by Anne Marsh
There’s a cheerful vibe to my truck’s cab that is usually missing. Not that I walk around like a fucking storm cloud, but I’m not big on jokes and chitchat. Vali and Marlee share an easy camaraderie and an obvious affection for each other that I almost envy. We get to Vali’s place all too soon and Finn pops out of Vali’s house like a Jack-in-the-box. Guess I don’t have to hoist her over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift after all. He eases the door open, scooping her up and into his arms.
“Hey,” he sorta growls at her. “Looks like someone had a good time.”
She whispers something into his ear and he grins.
“Can do, baby,” he tells her, and then he takes her up the stairs. He’s a man who’s getting laid tonight, but it’s more than just the sex. At least I think it is. They look… good together.
“Must be nice,” Marlee whispers. She somehow sounds both envious and sad at the same time.
Funny. I know exactly how she feels.
A week later, Marlee’s sitting on her porch beside me, handing me the wrong tools from my toolbox while I replace boards. We’ve worked out a partnership.
She talks. I hammer.
Marlee has more words than a dictionary and she can talk for hours. I can’t remember the last time I was expected to carry on a conversation. It’s not as if Ro, Finn, and I have taken vows of silence, but there’s a point to what we say. We talk about the dogs, the clients, and whose turn it is to make a grocery run.
In case our night out at the Tiki Hut didn’t confirm it, Marlee is definitely a toucher. Every time she hands me a tool or a nail, her fingers brush mine. She pats my arm, my shoulder, and my back. She bumps her shoulder into my side, her hair brushes my face when she leans in to inspect the board, and I can’t help but notice that she smells like honey. Sweet, sticky, lick-you-up goodness. She’s a beautiful woman, but I can’t figure out what she wants. I don’t think sex tops her wish list, although a guy can hope. Maybe she just likes the contact, the same way I prefer being alone most of the time.
I kinda let her words wash over me like a song on the radio. Periodically I tune in and pick out a few phrases. She’s got one of those older two-story houses painted the color of bad cupcake frosting. It’s the kind of pink and yellow you find in an Easter basket with loads of white trim and a bristly white picket fence. If you squint through the palm trees, you can see the ocean, and someone painted it bright blue about a million years ago. Regular upkeep, however, was apparently not part of the master plan. The house is rough around the edges, more rundown than not. Her deck, for instance, is a mess with boards rotted out all over the place.
“You’re lucky you haven’t put a foot through this.” I point to a particularly rundown board in case my cause for complaint isn’t perfectly clear.
“There’s no luck involved. I remember where and how to step.” She acts as if it’s perfectly normal to hotfoot it across the porch.
Which it’s not. “You been living here long?”
She shrugs. “Roddy and I used to come out here for vacations. When we got divorced, he got our house in Nevada and I got the cottage.”
What kind of a name is Roddy? He sounds like a dick. I mentally imagine him running around some huge McMansion frying in the sunshine while Marlee’s got the smaller, more used up place. Bet he doesn’t have to worry about falling through the floorboards—and that makes me burn. It’s none of my business as long as Marlee’s happy with the deal, but apparently my head doesn’t give a fuck about fair. I file that away to think about later.
“You married long?” Maybe she had a Vegas quickie wedding. Maybe they even did one of those Elvis drive-through ceremonies. I imagine Marlee getting married in one of those puffy white dresses—and Mr. Dick peeling it off her in their honeymoon suite. Why the fuck is my brain stuck on weddings and dresses? Or thinking about Marlee naked?
“Fifteen years,” she says, clearly clueless about my mental fantasy of undressing her.
“Guess he was a dick.” I sound hopeful. Shit.
She’s silent for a moment, which is surprising. “He was a fixer-upper man,” she says eventually. “He had great bones and he came cheap, but you kind of had to take him down to the studs to get to the good stuff. In the end, it was too much work and I let him walk.”
Sounds like she should have used my hammer.
“After I got over the shock of it,” she continues, “it was good. I went on a singles cruise and had sex for the first time in years.”
