Zero to Sixty

by Marie Harte

  “Beige is nice, neutral. You can put any color with it and it’ll match.” She defended him.

  His heart tripped a beat.

  Sam liked Ivy. A lot. She’d been so much fun at dinner. She didn’t act stuck up, and she sure the heck could have. A woman with her looks and figure could have any guy for the asking. But she was a genuinely nice person. Cyn liked her. Foley did too. When Ivy had been in the kitchen helping Cyn clean up after dinner, Foley had taken him aside and given his blessing.

  Sam appreciated knowing it wasn’t just him, that his friend had also liked what he saw when he looked at Ivy. She had such a kind heart. Was such a giving person and so damn beautiful.

  He had a difficult time forgetting how good it had been to kiss her, how responsive she’d been. And what all had followed it, asswipe? You thought you’d scared her. Back off.

  Telling himself to behave, he gave her the quick tour. “This is the living room.”

  “I see that.”

  “Smart-ass,” he murmured, pleased she felt at ease with him, even alone together. “So Foley got all the furniture, but we bought the stereo together. The TV is mine though, no matter what he says.” Foley had a different recollection of who had bought the thing. But no way would Cyn let him move that “monstrosity” into her place. Sam didn’t mind her taste at all—not if he got to keep what he wanted because of it. The damn TV was too huge for her prissy living room.

  Watching a football game or boxing match on it was like being there. Poor Foley. Sucker.

  “This is totally a guy’s place.” Ivy nodded, and her blond hair shimmied around her shoulders. So soft, so long and silky. He’d toyed with the ends a few times earlier, when he’d had his arm around her shoulders. She fit, as if she’d been made for him.

  Trying to get his mind off another growing erection, he focused on the conversation.

  He agreed with her. The oversized brown furniture fit him and Foley, but most women seemed to find it no more than functional. A few pictures of them with Eileen or with the gang at Webster’s sat on the shelves of the lone bookcase holding the stereo. And with them sat a few framed pictures of classic cars he’d been dreaming about for years.

  “Yeah, so, this is the kitchen.” He led her into the attached kitchen, which had room for their table and chairs, tons of counter space, and cheap oak cabinets. Nothing homey, like Ivy’s place, or fancy, like Cyn’s. But the wooden table and chairs accommodated his and Foley’s big asses, so he had no complaints.

  “Wow. It’s really clean in here.”

  “We don’t cook much.” More like they couldn’t cook much. Sam could make a mean frozen pizza. Foley did him a few better by being able to fix mac and cheese or those tasty cinnamon rolls from the can. Or course, Sam could eat two of those cans by himself. Food didn’t last long in the house.

  Or at least, it hadn’t when Foley had been living steadily in the place, doing most of the grocery shopping. A pang of longing for the way things used to be struck. Then he saw Ivy’s shy smile and told himself to look to the future.

  “What’s down there?” Ivy asked, pointing to the short hallway.

  “Foley’s room and the bathroom.” He showed her both, silently cursing Foley for being such a neat freak. The guy was going to make him look bad. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought Ivy over until after he’d picked up a little.

  “Your room is upstairs, I guess?”

  “Yeah.” He swallowed. “You, ah, want to see?”

  She smirked at him. “You mean, to prove you’re not a hoarder?”

  “Freakin’ Foley,” he muttered and led the way, hiding a grin when he heard her soft laughter.

  Being with Ivy filled him with joy. It made his cock hard too, but he could handle that. The joy part confused him. Because feeling good didn’t come naturally. Anytime he had a reason to smile, something—or someone—would come along to ruin it. He grabbed his phone from his back pocket and muted it.

  “Problem?” she asked.

  “Nope.” They’d reached the top of the stairs. “So, my room.” He opened the door and wondered if she saw what he did—a guy who didn’t have enough room for everything but was trying.

  He saw the many stacks, the piles on the floor. Everything organized to his standard. It might appear a bit messy, but he knew where everything was. Foley could kiss his ass.

  “What do you think?”

