Rocket Man

by Melanie Greene

  Dillon stared off at the passing traffic, eyes narrowed. Then he took a sip of his lemonade and grimaced. “It’s chock full of vitamins and minerals, but would you mind if we find a table at Onion Creek for lunch and something more palatable to drink?”

  She bumped his shoulder then stood. “Clearly, my work here is done. Lead on, O Future Ecowarrior friend of mine.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After paninis and iced coffees at the restaurant that opened its parking lot to the local vendors every Saturday morning, Serena and Dillon set off towards her car, produce bags in hand.

  “You’re really going to use all that stuff, just for you?” Dillon asked as he compared the size of the shopping to the size of Serena. It hardly seemed possible.

  “Are you angling for an invitation?”

  He weighed the bags in his hands as she unlocked her trunk. “I’d hate to deprive you. You might just waste away to nothing.” Damn if her smile didn’t smack him in the gut. Once he’d stowed the cargo, he took her hand again. “How about this? I invite you to my place now, we can have coffee, sorry, tea for you, and if you think you can spare it, you can have me over for salad one of these evenings?” One of these nights. Tonight, perhaps. Every night, maybe. No rush, just as soon as humanly possible would be a fine time to get Serena alone and in private.

  “That is very sly.”

  Uh-oh. Was he moving too fast?

  But before he could back-pedal, she added, “I get a bit of flavored hot water from you, and you get a culinary masterpiece from me? People travel miles and miles for one of my salads.”

  What people? Men? Oh, hell no, was that jealousy? Just what he needed. Up the charm ante, quick. “I might have some cookies, too, if you want. If that tempts you to my place.”

  She hit the lock button on her car remote. “Consider me tempted.”

  Yes! “Right then. This way, Salad Queen.” She laughed, he managed not to turn into a statue of lust, and when they set off again, he was rewarded for his patience when she took his hand. He’d been reaching for her all day, soothing the ache of not bedding her with the balm of a touch here, a shoulder bump there, as constant contact as he could manage in the midst of all the damn people everywhere. He ought to be grateful to the people, jostling them together, forcing them to share a tiny perch in the restaurant’s waiting area, forcing him to not act like a barbarian in an empty wilderness, subduing his woman with kisses and touches designed to hopelessly bind her to him. He wasn’t grateful to the people, but he did feel a surge of primal triumph that his sneaky plan to get her used to touching him all the time had worked. And now they were going to his place. His place, where the only people jostling together would be him and Serena. Roaring and beating his chest would be, sadly, out of place, so he settled for giving her hand a squeeze as they turned onto his street.

  Serena’s fingers felt slim and snug in Dillon's hand. It was a warmish day, but being palm to palm with him was nothing but comfortable. Comforting, even, which was weird. She hadn’t known she was even in need of comfort, but there it was: this unprecedented feeling of protection and connection. As if their hands were made for each other. Not that she was getting fanciful or anything.

  And for the record, she didn’t think the fact that they both salted their ketchup before dipping their fries meant they were soul mates.

  Fries just tasted best that way.

  So all she was really looking at (and looking at) was a very well-built man who was easy to work with, appreciated basketball, liked to tease without being mean, was good to his friends, and knew a couple of basic culinary tricks. Dime a dozen. She could create an online dating profile tonight and find six or seven men just like him.

  She glanced up at him again, and caught him watching her. “What?”

  He laughed a little. “I was going to ask you the same. You got lost there for a second.”

  Shaking her head, she smiled. “It was nothing. Just remembering something I have to do when I get home.” Or not. Odds were that those six or seven hypothetical men were all some version of Neanderthal or tool, and Dillon seemed remarkably flaw-free from where she was standing.

  “Hmm. Are you in a rush?”

  “Nope. I have time.”

  “Come on, then,” he said, turning them up his walk. “Let’s forage for those cookies.”

