by Tawna Fenske
“How did you read my address, then?” I call through the door.
“You’re two blocks from Hot Swap on the same street,” he points out. “And this street number is pretty tough to mess up, even for someone with a doctor’s handwriting.”
“I am a doctor,” I mutter, mostly to myself. A PhD in soil science, but still.
“Ma’am?” On the other side of the door, he clears his throat. “Look, I can just leave it here next to your door. You seemed so upset earlier that I assumed you needed it quickly, but I can set it down right—”
His words halt when I throw open the door and take him in. Good God, he’s hotter than I remember. The man looks like someone chiseled him out of oak. Rounded biceps, broad shoulders, abs with every last ridge and bump visible through the cotton of his T-shirt. The tortoiseshell glasses he wears frame brown eyes the exact color of undrained alluvial silt.
That sounded sexier in my mind.
I stand there gaping at him like an idiot for a few seconds before remembering my manners. “Simon,” I repeat, pretty sure that’s what he just told me his name was. “Wow. Thank you. You really fixed my laptop?”
“Yep.” He grins at me, and those eyes light up like something you’d order out of an eyeball catalog. God, I’m losing it. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tip the guy or blow him. The fact that I’m even having these thoughts makes me wonder if I pickled my brain with last night’s chardonnay binge.
“Thank you,” I manage, wiping one sweaty palm down the leg of my pants. “What do I owe you?”
The words come out sounding more suggestive than I meant them to, or maybe that’s only in my head. Hottie Geek’s expression doesn’t change, so I probably imagined it.
“I’m feeling benevolent today,” he says. “No charge. I did install a larger hard drive, though. You were almost out of space. If you’d like, I can show you a couple quick tricks for maximizing your storage capacity. Or you can return to the shop and have one of my associates show you how to—”
“No, I want you.”
Shit. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Or maybe I did.
I lick my lips and try again. “Look, given what was frozen on my laptop screen, I’d really rather minimize the number of people who—uh—are privy to this.”
“What was frozen on your laptop.”
It’s a statement, not a question. He just repeated my words in a bemused tone, and I can’t tell what the hell that means. Did he read it or not? I study his face, trying to figure it out, but my brain gets sidetracked. Lord, it should not be legal for a man to have cheekbones like that.
I step aside and usher him into my living room, hoping to salvage some dignity and the possibility that I’m a polite, professional member of society. “Look, Mr.—”
“Simon,” he says, dropping onto my sofa and setting the laptop down on my coffee table. He doesn’t look at me while he boots it up. “Just Simon. Not Mister.”
“Right. I’m Cassie.” I stand there like a dumbass, wondering if I should offer him a drink or something.
He looks up then and flashes me that megawatt smile. “Cassie.” He pats the sofa next to him. “Come on. I’ll show you a couple things and then get out of your hair.”
The fact that he hasn’t said a word about The List makes me think maybe I’m off the hook. Either he really didn’t read it, or he’s just being a gentleman. Either way, it emboldens me enough that I sit down next to him. My leg brushes his, and I swear to God I feel sparks arc straight from my knee to my nipples. I start to scoot away, but he pins me there with his words.
“Okay, really quickly,” he says. “I’ve created a link to your new backup system right here. I updated your antivirus protection and did a thorough cleaning of the keyboard. You’ll want to watch out for this X key, though. It’s still a little sticky.”
I nod. “I’ll try not to type too many words with an X in them.” The second I say that, I think of half a dozen.
Excite.
X-rated.
Fixate.
Sex.
Climax.
He looks up at me then, and I could swear the same words just flitted through his mind. There’s a knowing expression in those brown eyes, and I’m positive he read the list. He had to, right?
Or maybe I imagined the look, because he’s back to pointing out some feature he updated on the laptop. Something about RAM or ROM or whatever. I can’t hear anything he’s saying over the voice in my head chanting, “Did he read it? Did he not read it?”