  She blew out a breath. “You have a lot of stuff.”

  “Yeah, but it’s organized, and you can walk through the room and all. In the hoarding show Foley makes me watch, people can’t ever move around. They piss in bottles and have dead animals under their crap. I don’t have any of that.” He could clearly see his carpet…in spots.

  She watched him moving around his organized stacks. “I see that.”

  He stopped and turned to face her. “You think it’s a mess,” he accused. “You’re like all the rest.”

  She burst out laughing, which he hadn’t expected. “You are so cute.”

  “Me? Cute?” He wondered if she’d hit her head and he hadn’t noticed. No one called him cute. Not even when he’d been six and lost a front tooth. Never cute. Obnoxious. Annoying. Fucking retarded. Yeah, Louise had never been very PC about anything in her life.

  “Adorable.” She went to him and gave him a hug, her head coming to just under his chin. The warmth… He took every bit of stress and leftover anger he’d ever had and let it float away under her care.

  He stood with her like that for what seemed like forever.

  When she pulled back, he reluctantly let her. The happiness in her green eyes pulled at him. “Now let’s go downstairs before I give in to my need to clean all this.”

  He groaned. “Not you too.” He let her drag him back to the living room.

  “I should probably go before Foley gets back. We all have work tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t want her to go. Ever. And Sam never thought in terms of forever. With a car maybe, but never with a woman. “I mean, no. Foley’s not coming back. He’s staying with Cyn tonight.” And getting his rocks off, the lucky bastard.

  Speaking of rocks…he’d been hard since they’d arrived, but his willpower and need to make Ivy feel safe had forced him to remain calm. With any luck, she hadn’t felt the poker in his pants when they’d hugged. He’d tried to hold himself away when she’d pressed into him with those round, ripe tits—no, breasts. Ivy had mouthwatering, tight, little nipples.

  And if he wanted her to leave before he came in his pants, he should stop thinking about sex.

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “My first client tomorrow isn’t until eleven.”

  “Aren’t you a lucky girl.” A beautiful girl. Woman. Seductress. Her hair flowed over her shoulders, near the tops of her breasts. The yellow color looked like spun gold and brought out the green in her eyes. Like shiny gems, they sparkled as she looked at him. In that knee-length skirt, tall boots, and blouse, she looked fashionable. Too good for the likes of him. Hell, he’d worn a T-shirt and jeans to dinner. Only difference between his current outfit and his grungy work clothes, his jeans didn’t have any stains or holes, and his T-shirt had long sleeves.

  “So, I was wondering…”

  His pulse sped up, and he told himself to relax. She probably wanted to talk about Cookie or the car. No way that look on her face meant what he thought—hoped—it did. “Yeah?” he sounded hoarse.

  “Well, would you mind if I stayed for a bit? Not too long, because Cookie’s at home in his crate. But it’s a little early to end such a great night.”

  “Sure.” A no-brainer, that one. “We could watch TV or listen to music.” Lame, Hamilton. But then, asking her to fuck like bunnies wasn’t the way to go either. Ivy was a good girl. Nice, pretty, gentle, funny. Not someone who wanted to suck him down to see how fast
he could come. Or bet on how many times he could in an hour.

  Her slow smile made him sweat. Crap. This might not be the best idea he’d ever had.

  But as he sat next to her on the couch, her warm, little body plastered next to his while a rerun of Top Gear aired, he didn’t think he’d ever been smarter.

  * * *

  Ivy subtly wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt and snuggled with Sam. The guy put out heat better than an electric blanket. So hot, physically and metaphorically. With his jacket gone, his sleeves pushed up, and his frame eased into his big couch, he seemed so masculine. So different from her, and so fascinating.

  Max had been an inch or two taller than her, and slender. In his arms, she’d felt cared for at first. But never so protected as she did with Sam. Granted, the guy could hold her down and do whatever he wanted to her with ease. All that muscle and power. But that wasn’t Sam.

  She hadn’t known him long, but she knew the core of the man. He defended those who needed defending, and those flowers and his worry he’d upset her still made her feel so good. Sam cared about her—as more than a woman he wanted to screw.

