Right Wrong Guy

by Lia Riley

  Archer walked toward one now, running his hand over the engraved wooden box set on the side table. “I like this.”

  “It’s a music box. Daddy gave it to me when I was a girl.”

  He opened it up and a song played. “I know this tune . . . but can’t place it.”

  “ ‘Edelweiss,’ ” Edie said softly. “He used to sing to it before tucking me in at night.” Her stomach gave a funny little flip-flop. Archer had tucked her in once at that Nevada motel, the first time she really glimpsed his innate tenderness. “It’s been a long time. He died when I was in high school.”

  “You miss him.”

  “A lot.” She was quiet a moment before walking over. “There used to be a ballerina inside that would spin to the music. I used to dance as a kid but was never anything approaching talented. Two left feet. But he knew I loved it. He’d take me to the New York City Ballet a few times every year, Swan Lake, Nutcracker, all the classics.”

  Archer brushed his thumb over the small hole. “That’s where the ballerina fit?”

  “Yes. While I was at NYU, Mother went out of town to spend the spring in France. It was the last time she ever willingly left the apartment. Reggie convinced me to have a party. I had never hosted one, didn’t have many friends, even at my university, but he made it sound easy. And I trusted him. Should have learned my lesson then.” She gave a rueful smile. “People came I didn’t know. Many of them children of rich, famous, powerful people. Things got out of control.

  “I never found the ballerina. The box was left on the floor, open, the jewelry inside stolen. But I didn’t care about any of that. I cared about the ballerina. It was a part of my connection to my father that is forever lost.” She shut the lid again and rubbed the hairline crack over the lid.

  He reached out and rubbed the back of her neck with a strong hand, working out the deep aches.

  “That’s nice.” She relaxed into him and he kept it up, and soon she felt looser, more comfortable, rolling her neck back and forth. “Thank you. I feel wonderful.”

  “Glad to help,” he said. “Making you feel wonderful is a job well done in my book. Now let me get those groceries unpacked.”

  She followed him to the kitchen. He lifted out an old recipe box from the bag.

  “Where’d you get this?” she asked, running her finger over the yellow tin lid. Images of fruits and vegetables were stamped on the side in a cross-stitch sample pattern.

  Archer shuffled his feet. “Grandma gave it to me back when I was a kid. I copied down old family recipes as I learned to cook them.”

  Edie’s smile grew. “May I have a look inside? I’m wildly curious.”

  “ ’Course.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t . . . think a guy cooking is unmanly, do you? I used to really like it, but people gave me shit about it once I got to high school so I sort of quit.”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t think of anything hotter,” she said honestly. “In fact, did you know that humans are basically hardwired to equate food with love? The digestive system produces hormones that act on the hippocampus, a part of the brain that plays a key role in memory.”

  He didn’t look at her like she was crazy. Instead something in his gaze flickered. “That’s exactly what I liked about it. Made me remember happy times or even feel as if I was creating a new memory.”

  She opened the lid and pulled out the first card, sighing inwardly at the earnest childish script. “Bacon Potato Salad, okay, sorry, but that one wouldn’t be my favorite.”

  Archer grinned, his gaze a little distant. “Maybe not, but my big brother Wilder used to hog it every time it was served at a meal. Grandma used to be able to bribe him to do extra chores the day it was on the menu.”

  She flicked through the cards. “Irish Stew. Cornmeal Oven Fried Chicken. Jelly Thumbprint Cookies. Dutch Apple Pie. Wait—Turkey Gravy? Dried Apple Stuffing? You know how to make all of this?”

  “I . . . uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “I helped Grandma do holiday meals or anytime my brothers or one of the workers had a birthday.”

  “Archer.” She set a hand on his upper arm, the muscle hard underneath. The center of this big, strong man was soft, caring, and loving—a dangerous combination that she found herself powerless to resist. “This box is really special. Thank you for sharing it with me. I’ve always had this funny little picture in my head of someday having a big homemade holiday dinner with many of these same dishes you grew up preparing.”