He turns and asks if what he just showed me makes sense, and I nod like a dummy. For all I know he just gave me a recipe for snickerdoodles or told me where Jimmy Hoffa is buried. I have no clue. He holds my gaze, and I try to blink away the panic.
I can’t take it anymore.
I have to defuse the tension or I’ll explode.
I finally blurt it out. “Look, Simon—I’m feeling a little flustered because I know you saw The List on my monitor when I dropped off the computer, and it’s really nice of you to pretend you didn’t see it, but obviously, you did, and I feel like I should explain that it’s probably not what you think it is.”
I drag in a deep breath to wash down that big mouthful of crazy.
He looks up from the laptop then, a bemused expression in those light brown eyes. “What do I think it is?”
He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I wonder if I’m sharing way too much. He sounds genuinely intrigued, and I feel my cheeks heating up. Did I just make an ass of myself? Certainly not the first time.
I take a deep breath, determined to just get this out so I can stop feeling so damn awkward. “You probably think it’s some sort of Fucket list.”
“Fucket list?”
“Right. Like a sexual bucket list. Things I plan to do before I’m thirty or something like that. But that isn’t what this is.”
There’s a spark of curiosity in his expression. His fingers, long and strong and perfectly shaped, tap the keyboard. I order myself to stop staring.
“If it’s not a Fucket List,” he says, “What is it?”
I take a deep breath and squinch my eyes closed, knowing the words that are about to come out of my mouth will make me sound like I’m hiding eighteen cats in my bedroom. “Over the years, I may have told my sisters a story or two about the wild and crazy sex things I’ve done.”
“So, these are things you’ve already done?”
There’s no judgment in his voice, but there’s a note of confusion. My eyes pop open, and I find myself shaking my head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I meant I made all this stuff up.”
“All of it?”
“I know it sounds stupid, but I wanted them to think I’m this crazy, uninhibited wild girl. Which I’m not.”
I watch his face, looking for signs he might think he needs a restraining order.
I see no hint he’s worried for my sanity.
Just a slow, sexy smile that makes my stomach feel like a phreatic eruption in the magma chamber of a shield volcano. Still, he says nothing, and I feel myself rushing to fill the silence.
“Anyway, I just didn’t want you to think I’m the sort of woman who goes around making lists of sexual exploits. Even fake ones.”
“Exploits,” he repeats, then grins at me. “There’s a word you’ll have trouble typing without an X.”
I laugh in spite of myself. I was right, dammit. The tension’s gone now, or at least the awkward kind is. Nothing like pointing out the elephant in the room to help everyone relax.
Another word I won’t be able to type without an X.
“Right,” I say, clearing my throat. “So anyway, I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about me.”
“I see.” He folds my laptop cover closed, still regarding me with humor in his eyes. “But you don’t really want to do all those things on The List.”
That grin disarms me, and I appreciate that he’s not even pretending he didn’t read the list. Who wouldn’t? If someone handed me a compu
ter with the words “Super awesome wild-ass (holy shit they’re gonna kill me) sex stuff to figure out before D-day” emblazoned in twenty-point font across the top of the page, damn straight I’d read it. I’m only human.
And so is Simon whatshisname, if the heat radiating from his body is any indication. His shoulder is touching mine, and I’m aware of just how hard he is everywhere—how amazing he smells. Like Jory soil and clover in the sunshine, which I swear is much more awesome than it sounds.
I remember he’s asked a question, though I’ve forgotten what it was. Oh, right. Whether I really want to do all the things on The List.
“Right,” I say at last. “I guess I can’t pretend someone else came up with all the ideas?”
“You could, I suppose.” He grins. “I might not believe you, though.”
“True.” I clear my throat. “So maybe it’s just the product of an active imagination.”
“You have an excellent imagination.”
“Thank you.”
Note to self: get out more. I literally can’t tell if this hot guy is flirting with me or if it’s all in my head. Just like before, the uncertainty has me ready to spew awkward word vomit. Things like my phone number or bra size or favorite sex position, which would definitely cue the need for a restraining order.
