Town houses and stately old homes converted to apartments and condos lined this street in the Dupont Circle area of DC. The Metro sat a few blocks away, and the prime real estate location kept the prices high, which was good since she managed the building and two others for her uncle. She lived alone in the Beaux Arts-style place, which had served as a home to one family in the forties and had since been divided into a twenty-unit complex.
Her small one-bedroom came with the job. The perfect size for a single person, but she’d been fitting two of them in quite nicely on and off for the past three weeks. Which brought her mind back to the not-really-singing thing happening at the back of her condo.
The deep male voice lured her through the family room to the kitchen that ran along the side of the old building. From the doorway she noticed half of the contents of the navy toolbox lay scattered over her tile floor. A can of soda and an open bag of chips sat on the edge of the sink. She didn’t know where the snacks came from because buying chips inevitably resulted in her Hoovering the bag in one sitting, so she never stepped one foot into that aisle in the grocery store. That was as far as her chip self-control extended.
The radio, set to deafening, sat on the small table pressed up against the opposite wall. She spied the sneakers next and tiptoed, careful not to tramp down too hard with her boots. There was no need to give away her position. Not when she could steal a moment of looking at him.
Legs, long and lean, stuck out from under her sink. A sliver of bare, trim waist peeked out from the space where his faded jeans and the bottom of what looked like a T-shirt should meet. The unexpected sight of a guy on the floor might scare another woman, but not her. Not those legs, and surely not the impressive male body attached to them.
She winced over a particularly rough note and reached over to turn the radio down. The chips were right there, so she grabbed one. Then two.
“You’re back,” she said, munching over the salt-and-fat frenzy in her mouth.
Tools clanked, and something thudded. An impressive string of profanity came next. “Shay?”
“Who else?” She still hadn’t seen that hot face, with the dark scruff around his chin and those intense green eyes. The guy was of the pure Tall, Dark, and Oh-So-Hot variety. She hated to admit she could stare at him for long periods of time. Look, and totally miss whatever he said.
After rubbing the salt from her fingertips on her jeans, she crouched down, balancing on the balls of her feet, and tried to get a peek at his T-shirt of the day. The graphics ranged from ridiculous to innuendo-filled. None could be classified as appropriate for outside the home. She had no idea where he got them, but she sure enjoyed the ongoing show.
“Hey.” He lifted his head and clunked it off the side of a pipe. “Shit.”
“Smooth.”
He rubbed his temple. “I’m seeing two of you right now.”
The scruff was thicker than usual and wasn’t that the sexiest thing ever. “You deserved that.”
“Hey, I’m fixing your leak.” He slid out. The move rolled his shirt up his torso and showed off skin . . . and muscles . . . Yeah, forget the T-shirt.
Minor handyman tasks fit in with her job description, but ever since he moved into the two-bedroom across the hall, he’d volunteered to help out. He worked as an IT specialist, handling computer systems for large companies and always on call. But, man, he looked good with a wrench in his hand. She liked him best bare-chested and fixing something.
His smile reeled her in, but she pretended to be immune, or at least a little in control. “You’re a plumber now?”
“Want to see my tools?”
The eyebrow wiggle almost did her in. “Wow, that was terrible.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” With one hand wrapped around the lip of the sink, he pulled his body up and stood, stopping only for a quick kiss on her mouth. He extended a hand and brought her up beside him before her mind could take in every amazing inch of his six-foot frame. “It was the only line I could think of after a few hours of restless plane sleep and armrest wrangling with the guy in 15B. Give me a few minutes and my moves will catch up to the time zone jumps.”
He traveled all the time. In and out, always grabbing a duffel bag and heading off to fix some emergency. Sometimes texting her at one in the morning to announce he’d gotten back, then knocking on her door to come in for a visit. He’d moved in three weeks ago. The sex started about two days after that.
The relationship—or whatever it was—ran on fast forward from the first day. She’d seen his T-shirt with the piglet playing poker on it, and for some reason her control nosedived. Never mind that it was then October and cold and any sane person would wear a jacket or at least a sweater. He claimed DC was the South and was warm. She guessed that meant he grew up in the Midwest or Vermont or, hell, even Canada. Somewhere cold. Not that he’d shared any part of his past with her . . . yet. His body, yes. The basic information, no.
She pushed the nagging thought out of her head and ran a finger over the prickly scruff on his chin. “How was the conference?”
“Long and tedious.”
“I imagined you hanging out in a bar talking computer code over beers.”
He snorted. “More like security measures. Firewalls and rotating IPs.”
With that, her already limited interest in the subject of computer tech fizzled out. Him putting his hands on her waist didn’t help her focus one bit. She ran her hand over his shirt and smoothed it down over his torso. Today’s version featured a cigar-smoking rat.
Of course it did.
“That is something else.” The graphic, the abs . . . the comment worked for both.
He backed her up until her backside balanced against the counter. “Yeah, I’ve been subjected to some pretty boring lectures and bad conference chicken.”
