Bringing Home the Bad Boy

by Jessica Lemmon

  “Yeah, I always lock up,” she said. Then she frowned. “I don’t know if I can walk back. Can you drive me?”

  “Drive you?”

  “I know it’s only two doors down but I’m so sleepy.” She yawned.

  “Ace, you’re not sleeping alone when you’re hammered.”

  This seemed to sober her up. Her eyes went big. “Why not?” Evidently, her brain never shut off.

  “Because you’ll wake up feeling like crap and I don’t want you waking up alone with no one to take care of you.”

  “You don’t?” She curled her hands around the back of one of the stools resting at the base of the island.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But I have to brush my teeth.”

  “I have an extra toothbrush, Ace.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes, Evan. Why do you have an extra toothbrush?”

  “Because they were buy two get one free and you never know when you need a spare.”

  “For girls?” Something cut into her expression. Something that looked a lot like pain.

  He came closer. “Yeah. Drunk girls who come home with me and ask a zillion questions.”

  She tilted her head back to take him in, then licked her bottom lip.

  He liked her tilting her chin up to take him in.

  “I liked what we did in your studio,” she said.

  A jolt of awareness he couldn’t act on radiated from the back of his neck to his balls. Because she was drunk. Too drunk.

  Too damn drunk.

  Shit.

  “Yeah, Ace, I know,” he told her. Because he did know. He’d watched how much she liked it. It had been written all over her gorgeous, orgasmic face. Drunk or not, she was telling the truth about liking it.

  “But we can’t do it again and that makes me sad.” She placed one hand on his shirt and rested her other palm on his neck, her fingers playing with the longer hair there.

  Both hands on her waist, he tugged her until she pressed against him. “Why not?”

  Now was not the time for a repeat performance of the other night, but when she was sober, hell. He was all over her.

  “Because,” she whispered, her eyes heavy.

  Leaning down, he got close enough to her mouth to kiss her, but didn’t. “That’s not a reason, Ace.”

  She kissed him instead, moved her mouth on his in a series of soft, warm kisses he returned while drawing her closer and clutching her harder. He slanted her jaw and deepened their connection. She took it. He pressed his body against her curves, the liquor on her tongue tasting sweet, tangy from the cherry—

  Wake up, man.

  Hands on her hips, he pushed her back and tore his mouth from hers before he could talk himself out of it. They were not on the same page.

  She slid her hands to his jeans, specifically, to the stud of his jeans, and had it undone and the zipper halfway down before he once again forced his body into action and took a step away from her.

  “Oh, no you don’t, gorgeous.” If he didn’t say it now, there’d be no saying it.

  Promptly, he turned her around, pointed her to the stairs, and walked behind her as he angled her to the bedroom. Charlie, drunk and loose and accommodating, was incredibly tempting. In spite of her mouth saying things her body instantly contradicted. Or maybe not in spite of it, but because of it.

  He wanted her. She was dead wrong in her assumption earlier. That studio thing? Definitely happening again. But he wanted her present, aware—not feeling displaced guilt over a decision she made while simmering in Mad Cow Tinis.

  Without letting her try to de-pants him again, and with his pants partially open to accommodate the growing erection she was responsible for, he wrangled her to the bathroom where he gave her a fresh toothbrush. While she brushed, he fluffed the pillows—snagging one for himself for the couch downstairs—turned down the white comforter, and put a glass of water on the nightstand. Then he tucked her into his bed and went to his studio to paint and pace off his sexual frustration.

  Or, as it turned out, a bit of both. Simultaneously.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tequila was the devil’s drink.

  Since waking up in Evan’s bed, the sun peeking through a crack in the floor-length dark gray curtains, Charlie had downed a glass of water, refilled and drank another, then brushed her teeth.

  And she still felt as if she had a mouth full of sand.

  Bleh.

  Head pounding, she crawled back under his fluffy, white comforter, hoping her throbbing head and dry mouth might distract her from how amazing his sheets smelled.