I manage to keep my mouth shut this time and wait for him to say something else, but he just smiles at me. It feels hot in here, and I contemplate taking off my sweatshirt. Would he take it as an invitation?
Would I want him to?
I shift on the sofa, bumping his knee with mine. His hand shoots out as though to steady me, which is totally unnecessary, but it feels good on my thigh anyway. A hot guy is sitting on my couch, possibly flirting with me, and doesn’t seem freaked out by a crazy woman in sweatpants making a list of fake sex stories. Even weirder, he seems like he’s still waiting for an answer. Like he really wants to know if I like the idea of doing those things on the list.
“Maybe.” I swallow. “Maybe some of them.”
I can’t believe I’ve just said this out loud. It is hands down the boldest thing I’ve said in my entire life. I might throw up. I might throw up in front of a man so stupid-sexy he makes Ryan Gosling look like the Elephant Man.
This is not happening.
“In that case,” he says slowly, “I’d like to volunteer.”
“Volunteer?” My question comes out like a croak, which I’m sure he finds about as sexy as pocket lint.
“I’d like to help you out,” he says. “With item number four, to be precise.”
Item number four? I fumble back through my wine-tinged memories to recall which act I’d put in that spot on my list. It hits me with the force of a dick-slap on the cheek.
“Sex with an anonymous stranger!” I blurt.
“Well, I believe the way you wrote it was, ‘Crazyhawt sex with a dark-haired, anonymous stranger with great abs.’” He grins again, and it takes everything I have to keep from nodding stupidly.
Before I can say anything, he lifts the edge of his T-shirt to show a perfect washboard stomach. Holy shit, the man is ripped. I’d pegged him as more of a computer geek than a gym rat, but apparently the two can coexist. I open my mouth to say something, but close it fast so I don’t drool.
“So maybe I’d suffice.” He drops the hem of his shirt, and I feel my cheeks getting warm. Warmer. Christ, it’s at least two hundred degrees in here, and I’m pretty sure Hottie McGeekerson has something to do with that.
I feel myself melting into the sofa, but I don’t want him to know this. I take my best stab at bravado, straightening my spine and adopting what I hope is a look of perfect nonchalance. “What makes you think I’m even attracted to you?”
He laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all week, which it just might be. I expect him to say something cocky and dickheadish that will totally kill the fantasy going on in my head right now.
Instead, he does the opposite.
He leans in and kisses me.
Chapter Three
Simon
If I thought there was a chance Cassie would punch me in the crotch for being a presumptuous asshole, my fear dissolves the second my lips touch hers.
So does she. Dissolve, I mean. It’s like the girl liquefies in my arms, wrapping herself around me and practically falling onto my lap. It’s a shock after her earlier shyness.
But instead of making me feel bold and in control, having Cassie straddling me leaves me undone. I’m breathing like I’ve just done eight dozen pushups, and my heart feels like it’s having a seizure in my chest. I’m not used to being so affected by a woman—any woman—so the whole thing has me reeling.
I break the kiss and come up for air, mostly just to get my bearings. “Is this okay?”
Hey, I’m all about consent.
“Um,” she says, and lunges for me again.
I’ll take that as a “yes.”
She’s kissing me with surprising hunger, grinding our bodies together where the thin cotton of her yoga pants meets the hard seam of my jeans. My dick responds like she’s called it by name and offered a Scooby Snack, and I realize I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in ages. God, what is it about this woman?
My hands slide under the hem of her sweatshirt, which is soft from wear. Not as soft as she is, though. I realize this while my palms devour her bare skin, and I’m touching her like a horny teenager sliding into second for the first time. I order myself to go slow, but the way she writhes when I unhook her bra makes me think she has other ideas.
“That feels good.” She breaks the kiss to lean back and smile. She seems to hesitate for a second, and I get the sense she wasn’t kidding earlier. This really isn’t her normal MO.