  She would forage, all right. Forage into his mouth. Launch an expedition across his chest. Burrow into his scent. She was under no illusions that either of them expected a civilized hot drink right about now. They were both holding themselves in check, vibrating. Once on the other side of that door, the game would change. Big time.

  She paused on the landing, Dillon still a step below her. She felt his gaze move from her butt as she turned and looked at him. Even with the extra stair, he was still taller than she was. But they were much more eye to eye than usual, and chest to chest. Hip to hip. He was leaning into her. She was swaying towards him. Were there goddamn magnets sewn into their jeans? It almost made her uneasy, how much this pull towards him was stronger than anything Serena had felt before.

  There was a slight question in his eyes. He was as tense with desire as she was, and wondering if she was going to back out now. Well, frankly, there might be a question in her eyes, too, giving him pause. Serena didn’t want there to be any doubt between them, but when she came right down to it, this was big. ‘Dillon was her friend’ big. ‘Dillon worked closely with her’ big. ‘Dillon was maybe as close as she’d ever gotten to her ideal man’ big. The stakes were pretty damn high.

  But then he had leaned forward enough to brush her breasts with his chest, and she gasped a sudden lungful of air. His palm hovered along her cheek and came to rest cradling her jaw. She felt every molecule bouncing between them, charged, alive. At this angle, his lips were able to easily trap her lower lip, suck it gently but firmly. His tongue swept into her mouth with delicate butterfly strokes, each one ratcheting her need up another notch. She hadn’t even noticed her hands circling his waist, pulling his hips as firmly to hers as the stairs would allow.

  Okay, big. Had she thought big? Huge.

  Dillon could touch her as lightly as this, as tenderly as any Romeo had ever stroked his Juliet, but some things didn’t lie, and one of those things—huge things—disturbed the molecules between them, proving that there was nothing tentative or doubting about that touch. He wanted her, and not in any idle way. Serena pulled away from the kiss, breathing hard, and met his intent cobalt gaze. The glint was back, the assurance, and the deeper feelings, too.

  Their mouths had met in a shock of fire that so startled him he almost pulled back. But no, not going to happen, the pulling back. One hand traced the outline of her ear. His other arm circled her waist and her hands were on his back, his neck, his ass. Serena was grabbing his ass! This was heaven. He was hallucinating about heaven, right here on the stairway to his front door. All that glitters is, indeed, gold.

  The kiss was molten; her lips were so soft, but not tentative, no. Nothing reserved here, not from straight-forward Serena who always told it like it was. She kissed the same way, she spoke volumes with that kiss, so Dillon answered in kind. It couldn’t be lost on her, with her body smack up against his—was he pulling her there? was she pulling him?—that just the touch of her tongue to his had given him an erection so strong that he’d once again almost lost hold of her. He could plummet backwards down the stairs with the propulsive shock. But instead the spark between them was fusing them together, tighter, closer; he curled his fingers into her and tasted the hot salt of her neck before finding her lips again. He was on fire and she was on fire and the fire was melting them into one creature, an insistent, hungry beast with no interest in being tamed.

  This was not your everyday kiss. This was supersonic.

  She practically raced him up the last steps, hands tugging his shirt loose from his waistband, desperate to get to the skin under the cotton, even as he unlocked both locks with trembling hands.
>
  Alley-oop. They were in!

  He shut them inside by pushing her up against the door, following with every inch of his tall lean frame. Coffee? Cookies? They didn’t bother with the pretense. Or with words. Serena moaned and hummed a little, involuntary, ravenous, happy. Damn, there went her nipples again—but, no, it was okay! It was okay because right there, right where she needed and longed and yearned and ached, Dillon's body pressed against hers, soothed hers into submission. Not submission. Never submission. But joy, rightness, pleasure—his chest soothed hers with pleasure.

