Screwdrivered (Cocktail #3)

by Alice Clayton

  The lighting that seconds ago was dreary became enchanting. The chill in the air went from damp to bracing. The firelight turned to dancing flames of gold and bronze, painting sensual shadows across the walls. The music was no longer sad, it was timeless, full and swelling as it spoke of love and tenderness. And the rain was cozy and romantic, a perfect backdrop for the breathtaking image before me.

  Clark. Brown chinos. White button-down. Tweed jacket. Elbow patches. Dusty glasses.

  He was beautiful.

  I was floored.

  It doesn’t always have to be so hard. Sometimes falling in love just means turning around and seeing what’s right in front of you.

  My breath left my body in a great whoosh as my eyes opened wide and took in what was now, and had been the entire time, standing right in front of me. My heart skipped a beat, then raced to catch up with the rest of my body, which was suddenly reaching out for this man, this man alone.

  I’d been in a romance novel this entire time, but I had the wrong book. This was my book. This was my story. This was my man. Who wants a Superman when you can have a Clark?

  And I wanted a Clark.

  I wanted this Clark. It’s amazing how much you can learn by just turning around.

  “I came by because of the rain. I wanted to make sure the tarp had stayed down in these high winds. I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear me with the music on,” he started, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.

  And in that moment, that exact moment, I fell 100 percent completely and totally in love with Clark Barrow.

  Cue tummy fluttering.

  He wasn’t meeting my eyes, though, and I needed him to see me. My body was vibrating with the need to tell him . . . something. Anything.

  “Thank you,” I managed, and the way my voice shook caused him to finally look up. “For checking on me.”

  We stood across from each other, the tension in the air palpable.

  He took me in, his gaze traveling over my body, frowning slightly. Then his eyes narrowed.

  “What in the world are you wearing, Vivian?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

  I looked down, pigeon-toed in my tube socks and white T-shirt. “Jammies,” I answered primly.

  He let out a groan.

  I’d heard that groan before. Nighttime Clark.

  Emboldened, I shifted my weight to one hip. The effect on him was instant.

  “Are you aware that, standing in front of the fire like you are, I can see everything you’re wearing underneath?” His eyes flashed back up to mine. “Or what you’re not wearing?”

  I blushed, my hand fluttering to my collarbone, remembering that I was without a bra. I cocked my head to the side and looked at him from underneath my lashes. “I’m aware. I am so aware.”

  He took a step toward me, hesitating. So I took a step, without pause. Then another, and then one more.

  Standing in front of him, I reached up almost on tiptoe because he was so very tall, and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Clark,” I whispered, and he closed his eyes. But not before the sweetest smile I’d ever seen crossed his face.

  “Vivian,” he breathed, leaning into my touch. His hands slowly came up to my face. His eyes still closed, his strong hands approached my skin, every nerve in my body reaching out to wherever his touch would land first. His hands were so big they touched everything at once. Cradling my face, he closed the distance, breathing me in. And he looked down at me with the deepest and warmest dark chocolate eyes I’d ever seen, swirling with molten caramel and flashes of firelight.

  Now he would carry me up to my bed, lay me down across the quilt, take me into his arms, and make love to me on a cloud of angel songs.

  But then his expression changed. He looked slightly confused; one hand moved into my hair, pushing through the curls toward the back of my head, and bringing forth . . . a piece of hay.

  He looked at it curiously, and then his gaze was drawn suddenly to the picture window behind me. And I heard the rumbling of Hank’s truck roaring out of the driveway.

  I saw Clark put the pieces together and come up with a roll in the hay. And the fury and agony in his face brought tears to my eyes.

  He backed away from me, his face shuttered and his body absolutely rigid. “So stupid,” he muttered, and the look on his face crushed me.

  “No, Clark—it’s not what you think. Nothing—”

  “Save it, Viv. I don’t need this one spelled out for me,” he spat.

  I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth at the sound of my name. “No,” I whispered, horrified.

  “You’ve got that right.” He spun so quickly I barely saw him go. I heard his angry, hollow footsteps as he hurried through the house and out the back door.

