“That’s real good, dude. So she will be staying home on your next trip to South Africa in June?”
“Yeah, she’s already called the office to take her and Bodhi off the itinerary.”
Hunter smiled. “I’m happy Em’s getting her groove back. By the way, been meaning to ask. We’re having a family day for the charity next month down at Bondi. I would really appreciate it if you could make an appearance, you know how the kids love having their idol show up. Bring Emma and Bodhi too—make a day of it.”
Rosco slapped his hand on Hunter’s shoulder again. “Anything you need, dude, you name it.”
“Excuse me.” Two young girls came racing up. “But aren’t you Rosco Ross?” the bolder of the two asked.
Rosco smiled graciously. Hunter knew Rosco only had eyes for Emma and found most of the girls vacuous and uninteresting, but he always remained polite and professional.
He used to envy the attention Rosco received. On occasions he was happy to comfort broken-hearted girls when they finally realised Rosco wasn’t interested in anything but surf talk. At thirty-six he was a bit over seducing young groupies for one night stands. The image of Darla lying in bed this morning on her stomach, sheet rucked between her legs, beautiful curved arse cheekily displayed to tempting perfection, flashed behind his eyes. It had been the hardest thing to leave, even for a surf. He’d never had that with any woman before.
“What’s up with you, dude?” Rosco asked.
“Hmm?”
“You were a million miles away with a very cat-got-the-cream grin and you didn’t even look at those girls, let alone check ’em out.” Rosco narrowed his eyes. “If I didn’t know any better I would say you got shagged.”
Hunter turned to look out at the ocean, not wanting Rosco to see the confirmation he couldn’t hide. He could already feel the grin starting.
“You bloody did. You old dog. Come on. Give. Who is she?” Rosco didn’t let up.
Hunter knew Emma, Rosco’s wife, and Darla belonged to some sort of social group. He didn’t want to put either of them in an awkward position. “It’s early days, mate. I really want to see how it goes before I tell anyone.”
“Whoa dude. Serious.” Rosco said. “You must really like this one.”
He was right. Hunter definitely wanted more than just a passing fling with Darla Thomas.
A rhythmic thwack, thwack slowly brought Darla out of sleep. She stretched, her body sore in all the right places. A smile crept onto her lips before she could stop it. Hunter Davis was definitely not a gentleman in everything that mattered.
Thwack, thwack, thwack. What is that noise?
She climbed naked from the bed and slipped on a short oriental silk robe. The digital clock beside her bed read 10:06. It’d been a long time since she’d a late morning, though last night she hadn’t really been sleeping.
The noise was coming from out in her backyard somewhere. She slid open the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. Down by the pool house, with his back to her, Hunter attacked the fallen tree with an axe. Darla smiled. He wore no shirt, only a pair of worn jeans. The sight of him, back muscles rippling as he swung the axe, prompted a primitive female response she never knew existed. She almost had the urge to shack up in a log cabin just so she could watch him chop wood all day.
Her stomach flipped, something that hadn’t happened to her since high school. Then her stomach growled. Coffee would be good. Coffee would be great. Hunter probably needed coffee too.
Thankfully, with the new machine it should be a snap. She’d seen her housekeeper, Maree, use it. Couldn’t be that hard. Right?
Darla put a couple of mugs under the spouts of the big black machine and pressed the button. The hot black coffee started to pour with spits and spurts out of the dual spouts. It smelled divine.
She grabbed sugar and milk to put it on a tray with the mugs and carried it outside. There were twigs, leaves, and storm debris all over the lawn. Rubbish floated in the pool. She’d better get onto her yard maintenance company for extra service this month.
Hunter was still swinging the axe. A pile of branches stood to one side as he cleared the tree away from the pool house. What if last night was a one-time only deal? A cold feeling of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. She wanted more.
Anyway, this was just coffee.
“Morning,” she called, her stomach doing strange nervous flips.