  He hadn’t made a move all night. Even with her joined to his hip. Even after that hug that had shown her the excitement he felt—or at least, his body felt—in her presence.

  She trusted him.

  Imagine that.

  She smiled up at him. He must have noticed, because he stilled. “You okay down there?”

  She laughed. “Yep. I’m just loving this manly show. Vroom vroom. And there the car goes. Around another lap.”

  He frowned. “I can turn the channel if you want.”

  What she wanted was for him to kiss her and take charge again. To bring her to pleasure and not have her think too hard about why she shouldn’t get involved with a man she’d just met.

  But Ivy was also a realist, as well as a fair person. Sam had been the one to make her feel good last time. Shouldn’t she return the favor? “Relax, Sam. I’m kidding. I’m fine watching cars drive around.”

  He gave a pained expression, then turned the channel to a show about tiny houses. “You like this, don’t you?” He saw the grin she tried to hide and groaned. “I knew it. Chicks like you are into house shows.”

  “Chicks like me?” She casually wrapped an arm around his middle and felt him tense all over. A glance down his front showed his erection, loud and proud.

  He swallowed audibly but kept his arm tight around her shoulders, his attention on the show. “Yeah, nesters. Women who are responsible, the kind who make good moms. You’re good with Cookie, and you barely had dust in your totally organized house.”

  She wanted badly to see him lose control the way she had. She wondered if she could make him lose it like that. And why the prospect made her so excited. The idea of touching him, seeing him get off, had her wet and ready for him right now. Even for Max, she’d had to work to get in the mood. For Sam, it seemed like a natural part of being with him. Her body wanted what he had to offer.

  Problem was, so did the rest of her.

  Take it slow, Ivy. Don’t rush him. A taste of pleasure is okay though. But back off the whole relationship train. Not yet.

  Yet meant she was thinking about a future with Sam in it. She mulled over the idea while they watched two people on television try to cram eighteen-hundred-square-feet worth of possessions into a two-hundred-square-foot space. Idiots.

  “Idiots.” Sam snorted. “Why the fuck wouldn’t they just get a storage shed? She wants to take all her shoes? What the hell is that about? Dude should say no, but he’s all whipped and letting her lead the way. God.”

  Ivy bit back a grin, feeling the same. She and Sam had so much in common. It surprised her. She felt his hand in her hair, the way she’d sworn she’d felt him touch her earlier. That tender stroking, his soft sigh. Then he planted a kiss on top of her head.

  She lost it. The sensual creature inside her threw caution to the wind. He’s mine tonight. Screw you, rational Ivy.

  Ivy scooted closer to Sam, loving how still he grew. He was totally aware of her and trying not to be. “Sam?”

  “Yeah?” His voice could have cut gravel.

  “Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

  He seemed to stop breathing. He glanced down at her, and she did her best to appear innocent, batting her eyelashes.

  “Uh, sure. Yeah. That would be okay.” He coughed. “Just great.”

  She hid a smile. “I’m going to move so I can reach you.”

  “Yep. I’ll sit right here.” He put his arms out on either side of the couch. “Won’t even touch you. All right?”

  She nodded and gave him her version of a shy grin when really she wanted to mount the man. No, tonight would be all for him. Then they’d be even, starting over. Dating, she hoped, her fingers crossed. “You’re okay with this? I know last time we had that misunderstanding. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything.” She paused. “But I really want to kiss you.”

  He leaned his head back against the couch and groaned. “Ivy, baby.” His voice was thick. “You can do any damn thing you want to me. I’m okay with it all. I don’t want to freak you out or anything though. I’m a big guy.” She’d more than noticed. “I don’t want you to feel threatened if I kiss you back, so I’ll just sit here and let you take charge, okay?”

  “You mean you’ll take it like a man?”

  He looked down at her and narrowed his eyes. “You think this is funny, huh?” He looked amused as well. “Well, do your best, hotshot.”

