by Robin Hill
“Just you right now, okay?” A soft whisper, a request, before he slides his fingers inside my panties and between my legs.
“Just me. Okay. Just…ahh…” My words latch on to labored breaths, slipping away with each feathery stroke. I clench my legs together, thrust against his hand.
Fuck.
He’s barely touching me, and it’s making me crazy.
He pulls his hand away from me, curls his fingers into the band of my panties, and pushes them down my legs. They catch at my ankles, and I have to be told to step out of them, to relax, to breathe.
Darian lifts me onto the small strip of counter bordering the sink and reaches for the shelf above the window, pulling down an unopened bottle of mandarin-infused olive oil. A million thoughts spin in my head, not the least of which is, Shit. That’s a really expensive bottle of olive oil.
Darian’s darkening eyes capture mine and hold them as he slowly twists off the cap. He slides off my sandal, cups my heel, and straightens my leg. He drizzles a thin line of oil from my foot to my hip and massages it into my skin. A low, throaty moan builds inside me at the feel of his fingers working their way up my leg.
The mandarin bouquet is erotic, and my only lingering thought is, I wonder if I can buy this stuff by the case.
I kick off my remaining shoe as Darian repeats the entire act on leg number two. He pours the oil and rubs it in. I squeeze my eyes shut as he lowers his lips to my ankle, and when his tongue flicks against it, I throw my head back.
He draws his tongue up my leg, and I suck in a breath, holding it tight in my chest. He gets close, so close my body goes rigid and my stomach knots in anticipation. But he doesn’t do what I think he’s going to do—what I want him to do—and when I feel his lips begin their descent back down leg number one, I blow out an involuntary sigh.
Darian’s smile is so wide, his cheeks expand against my thighs. “You don’t want me to cheat this leg, do you?”
His lips graze my skin and his words vibrate against me. I grip the counter with white knuckles.
“Francesca?”
“Don’t worry about that leg. That leg’s fine. Just—”
Oh holy fuck.
He dips his tongue inside me and takes one long, slow drag. “I need you to lean back,” he says, his voice muffled. When I don’t move, he chuckles, straightens, and brings his mouth to my ear. “Francesca, can you lean back?”
I move my hands behind me and lean against them. I’m suspended over the sink, the rough edge of the windowsill jutting into my spine. It’s not the ideal position, but I manage, and as soon as I feel more oil pool beneath my belly button and trickle between my legs, I decide I can handle the discomfort.
Darian crouches down, pushing my knees apart, wedging himself between my thighs. His hot breath against the cool oil is maddening. He blows softly, and my desire fuses with overripe oranges, intoxicating the air around us.
“Goddamn, Francesca.”
I can’t remember ever wanting anything more than I want his mouth on me right now. I want to wind my fingers in his hair and pull him closer, hold his head between my legs and guide his tongue.
If I didn’t need my arms to hold me up…
Instead, I arch my back, pushing my body forward. I’m met with a tender kiss and a smile against my inner thigh. Darian drapes my legs over his shoulders and takes hold of my hips. I expect him to tease me with his tongue or torture me with his fingers, but I get his mouth, hungry and impatient, devouring me in a way that has me convinced he read my mind.
I can’t help but to writhe against him, and the movement causes me to slip toward the sink.
“Stay still,” he says.
Mother of God, Darian Fox is fucking me with his face.
Lips, tongue, teeth, stubble. Even his nose is brushing against my clit.
Stay still? Is he serious? Okay. Try to focus. Focus on keeping your ass out of the sink. And maybe focus on not popping his head like a balloon between your thighs. Hey, is this how Suzanne Somers invented the Thigh Mas—
“Dariannnnnn…” His name bursts from my throat in a garbled cry.
Then I lose focus. On everything.
I feel weightless. Limbless.
Darian catches me just as my arms begin to give. I nestle against his chest, a giddy, drunken feeling coming over me as he carries me to the bathroom. He returns my sated smile with a grin of his own as he puts me down. I don’t even care that I’m naked.
“Happy?” he says, squatting beside the tub. He pushes in the stopper and turns on the faucet.
The faded cotton of his T-shirt shifts with each movement, and I long to slide my hands beneath it, to feel my knuckles brush against the fabric while my fingers dance over his skin.
“Never better.”
Darian’s smile is triumphant as he straightens and turns around. He gestures to the tub. “I can’t very well send you to bed covered in olive oil, now can I?”
“Oh, sure you can.”
He lets out a sharp laugh, rubs the back of his neck with one hand, and offers me the other. “You’re killing me right now,” he says, steering me to the tub.
I get in, sliding forward to make room for him, my knees pulled to my chest. In my peripheral, I catch him watching me, his arms crossed as he stands—still fully dressed—in the doorway.
“I know it’s small, but I’m sure we can make it work,” I tell him.
His smile tightens. He glances at his watch and then shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m guessing there’s nothing open this late,” he says, rocking back and forth on his heels. “We, uh…never quite made it to the store today.”
“The store?”
“Condoms.”
Oh.