Hunter turned, his jaw dropping as he let the axe fall to his side. “Wow. I’ve never had coffee service looking so good. Keep it up and I’ll never get this finished.”
Darla frowned and looked down. Her robe clung to her, the cool breeze blowing the silk tight across her obviously aroused breasts. The length barely covered her arse, and that also meant a lot of leg.
She shrugged. “After what you saw last night, I feel rather modest. I can change if you like.”
“Please,” he said, taking the tray from her and putting it on the jarrah outdoor table. “Don’t put yourself out on my account.”
Perspiration and chips of wood covered his luscious torso, but she didn’t care. Jorja had once told her how much of a turn-on she found her fiancé, rugby league star Mud Hiddleston, when he was hot and sweaty. And for the first time Darla could understand why. This smelled healthy and heady. She wanted him. All of him. Right here, right now.
Hunter pulled her against him and kissed her, his hand snaking under the hem of her robe and squeezing her butt cheek. She wrapped her hands around him and kissed him back. God, she wanted him bad, but wanted him to think more of her than just an easy fuck. She wanted this to be more than just a passing fling between a couple of neighbours.
She broke off the kiss with some difficulty. “How about I cook you some breakfast?” she said.
Where the hell did that come from? Cooking. Am I insane?
“Sure,” he said brightly. “I’m starved.”
“Okay.” She forced a smile onto her face. “Coming right up.”
Darla picked up a cup from the tray and handed it to him to cover her fluster. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black is fine,” he said, taking it from her, his fingers lingering against hers for half a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Thanks.”
“Great.” She pointed a little awkwardly with both hands back at the house. “I’ll just go and make something to eat.”
“I’ll just finish clearing away this so we can see how much damage there is.”
Darla re-entered the kitchen. What the hell was I thinking? She couldn’t make breakfast. Although… She had made the coffee. Maybe it wasn’t that hard. Darla went to the fridge, which was fully stocked, including plenty of fresh fruit and yoghurt. But Hunter was a man, and men needed more than just fruit and yoghurt. She rifled through the contents. There were also eggs and bacon and milk. Maree worked weekdays and usually prepared breakfast, but she had taken two weeks holidays to go visit her daughter who had just given birth.
She could do this. How hard could it be? Right? The coffee had been a breeze. Toast, bacon, eggs and pancakes, that’s what American men liked. That shouldn’t be too hard.
Should it?
Forty minutes later Darla scanned the disaster zone that was now her kitchen. She’d changed into a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a t-shirt. Now, pancake batter not only covered her, it coated the benches and floor—somehow she’d even managed to get it on the ceiling too. No one had ever told her how far one of those electric beater thingies could spray shit. The pancakes themselves didn’t look much better. She’d followed a recipe she found on the internet, but somehow she’d managed to burn the outside yet pancake batter still oozed out of the centre and onto the plate.
Maybe just bacon and eggs then.
At least she hadn’t screwed up squeezing the orange juice, though there were only a few inches in the glass. What was it about this man that made her want to get all domesticated? To squeeze oranges instead of pouring it from a bottle? To cook? To take care o
f him? She’d never been the housewife type before.
Darla ignored the mess and picked up the juice. On the landing she stopped dead. Hunter stood on her back lawn leaning forward as he ran the hose over his head and shirtless torso. O.M. motherfucking G. Another movie slow-mo moment needed if ever there was one. The sight froze her to the spot. The water coursed over his head, washing away the sweat and wood pulp. Then he ran it over his chest, soaking into the top of his jeans. The top button was undone and they rode low on his hips. The abdominal muscles formed a perfect V disappearing into the waistband of those jeans.
She had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life. Desire hit her hard right between her legs, her heart did that strange little flip flop dance, and at that very moment he looked up—catching her watching him.
Her jaw had to be hanging open, but his face broke into a smile that changed him from handsome to beautiful. That was the only word for it. Then he winked and all hell broke loose.
