kiss you, and I loved how you told me about taking that bath. I love how soft and sweet you smell, and how much you loved it today when I flipped you over. I love that you want me to tell you what to do sometimes. And yeah, that’s probably why I like Marilyn better. But I still like you best. All that self-control, all that shy thing. And then making you lose it.”

  He kept his hands going. Slow and easy, up and down her thighs, the insides of her knees, all the sensitive spots. Now, he trailed his thumbs up her inner thighs, edging her legs apart just a little, and said, “Now you.”

  “Uh . . . me?” It wasn’t exactly her most take-charge question ever, but then, she wasn’t looking very take-charge right now.

  “It’d be real good,” he said, his thumbs almost there, “if you told me why I . . . what was it?”

  “Why you set me on . . . fire.” She was
definitely having some trouble now. His hands neared the edge of those tiny gray fleece shorts, and she hauled in a short, sharp breath. “It’s how you . . . look at me. It always has been. Like you want to, uh . . . eat me up. Like you know you’re going to turn me over, and you want me to know it, too. Like you’re going to want me, uh . . .”

  “Yeah?” He pulled her closer. He needed more. And he got it. He reached right under those shorts, and oh, yeah. There was nothing at all under there except some wet, slick, hot woman. So he went to work on that. Painting her. Exploring her. Taking his time. Her eyes were closing, and she was starting to breathe hard.

  He wasn’t done yet, though. He said, “Like I’m going to want you what? You having some fantasies, baby? This would be a real good time to tell me about them.”

  “You might . . .” She hauled in a breath, because he’d sneaked a couple fingers inside her. “Think I’m too . . . dirty.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help it. Her eyes flew open, and she tried to frown, but he was hauling her shorts down to her knees, and that seemed to distract her. “One thing I can tell you for sure,” he said, “is that you’ll never be too dirty for me. I guarantee you, there’s nothing you can think of that I haven’t already done to you.”

  “Like what? Maybe you could suggest and I could say, you know.” Another gasp, because he was going to town on her now, finding out exactly how she liked being rubbed and stroked. “Whether it’s, ahhh . . .”

  “Ever gone out wearing a dress and nothing under it, in any of those thoughts of yours?” he asked. A gentleman helped a lady out. “Ever whisper in my ear to tell me about it, so I’d have to get you in that elevator or that back room? I might not have done you there, though. I might just have touched you a whole lot, worked you all the way up, so you’d have to spend the rest of the night wanting it, all the way until I got you home. After that, though? I’d do you so hard.”

  “That might have been . . . one.” She squirmed like she wanted him to go faster, so he slowed down. “But I got . . . worse.”

  “Let me guess,” he said. Putting it out there, but why the hell not? If they were having a fling . . . well, he wanted to fling. Surely he deserved some flinging. “Knowing how you like that take-charge guy, I’m guessing this could involve your hands tied behind your back and you down on the floor on your pretty knees.” His exploring hand got the message that he’d guessed right. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, and he didn’t think she was going to be doing a lot more talking. So he did it for her. “Or your hands over your head, tied to my bed.”

  Her response was a moan, and he needed a whole lot more of that. He pulled her shorts the rest of the way off, and then he stood up, got that white tank top off her, and looked at her stretched out on the couch. Long legs, slim torso, delicate curves. And all that secret pink, right there for him to see and touch and have.

  She wanted it better, though? She wanted a fantasy? He could do that. He pulled her legs some more, got her all the way across that couch, then up so her hips were resting on the arm and her legs were over the side. Her eyes opened wide when he did it, and her arms were stretched behind her. She was about to say something, but he stopped her.

  “Oh, yeah,” he told her. “Stay like that. You want to know what I want from you? I could tell you. Or I could show you.” He got between her legs, pushed her thighs slowly up and apart until her feet were resting on the arm of the couch, then had to spend another minute or two touching her, working her closer, then closer than that. Until she was moaning, and he was dying.

  She said, “Evan. Take off . . . your clothes. I want to see you. Please.”

  That wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever heard. He pulled the T-shirt over his head, and she watched him do it. “You’re so strong,” she said. “You make me so crazy.”

  He laughed, though it came out rough. And then he got rid of the shorts and said, “Then don’t close your eyes. Watch me do this. I want you to see. I want you to know.”

  She dragged those blue eyes open, and everything in her face told him how much she needed this. And when he held the backs of her thighs and pushed himself slowly inside, her mouth opened right along with the rest of her.

  Oh, holy hell. The way she was looking at him. The heat of her. She was tight. He had to stop for a moment, grit his teeth, and get himself together.

  “Evan.” It was a breath. “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.”

