Sweet Talking Man

by Liz Talley

  “Okay. Whatever. I tried,” she said, padding down the steps in her black Converse high-tops with neon-yellow laces. Such a tough girl.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he called.

  She held up a hand as she cut through his yard toward the path her mother took when she sneaked over to Laurel Woods.

  “Later,” Birdie called, none too happily.

  Leif lifted his hand to nosy Mrs. McCray, who gave him a halfhearted wave before the fluffy dog laid another turd in the Toups’ immaculate yard.

  *

  WHEN SOMEONE KNOCKED on the door three hours after Birdie left, Leif prayed it was Abigail.

  It was. And rather than upset her by telling her of Birdie’s visit, he decided to do something adventurous…something that he hoped would make Abigail lose herself in the night.

  “Hey,” she said, her eyes widening when she saw what he wore. “What are you wearing?”

  He looked at his charcoal jeans and black faux-leather jacket and grinned. “I’m wearing my badass pleather jacket.”

  Abigail laughed and stepped inside, wearing fleece pajama pants with little kittens on them. “Pleather, huh?”

  “You can’t laugh when you’re wearing kittens, lady.”

  “I thought you could play connect the kittens tonight.”

  “And I thought you were about to make a pussy joke.”

  Abigail sucked in an overemphasized breath. “You dirty boy.”

  “You know me so well. Now, if you’re brave enough to risk being a little cold, pull your jacket on and follow me to the garage.”

  “Garage?” she repeated, shrugging on the puffy down jacket she’d just dropped on a beanbag chair and following him past the laundry room toward the outer door. “What’s going on?”

  “This,” he said, stepping back and flipping on the lights. Sitting next to his innocent car was his bad boy of a hog—the restored 1972 Harley-Davidson FLH touring bike. The bright blue paint was original, as was the white leather seat and chrome trim. On second thought, it wasn’t really badass as much as a work of art.

  “Ohhh,” Abigail said, her eyes shining at his baby. “You want to play Sons of Anarchy with me?”

  “I don’t know what that is, but don’t sell your kittens short.”

  Abigail laughed and it sounded like Christmas bells. “Well, then, are we going to ride it or role-play on it. I can shimmy out of these kitten pants and be the bad girl who got pulled over and needs to be punished.”

  “I’d planned on a ride, but maybe I’ll just grab my mirrored sunglasses and the handcuffs I keep in the bedside table,” he joked, picking up the two helmets and crooking his eyebrow.

  “Oh, let’s do this. I used to date a guy in high school whose dad had one of these, but we never had the guts to ‘borrow’ it from him. But, wait. What about Birdie?”

  “I don’t have room for her,” he replied, deadpan.

  “Well, Alice Ann is in the cottage next door. I sent her a text that I was coming here for a drink.”

  “We can just zip down the highway and back again. But if you’re worried we can stay here.”

  “No. Let’s do it. I have my cell phone.”

  Leif handed her the helmet, straddled the vintage motorcycle and started her up. She roared to life, making Abigail jump.

  “Loud,” Abigail yelled over the sound of the bike idling.

  “Sexy,” he called, patting the seat behind him. Abigail fastened the strap beneath her chin and flung her fleecy leg over the seat, clasping his hips with her kitten-covered knees. Warm and solid against his back, she made his pulse gallop when she slid her hands around his torso, resting them against his stomach. And then the minx dipped her hand lower, sliding it beneath the flannel shirt he wore, fingering the snap of his jeans.

  He caught her hand and flipped on the microphone in his helmet, turning to help her do the same.

  “I’ll wreck if you keep that up,” he drawled, shifting gears and rolling toward the rising garage door.

  “We’ll die happy.” She laughed, squeezing him tight.

  “Well, I would.” He turned on the headlight and rolled out the door, balancing them with his boots, which were leather and inherited from the toughest biker he knew—they were his one leather concession. “Hold on.”

  “Gladly.”