  But no. The part of her brain logging every detail about the man she was harboring lusty thoughts for didn’t miss the chance to soak in the fresh ocean air scent of either his fabric softener—did he use that stuff?—or his cologne, or a mix of the two.

  Her brain also didn’t give her a reprieve from remembering, with agonizing clarity, the way she’d attempted to seduce him last night. Drunk as a skunk, she could only imagine what a hot mess she must’ve looked. This morning, she’d refilled her water glass and found her eyes caked with yesterday’s mascara. Then found it on the pillowcase. The white pillowcase.

  With a groan, she pulled the other pillow over her ratty hair and wondered if she could sleep until, say, Lyon went to college. By then she might live down the embarrassment wrought by throwing herself at Evan Downey while slurring, stumbling, and slovenly drunk.

  Ugh.

  “Aspirin, Ace.”

  The muffled voice in the room grew more muffled as she crammed the pillow over her head. Suffocation. That was a good idea.

  Her host thwarted her plan, tugging the pillow off her face and dropping it to the other side of the bed.

  “You’ve been awake for a while,” he stated.

  The scent of coffee curled into her nostrils, luring her out from behind her hair. She swept the length of it off her face and leaned on one elbow.

  Evan sat beside her. “Hey, beautiful.”

  She replied with an inelegant grunt of disbelief.

  “Aspirin.” He held up his fingers, between which were two small tablets that she swallowed with a gulp of water. Then she sat up and lifted the coffee mug to her lips. It was red with white block lettering that read: CARPE BEANAM: SEIZE THE COFFEE.

  The brew was hot, and delicious, and had so much milk, it was almost more cream than coffee. Just the way she liked it. That he remembered made her heart tug. She gave herself a mental poke. After last night, he’d probably check her into Betty Ford.

  “Hangover Hash.”

  She blinked at him, coffee mug held to her lips. “Hangover Hash?”

  “Yep. My specialty,” he answered with a small smile.

  Oh, he looked good today. His hair was wet on the ends, from his shower, she figured. The lake was way too cold in the morning for a swim. His T-shirt was tight and white, made to look old, but was new, with faded gray lettering in a banner reading: AXLE’S: FEAR NO ROAD. The banner looped stylishly around a faded gray drawing of what she guessed was a Harley Davidson. And she further guessed, since his brother had recently purchased several motorcycle shops in Osborn, Ohio, and because she knew Evan didn’t ride, this shirt was from Aiden’s shop.

  “I have another hangover specialty if you’re interested, Ace.”

  The sultry heat in his words disrupted her thoughts. She dragged her attention from the shirt molded to his body to find a pair of turquoise eyes dancing in the light eking through the closed curtains.

  Something in those dancing eyes told her by “specialty” he meant something sexual. And that idea started pounding away in her heart, her stomach, and then traveled lower.

  She clutched her mug. “I’m okay,” she said, anything but.

  “Guaranteed to get your mind off your headache.” The side of his lips tipped.

  Her hips shifted. Definitely something sexual.

  He tugged the blankets aside and ran a gaze
down her clothes—actually his clothes. She didn’t want to know how he’d gotten her out of her cute yellow dress and into the black shirt pooling around her thighs.

  He planted a fist on either side of her body, his weight depressing the bed. She held the mug of hot coffee between them and stared at him over the rim.

  “Put the mug down.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Want you trembling, barely able to speak, Ace, not ‘okay.’ ”

  Oh. Well, when he put it that way… wait, no. She was a hungover mess. And they had no parameters yet for their relationship. And she needed to brush her hair.

  Plus her coffee would get cold.

  “Put the mug down,” he repeated, proving how little he cared about the temperature of her coffee.

  “Shouldn’t we talk about—”

  Carefully, he removed the mug from her hand, put it on the nightstand, and scooted up the bed until he practically lay on top of her. She backed her head into the pillow as he lowered his face to hers.