  I crumpled onto the antique rug. All I could feel was emptiness, a hollow at the pit of my stomach that I’d hurt Clark so deeply. It didn’t matter that nothing happened with Hank. That he thought it had, that my actions could cause such pain to such a dear, sweet, wonderful man, was sickening.

  Tears ran down my face, which his beautiful hands had just held.

  The hands that I was lucky to have felt. The hands that any woman would be proud to hold, to feel, to writhe beneath, and to clasp tightly. And I wanted those hands.

  What would a heroine do in this situation? Cry and wail and scream?

  Maybe. But not crumpled into a ball on the floor. She’d do it while going toe-to-toe with her hero, making him hear, and making him see.

  Fighting for her man.

  I was on my feet in a flash, flying through the house, grabbing blindly for the back door and stumbling out into the rain. I made it down three steps before I saw him.

  Standing by his car. Not getting in. Just standing.

  In the rain, the thunder and the lightning, the tumult and the wind. Up to his loafers in the mud. Not getting in.

  Holding his keys in a tightly clenched fist. One hand on the top of the car. Letting the rain pour down on him. Soaked. Angry. Not getting in.

  “Clark!” I yelled. He turned. I ran across the yard. Soaked. Angry.

  “Go back inside,” he warned, his voice raised over the raucous rain.

  “No,” I said, and his fist shot out to pound on the roof of his car. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”

  “Go. Back. Inside,” he said again, taking one step forward. He tore his glasses from his face, shoving them into his jacket pocket. His eyes were dangerous. His hair was plastered against his face, his tweed and his white button-down rain soaked. Absolutely magnificent.

  I took a step forward myself. “Make me.”

  I could see the anger boiling off his skin. We both stepped forward at the same time. He opened his mouth, and my hand shot out to cover it before he could tell me to go back inside again.

  I knew I only had seconds before he shut me down once more and actually left. So I took a deep breath, and spoke from my heart.

  “I fucking love you, you goddamned librarian.”

  His eyes narrowed, so I went on.

  “And it’s not just because you’re incredibly sweet and kind, or incredibly gorgeous and stunning, or incredibly smart and well read, or incredibly sexy and hot as all fuck, or incredibly impatient and smart-alecky, or incredibly strong and tan, or incredibly thoughtful and chivalrous, or have an incredibly substantial penis. Which I’m banking on, because I’ve seen you in running shorts, and holy shit, Clark.”

  His eyes widened, so I went on.

  “I love you because you are all those things, but most important, because you’re Clark. You’re him—the one I’ve been dreaming about and lusting after, and wishing and waiting for. So you can leave here tonight if you want to, but I’ll be outside your house tomorrow morning with scones, Clark—and I will be there every morning until you see me again. Until I can be your Vivian once more,” I said, my hand still over his mouth.

  “Or you can stay here, tonight and every night, and let me love yo
u.” I leaned in. “And for the record, I am so turned on by your elbow patches, I’m coming out of my skin over here.”

  His eyes darkened. Deepened. Still dangerous, but no longer cold.

  Then I felt his lips open against my palm, soft and warm, and kiss my skin.

  And then I felt his hand close over mine, sliding down my arm to wrap it around his neck, and he wrapped the other one tightly behind my back, clutching me close to him.

  And then he told me, “I won’t take less than every night.”

  He crushed me to him as he ran with me across the yard, up the steps, and into the house. And then I was pinned against the wall by one very wet, very intense, very hard librarian.

  He caged me in, hands on either side of my head, my back arching to keep contact with him as he looked down at me. “Am I to understand from your confession out there that you’ve been dreaming about me?” he asked, his wet hair tickling me as he ran his nose down my neck, pausing at the hollow at the base.

  He pressed a wet lingering kiss there, nuzzling at my skin. I moaned, the feeling of him divine, and he chuckled. “That wasn’t quite the answer I was looking for.” He nuzzled at me again, now drifting just below my ear, nibbling at the sensitive spot. “Were you dreaming of this?”

  “Yes,” I managed, twisting to keep his mouth on me.

