by Holley Trent
He liked finding her sitting there at his table, in his home. He so rarely ever went to any of his homes, and never had a woman waiting for him. Naturally, he wanted to savor the experience, even if it was one-sided. “I’ve got it, but thanks.” He set the bags on the counter and shifted the flowers to his other hand.
Should he give them to her? Or find a vase and—
“Those are pretty,” she said. She folded her legs beneath her again.
His gaze trailed down to the smooth stretch of flesh spanning her thighs and ankles. She wore little cut-off sweat-shorts that must have been meant to be pajamas. “Uh … I bought them for you,” he said, whipping them toward her as if he had a robo-arm.
She looked at him with a look of suspicion. “For me?”
Incubus Charles would have easily buttered her up, but that Charles seemed to be switched off at the moment. He cringed and decided to try honesty for a change. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.” He held them there. Waiting.
Slowly, she stood, and her expression shifted from marked distrust to hesitant excitement. She wrapped her fingers around the plastic-covered stems, brushing his hand for a brief moment as she took them.
A jolt traveled down his arm, and Charles knew it was a human sort of magic and nothing supernatural.
She carried them back to the table, dipping her nose into the bunch and making a small moan of pleasure. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”
“Impossible.” He opened his empty refrigerator and piled his purchases onto the shelves. “Don’t women get corsages when they go to the prom?”
“I didn’t go to the prom.”
There was a note of heartache in her voice, but Charles didn’t turn around. He didn’t know what he’d do if she were sad and had it written all over her face. He’d never been tasked with consoling anyone before, beyond his mother. And after she died, who was left?
No one.
“I didn’t go to the prom, either.” He closed the door.
“I think you’re lying,” she said with a laugh. “I bet the girls were falling all over themselves to go out with you.”
“Well …”
He strode to the pantry, eyes trained straight ahead. The old percolator was on the middle shelf, right where the housekeeper had last dusted it. He withdrew it and shut the door. “Believe it or not, I was rather awkward as a teenager. Hadn’t grown into my skin yet. I was tall and lanky, and honestly, I didn’t have much to say of interest.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He stole a look at her and found her cradling the flowers like a newborn, smiling. If such a simple thing could make her smile, he’d fill a whole room with tulips for her.
“It is, unfortunately, true. Of all my peers, I think I was the last to …” He shrugged and made a waffling motion with his hand.
“Get laid?” she surmised.
The chuckle escaped his throat before he could throttle it. He filled the coffee pot with grounds and water and set it atop the stove. “Yes. By years.”
“You filled out okay.” She gave him a speculative look from head to toes and then her stare retreated to her book.
His eyebrows darted up. What am I going to do with her?
Then he remembered. He was supposed to be delivering her to her sister and grandmother. He was supposed to be alerting his prick of a father of her whereabouts should he cross her path.
He didn’t give a damn about supposed-to at the moment. This was about Charles Edison and his needs, which he was beginning to understand had less to do with his body and more to do with his spirit. Apparently, he still had one.
• • •
Charles’s breath was warm on Marion’s neck as he leaned over her chair, peering over her shoulder at the open book. It felt almost as good as that hot bath she’d taken, but that bath hadn’t heated her core the way his silken voice and deep, throaty chuckles were. Nor had that bath smelled of expensive cologne with a slightly sweet note left behind from the tulips he’d carried. She’d walked out of that warm bath squeaky clean, and now, sitting at his kitchen table with his hands pressed onto the table edge at either side of her, she was getting dirty all over again. If he could see her sweating, he was probably too much of a gentleman to comment on it.
“You’ve really never been to any of these places?” he asked, flipping the page of the brochure.
She willed herself to sound more composed than she felt and reached for her half-eaten sandwich. “No. None of them. I don’t even know anyone who’s been.”
“You were just going to, what, go to the airport after delivering your load and buy a ticket somewhere? That would be an expensive venture. Most people buy in advance.”
“Yeah, it’s not like I’m going to blow my savings, you know? Even if I spend a couple thousand bucks, I’ll be okay. Figured I could fly stand-by or whatever.”
“Hmm.” He pushed away from the table and ambled to the counter, patting the back pocket of his jeans. She hadn’t heard the buzzing until he plucked out the phone.
“Hey, Number One.”
She continued her study of the brochure, flipping back and forth between the entry for Puerto Rico and the entry for Cozumel, while keeping one ear tuned to her host’s conversation. It wasn’t that she was nosy, but “Number One” was an interesting nickname to give to someone. His number-one what?
Charles opened the fridge and piled the remnants of their lunch inside while emitting the occasional grunt. He closed the door and strode from the room, lowering his deep voice to a near-whisper, but she could still pick up the occasional rumble from the bedroom he must have been pacing in.
“Yeah, I did finally check in with him earlier. That should keep him off my back for a while,” he said. “He gave me a productivity ultimatum. Brought up … well, you know.”
Productivity? He followed truck drivers for a living. How, exactly, did a company measure productivity for that sort of job?