  Leif shifted gears and took off down the street, clicking the garage shut behind him, smiling at Abigail’s little squeal of excitement. She laughed again when he took the curve and hit the straightaway. Seconds later they sped down River Road, the cold air blowing in their faces, the stars winking above and the road before them a curling ribbon dividing the huge swaths of farmland. The levee buffered the wind off the river, but still it was freezing.

  “Too cold?” he asked her.

  “Yes, but don’t stop.”

  He didn’t go far because they weren’t really dressed for the night, but he loved the feeling of Abigail’s thighs clasping him, the purr of the motor beneath his ass and the sound of laughter in her voice. It was like a gift wrapped up just for him.

  Seeing a patch of level gravel to his left, he turned the bike. They hadn’t met a single vehicle on the road, making the night seem as if it belonged solely to them.

  “I’m freezing, but that was fun,” Abigail said.

  Leif pulled the bike to a halt, balancing it once again with his feet. He turned, unsnapped Abigail’s helmet and tugged it from her head. Her inky hair fell out, swishing around her face, the streak of silver-white gleaming in the moonlight.

  No words were necessary. He covered her frigid lips with his. Outside she was icy, inside she was warm and buttery…the epitome of his Abigail.

  No, wait. Not his Abigail.

  Her chin quivered and he broke the kiss. “I want to remember you like this always—windblown, sexy, with a promise in those bewitching eyes.”

  Her teeth chattered, but she managed a smile. “Such a poet.”

  “Your turn.”

  “Huh?” Her forehead crinkled. Four lines. So cute.

  “You drive.”

  “No, I’ve never driven a motorcycle.”

  “I’m going to help you. It’s fun. Give it a whirl.” He slid off, holding the handlebars steady, and flung his leg behind her, then moved her forward with his bulk. After a few quick instructions, he helped her with her helmet and placed his hands next to hers on the handlebars.

  “Now, push this,” he instructed, covering her hands with his.

  “Oooh, your hands are cold.” She did as said. He shifted gears and carefully they eased onto the highway.

  “Good girl,” he said, showing her how to lean. Gradually, she became comfortable and settled against him, increasing the speed. In a matter of minutes, they were zipping along.

  “I’m doing it,” she said.

  The feel of her between his knees was headier than having her wrapped around him. Something about cradling her as he pushed her to be wild and adventurous stroked something inside him, filling him with a feeling he’d never felt before. It was as if he soared above the cracked asphalt, weaving along the river like an eagle catching a current, dipping and looping while defying gravity.

  Eventually they arrived at his neighborhood and his house.

  “Oh, my God, that was so much fun,” Abigail said as they rolled into the warmth of the garage. “Thank you for making me do that. It was incredible.”

  He pulled his helmet off and combed his fingers through his hair. “It was.”

  Abigail had pulled off her helmet and blew into her hands. Her chin still quivered. “I’m freezing.”

  “Then I’ll have to warm you up,” he said, dropping a quick kiss on her lips and helping her off the bike before shutting everything down.

  Minutes later they were in his home, peeling off their jackets.

  “Let’s grab a hot shower. That will warm us up,” he said, shucking his jeans right there in the living room and hurrying to the bathroom to start the shower.

 
Abigail followed him to the bathroom, dropping her clothes as she went. When she got to the bathroom, she stood splendidly naked, arms wrapped around herself. He peeled his T-shirt off and drew her to him, gathering her body close to his. “You were magnificent tonight, Abs.”

  “I loved the feeling of that bike. So freeing.”

  He opened the shower door and the steam boiled into the room. “Come on, let’s get warmed up.”

  “You already do that for me,” she said, pulling her head from his shoulder and looking at him. “You make me feel like I’m a different woman. You make me feel stronger.”

  He kissed her because she made him feel the same way. Not like a different woman, of course, but she made him feel like the man he could be someday. The sort of man who put down roots and grew toward the light of goodness, spreading limbs, sheltering all that was important to him. He could feel himself changing…and it had nothing to do with finding his father.