  His gaze searched her face. “I’d love to do that, spend Thanksgiving or Christmas cooking for you.”

  The image in her head, the vague one of a man next to her at a family table, sharpened into clear focus, his face an identical match to the one staring down at her.

  “Hey, you look a little tired.” He said gently. “Why don’t you take a shower? I’ve got the dinner handled.”

  Good idea, if only to have some alone time to calm her racing pulse. When she emerged twenty minutes later, a faint burning smell clung to the air.

  “Everything okay?” she asked, opening another window.

  He grimaced. “Turns out I’m a little rusty. Maybe it was performance anxiety.”

  The plate next to the stove was filled with blackened dough.

  She giggled.

  “I wanted to impress you.”

  “I’m impressed,” she answered truthfully, touched he cared to make the effort. “Want me to take over?”

  “No!” He held up a hand, a look of determination crossing his face. “I want to do this for you.”

  She glanced over at the other ingredients he had on the counter. Powdered sugar. A canister of whipped cream. Old Eden would never suggest the idea occurring to her.

  Old Eden could suck an egg.

  “Come here,” she murmured.

  He cleared his throat. “What about dinner?”

  “I said come here.”

  “I came over to show you that I respect you.”

  “And I appreciate the sentiment.” She unbuttoned her top button. “Now, kindly start disrespecting me immediately.”

  “Damn it,” he growled. “I knew this about you the first time we met.”

  She paused, uncertain. “What’s that?”

  His eyes darkened. “You’re trouble.” He crossed the room and hiked her against him so they were belly to belly. “You’re not hungry?”

  “On the contrary, I’m starving.” She worked open his belt buckle, undid the waist button, then the next and paused. “Oh. You go commando?”

  “Most of the time.”

  She popped the last button. “That’s . . . convenient.”

  “That’s what I thi—aw, fuck.”

  She fell to her knees, taking hold off his shaft. He was hard, and the way his abs flexed when she touched him sent a surge of excitement through her. She held him steady and licked his tip, enjoying the flavor of warm clean skin and the faint hint of salt.

  “You taste good,” she said.

  “Bet you taste better,” he ground out.

  The idea of his mouth working between her legs made her grind her thighs, her silk panties suddenly slick. “Here’s something you should know about me.” She grabbed the can of whipped cream, popping the lid with a naughty smile. “I’m an eat-dessert-first kind of gal.”

  She squirted a dollop along his shaft and his laugh was a hoarse bark. This was fun. And it was about to get a whole lot more so. She wrapped her mouth around his head and sucked slow, letting him fill her mouth inch by inch. The cream was sweet and she took her time licking him clean, trailing her tongue along his thick vein. She glanced to his face, and he stared down through hooded lids, his features tight.

  “You look fucking gorgeous doing that.” He had the exact same expression people wore when at the Met enjoying priceless works of art.

  She removed her mouth long enough to say, “You look gorgeous getting it.”

  He was big so it was hard to reach his base, but she wanted to, she had an o
verwhelming need to take as much of this strong yet strangely vulnerable part of him as far inside her as possible. Never had she understood the appeal of giving head before, but it all made sense now. This wasn’t a passive act, the mindless and demeaning role of letting him ram her face. Instead, she was in charge, had the power to actively deliver pleasure. Slowly, her confidence grew as his head rocked back, the thick powerful chords in his neck standing in sharp relief through the day-old scruff.

  Farther she sank, until his abdominal muscles flexed against her forehead and she breathed deep, inhaling his deep, rich male scent. As she pulled back slowly, he returned his gaze to her face, his eyes dark.

  He reached and took her by the shoulders, pulling hard enough that she got to her feet in one quick move. His thumbs hooked into her yoga pants, yanked them down, and she kicked them off soundlessly, before removing her camisole.

  “No bra,” he said with approval.

  She glanced down at her bare chest. “Nope.”

  “You’re killing me here.”