  She hiked her skirt up so she could straddle his lap. She stood on her knees, now slightly taller than Sam. She took his face in her hands, holding him while she stared into his eyes. “You’re so smooth.” She stroked his clean-shaven cheeks. “So pretty.”

  He flushed. “That would be you, not me.”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s you.” She closed her eyes and leaned closer, fanning her breath across his lips. One thing Ivy knew she could do well—kiss. She heard Sam’s breath hitch, felt him shudder as her lips lightly brushed his, and let herself go as she flowed into a kiss that showed him just how she felt about him.

  Tender, affectionate, caring. She learned his mouth, what he liked and didn’t like. And Sam, bless him, seemed to like it all. He was breathing hard, sitting rock still, letting her touch him with no more than her mouth.

  Her breasts ached. She’d drenched her panties, and she wanted nothing more than to feel him deep inside her. He’d fit her so well, that huge erection doing her a world of good. But she wanted this to be for Sam, the unselfish lover, the giving friend, the caring protector of the innocent who could swear like a sailor and take a man out with one punch.

  She leaned into him, trailing her lips to his cheek, then his neck.

  He let out a moan. “Damn, girl.”

  Ivy smiled as she kissed his tattoos. “Your ink is amazing. I want to kiss every bit of it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you do that,” he said, hoarse and as tense as steel.

  “You okay with this?”

  “Ivy, shut up and kiss me again,” he growled.

  She gave a soft laugh and let herself lean into him. Moving her breasts into his chest while she kissed her way to his ear, she whispered, “Can I touch you too? Would that be okay?” She nipped his earlobe, and he jerked into her, bumping that thick cock, sadly encased in jeans, against her belly.

  “Shit yeah. Anything you fuckin’ want.”

  Ivy smiled and returned to kissing him, easing her tongue past his lips to duel with his. She stroked in and out, then teased the roof of his mouth, his teeth.

  He pushed forward a time or two, then pulled back, barely breathing. She leaned back and stroked his chest, watching when his eyes opened. The brilliant blue in his blue-gray eyes had been smothered under a heady silver as he stared at her. And th
e heat in that look scorched her. She had to touch him, to see.

  “Can you take off your shirt for me?”

  His eyes widened, but he didn’t speak. With hands that shook, he removed his shirt.

  She gaped, amazed at such grace and beauty in the ink over such glorious muscle. “I have to touch.”

  “Fuck yeah,” he whispered, leaned his head back once more, and closed his eyes.

  Feeling such freedom, she ran her hands over his chest, in awe of the colorful flowers and skulls, the small phoenix rising from a fire. Vines and what looked like barbed wire twisted in patterns that framed small sections of Sam’s pectorals. A hellhound with sweet eyes and a grin stared at her, right next to a grim reaper with vengeance blazing on his fiery scythe.

  She traced every picture, first with her hands, then with her lips.

  When she kissed that first skull, he flinched. “You okay?”

  “Jesus.” He said no more, but she felt a hand on her head, urging her to continue.

  She moved her lips across his chest, amazed at her temerity, in awe of Sam’s control. He didn’t press her. He’d clenched his hand in her hair once, then quickly removed it. She saw it now clutching the couch cushion.

  But the one thing Sam couldn’t control—his jerking hips. He continued to thrust toward her as she kissed him, and she loved his reaction. Needing him on the edge, she moved her mouth to his nipple and lingered, licking the small bud.

  “Fuck me. Damn.” Sam continued to swear in whispers while she drew on his nipple, then did the same to the other. All the while she continued to touch him, enthralled with his tight abs.

  She leaned back and saw his belly clenching, the rippled six-pack daring her to go lower.

  “How far down do your tattoos go, Sam?” she asked softly.

  He just moaned and raised his hips, showing off that massive cock molded by his jeans.

  “You said I can touch you, right?”

  “Yeah, don’t stop. Just keep petting me, baby.” He blinked at her once, then shut his eyes and groaned. “I’m gonna sit…right…here.” He shook, then sat unmoving, breathing hard.