I hit my thumb with the hammer. Not sure what to tackle first—that Mr Dick agreed to a divorce or that she had sex on the high seas. I’m fucking happy for her. Not that I don’t kinda want to be the guy sliding into her hot curvy body, but I’m glad she got something she wanted.
Shit. She’s waiting for me to say something. I clear my throat. “Week-long cruise?”
The smile that spreads across her face is breathtaking. “Two weeks.”
Since she’s here on Angel Cay and single, guess her cruise hook up didn’t work out any better than Mr. Dick did. Or maybe she really was after only a vacation quickie. Some hot fling with another cruiser or the hot waiter or… Fuck me. I’m turning into a girl. It’s none of my business who Marlee gets it on with.
“Congrats,” I offer gruffly and slam the hammer onto the next nail. Drive it down in one blow, too. Wish I had something to say to her, really, because I like hearing about her life. Well, not her sex life, but I’m willing to entertain conversations, check lists, and demands about sex. I’m a giver.
I snort and she looks over at me. I can practically feel her eyes running over my face, down my shoulders, and further south. I know what she sees, too. I’m not a small guy. I’m just over six feet tall and I bulked up plenty in the service. Bartender the next cay over calls me her Viking. Must be the hair, because I let it grow after I left Uncle Sam’s service. More often than not, it stands on end, and I skip the shave most days. I’m rough and scruffy, and I definitely look like I can kick ass. I’m better with a sniper rifle than a sword, however, so the medieval warrior fantasies aren’t coming to life anytime soon. I’ll have to settle for shooting her bad guys.
“If we’re friends, spill the details,” I prompt. “Name your top three sex positions.”
She blushes, the pink on her cheeks matching the paint job on her house. “The girlfiends provide alcohol before demanding details.”
“I’m willing to go first,” I promise her, and she slaps a hand over my mouth.
“Oh my God, you totally would.”
I nip her fingers before pulling away. We both know I would. My list of don’ts is fairly short and includes things like karaoke, rat dogs, granny panties, and ruining a perfectly good bar with a dance floor. “Can’t think of a position I haven’t enjoyed,” I tell her truthfully. “Not sure I’ve covered them all, but I’m always open to suggestions. I’m your hero—I can prioritize and pick three for you. Did this thing with a chick in a basket in Thailand once. I put my dick through a hole, she spun, and good times ensued.”
Marlee groans, dragging her gaze back to my face before she gets to my best parts. “You’re a guy.”
Indisputably.
“Glad you noticed.” I test the board and decide it’s gonna hold.
“So can I ask you a question?”
“That’s one,” I point out and grin when she flips me the bird.
“Is it normal?” Her cheeks pinken more. Think she’s still dealing with the mental images of my sit-and-spin action in Thailand. “To not have sex for years?”
If my smile gets any wider, I’m gonna break my face. “Wouldn’t be my first choice.”
She worries her lower lip, chewing on it as she thinks over my words. Finally, she nods. “So Roddy was the abnormal one.”
I’m no conversational genius, but even I can hear the unspoken not me and that makes me mad again. I’ve got no problem with celibacy, and I’ve never felt the urge for serial pussy (that’s Finn’s area of expertise), but Marlee�
��s goddamned sexy and Roddy’s screw ups aren’t her fault. It’s hard to imagine a scenario in which I wouldn’t want to fuck her, frankly. I think about it for a minute. Nope. Coming up blank.
“Roddy should have thanked his lucky stars every night that he got to take you to bed. If he wasn’t interested, that was his problem. Not yours.”
I can think of a million different positions and sex acts I’d like to perpetrate on her sweet body. The basket thing was weird but fun—I’d pick the more normal stuff with her. Lap sex, her legs wrapped around my neck while I drill into her, doggy style, or her ass parked on my kitchen countertop. Marlee’s eyes widen like she just got a real good peek at the porn video running through my head. She inhales, opens her mouth, and starts talking.
“I’m not good at intimacy. Or sex.” She ticks her alleged shortcomings off on her fingers. “I’m vanilla in bed. I don’t have any party tricks. Roddy had to work more nights than not, and in the end he’d hang out with the guys and not come home.”