A piercing repetitive beeping jolted her out of the spell. She dropped the glass in surprise and it shattered on the terracotta patio tiles. She pressed a shaky hand to her mouth and stepped back, reeling in confusion. A stabbing pain shot through the heel of her bare left foot. She flinched and crouched, grabbing her ankle.
Then Hunter was suddenly there, sweeping her up into his arms. Knight in shining armour or what?
She weighed next to nothing and felt good in his arms as he carried her into the house. Hunter could get used to this. Smoke hung in the air. Somewhere a smoke alarm screeched continuously. He set Darla on a stuffed chair inside the door.
“The kitchen,” she said with a worried look on her face. “I think I left the bacon on the stove.”
Sure enough, flames shot up from a frying pan on the stovetop. Hunter picked up a tea towel and tried to beat the flames out. Darla was right there behind him, despite his telling her to stay put. She picked up a pitcher of water and went to throw it over the fat fire.
“No,” he yelled, just in time.
He spied the container of salt on the counter beside the cooktop and dumped it all on the burning pan. The flames extinguished immediately, though the smoke alarm kept right on beeping loudly. Hunter turned the range hood fan above the stove on to full. Soon the air began to clear and finally the smoke alarm went silent.
Darla stood on one foot. Blood dripped onto the white tiled floor to join a couple of other crimson droplets already there. Hunter swept aside some of the mess on the kitchen counter and sat her on the marble top.
“Let me see that,” he said, gently wrapping his hand around her ankle and lifting her foot. A sliver of glass was wedged into the heel, but it didn’t look too bad or too deep. “Do you have a first-aid kit?” he asked.
“Sure, in the downstairs bathroom cabinet. Under the sink.”
Hunter backed up and pointed a finger at her. “Stay right there this time.”
“Okay,” Darla said, smiling. Pancake batter spattered her shirt, flour smudged her cheeks and blood continued to drip from her cut foot. She was a complete mess, and yet he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. His heart contracted and so did his dick. Fuck. He was in way deep now.
The red satchel with a large white cross sat on the top shelf under the vanity. He grabbed it quickly and raced back to the kitchen. She had managed to sweep a clean spot beside her on the bench and he laid out the open kit beside her.
Hunter pulled out the large sliver of glass with a pair of tweezers, then bathed the cut with an antiseptic wash and dressed it with a bandage.
“You’re very good at that,” Darla said, watching him wrap the bandage around her ankle then under her foot.
He gave her a smile as he fastened the white bandage with a double claw clip. “Get plenty of practice teaching nippers to surf. Lots of broken bottles and shit on the beach these days.”
“You teach kids?” she asked, her face softening.
“Sure, every Saturday over the spring and summer months we run a surf clinic for underprivileged kids. It’s one of my charities.”
She tilted her head and frowned.
“What?” he asked, getting worried.
“I know plenty of people who give money to charity and talk about the good work they do, but very few actually get their hands dirty.”
“I don’t get to every clinic,” he said uncomfortably, not wanting make her think he was bragging just to make a good impression. “Sometimes my company commitments—”
Darla reached out and laid her palm against his cheek. “How many Saturdays have you missed this summer?”
“Three, I guess.” He shrugged. His cock woke at her touch.
“Three in six months.” Her smile softened, making her more beautiful than ever. “I never really thought of you as a philanthropist.”
He grew harder and grinned. “But you did think of me.”
“Oh yeah,” she whispered, blushing again. “Especially when taking a bath.”
Last night she’d answered the door in her robe, fresh from a bath and looking hot and flushed. Was she thinking of him then? Touching herself, maybe? Fuck, that was hot. His cock went rock hard. Hands down the sexiest thing he had ever heard.
“Then why did it take you so long?” He repeated the question she’d asked him the night before.
She bit her bottom lip. “I was hardly your type. You seemed more the carefree playboy type, dating models and beach bunnies.”
He laughed out loud. If only she knew how much his type she really was. He’d dated them because they never wanted anything serious from him.
She blushed, turning away from him with a frown.