  “And this?” he asked, thrusting himself against me, letting me feel all of him. Exactly where I needed him.

  “Yes. God, yes,” I groaned.

  And then my librarian kissed me. Those sweet lips met mine, crashing in and invading my brain with his lips and his tongue. I parted mine instantly, groaning at the feel of his mouth on mine. We kissed crazily, exploring and teasing, swirling and moaning as he expertly licked at my lips, sweet and perfectly matched.

  Meeting my eyes once more, he lifted one corner of his mouth. “Mmm, Vivian.”

  I sighed at the sound of my name, lifting my shoulders in delight. Which tightened the wet white T-shirt across my chest. You could see everything, and I grinned sheepishly at Clark, a whaddyagonnadoaboutit look on my face. He grinned too, but his was infinitely sexier.

  “This is the most ridiculous outfit I’ve ever seen, Vivian,” he said, in the most proper voice I’d heard all night.

  I followed his glance. My socks had fallen down around my ankles, covered in mud. The wet T-shirt was stretched to the point of ridiculous, falling off my shoulder.

  “Take it off,” he commanded, and I jerked my head up at the change in tone. His eyes burned into mine. I raised an eyebrow. He inclined his head slightly. “Now.”

  Nighttime Clark had arrived. Aw yeah!

  Shivering with need, I lifted it over my head, my eyes on his. When I’d pulled it clear, his eyes roamed. I leaned down, peeling off the socks, then stood as slowly as I could manage. His jaw was clenched, tight and tense, as lust took over his expression.

  “You too,” I chided, hands on my hips, unabashedly thrusting my breasts toward him.

  Not taking his eyes from mine, my librarian began to undress. Tweed, gone. Loafers, kicked off. I couldn’t wait for the button-down to come off, so I unbuttoned him myself. Then I untucked it from his chinos, those perfect tan chinos, and leaned in to pull the shirt from where it was tucked in behind his back. In so doing, I brushed my naked breasts against his chest, skin to skin, and we both groaned. Now scrambling frantically to remove his shirt, I tossed it to the side as his long fingers unbuckled his belt and unzipped the chinos. Down they went, and I got a wonderful surprise.

  Clark didn’t wear anything underneath those chinos. And I had guessed right. Substantial.

  “Holy mackerel, Clark.” I gasped, staring at the work of art on display in front of me. He chuckled, but let me stare. And I did.

  Long and lean, his body was even more amazing than I remembered from the day I saw him running—because now? I had the full effect. Broad shoulders, strong chest, lightest dusting of dark hair tapering into a trail that led down to Substantial Town. I wanted to drop to my knees right there and visit it immediately, but Clark had other things on his mind.

  “If you don’t take those panties off right now, I’m going to do it for you,” he said.

  “By all means,” I teased, and was instantly pulled across the wet floor, skidding into Clark. He spun me around like a top and slid my panties down my legs, leaving me naked and panting.

  “Christ, you’re perfect,” he whispered, beginning to dance kisses down my spine, exactly like in my dream. My dream lover come to life, my dark knight, loving me with his mouth and his words as I arched backward. “Look at you—look at all this gorgeous,” he whispered to my skin, leaving wet kisses on the tattoo of the oak tree on the back of my neck, whose roots spread across the tops of my shoulders. The interlocking circles in the small of my back. The symbol for pi on my left cheek. He groaned when he kissed that one, wet open-mouth kisses and teethy nibbles. Then his hands were slipping beneath my ribs and moving on up.

  “Vivian,” he breathed into my ear, and I turned in his arms. In my dreams I’d never seen his face, and I needed to see him. I didn’t want to miss any part of this. His hands, so very smooth, covered my breasts completely. He cupped their weight and I moaned. Fascinated, he leaned down, his tongue dragging from my collarbone to between my breasts, where he rested his head. My hands went to his hair, holding him close sweetly as he breathed in the scent of my skin.