I open my mouth. I’m sure there’s something I could say that would make sense here, right? Before I can get a word out, though, she plows ahead.
“But we’re supposed to be fixing your dating life, not rehashing mine.”
Wait. What? When did I become the fixer-upper in this scenario?
“I’m good.” My voice sounds rougher than a SEAL after shore leave. “We can leave my dating life alone, okay? If I need some, I get some.”
Fuck. Now I’ve been reduced to using euphemisms.
“It’s all about sex to you.” She narrows her eyes, and I scan the deck for tools. Now is not the time for me to leave a hammer, a chain saw, or any other implement with teeth in her vicinity. “You don’t want someone to care about? Someone who can love you back and make you feel special?”
“I don’t do emotions, but I definitely like sex. So no.” I drive the last nail in with slightly more force than necessary. “Plus, I’m good at sex. My complaint total stands at zero, which is more than we can say about Roddy Dearest.”
I stand up and point myself toward the exit. The deck’s gonna hold now, so I’m out of here.
Marlee’s not done with me, however. She follows. “There’s more to a relationship than sex,” she insists.
I’m shaking my head before she can finish. “Sex is what keeps us coming back, sweetheart.”
I’m actually not trying to be an asshole. It’s just that guys like women. We really, really do. We’re just not good at showing you how we’re feeling. Words, gestures, thoughts—we’re keeping all that shit bottled up inside, and it’s not until the clothes come off and our fingers and tongues start doing the talking for us that there’s any kind of meaningful communication.
Marlee makes a noise like an overheated teakettle. This is why I don’t bother with talking. It leads to misunderstandings.
“Men. You’re all alike!” She actually throws up her hands, and that’s the red flag to my inner bull. I capture her wrists with my hands and pin them to the wall.
“Don’t compare me to the dickhead,” I growl back. For one thing, all of my equipment’s in working order and I’d be happy to show her. Marlee’s fucking gorgeous, and she has to know how I feel about it because my front’s pressed against her front and I’ve got a raging hard-on.
“Try and stop me.” She wriggles, and I can’t tell now if we’re playing—or fighting.
Immediate clarification is called for, right? “Are we fighting?”
She glares up at me. “I’m just trying to help!”
I lean into her until my nose is practically brushing hers. She squeaks. “You want to help me with my dating life? Get naked and we’ll call it even. I haven’t gotten laid in months, and my fantasy rotation is getting stale.”
I figure that’s gonna scare her off. Piss her off. Possibly both. But holy fuck… she shoves free and yanks her T-shirt over her head. White cotton has never, ever looked so sexy—especially when she tosses it over her shoulder and it hits the deck. Marlee has spectacular tits, and her bra is like the best kind of picture frame. Not that you go to the art museum to admire whatever’s hanging around Rembrandt, but you get the idea. Her bra holds her up and makes me look right at her goods.
She’s not done, though. She unbuttons her cut-offs and shoves them down her thighs, revealing the happy, happy news that the bra is part of a matched set. Her panties are high-waisted, high cut, with black mesh on the front that I can almost see through. Taking them off her with my teeth seems like an excellent plan—which makes me wonder what her plan was.
Or if she even has one. Possibly, she’s all temper and no forethought.
I step in front of her, blocking her from view. “You’d better tell me what the next step is, sweetheart.”
“Oh my God,” she squeaks and her hands flap. Yep. Temper.
“You’re cute when you’re pissed.” Makes me wonder what else will get her going enough to start ripping her clothes off. It’s the kind of challenge that’s downright irresistible.
“I’m naked,” she hisses, yanking me nearer. I don’t think this is because I’m irresistible—it’s because I’m big, I’m present, and I’m far, far closer than her clothes.
Thank God.
I take a moment to appreciate the expressions marching over her face as she takes in the inescapable fact that she is, indeed, mostly naked. On her front porch. Where any and all of Angel Cay’s nosy residents could wander past. Her bikini reveals more, but it’s the principle of the thing, and this time she moans, her eyes widening in panic. Okay. I can take pity on her—among other things.