  His legs caged hers, but she wasted no time pulling one loose so she could straddle his thigh. He yanked her hips up the length of his leg, then curved his hands around to fit them into the space he’d created between her butt and the door. She arched her back, pressing her pelvis—her dampening, aching pelvis—more firmly against the barriers of denim between them. She’d managed to get his shirt enough out of the way to finally, finally see, to feel those muscles roping up his sides. She traced his ribs back to his spine, then up across broad shoulders that were warmly alive under her palms.

  His lips had moved down her neck, and at the same time his hands had moved up to cup her breasts. Thumbs and fingers gently pinched her nipples at the very moment that his teeth nipped the upper globe of her left breast. It sent a shudder directly to the apex of her thighs, where she hadn’t stopped rocking herself against his leg. His cock sent an answering thrust against her hip. As her head dropped back against the door, she went for his fly with one hand and pulled down on her shirt with the other, trying to move it low enough for him to get to her breasts through the neckline before she died from not having his mouth and hands directly on her skin. Fortunately, Dillon was a very smart man, and a man of action. He reached through the vee of her neckline, freed a breast from the lace and underwire prison that had heretofore kept it from him, and paused to look at and touch each inch before lowering his lips to her tight lonely frantic nipple.

  She was fumbling too much to deal with the button of his jeans, so she just reached into his waistband with seeking fingers. Yes! Right there, huge and hard, Dillon's cock, just waiting for her hand. He was so long she could rub her thumb across the broad head without any expedition after all. Her fingers traced the soft skin over the iron muscle, and he bucked against her, moaning.

  Forcing open her eyes, Serena saw Dillon moving to free her other breast, felt his breath ragged and hot against her skin as he licked circles around her nipple, saw his teeth bared to take a gentle bite of her skin. Saw the bite mark pink against her pale flesh, caught an almost minty whiff of his dark hair as it brushed her collarbone, and barely noticed the red circles growing across her chest. Her eyes closed again. Her breath was shallow, his moans were hoarse, her lungs were aching, her skin was red?

  Red?

  She scooted away from him, braced her arms against his chest to give herself room. Serena tossed her head back and forth, trying to gasp down some oxygen, wheezing. She couldn’t get a breath. Her heart was pounding. Was she shaking from passion or because she was about to collapse?

  Dillon had pulled back, was holding her shoulders. “Serena, shit, I’m sorry. I’m rushing you? I’m sorry. I thought—Serena?” He stroked back her hair, but she still couldn’t talk. She shook her head. “Shh. Don’t. It’s okay, let’s sit.”

  He tried to pull her to a blue sofa just past the entryway. She shook her head again. Opened her mouth, shut it, rubbed her eyes. Her chest refused to rise; no air could move past the vise of her throat. He talked more, but it made no sense. Shaking her head one last time, she groped for the doorknob and let herself out.

  Better. A little breath. Down to the landing now. Better. She clung to the rail, managed a few more shallow breaths. The door opened above her, but she didn’t even turn to look at him. Just shook her head again, and stumbled off as fast as her lungs would allow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gone?

  The hell?

  He wouldn’t chase after her. She clearly didn’t want that. Didn’t even look when she hightailed it out of his place. Didn’t respond to him calling her. He may be confused, but he wasn’t an idiot. The message was clear: Serena didn’t want him.

  He didn’t slam the door. He had better control than that. Not that much of a barbarian after all. Yes, okay, he kicked the sofa a little brutally. Maisy jumped up howling at him for it, damn her calico hide. He ignored her and sank to the floor, leaning against the door he’d just gotten so happy with when it helped sandwich Serena to his body.

  This made no sense, was the thing. She’d led the way to this door, obviously aware that her ass was swaying enticingly in front of him all the way. She’d raked nails through his scalp, which still tingled. She’d helped get those stunning breasts into his hands. She’d half ripped his shirt off. She’d stroked—better not think about that.

  No sense at all.

  Sighing, he dug his cell out from his pocket. Typed: “I don’t know what happened, but let me know if you’re okay. I’m sorry if I upset you. Give me a call.” Thought about it. Got rid of the middle sentence. Hit send. Waited. It was half an hour before she replied, “I’m okay.” Nothing else. No call.