“No, I don’t think so. Listen, I need you to look into something for me. I—”
Her body leaned toward the hallway as she tried to pick up snatches of the conversation, but he’d closed the door and effectively squashed her eavesdropping. Oh well. She felt a bit guilty for having listened in in the first place. She resumed her brochure perusal. Puerto Rico was probably seventy or eighty degrees warmer than Idaho or anywhere she’d been driving through in the past couple of weeks, and the liquor there was cheap. She drew her phone in closer and brought up a search engine. Maybe she could find a flight out of Spokane, and leave her truck in one of the remote parking lots for however long she was gone.
When Charles emerged from the hallway, she was scrolling through flight timetables.
“Puerto Rico, I think,” she said, waggling her phone at him. “I don’t have a passport, so that limits me.”
He just stared at her for a long moment and shifted his phone to his other hand. “Oh. Good choice.”
“Gonna see if I can get a flight into the southeast tonight. I’ll spend the night someplace and try to go the rest of the way in the morning. I’m not really in a hurry, so I can afford to do things piecemeal.”
“I don’t know if you’ll be able to fly out tonight. Weather might not hold.”
She pushed an eyebrow up and opened her phone’s weather app. “Mm, nuh-uh. Should be okay through Wednesday. Just cold for now.”
“Oh.” He tucked his phone into his pocket and leaned against the archway between the kitchen and hall. “Well, let me know what you find. I can drive you to the airport, if you want.”
“On your bike?”
He closed his eyes and let out a groan. “Forgot. Not my usual mode of transport.”
“What is, then?”
“Trucks.”
“You mean other people’s? ’Cause you don’t have a rig here.”
“Yes. Other people’s.”
“What, you do ride-alongs?”
He seemed to consider it, and his pause was just long enoug
h to rouse her Spidey sense. He was lying about something. “Yes. Ride-alongs. Trainees.”
What was he hiding? Maybe it was something job-related. Something to do with that phone call he’d just ended.
“I’m going to get my laptop out of my bag and see what I can book.” She stood and tried to angle past him to the bedroom, but he looped his arms around her waist and drew her in close. His hard body pressed against hers in an embrace that seemed entirely too proprietary. She didn’t want to push him away; truth be told, she wanted to wrap her legs around his hips.
She didn’t want to smack him, as she would have probably done to any other man. She wanted to rake her fingers through his hair and nudge his ponytail holder off. He was wearing far too many clothes, and she wanted to know what that fine column of a man looked like beneath them.
Why resist? She was never going to see him again, anyway.
His breath sped, and she could hear his heartbeat pounding through his sweater as he brushed his hands down her back.
The proximity made her put her head back at a rather uncomfortable angle to read his face. He seemed as startled as her, and maybe a bit confused.
She passed her tongue over her dry lips and swallowed. Was he going to kiss her, or just stare at her?
He let go and backed up a pace.
Dammit.
“I’m sorry, Marion. I don’t know what came over me, grabbing you like that. I just wanted to stop you to tell you that you may be able to get a better fare if you showed up in person just before flight time. It’s Monday, and I don’t imagine too many people are flying off on vacation tonight.” His gaze, which had been sensuous before, cooled, but the change seemed forced. His ragged breaths belied his emotions.
“Oh-kay, then.” She drew in some air and ran the back of her arm across her forehead. She’d gotten hot again.
“Just let me know when you want to go, and I’ll—”
“So, what was that?” she interrupted, pressing her arms tight over her belly and giving him her best try me stare. It worked on big burly truckers, and it should have been just as good on tall, dark, and handsome driving inspectors—or whatever his job was. Like hell if she was going to let him off the hook that easily. After all, he was the one who’d started this tango, so he’d better see it through to the end.
“What was what?” His voice was bland and expression blank.
“You grabbed me.”
“And I apologized.”
“Why’d you do it?”
He raised his shoulders in a slow shrug and raked the few swaths of loose hair away from his bright eyes. “Don’t know. Reflex. I felt like there was a magnet passing in front of me, and not clinging to it would have been contrary to nature.”
She narrowed her eyes and propped her fists on her hips. “So, I’m a magnet? That’s sexy.”
“No.” His languorous gaze trailing down her body was so intense, so fixed on her, it damn near felt like foreplay.
Her skin seemed to tingle where his eyes focused, but she figured that was psychosomatic. Or maybe she was that hard up.
No, she was definitely hard up. If she weren’t, wouldn’t she be more offended?
“You’re not a magnet. You’re more like a little spark plug.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment, Charles.”
“It is. You’re small and full of energy. Crackling wit.”
She rolled her eyes. “Keep talking like that, and my panties will drop themselves.”
“Okay.” He closed the gap he’d put between them and slid his right arm around her shoulders. He pulled her in close so her breasts pressed against his body, and it was so fast, she hardly had time to gasp before he propped her chin up with his thumb.
She had little choice but to look into his eyes. Beautiful blue eyes that seemed as deep as the ocean, and maybe holding a hint of something equally dangerous.
“You have no idea how difficult it is for me to hide my arousal with you wearing those little shorts,” he said, and his deep voice was soothing, almost somnolent. If she closed her eyes, leaning against him like that, she’d probably fall into a dream. Likely a wicked one.