The need lying low in my belly flutters back to life. “Darian, there are other things—I mean, we don’t have to have condoms to…” A sheepish grin chases the words from my lips. “I’m such a moron.”
Darian gives me a blank look.
“Jane gave me condoms. In Austin.”
“We’ve had condoms all day?”
“Yep,” I say, drawing the word into two syllables. I slide my hand along the curled lip of the tub. “So you might as well join me, you know, now that you don’t have to hunt down a twenty-four-hour quickie mart.”
Darian slides off his watch and sets it beside the sink. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.” He takes off his shoes, his socks, his T-shirt, and while his eyes are locked on mine, my eyes travel his body shamelessly. “And you are impossible to resist,” he says, unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping them.
My gaze follows them down his legs and then back up, back to his…
Smiling-taco boxers?
My shoulders shake with laughter. “You, Mr. Fox, are impossible to resist.”
He kicks out of his shorts and the laughter stops. Desire swells inside me. Hungry sighs rise in my throat, but I swallow them back.
“Are you making fun of my underwear, Francesca?” Darian asks, sliding into the tub behind me, his legs on either side of mine.
“No way. I love happy food.”
His muscled arms close around me, holding me tight against his chest. I turn my head, pressing my nose into his neck, and breathe in the masculine scent of his skin mixed with a lingering trace of orange. My body relaxes into him as the silky water rises around us.
“This is nice,” I say. “I hate that you have to go home tomorrow.”
Darian turns off the faucet with his foot and the room falls silent. He picks up my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it softly. “I want you to come with me.”
“What?” I sit up, drawing my body into a ball. “You want me to go to Miami?”
“Just for a week or two. I’ll take you salsa dancing and feed you mojitos.”
He pulls my loofah down from its hook and fills it with body wash. He dips it in the water before sliding it over my back, my shoulders. It feels like heaven, and the thought of Darian not being around to do this�
��to do anything with me—sends a sharp pain to the back of my throat.
But I can’t go with him. I can’t just take off work with no notice and go with him. Can I?
“I’ll take some time off,” he says. “We’ll spend our days by the pool and our nights—”
“Darian, my job…”
His hand stills at my neck, and he gives the loofah a final squeeze before hanging it up. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” he says, drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out. “I’m just not ready to be away from you yet.”
I’m not ready to be away from you either.
Darian lies back, and I ease onto him, resting my cheek against his chest. He combs his fingers through my hair, working out the tangles.
“She’d let me have it,” I whisper. “Lucy, my boss. She’d give me the days off.”
I can’t believe I’m even considering this. Jane’s words come back to me.
“Maybe you’ve changed.”
“Are you serious? You’ll go?”
“I didn’t say that. Darian, have you even thought this through?” I ask, tracing my finger over the water beading on his skin. “You have commitments waiting for you. I’ll just be in the way.”
“I promise you won’t, Francesca.” He tucks his finger beneath my chin, drawing my gaze. “I’m having fun. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
I moan as his hands find my shoulders.
“We like spending time together, hanging out…among other things,” he says, digging his thumbs into my back, his fingers into my collarbone. “It’s as simple as that. Come with me.”
God, I want to. I really want to.
But there is nothing simple about Darian Fox. Or the way I feel about him.
Frankie: He wants me to go with him to Miami for a little while.
Jane: The plot thickens.
Frankie: What’s that supposed to mean?
Jane: It means I’m worried about you.
Frankie: We’re just friends.
Jane: You don’t act like friends.
CHAPTER 7
People Are Strange
Drew: What time are you getting back? Think we should grill some steaks and break into your Macallan 18.
Darian: No can do. I’m still at her place.
Drew: Interesting…
Darian: Give it up, Drew. Just friends.
Drew: I’ve seen that movie. It doesn’t end well.
Frankie
With the first rays of sun peeking through the window, I tiptoe back to bed and slip as quietly as I can under the covers. Darian stirs beside me and then stills. I’m unsure if I’ve woken him. His face is relaxed in a way that makes me question his age. He looks so young when he’s sleeping.
One eye slowly opens, and Darian shields it with his hand. He smiles a half-smile and I’m treated to the dimple I usually only see when he laughs. My heart does an unexpected flip.
“Did you just stealth brush your teeth?” he asks.
“Maybe.”
He pulls me close to him, and I melt into the warmth of his body.
“That’s cheating,” he says, both eyes open and narrowed at me. He slides his fingers over my temple and into my hair, holding my head still as he kisses me. His lips part, and his tongue breaches my mouth.
I smile into the kiss. “Tastes like you cheated too.”
“I found your Costco-size package of toothbrushes,” he says, adjusting his pillow, “between the six-pack of hand soap and the biggest box of Q-tips I’ve ever seen.”
“Some people shop once a week; I prefer once a decade.”
He reaches for my hand. “I thought girls loved to shop.”
“I never got that memo.”
“No,” he says, glancing around my meager bedroom, “I don’t suppose you did.” His gaze falls to our twined fingers, to his thumb gently brushing mine. A slow smile spreads over his face. “Have you thought any more about coming with me?”