  “Kiss me.”

  She lifted her head an inch, smacked her puckered lips against his, and dropped her head onto the pillow again.

  He righted a brow—the right one—and pulled his mouth into a look of pure dissatisfaction. “My kid’s gone. The curtains are closed. We are in bed together.”

  Her heart knocked against her chest as he reminded her of the things she already knew. “We haven’t talked.”

  “Nope.”

  “I—I need to,” she stated.

  His eyes went to the side in thought, then snapped back to hers. “Okay, Ace. You talk. I’ll be down here.”

  He moved so fast, she didn’t have the opportunity to brace herself, but she should have because one minute she was looking at his face inches away from hers, and the next, Evan Downey was underneath the covers, tugging the T-shirt she wore up to reveal her stomach, and darting his tongue into her belly button.

  “Evan!” She palmed the top of his head over the covers and pushed, but he didn’t move, continuing to run his tongue around her belly button as his fists found the edges of her panties.

  No, no. This couldn’t be happening.

  But it was.

  “Evan, come out of there.” Her words drifted out on a sigh. A soft sigh, the longing so evident, they both heard what she really wanted. And what she wanted was for him not to come out of there.

  His chuckle and muffled reply confirmed he, too, wanted that. “When I’m done.”

  “I’m serious.” She scooted herself up the bed to get away. The move had the opposite of the desired effect, placing his face directly between her thighs. When he muttered the word “perfect,” she felt the rumble of his voice there. Between her thighs. The very spot where he’d had her touch herself in the studio.

  Oh my.

  And now he was—

  Oh. Oh, that’s very nice.

  The warm slide of his tongue played along the edge of her panties and then dipped beneath the material. His mouth was warm and wet and, again, before she knew what had happened, he’d tugged her panties away and kissed her thigh as he swept them down her legs.

  Then she came to her senses.

  Clamping her legs together, she trapped the cotton panties between her knees and whipped the blanket off. His messy bedhead was now messier, his lips damp, and his brows lowered.

  “What are you doing?” That was supposed to be a demand, but she sounded breathy. Or, more accurately, out of breath.

  “You want to watch.” He shrugged briefly. “Fine by me.” He tugged at her panties again.

  She held her knees together. “Evan.” That came out a little whiny, but she pressed on. “I need to know what you’re doing.”

  This made him lift his head and sigh. “Charlie, if you don’t know what I’m doing, your sex life has been a sad, limited experience.” He grinned. “Let me enlighten you, baby.”

  What he’d said hadn’t been far from the truth. She and Russell used to have sex she’d qualify as “good,” but not earth shattering. The few boyfriends before him were okay, but nothing noteworthy. Especially since she was sixteen when she lost her virginity (stupid) and twenty-two when she dated Josh (inexperienced). Not to mention the guy after Josh who was annoying and moronic and she refused to even think his name. With her limited experience, she’d thought Russell and she had found their rhythm. The way a couple builds habits and learns to maneuver around one another. They’d discovered a way to satisfy one another that, yes, was basically a trade of services, but fulfilled a need. What they each needed. Sexually. But getting Russell to do what Evan was eagerly offering… Well, that was always something she had to barter for with quite a bit of… um… artillery.

  “I’m not ready,” she whispered. “To do that to you.”

  She winced, hating to admit that she wasn’t, but she wasn’t. She’d lusted after Evan, yes, and had enjoyed his company in the studio without reciprocation, which in her mind meant one thing. This time, he’d expect her to reciprocate.

  And in no way was she ready to just… just… dive in like he was.

  He released her panties and climbed her body, his face scrunching. Angry.

  She recognized that face. Russell used to have that face when she refused to go down on him after he’d, as he called it, “rewarded her” with fellatio. One for one, Charlotte. I did you. You do me. You love me, I love you. See how this works?