  Nuzzling now, he swept the tiniest of kisses back and forth, his hair tickling my sensitive skin. His hands clutched at me greedily once more, and I felt my breasts tighten, which he noticed. With a dark laugh, he studied the ring in my nipple, standing tall and aching for his mouth. “Stunning,” he whispered, and then his lips closed over the peak. My back arched, the sensation of his wet mouth and strong tongue teasing and taunting me. Something twisted deep inside of me, a desire so strong I almost came right then from the feel of his mouth on my breast. Flicking the tiny ring with his tongue, he tugged at it lightly with his teeth, and I hissed.

  He sucked me deep into his mouth, his arms wrapped around me tightly, not letting me move under his attentions. My body bowed, aching to get as close to him as possible, looking for any kind of friction I could find. Clark had a similar thought in mind because he stood, picking me up with one hand on my bottom and the other around my thigh, making me shudder with delight at the way we slid against each other. I assaulted his mouth with my own in a frenzy to have him inside of me, any way that I could.

  His strength moved us through the house quickly, past the living room, up the stairs, then pausing on the landing—where he placed me on top of the widest part of the railing, nudging my legs apart with his hips and with a wicked glint in his eye. Then he knelt before me.

  “There’s been something I’ve been dying to do since the first time you argued with me, right here.” He kissed up the inside of one thigh and then the other, licking and thrusting with his tongue, holding my legs open with his shoulders as he groaned at the sight of me, open for him, ready for him. “Oh, Christ, you’re beautiful,” he said in awe. I shook with need, his gaze alone doing naughty things to me, and he looked up. “Do you know where we are, Vivian?” he asked, his eyes almost black with need. My hand was buried in his hair, grabbing for support as my legs scrambled for purchase.

  “On the baluhwhozit?” I managed, and his grin was enough to make me fall in love with him all over again.

  “Balustrade,” he corrected, sliding me even closer to him, his grip firm on my hips. “I’m going to fuck you on this balustrade, so hard you’ll feel it in your bones.” He slowly breathed me in, nudging me with his nose. Sweet heaven, my librarian was a dirty talker. “But first? I’m going to indulge in a dream of my own.” One finger slid down from my hip, circling closer and closer, winding me up, driving me crazy.

  “You see, Vivian, when I called you? Late at night? It was because I wanted to talk to you, get to know you, learn more about you. What you might like, what you might love,�
�� he continued, now teasing lightly at my clit with his fingertip. I cried out, slapping at the railing, trusting Clark to keep me where he needed me to be. “And all that time, what I was actually dreaming about?” he said, looking up at me with those eyes full of lust. “Was the taste of you. All over my tongue.”

  I died. I cried. And then I died again as he buried his face between my legs and fucked me with his tongue. He pulled my legs over his shoulders, wild and crazy and so strong. One hand held me open for him while the other clutched at my bottom, pushing me into his face, holding me tight. While I perched on his mother-loving balustrade. And when I came for him, knees clutched around his ears, hands buried in his silky brown hair, screaming his name, his eyes stared up at me with wicked running through them.

  But I needed more. “Please Clark—please,” I begged, my limp body still so very needy for him. I needed him inside.

  “Condom?” he asked, his voice strained.

  “Pill, we’re good. Tested?”

  “Clean.”

  “Me too.” I stared down at him in wonder. Nothing would be between us—nothing at all. He kissed me, deep and slow and searching, the taste of me all over him. I licked his lips, clutched his neck, needing him closer, closer, closer.

  He stood, wrapped my legs around his waist, and slid into me with one powerful thrust. I thrilled at his groan as he entered my body, a low, deep, growly groan that I felt all through me. Holding him close, I watched his face as he buried himself deep inside me. Before, it had been all lust and decadent thrills. But now, with his face mere inches from mine, his eyes seeing me, really seeing me? It was magic.

  I was rocked to the core, filled with an intensity of emotion I had never felt before. I was in love with the man who was inside me, something I’d never experienced before, and tears ran down my face for the second time that night. Overcome, I shook as I felt him filling up everything that was hollow.

  “You’re divine, Vivian,” he whispered, kissing my tears and resting his forehead against mine. “You’re simply divine.”