She kicked the wrench rocking under her heel to the side and lifted her arms to circle his neck. “You poor thing.”
“And my bed was very cold.” He shook his head, even pouted, as he delivered the statement in his most pathetic poor-me tone.
“Are you looking for pity?” She slipped her hand into his hair, as she always did. Something about the length, as if he were growing out a military cut, appealed to her as she wove the softness through her fingers.
His eyebrow lifted. “If that would work.”
“You’re getting there.”
She’d been so sure he was former army—or something—and asked him about it the first week. Nothing in his renter’s agreement talked about military service, but she got the vibe. Service members moved in and out of DC all the time. She got the routine and recognized the straight stance and assured conversation. And he had the confident walk and toned body down.
He’d listened to her assessment and laughed it off, insisting his smartass ways would have gotten him kicked out on the first day. She pretty much agreed with that.
“I’m willing to do almost anything to lure you into bed,” he said in a heated voice.
“Interesting.” And more than a little tempting. After all, he was an expert with that tongue, and not just for talking.
He pulled her in closer, wrapping her in his arms and pressing his chest against hers. “Next time we’ll have to schedule in some phone-sex time while I’m gone. Imagine me ordering you to touch yourself. Pretty damn hot.”
Her heart did a little jig at the thought. Saying “next time” meant whatever they had wasn’t going away. For now, knowing that but little else was enough. Soon she’d need more. “You gotta tone down this sweet-talking or it will go to my head.”
Before she could laugh, he lowered his head and treated her to a welcome-home kiss that had her wanting to tie him in a chair to keep from leaving again. Hot and firm, he took control and dragged her under. His hands rubbed up and down her back as his mouth crossed over hers. When that sweet tongue slipped inside and met with hers, she dug her fingernails into his shirt. Almost dug through the cotton to hit skin.
He p
ulled back just far enough to stare down at her. The room spun, and she held on to his shoulders to keep from falling down as babble filled her brain. “What?”
“I can spit-shine my lines until they’re clever, but we both know you’re the gatekeeper.”
She wasn’t exactly sure what he was talking about but she liked the sound of it. “Damn right.”
“And I am your sex slave.” His voice dipped low until it skidded across her senses.
She clenched her fingers even tighter against his shoulders. Had to clear her throat a few times before finally spitting out a word. “Nice.”
Those strong hands slipped down her back to land on her ass. “The green light is totally in your control.”
His touch had her stretching up on the tips of her toes to brush her lower body against his. Not her most subtle move, but then nothing about them being together was. They’d shifted from simmering to raging heat from the beginning. Skipped right over the get-to-know-you phase on the way to the bedroom.
She knew about his job and tried to keep a handle on his erratic schedule. His renter’s application included his social security number, which led to his impressive credit score and the glowing report from his last landlord in Virginia. The rest remained a mystery . . . except for the information she found in a few hundred Internet searches trying to make sure he wasn’t a wanted serial killer. Or married.
A woman had to be smart about these things. She refused to feel guilty about the dating recon after hearing one horror story too many from her friends. A guy with a hidden wife and an anger complex here. A guy who liked to wear women’s bikini underwear over there. Then there were the looking-for-money types. Yeah, no thank you.
Playing coy wasn’t her thing, and the attraction between them that sparked on the initial walk through the condo had burst into full flame by the time she handed over the keys. She refused. Two days later he brought pizza over, and they’d been seeing each other ever since.
Seeing as in sex. Lots of sex. The guy might work with computers but he knew his way around a woman’s body. Hands, tongue, mouth . . . Lord.
After a rocky last relationship, the physical play with him and limited dating contact due to his work schedule appealed to her. It didn’t matter that the need to know more about him kept picking at her. She’d vowed to turn off her preference for being prepared for anything and just let things unfold without trying to steer them.
In that spirit, she said, “I thought you were blowing out my pipes.”
He chucked in the middle of nibbling on her ear. The sound was so rich and deep, so sexy it hit with the force of a superpower. “I would love to do that, yes.”
She felt his arms around her waist with hands caressing her ass and the back of her thighs through her jeans. The dual blast of touching and closeness had her breath stuttering in her chest. She inhaled and caught his scent, the same hint of black pepper she associated with his soap.
Unable to resist his face and that firm chin, she smoothed her fingertip around his mouth, letting the stubble of hair tickle her skin. “You should be resting from your boring conference and long flight.”
“That is not what I had in mind when I came over here.”
“My pipes, right?” She’d given him a key and the alarm code before he left on his latest trip. He’d been in and out working on the steps to the front door of the building. The argument about needing to get to the supply closet without tracking her down proved compelling. And the idea of him spending his first few hours back in DC fixing the plumbing problem she mentioned on his way out was just about the sexiest damn thing ever.
“Do your pipes need blowing?” He kept a straight face.
She had no idea how. “You make everything sound dirty.”
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll show you how dirty I can be.”