  “Sorry. Not sorry.” She couldn’t restrain the grin, or the shameless, lovely warmth lapping between her legs like a slow-moving wildfire. She was naked, utterly exposed while he was mostly dressed, except for his open low-hanging jeans, framing his immense erection.

  “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.

  Her hand went out and embraced his thick, hard warmth. “Yes,” she murmured, drunken, dazed. “So much.”

  He spanned the small of her back with one hand and drew her close, his other hand reaching down, fingers sliding into her wetness. “You’re not lying.”

  She shook her head shyly. “I liked what I did to you before. It turned me on.” The act had flipped a switch inside her, the lingering jolt of electricity still sparked through her nerves.

  “I more than liked it, I fucking loved it.” He braced her face between his hands, giving her a searching look. “What are you doing to me?”

  She knew then, that despite any doubts she might have later, about him and other women, there was something happening here, inside her, inside him, unlike anything either of them had experienced. Her brain’s circuitry rewired as he removed a leather wallet, plucking a condom from inside.

  She tugged on his Western-shirt’s metal-clasp buttons, a bit of pressure and they popped open, revealing pecs dusted with dark hair. More buttons yielded hard abs, a narrow, trim waist, and at last a thick arrow of hair extending all the way down.

  After he sheathed himself, he looked up, chest rising and falling. His strong features were surprisingly vulnerable.

  She looped her arms around his neck. “I want it. You want it.”

  He hiked one of her legs, settling it next to his thigh. She urged him higher, with enough flexibility to half circle his waist. He held most of her weight and the position brought him into easy contact. From the way his jaw clenched and his ragged breath caught in his throat, he must be trying to go slow, take his time here, with this, with her. But this wasn’t the moment for anything measured or gentle. She loved that he offered it, but right now the barriers needed obliterating. She wanted to reduce herself to pure need.

  “Don’t hold back,” she whispered.

  Something shifted in his features, his straight brows contracting over his bright deep-set eyes as if he understood, with those three small words, exactly what she asked for.

  He claimed her and her mouth in one swoop. Her fingers dug into his hard bicep and the cool silver from his belt buckle pressed into her hip. There was a warm, pleasurable pressure inside as she adjusted around his thickness, and she squeezed as if to grip him closer. He grunted and she did it again, loving she could do this, drive this passionate, wild man to the brink. His kiss grew increasingly hungry as she arched her spine, sliding him that last fraction of the way home. It was the same instinct as when he was in her mouth, of needing him, all of him. She could die from this greed maybe, and she wouldn’t regret a thing. That’s how he made her feel. As if she needed more, even as he gave so much. With every thrust he pushed her closer to the point where she couldn’t take any more, only craving to be sent flying over the side.

  He changed rhythm, less urgent, slower, relentless strokes.

  “Look at me,” he ground out.

  His gaze was fierce concentration, every line on his face hard. Sweat beaded his hairline as he dipped, set his lower lip on the sensitive skin between her jaw and ear, and slid toward her chin. She shook, and so did he, their bodies trembling against each other. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, tugging her head back enough to mouth her collarbone, sucking her skin as if she was a delicious thing he’d never get enough of.

  And there it went, the last shred of her self-control. Oh God. Oh God. “Oh God,” she cried out when he slammed into her harder. Then, he flipped her around, running his arm over the counter, clearing a space in one fell sweep.

  Things fell on the ground. A crash. She didn’t care. He bent her against the cool tile and was back, warm, inside her. His thrusts grew erratic, but when he slid his hand around, and rubbed her clit, that tempo was even, designed to drive her forward with him. He leaned closer, not enough to crush her with weight, but to let his bare skin skim hers, and she tossed her hips back, desperate, restless, needing them both to fall apart and see what was inside.

  The pleasure built and this was it, the point of no-return, the absolute peak of pleasure, she couldn’t take any more, not a single bit, until she did, and then everything burned down to a pure white heat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  EDEN RESTED ON the sofa, safe and silent in Archer’s strong arms, reveling in this moment of perfect peace. Her body was shaped as if it had been designed for him, her swells and dips fitting into his hollows. In sleep, his face looked even more boyish, an innocent openness. This wasn’t the guy who tore through women like Kleenex, discarding them once used. She knew the stories, but how he looked at her, touched her, moved inside her told a different tale, one of a guy hungry for love and a real, intimate connection.