“Truck drivers shouldn’t have legs like that,” he whispered.
She drew in a breath and tried to gather some words for response, but none volunteered. With him being so close, and pinned by his hypnotic gaze, she couldn’t think straight. She felt like static played in her head where words were supposed to form. Language? What was that?
She grabbed his sweater, grounding herself in the here and now with the sensation, and jammed her eyelids closed. His heady, masculine scent seemed so much more enticing now with her nose so near his chest, but she couldn’t let herself get distracted by it.
She loosened her grip on the fabric and dragged her palms down to his belly.
It drew in as he gasped.
There. Now she could think. She opened her eyes, but kept her gaze straight ahead, and studied the weave of his shirt. “What do truck drivers have legs like?”
He threaded his fingers through the back of her hair, and with a tiny yank he adjusted the tilt of her head, forcing her gaze toward his face once more. She couldn’t escape him; not that she wanted to at the moment.
“I’ll tell you what they’re not like,” he said. “They don’t have dainty ankles and smooth thighs.”
She wore pants ninety percent of the time, but she shaved anyway. It made her feel feminine, even if no one else could see her skin.
“And they don’t paint their toenails fire engine red.”
She wriggled her toes, but didn’t dare look down. That polish had been an impulse buy the last time she’d been in a shopping mall. It’d cost her twelve bucks, and she’d been rationing it for months—for whenever she needed a little pick-me-up. A few days ago, she’d needed one.
“Who’s the polish for?” he whispered, his left thumb now making lazy circles on her cheek.
Suddenly her mouth felt very dry, and inhaling seemed a chore.
Breathe, dammit.
“Me,” she whispered.
“You?”
She made a tiny nod. “Who were the flowers really for?”
“You.”
“Why?”
He propped her chin up a bit more and brought his face down, nearly touching her lips with his.
She closed her eyes, waiting.
He whispered near her lips, “Because I’ve wanted to seduce you since the moment I laid eyes on you back in Montana.”
Her eyelids sprang open, and she could hardly swallow. “Se-seduce me? Why?”
“Because you’re perfect.”
“You must be drunk.”
“A hundred and fifty days sober.”
Ouch. “Uh …”
“Marion?” His lips made the barest contact with hers, and they were soft and warm, and when she flicked her tongue against the seam, she wanted even more of them.
She closed her eyes again, this time shifting her weight to her tiptoes to increase her contact with his lips. Why was he so far away?
“Marion?”
“What?”
“So there’s no one? No boyfriend, or …”
“Ugh.” The spell seemed to have broken with that. She shoved both hands down into his waistband and grabbed his cock, narrowing her eyes at him in a dare. “What do you think?” In her head, that planned line came out sounding bold and ballsy, but in reality, with her fingers looped around his cock’s surprising girth, it came out a pitiful whimper.
He wheezed and grabbed her wrists. “I think you might be a tease.”
She squeezed harder, and he hissed through clenched teeth. “Then let me be clear. I’m single. Very single. You didn’t have to buy me flowers to get in my pants, but thank you.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it without spitting the words out, because she’d withdrawn one of her hands and freed his button. She unzipped him, slowly, and his breathing sped up with each centimeter she cle
ared.
She looked up to see his bright eyes darkened by dilated pupils, and his nostrils flaring.
“You don’t even have to buy me dinner.” She freed her other hand and nudged the elastic of his boxer briefs past his erection.
“I’ll buy you anything you want, I’ll—”
She raised an eyebrow and took the head of his cock in her palm, swirling his slick tip against the center. “You don’t strike me as the desperate type, Charles.”
“I am desperate. You have no idea how fucking desperate.”
What was he desperate for? Just sex? Company? Maybe it didn’t matter, because that was all she wanted for the next hour. Maybe less.
“So … what are we waiting for?”
With a feral growl Marion had never heard from neither beast nor man, he freed his shaft from her grip and lifted her onto his shoulder, caveman style. He hurried toward the second bedroom, stumbling only to heel off his boots and socks as he went. By the time he arrived at the bed, his pants were around his ankles. He tossed her down onto the soft mattress and stepped out of them.
“Now, now, big boy,” she said with a little giggle as she struggled to push up on her elbows. Was this why some women had capture fantasies? So they could bear witness to that strength and decisiveness from a man in a world filled with confusion and disorder?
He peeled his sweater and undershirt off to reveal the firmest set of abs she’d ever seen outside a magazine. But the pretty men in the magazines hadn’t moved with the ease of liquid silver or made her core temperature spike as if she were close to nuclear meltdown.
No, this was all a first for her, and when he pushed down his underwear and crawled onto the bed with a glint of raw, savage hunger in his eyes, she figured she’d never get this lucky again.
CHAPTER SIX
She seemed disappointed when he didn’t ravish her immediately. While that had been his intended goal when he’d tossed her onto the bed like a sack of potatoes, with her lying there in her bra and panties and those bright red toenails screaming for attention, he’d dug deep and found some restraint. This may have been the only chance he got to touch every part of her without negative consequence—without risking her soul for a mere caress. For a kiss.