  More like finding himself.

  As they stepped in the shower, shivering in delight at the hot water sluicing over their bodies, Leif felt a sweet peace settle over him.

  This was right.

  Never in his life, with any of the women he’d been with, had he felt the way he felt about Abigail. And it was so odd to find this with someone like her. He’d thought she was amusing when he first met her. All prickly, picky and exacting as she directed her committee to put this here, that there. Buttoned-up Ms. PTA turned out to be surprisingly sensual, delightfully witty and utterly wicked in bed. Who woulda thunk?

  “Want me to wash your back?” she asked.

  “Only if I can wash your front,” he said, running his hands up and down her back, loving the way her slick skin felt next to his. They fit so nicely together, her curves settling against his hard angles. Leif caught Abigail’s lips and poured all those tender emotions into a kiss.

  Tenderness faded as passion flared.

  Abigail ended the kiss, leaning back so she could look him in the eye. “I counted on you washing my front.”

  Leif laughed and then picked up the handmade goat soap he’d bought in New Orleans a few weekends ago. “Whatever you want, Madam President.”

  Abigail smiled. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”

  *

  LATER THEY LAY in the soft glow of the bedside lamp beneath the draped muslin that swathed Leif’s bed. The whole room looked like it had been imported straight from Bali. The canopied bed was made of ornately carved dark wood. Sand-colored walls covered with huge canvases of swirling water and palm trees contributed to the exotic atmosphere.

  “This looks like a girl bed,” she said, pushing up and rolling to her side. Leif lay splendidly naked and spent. His body felt a little sweaty and she liked that. He was a primitive male and she was his mate.

  “I like it,” Leif said, fingering the airy fabric that hung beside his head. “I have a friend who makes this stuff. She suggested it for the bedroom.”

  “She?”

  “Relax. I didn’t sleep with her.”

  “Well, I have no right to care. You don’t belong to me,” she said, despite the pain flooding her heart. Leif wasn’t hers. What they had between them wasn’t lasting. Just mutually beneficial. The way she’d felt on that motorcycle, powerful and loved while plunging into the night, Leif’s arms around her, was an illusion. Some kind of adrenaline rush. Nothing to do with her heart.

  “Perhaps not, but I still don’t sleep with two women at the same time. Guess I’m not that modern.”

  She shrugged, trying to hide her relief. She wanted him all to herself. She was selfish that way.

  “You’re beautiful, you know that?” He rolled to face her, stroking a hand down her ribs to her waist.

  She shook her head. “I’m passably attractive.”

  “What? You’re crazy. Look at the way your body slopes. Here.” He traced her breast down to her nipple, which peaked at his touch.

  “Is slope a kind substitution for sag?”

  “No, let me show you,” he said, hopping out of bed and padding across the room toward a table that held a variety of art supplies. A work in progress that looked like a cross between a landscape and an abstract design sat on his easel, framing the backside of the man she’d just had her way with. Abigail decided she loved the view from Leif’s bed.

  He returned carrying a large drawing pad and a pencil.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m showing you what I see.”

  “You’re going to draw a nudie pic of me?” Abigail asked, sitting up, a string of alarm unwinding. “I need to go. It’s getting late.”

  Leif gently nudged her back. “Why?”

  “Because I left the house unattended and Birdie sleeping inside.”

  “No guests tonight?”

  “No, but tomorrow I’ll have two older ladies who are here for a garden tour.”

  “Do those ladies know it’s February?”

  Abigail smiled. “I think they’re researching formal garden layouts for an article or something. What do I care? I want their money.”

  “So bloodthirsty,” he said with a mischievous smile. “Your cell phone is on, right?”

  She nodded.

  “And Birdie is asleep?”

  She nodded again.

  “Then give me a few more minutes before you get dressed and run from me.”

  Abigail frowned. “I’m not running from you. I have to go home—I have a kid.”