But the hesitation evaporates in an instant as she reaches down to yank the sweatshirt off over her head. The bra goes with it, and suddenly I’m eye level with the most perfect tits I’ve ever seen.
“I can’t believe you’ve been hiding these under that massive sweatshirt,” I murmur, moving my hands up to cup them.
Cassie sighs and arches her back as I suck one nipple into my mouth. She groans aloud, and I try to remember if I’d pegged her as the noisy type when I thought about this back in my shop.
And let’s be honest—I did think about this. I thought about it even more after I read that damn list. Does it make me a pig that I came here tonight hoping maybe, just maybe, there was a chance things might end up like this?
But never like this. This is hella more intense than I imagined. I’m drunk with desire, still kissing her like my life depends on it.
I slide my palms around her back and draw her closer, gliding my mouth to her other nipple. She sucks in a breath, and I feel her grind harder against me. My dick is screaming to get out of my pants, but I rein myself in and focus on her breasts. This woman is delicious. My tongue makes slow circles around her areola while I tease the other nipple with the pad of my thumb.
By the time I’ve played with her for a good five minutes, she’s panting like she just chased the ice cream truck for ten blocks.
“Please,” she moans.
She doesn’t articulate what she wants, but I have a pretty good idea. Should I make her spell it out? Urge her to talk dirty, just to prove she can do it?
Who knew shy girls could be such a turn-on?
“Please what?” I murmur against the underside of her breast.
“Please—”
The word is more urgent this time, and I can tell she’s about to burst. Still, I want to hear her say it.
“What do you want, Cassie?”
She gives a small groan, and I can’t tell if it’s frustration or pleasure. Maybe both. I flick my tongue over her nipple again. “Tell me, Cassie. Tell me what you’d like me to do to you. I want to hear you say it.”
She sits back and takes a deep breath. Those green eyes flash with fire as she stares at me with such intensity, I feel my chest contract. “Please fuck me.”
<
br /> Her cheeks go pink, and I can tell she’s surprised by her own boldness. The words send a lightning bolt straight to my libido, but I know it’s too soon. I want to take my time. I scoop my hands under her ass and stand up, and she wiggles against me. She probably thinks I’m going to give her what she asked for, but I turn around and set her on the couch facing me. Before she can protest, I’m grabbing the waist of her yoga pants and dragging them down her legs.
“Wait,” she says, and for a second I think she’s going to call a halt to this whole thing. My cock screams in protest, but the rest of me is willing to be a gentleman.
But Cassie gives me a shy smile and bites her lip. Again with the hesitation.
“What is it?” I urge, commanding myself not to touch her. If she’s saying stop, I can respect that.
But a slow smile spreads over her face, and she looks like a kid who just raided the cookie jar as she grabs the edge of my T-shirt. “I don’t want to be the only one naked.”
I laugh and take a step back. Grabbing the hem of my shirt, I lift it up slowly. I’m not an idiot. I know how to work it for full effect, baring abs and pecs and biceps I’ve worked damn hard to hone. I’m ADHD, so I can either burn extra energy at the gym or playing video games.
I watch her face as I toss the T-shirt aside, and I know I’ve chosen wisely. She looks hungry, but not desperate. There’s something unbelievably fucking sexy about that.
She reaches for my belt buckle, but I shake my head and push her hand away. “Not yet,” I tell her. “First, I want to make sure you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” she pants, but her voice hitches a little on the last syllable. She’s sitting naked on her sofa with her thighs pressed tight together and those beautiful tits on full display. She’s like a gift store filled with things I want to touch, and I’m almost not sure where to start.
I drop to my knees in front of her, and she gasps in surprise. Shouldering her thighs apart, I slide my hands under her and cup her ass with both palms. I tilt her toward me, angling her up to give me the perfect view of her sweet pussy.
“God, you’re wet,” I murmur, surprised to hear the awe in my own voice. “But I want to make you wetter.”