  “I’m sorry, Evan. I think we should talk about—”

  “Who said anything about me?”

  She focused on his face, which was, indeed, angry.

  “Sorry?”

  “You think I’m going down on you to get you to return the favor?”

  She did think that. That was the way these things worked. Right? Sensing this was not the correct answer, she said, “No. Uh, I um… I realize it’d be wrong of me not to do it to you after you took the time to—”

  She stopped talking to gasp, and the reason she gasped was because he’d taken advantage of her distraction and ripped her underpants off her legs and dropped them to the floor.

  He slid his hand up her calf, over her knee, and stroked the inside of her thigh. “Is that what you think?”

  She answered with an expelled breath.

  Keeping his eyes on hers, he swirled his fingers higher. “You think you have to do whatever I do to you? Is that how Russell worked things, Ace?”

  She felt her cheeks heat from embarrassment. Her hips lifted involuntarily toward his attentive fingers tracing the sensitive skin on her inner thighs.

  “Answer me.” This command was paired with his fingertips touching her intimately.

  “We… um, I don’t know,” she hedged.

  “Ace.” He dipped a finger inside her, then out.

  She shuddered. “I—Evan, please.”

  He brought his face close to hers, his fingers continuing their delicious strokes. “Charlie, answer me. Now.”

  When he pulled his fingers away, she blew out the answer on three hectic, short breaths. “Yes. We… traded. Stuff.”

  “You traded stuff,” he repeated, his hand going still between her legs, his face severe. “He never did something to you without expecting something in return?”

  “Um…”

  Had he? She thought back to the years they’d spent together. The things they’d done together. Russell had always been one-for-one. He set dollar limits on gifts so they spent the same amount. He insisted on picking the next movie if she’d picked the last. He would slide the black book at the restaurant to her across the table and say, I paid last time, Charlotte. Remember?

  And yes, in bed, if he offered a sexual favor, it was presented as a trade-off for what she’d do for him afterward.

  Evan’s angry face softened and his eyes roamed her face for a solid minute—or maybe a month—looking for what, she had no idea. He seemed to find it, placed a gentle kiss on her lips, and muttered just as gently, “Hang on, baby.”

  She blinked at his unex
pected words. “What?”

  His smile tipped in the charming, crooked way she loved. He bent his head and said to her T-shirt. “My hair. Hang on.”

  She put a hand in his hair and he lifted his face and kissed her again. Against her lips, he said, “Tight. Tug when I do something you like.”

  Without waiting for her response, he pulled the blanket over his head and dove between her legs. Charlie hung on as instructed.

  And she tugged a lot.

  * * *

  Evan’s “guaranteed to make you feel better” Hangover Hash was good. Not as good as what preceded it, but good all the same. They shared breakfast and he did the dishes, insisting she sit and sip another cup of coffee.

  She let him do the chore where normally she’d have butted him out of the way. But she was too relaxed and stuffed full of seared red potatoes, perfectly over-easy eggs, and sharp cheddar cheese.

  A contented sigh left her lips.

  “Glad to hear that.” He dried the last plate and put it into the cabinet.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t help.”

  The tiny frown denting his brow was offset by the smirk on his lips. “Ace.”

  “What?”

  “Gonna have to think of a consequence for you, you keep using that word with me.”

  She tried to think what she’d said. “What word?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Most people think it’s polite to apologize,” she argued, her throat clogging as he strutted over.

  He tossed the dishtowel over one shoulder and leaned in close. “I’m not most people.” Pushing her hair away from her face, he kissed her tenderly. “Don’t want you to be sorry.”

  When he pulled away, she turned her eyes up to his. “What if I do something horrible?”

  “Not possible.”

  “What if I… um… tell you your latest painting is awful?”

  He blew a short laugh from his nose. “Grateful you were honest.”

  “What if I told you I didn’t like your Hangover Hash?”

  “You’d be lying. Bet the neighbors heard you moaning from across the beach.”