I nudge her inside. I’m not opposed to public sex, but Marlee’s starting to move beyond the slightly panicked. I start thinking about paper bags and 9-1-1. Can someone stroke out from embarrassment?
And then suddenly she’s laughing, her breath catching hard as she bursts into giggles. “This is all your fault.”
“I’m not the one who took your clothes off,” I protest. “Although I’d be happy to lend a hand if that’s what you want. Just give me a heads up next time.”
“Shut up,” she mutters.
Her lips are soft and slick, and somehow my mouth brushes over them. Once. Twice. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear herself away. Doesn’t say no. Instead, she comes up on tiptoe, her hands gripping my shoulders tight. As if she’s afraid I’ll be the one to back away when I could kiss her a million times and it still wouldn’t be enough.
I kiss her harder, deeper, opening her up with my tongue so I can taste all of her. Christ. She’s sweet. She twists her fingers in my shirt, and the husky, greedy moan that escapes her is what breaks me.
I’m kissing Marlee.
I tear my mouth away from hers.
“Tell me what you want and it’s yours.” Fuck. My voice comes out low and rough. It’s pretty damned clear I’m desperate, but even so, I’m not expecting the words that come out of her mouth next.
“Give me a baby?”
Babies are boner killers. It’s a proven fact. The minute the word baby is hanging in the air between us, my dick retreats. It’s smarter than my mouth, which pops out the question: “Why?”
Not hell no.
Not your foreplay needs work.
Just why?
Along with not being pro-emotions, I’m also not a family guy. I left home and enlisted the day I turned eighteen. My family’s place had too much drama, too many broken people. So this urge Marlee has to pop out a baby doesn’t compute. And since I’m not her husband, her OB-GYN, or even the fucking receptionist at a sperm bank, it’s none of my business that she wants a baby and clearly needs help in accomplishing her goal.
People have babies all the time. It’s perfectly natural. In fact… there’s a point I should clarify.
“You want to have a baby now?”
I know it requires nine months to bake a baby, but it’s hard to miss the immediacy of Marlee’s request. She wriggles against me, but I’m not going
anywhere. I lean in, giving her a little more of my weight. Remember when those three little pigs built those crappy houses and challenged the Big Bad Wolf not to turn them into bacon? Let’s just say that if I were a house in that scenario, I’d be the one made of bricks rather than sticks.
“In nine months would be great,” she says in a little voice.
Jesus. I back up so fast I practically ricochet off the wall. Maybe I’ve misunderstood.
“You’re not pregnant now, are you?”
Because even though I didn’t feel a baby between me and her, I’m equally certain that babies shouldn’t be squashed against brick walls—or former SEALs. I wave a hand toward her stomach and she laughs.
One of those laughs that makes you want to pry your heart out with your fingernails or a bayonet because clearly nothing is funny. She sounds kind of sad, in fact.
“No, Vann. I’m not pregnant now. I just really want a baby.”
And I want a beer. A shot of tequila. This is the real reason why men and women can’t be friends. I’m sure Vali would know exactly what to say or do. Me? Not so much.
“I’m all out of babies, or I’d give you one.” I joke, but it falls flat.
“You can help me,” she says, and she sounds deadly serious. Her gaze sweeps me from head to toe again and her eyes take on a wicked gleam. Her hands find my shoulders and shove, and I’m flat on my back on the floor of her living room, my hands hanging onto her hips because it’s that or her ass or her tits. She sucks in a breath, and then swings a leg over me, planting herself firmly on top of my dick. Holy. Shit.
And then she tries to convince me. “You want to have sex. I want a baby. This is what’s known as a win-win situation.”
Mentally, I back off so fast I get whiplash. Since when has the universe slapped a Super Sperm label on me? “You’re not holding out for marriage and a keeper guy first? Maybe some regular dates and a chance to get to know the guy before you harvest his DNA?”
I’m no expert, but don’t most women want a partner for baby-making and baby-raising? Isn’t this where they start tossing around phrases like it takes a village because babies are so much goddamned work? Look at Roger. He’s just a loaner, but he manages to keep me busy.