  Her phone buzzed on the coffee table and she reached to turn it off. She didn’t want any interruption detracting from this moment. She turned it over to run her thumb over the screen and power it down before freezing. It was a text from Reggie.

  Maybe you think I’m playing games. I’m not. Call to discuss payout terms otherwise this photo will be online by the end of the week and attributed to you. Just like old times?

  There was a picture of a naked woman on all fours. Her long red hair hung over her face, masking her features. Reggie smiled into a mirror as he held up a camera phone, getting both the angle of his penetration and his smug face into the shot. It wasn’t Eden, but a close approximation. She’d never done . . . that.

  Never even considered doing that.

  He threatened her with humiliation, knowing her past with that awful MySpace photograph from high school.

  The hard-won precious peace from a moment ago vanished in a foul flash. She gripped the phone, weighing the impulse to hurl it against the wall, smash it into a thousand pieces. But that wouldn’t make this situation stop. Why did Reggie need to stoop to this level? She’d never been anything but kind to him, believed they were friends, was prepared to make him her life partner at one point. Now that idea held only horror.

  Archer stirred in his sleep and the small shift allowed the evening air to enter between their bodies, spreading cool fingers along her spine. She had trusted Archer to take her from Vegas, not to cause her harm in the seedy motel, trusted him later with her friendship and now her body. But was this wise? It appeared her Trust-O-Meter had a serious malfunction.

  She punched out a quick response—Why are you doing this?—and hit send before she could debate whether or not such a course of action was wise. Perhaps engaging was a mistake, but Reggie wasn’t a man off the street. A stranger. Even so, it didn’t matter. He still threatened to destroy her life with a false image.

  None of this made sense. If he needed
money, why hadn’t he ever asked? She would likely have helped if he was in real trouble, that is, if he wasn’t involved in anything illegal or immoral. Which now appeared highly suspect.

  The phone buzzed. $5,000,000 by Friday or the photo is online. Show anyone and the photo is online. You may tweak your name but you can’t hide. I’ll make sure everyone knows it is you. When you’re ready to do the wire transfer contact 555-423-4956 for the bank account.

  She dropped the phone on the floor. Suddenly, Archer’s body behind her was too much, as was the smell of sex clinging to their bodies. Reggie found a way to spoil everything. She couldn’t lie here another second. Sliding out from under Archer’s bracing arm, she stood and padded to the shower. As hot as she got the water, for as long as she scrubbed, she’d never be able to cleanse herself from the situation’s stink.

  ARCHER STIRRED, OPENING his eyes. The apartment was quiet. During their crazy monkey sex, he’d tipped a bag of flour that had split on impact with the floor. A light dusting of flour spread across the kitchen floor, following them to the couch. He smiled and stretched. Jesus, each muscle felt newly made. No ache in his back or his heart. Never had he had sex like that, sex tied to deeper feelings, to the powerful question “what if this is a game changer, the woman that you’ll fall in forever love with?”

  Such a heavy idea didn’t scare the shit out of him. In fact, there was nothing scary about being close to Freckles. He couldn’t get enough.

  He smiled, hearing the shower run. Soon, she would be out, nice and clean, and he’d have to go make her dirty again. He nestled into the pillow, remembering the breathy noises she made, the wicked gleam in her eye as she pulled out the whipped cream. He’d called it all right. She was a wild one at heart. He chuckled and closed his eyes as sleep rose and dragged him back down into vanilla-filled dreams.

  He woke with a jerk. Freckles walked into the kitchen, opened a closet and grabbed a broom. She gripped the handle so tight her knuckles were white. She startled, glancing toward him and then away, like she was ashamed of his nakedness, as if it were unwelcome.