There it was, the flirty talk that drove her doubts away and had her handing over keys even though a little voice inside her head told her to be more careful. But there was no need to fight it. She didn’t plan to make him wait or work for it. Those days were behind them, and they had passed fast.
That left only one thing. “I have two words for you.”
One of his eyebrows lifted. “Which are?”
She leaned in until her mouth hovered over his. “Green light.”
He pulled back as his gaze searched hers. “You sure?”
Since she’d been giving him the go sign pretty much from the beginning and he’d been speeding ahead with her, his hesitation now struck her as odd. But those knowing hands skimming along her sides let her know he was ready when she was.
The answer was now.
“Are you playing hard to get for, like, the first time ever since I’ve known you?” She pulled him in tighter, rubbing her body against his until his mouth dropped open and a sharp exhale escaped.
His hands clenched against her sides for the briefest of seconds then relaxed again. “Never.”
“You know . . .” She kissed her way down his throat to that delicious spot just above his collarbone. “I think there’s something in the bedroom that needs your attention.”
His fingers went to the button at the top of her jeans, then the screech of her zipper filled the room. Her mouth covered his just as his fingers slipped inside her underwear. Down and over her. Into her.
She held the back of his neck as her mouth slipped over his again and again. The counter dug into her lower back as his body rocked against hers. None of that mattered. Just his heat and those fingers and his warm breath brushing against her.
When he lifted his head again, he was on the verge of a full-fledged pant. Balancing his forehead against hers, he went to work on the white buttons of her oxford shirt. “What do you need in your bedroom?”
“Just you, Ford Decker.”
About the Author
HELENKAY DIMON spent the years before becoming a romance author as a . . . divorce attorney. Not the usual transition, she knows. Good news is she now writes full time and is much happier. She has sold over thirty novels, novellas, and shorts to numerous publishers. Her nationally bestselling and award-winning books have been showcased in numerous venues, and her books have twice been named “Red-Hot Reads” and excerpted in Cosmopolitan magazine. But if you ask her, she’ll tell you the best part of the job is never having to wear pantyhose again. You can learn more at her website: www.helenkaydimon.com.
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Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at six brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Impulse.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
AN HEIRESS FOR ALL SEASONS
A DEBUTANTE FILES CHRISTMAS NOVELLA
By Sophie Jordan
INTRUSION
AN UNDER THE SKIN NOVEL
By Charlotte Stein
CAN’T WAIT
A CHRISTMAS NOVELLA
By Jennifer Ryan
THE LAWS OF SEDUCTION
A FRENCH KISS NOVEL
By Gwen Jones
SINFUL REWARDS 1
A BILLIONAIRES AND BIKERS NOVELLA
By Cynthia Sax
SWEET COWBOY CHRISTMAS
A SWEET, TEXAS NOVELLA
By Candis Terry
An Excerpt from
AN HEIRESS FOR ALL SEASONS
A Debutante Files Christmas Novella
by Sophie Jordan
Feisty American heiress Violet Howard swears she’ll never wed a crusty British aristocrat. Will, the Earl of Moreton, is determined to salvage his family’s fortune without succumbing to a marriage of convenience. But when a snowstorm strands Violet and Will together, their sudden chemistry will challenge good intentions. They’re seized by a desire that burns through the night, but will their passion survive the storm? Will they realize they’ve found a love to last them through all seasons?
His eyes flashed, appearing darker in that moment
, the blue as deep and stormy as the waters she had crossed to arrive in this country. “Who are you?”
“I’m a guest here.” She motioned in the direction of the house. “My name is V—”
“Are you indeed?” His expression altered then, sliding over her with something bordering belligerence. “No one mentioned that you were an American.”
Before she could process that statement—or why he should be told of anything—she felt a hot puff of breath on her neck.
The insolent man released a shout and lunged. Hard hands grabbed her shoulders. She resisted, struggling and twisting until they both lost their balance.
Then they were falling. She registered this with a sick sense of dread. He grunted, turning slightly so that he took the brunt of the fall. They landed with her body sprawled over his.
Her nose was practically buried in his chest. A pleasant smelling chest. She inhaled leather and horseflesh and the warm saltiness of male skin.
He released a small moan of pain. She lifted her face to observe his grimace and felt a stab of worry. Absolutely misplaced considering this situation was his fault, but there it was nonetheless. “Are you hurt?”
“Crippled. But alive.”
Scowling, she tried to clamber off him, but his hands shot up and seized her arms, holding fast.
“Unhand me! Serves you right if you are hurt. Why did you accost me?”
“Devil was about to take a chunk from that lovely neck of yours.”
Lovely? He thinks she is lovely? Or rather her neck is lovely? This bold specimen of a man in front of her, who looks as though he has stepped from the pages of a Radcliffe novel, thinks that plain, in-between Violet is lovely.
She shook off the distracting thought. Virile stable hands like him did not look twice at females like her. No. Scholarly bookish types with kind eyes and soft smiles looked at her. Men such as Mr. Weston who saw beyond a woman’s face and other physical attributes.
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