  Slowly, then. Stroking carefully, watching her face, seeing what felt good and what felt better. How much she loved it when he pushed deep, when he hit that spot. Seeing her body laid out beneath him, pliant and so responsive. He could watch her while he did it, and she could watch him in a way he’d bet she never had with anyone. And she was watching. She was breathing hard, and he was moving faster. And when her hand strayed down her body like it had a mind of its own and joined the party? He burned that much hotter, and so did she.

  One arm over her head, that other hand working herself closer. His own hands wrapped around those slim thighs, pulling her into him, while her hair, draped over the couch behind her, was dragged forward and back with every thrust. She was still watching him, her mouth forming his name. Like she knew who was doing this to her, and she loved knowing it was him.

  He was almost there. So close. And she was too. It was almost too good to bear. “Come on,” he managed to grind out. “Come on, baby. Show me how dirty you are. Show me now. Tell me.”

  “Evan.” She was saying it now. “Evan. Fuck me hard. Make me . . . make me . . .”

  That was it. He felt the spasms beginning to grip him, saw her head go back and the arm over her head go rigid, her hand clutching at the edge of the cushion, holding on. And he lost every last bit of his control.

  Hard. Fast. Just this side of rough, like he could get all the way inside her, like he could have it all. He let himself feel it. He let himself know it. And then he let it all go.

  “Wow,” Beth said when Evan had helped her back onto the couch, when she’d cleaned herself up and pulled her clothes back on, and so had he. “That was not what I was planning.”

  He cuddled her closer, his arm around her, and said, “You saying bringing a woman a burger and banging her brains out on the couch isn’t romantic?”

  She laughed out loud, a sound like “Ha!” and then slapped a hand over her mouth. That was classy.

  He grinned, kissed her temple, and said, “You don’t have to laugh like a lady. I like you relaxed. I always have.”

  When she heard it, he was already standing up. A complaint, and then the beginnings of a wail. He was off the couch and gone, coming back a few minutes later with Gracie wrapped in her quilt and still crying.

  “I don’t have another bottle,” he said, bouncing his daughter in his arms. “It’s this cold she’s got. I should take her on home.”

  He kissed Beth goodbye at the door while Gracie clung to him, and said with a faint smile, “We’ll do it better tomorrow. I promise.”

  “I liked tonight fine,” she told him, because surely the New Beth was all about honesty. “I liked doing the yard with you. I liked helping get Gracie to sleep, too. And the rest of it wasn’t half bad.”

  “Well,” he said, “we’ll work on that, too.” He kissed her again and headed on out to the van, straight and solid as always, and she stood and watched him go and tried not to miss him.

  She was playing, though. They were playing. They weren’t getting involved, they were just putting their ghosts to rest. They weren’t lovers, even if that was how it felt. They were friends with benefits. Something she’d never done before, but it felt too good to miss. She already wanted him again, because she hadn’t touched him nearly enough, and she had a whole long time to make up for and absolutely no desire to be appropriate. Besides, Evan wanted her as inappropriate as it came. She knew it.

  Anyway, she was practicing. Practicing being direct. Straightforward. Honest.

  Real.

  Just don�
�t take her out on the boat, and you’ll be fine, Evan told himself on Thursday morning. He’d dropped a still-snuffly Gracie off with his mom and was headed to the theater again with a monster tumbler of strong black coffee in the cup holder. His night’s sleep had been broken up about three times by a wakeful baby, but a guy who’d had that kind of sex with that kind of woman . . . that was a guy who wasn’t going to be complaining about much.

  That was what it had been, and what it still was, he reminded himself. It was great sex, and if he was shifting in his seat thinking about the sight of Beth’s hair spread out behind her on the couch cushions, about the way she’d watched, hungry for the sight, as he plunged into her again and again, about the low moan she couldn’t help when he got it exactly right, and all the secret passion nobody else got to see?

  Well, yeah. He had a thing for Beth Schaefer. That wasn’t news. Not to mention that he’d been deprived for a long, long time. It was no wonder that all he wanted was to do it again. Especially since she did too.

  Because he was her repairman fantasy, that was why. Part of whatever she was doing here. That worked for him, so why not?

  So why had he made this date at all, back there on a Sunday afternoon that felt like a month ago? When she’d showed up in her khaki shorts and flat sandals and offered herself up on a plate, why hadn’t he jumped right into being that redneck blue-collar tool-belt guilty pleasure like she’d wanted? Why the hell had he insisted on taking her out like they were . . . real?

  He heard Dakota’s voice in his head. Damn it.

  You were made to be a woman’s rock. That’s the man you are.

  He wasn’t Beth’s rock, and he’d better remember it. He was her right-now do-me-good, and no part of the life she’d chosen for herself. He’d take her out drinking and dancing tonight, another redneck rodeo, and then he’d take her home and make some more of her fantasies come true.