  Well, that was just fucking fantastic.

  Serena sat in her car, the antihistamines she normally kept in her glove box cradled in her lap. She dug under the passenger seat until she found a water bottle and chugged it, hoping the liquid would help her body distribute the medicine to her vital organs sooner. She sat. She counted her breaths, which helped her believe she was still breathing. So that was good. Her eyes stopped itching, which is how she noticed that she was breathing just fine on her own, which meant she could finally take a deep breath and slump back against the headrest.

  She’d never had an attack like that. Not from getting close to someone. It had to be Dillon—she’d been losing her breath when she got close to him and him alone. No one else had ever made her feel this way, given her such an intense and instant physical reaction. Unfortunately, the reaction wasn’t just dampness in her nether region—it was also a closed up throat and a rash.

  But not all the time, so it had to be psychosomatic. Which, she had to face facts, she pretty much knew already. She’d worked closely with him at first without getting hives, but once she started thinking about him sexually, she broke out. And then, she supposed, she got used to whatever level of intimacy they’d reached, but if it went further, her body freaked out. Talk about a flight or fight response—her body was screaming ‘run’ in no uncertain terms. She hadn’t had an attack that bad since she was eight and her dad tried to get her to spend the night at her new stepmom’s house. She’d been supposed to share a bunk bed with Alice’s bossy five-year-old twins, but just going near their shag-carpeted room full of every stuffed bear ever made had resulted in her first trip to the ER. After that, even though Alice cleared out a little storage area off the dining room for her and even let her pick the paint color, she avoided their house whenever she could talk her way out of it. And especially avoided the twins, who might have eventually grown out of their creepy non-verbal way of stopping her from doing every activity she instigated, but not by the time Dad had that second divorce under his belt.

  Dillon wasn’t a ruthless, petty kindergartener, though, and she didn’t grasp why his hands on her breasts made her chest stop taking in air. In a dangerous rather than a sexy way.

  So, Option A: go back to hand-holding and happy hour, but no tongue. Option B: avoid Dillon completely. Option C: take drugs twenty-four/seven and get to maybe see what was playing peekaboo in his jeans. Her breath hitched and she backpedaled right quick. Option C didn’t seem to be on the table. Or on the bed.

  Or against the door.

  She groaned. It had been so, so good. His mouth had been so firm and so playful. His hands had a sixth sense about giving and taking. His body had been tight with sexual tension, muscled in all the excellent places, smooth under her hands and in perfect r
hythm as they moved together. The only thing wrong with that embrace was that it wasn’t still happening. Now that her rash and lungs were under control, her body was throwing a tantrum and a pity party all at once, because she was in this car. Alone.

  “Well, why’d you go and be allergic to Dillon, then?” she groused right back at it. Just what every woman needed: a full out battle between her subconscious and her libido. And her subconscious employed guerrilla tactics.

  It would likely be his message buzzing in her pocket. “Not a euphemism, sadly,” she muttered as she slipped out the phone and read the screen. Was she okay? What did he think, she ran off because she’d been repulsed by him? He wasn’t an idiot, he had to know she wasn’t okay. She was furious and freaked and fantastically horny, so she just typed back that she was fine, and cranked up the radio so she could get home without thinking anything else.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rachel called at just the wrong time. Serena was parked outside Hakeem, staring at it as if she was able to project herself out of the car and into a life within its walls. An ordered life, the whole of it set out neatly, her own stuff in her own house and her days filled with her own pursuits. Art, food, friends. Semi-annual weekends with her half-brother. That’s all she needed.

  Definitely all she needed.

  Though her breathing was just about back to normal, her mood was still grumpy and still freaked, and it took next to no prying on Rachel's part to get the whole story out of her.

  “You know what it probably is?” she asked, when she’d heard it all.

  “Do tell.”

  “He’s probably, like, a serial killer or something.”