“Hey,” he said. “What I mean is most of them worked on ad campaigns or promotions for Surf Hunter. It was easier for me to meet them. But very few of them would’ve known the word philanthropist, let alone what it meant. Or looked as hot as you do right now.” Hunter leaned in and planted his hands on either side of her hips as he claimed her lips.
Her thighs parted, allowing him better access, and he took advantage. Covered in batter and crap, she still smelled amazing. And tasted even better. Her lips were full and soft. Built for kissing. He imagined them wrapped around his dick. He closed his eyes and bit back a groan.
Darla wrapped her legs around his hips, pressing his cock against her pussy. She rocked her hips, rubbing herself against him and making him harder as she kissed him. She knew exactly what she was doing.
The minx.
He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. Usually he got bored with a woman after the first couple of times. But not with Darla. The more he fucked her, the more he seemed to want her.
He moved his mouth down to her throat, drinking in her unique sweetness. Her head dropped back to give him better access, her breath growing ragged. God she tasted good. He licked a patch of dried pancake batter. He quickly swallowed the overly salted mixture.
There. He’d found her flaw. The woman couldn’t cook for shit.
It only endeared her to him more. She moaned when he tongued the indentation at the base of her throat and moved his hand to her waist, pushing up the bottom of her t-shirt so he could get to the soft skin beneath. She rocked harder against his cock, sending an almost painful shiver up his spine. His trapped cock ached to be free.
He ran his hand up her side until he reached the swell of her breast as he moved to nibble her earlobe. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath the shirt. His fingers traced the line of her ribs just beneath that silky skin and pushed up the weight of her breast. So fucking perfect.
Darla arched her back in response, pushing her roundness into his hand. Jesus. He had to get that shirt off her.
He braced his hips against her and lifted the hem. She sat forward, her legs still wrapped around him and raised her arms so he could pull the shirt free. Then Darla wrapped her arms around his neck, her naked breasts mashed against his bare chest. He let out an impatient growl. His zipper felt fit to burst right out of his jeans.
She held his stare and grinned, reaching between them to slide his zipper down. She watched him with an intensity that both warmed and excited him. He almost came when she wrapped her fingers around his length. He closed his eyes and fought to keep control.
Hunter traced his fingers down her spine and buried his hands under the waist of her denim shorts. She wasn’t wearing panties either. He pulled her closer, kneading her arse. If she kept tugging at his dick like that it’d be over before he had the chance to bury himself inside her.
He gently pushed her back, laying her on the counter. Her hair spilled like a dark auburn waterfall over the edge of the benchtop. The cut-offs were a little loose on her, which made them easier to undo. As he slid the zipper down he traced over her mound with his fingers. Her breath hitched and her back arched as he slid the denim over her hips.
Fuck she was beautiful. Her ribs stood out above her flat stomach and erect dusky peaks topped her smooth rounded breasts. His mouth watered to taste them, but he was dying to plunge his tongue into that hot, tight crevice between her thighs.
He bent to run his tongue over her slit and pushed her thighs wide so he could reach that nirvana hidden between her lips. The first taste of her fed his need for more. He flicked her erect nub above her opening once, sending a tremor through her.
He flicked again and groaned against her folds as her thighs twitched uncontrollably beneath his fingers. Hunter continued to work her clit, alternating between that and delving his tongue deep into her opening. He could feel her getting close. Her thighs tensed, her hips arched, her hands buried in his hair as he worked her over the edge.
As she came, she screamed his name. He loved his name on her lips as much as the taste of her on his.
She rested her weight on her elbows, her eyes shining with moisture as she panted, trying to catch her breath. “In my shorts. Condom. Please. I need you in me. Now.”
“Should I feel cheap that you were so ready for me?” he asked.
“No, I…” her flush deepened as she looked at him, stricken.
He smiled and reached into his own jeans pocket and pulled out the wrapped condom he’d grabbed earlier. She relaxed and kicked playfully at him.
Secret Confessions: Sydney Housewives - Extended Edition Page 38