  “Understood, but it’s like dating two different people with you. Here, you’re a vixen, shedding clothes, driving me crazy with sexy underwear and your considerable fellatio skills.”

  Abigail smiled. “I am good.”

  “Understatement,” he teased, tugging the sheet so it covered the juncture of her thighs. He lifted her hand above her head, before pulling the shoulder beneath her forward. “There. But tomorrow you’ll be buttoned-up, putting down shelf paper and pretending me away.”

  “I could never pretend you away.”

  “You know what I mean. Now relax.”

  Abigail sank into the softness of Leif’s bed, trying to put away her nagging worries about Birdie, Cal and all the heart-shaped boxes she was supposed to make for the St. George’s Valentine’s Day luncheon.

  “See, your mouth has a sensual curve. I love to nibble your lower lip. So sweet. And the way you taste… I’d say cherries, but that’s trite. It’s unique to you—spicy, yet sweet. Clean, yet sultry.”

  “Minty, yet garlicky?” she added.

  She was certain Leif smiled, but she wasn’t sure. Languor settled over her, a sudden need to close her eyes with it.

  “I love your hair. So thick, and that swoop of silver so stylish and unexpected. Just like you.”

  “I almost covered it with color.”

  “Don’t you dare,” he said, the sound of the pencil moving filtering through her senses. “And your neck’s elegant, another place I love to taste my sweet Abi.”

  She shivered, thrilled at his soft words of romance. He made her feel so…so…alive.

  To Leif, she was a desirable woman. She’d forgotten how powerful being wanted made her feel.

  “And here—” he brushed the curve of her waist beneath her breast “—so feminine with the dips and hollows. Makes me want to lose myself in you.”

  “Such pretty words,” she murmured.

  “Only the truth,” he said, the scratching of the pencil ceasing. She opened one eye a crack to find him studying his sketch before he raised his gaze to her. “Look.”

  He turned the pad around and she gasped.

  The sketch was rough but so lifelike…and she looked like a seductress.

  “Wow, that’s— I look so different.”

  “That’s the way I see you. Let me finish this. You’d be amazing done in chalk.”

  Abigail pushed herself up, brushing her hair from her eyes. “But only for you. I don’t want anyone seeing me like this. They wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t
see this woman as Abigail.”

  “Maybe they should,” he said, stroking the side of her face on the paper. Something about him caressing the sketch plucked a chord in her. “I have to go.”

  “I know.” He leaned down and kissed her so tenderly. “One day maybe you can stay and sleep beside me. I’d like that.”

  Abigail looked around for her lacy underwear. “Sure, you say that now, but wait until I start snoring.”

  “You snore?”

  Abigail gave a soft laugh. “I’m not sure if anyone knows.”

  Leif wrapped her in his arms. “Next time I’ll finish the sketch.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “No, you’re too beautiful not to draw. I knew it the first time I saw you.”

  Abigail arched an eyebrow.

  “Okay, maybe not the first or second time, but definitely by the third.”

  Abigail scooped up her jeans from the hallway. “Well, they do say the third time is the charm.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  OVER THE NEXT few weeks, Leif worked on categorizing the art pieces submitted to the Laurel Woods Art Festival, completing the sketch of Abigail on a larger scale and researching his potential father from the names Carla had given him. Abigail had managed to locate a list of the artists who’d stayed on the property over the years in some files she’d stored up in the attic, but the list didn’t tell him much other than who lived in the other cabins while his mother was at Laurel Woods. Leif had tried to make an appointment with Bart, but the man hadn’t returned his calls. With the festival right around the corner, his legitimate reason to meet with Bart slipped away.

  So he’d started his investigation with George Dominique—the first guy Carla had mentioned his mother dating. He stopped by the garage the man’s father had owned and asked a guy with a big belly and grease-stained hands about George. Big Willie seemed willing to chat in order to escape from beneath the hood of the car he was working on.