“I know I want to,” I say, “but…”
“But?”
I squeeze his hand and his thumb stills. “Can I ask you a question?”
Darian pulls his pillow tighter into his side and props himself up onto his elbow. His eyes are set on me, his attention focused.
“You were hesitant to even kiss me a few days ago. Now you’re here and we’ve had an entire night of marathon sex.”
“That’s not a question,” he says.
I shrug.
“Do you want to know why I was hesitant or why I’m here now?”
“Yes.”
Darian lets go of my hand and rolls onto his back, his gaze trained on the ceiling fan. “Francesca, you’re the first woman I’ve been with in five years.”
The first in five years?
My heart swells with pride it has no business feeling.
The corners of Darian’s lips lift and then lower, as if undecided whether to smile or frown. “That’s a pretty long dry spell to end on an out-of-town fling—which, at the time, is what I thought it was.”
His use of the word fling bothers me, and I don’t know why.
It’s just a word, Frankie, like benefits.
“Then why did you?” I ask, not sure I want the answer.
He turns on his side to face me. “Like I said last night, you’re kind of hard to resist.” His small smile fades as his expression turns serious. “But I was worried about leading you on. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Lead me on? It was my idea. How could you have hurt me?”
Silence falls between us as Darian traces his finger along the lines of my palm. “Because I’ve done it before,” he says, his voice splintering at the edges. “After I lost my family…my wife…” His words trail off and the soft, youthful face I woke up to hardens. “I missed her so goddamn much, and I just…”
“Darian…”
I watch his Adam’s apple chase a swallow down his throat. He brings my hand to his lips, kisses my wrist, and then holds it against his chest. For a moment, he just looks at me, his gaze heavy and his smile sad.
“I used women to fill a void, Francesca. I hurt some of them. But I’m not that guy anymore, and I need you to know that.”
“I do know that,” I whisper.
“How could you?”
“Because you’re here.”
Darian pushes up against the headboard, and I sit Indian-style beside him. His clouded features clear, and the sadness he held in his smile slips away.
“Yeah, I’m here. And believe me, I’m as surprised about that as you are.” He rests his hand on my knee and looks over at me. “I got your note, and the thought of never seeing you again just…didn’t sit right.
“For the first time in ten years, I’m not lonely,” he says, “and I have a feeling you aren’t either.”
My shoulders sag with a sigh. “It’s going to be so weird. Going back to our normal lives after…this.”
“It’ll be fine. We’ll visit each other, talk on the phone, or”—he grins—“Snapchat, as you young kids do.”
“Snapchat?”
“Yeah. Drew showed me. We can even swap faces.”
“BLT Drew?”
“The one and only.”
Darian draws his knees in, pulling the sheet tight around his legs. His face is brighter, happier. “It’s perfect, isn’t it? I think this is exactly what we both need. And I know I’m the bee’s knees, but you’ll have to keep your feelings in check. No falling for this,” he says, motioning to himself.
I laugh. “You totally just said ‘bee’s knees.’ I’d say you’re safe.”
“True. And you snore, so…”
I pick up my pillow and lob it at his head. “I do not snore.”
His expression sobers. “Hey, about what I said before. I promise, things have changed. I don’t want you to worry.”
“I trust you,” I say. And I do.
The scent of cinnamon is strong as I step out of the shower. It wraps around me with familiar ar
ms, taking me back to Sundays with my father, right here, in this very cabin.
“Cinnamon rolls again, Dad?”
“Always, kiddo. It’s Sunday. You love these; they’re homemade.”
“Dad, they’re canned. They’re not homemade.”
“Hey, if I have to turn on an oven, they’re homemade.”
I catch myself smiling in the mirror as I towel-dry my hair. Dad was right. I did love those stupid canned cinnamon rolls. I wish I had told him that even though I’m sure he already knew.
My rumbling stomach urges me to dress quickly in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt straight out of Flashdance. I walk barefoot to the kitchen and find Darian leaning against the sink, a beach towel wrapped around his waist. He’s holding a steaming mug of coffee, and I smile at the #1 Mom peeking through his fingers.
“This might not be something you want lying around for your overnight guests to find,” he says, holding up the mug for me to see. “Jane’s?” Darian crosses his ankles, and the bright yellow and blue hibiscus print he’s donning slips lower on his stomach.
“Jane’s,” I say, nodding, but it comes out scratchy. I tear my gaze away from his bare torso, clear my throat, and try again. “It’s Jane’s.”
Darian laughs.
“Where are your clothes?” I ask.
“I knew I was forgetting something,” he says, setting his coffee on the counter beside him. “I washed them.” He pulls the towel tighter around his waist and walks past me into the living room.
The metal clanking of doors opening and closing is followed by the heavy thud of wet denim and the soothing hum of the dryer. I pull out a chair at the kitchen table and sink into it. The lingering scent of cinnamon settles around me, and my empty stomach answers with a growl.
“Did you bake?”
Darian rounds the corner with a fistful of lint and tosses it in the waste bin. “I found some biscuits in your fridge. A lot of biscuits. I swear you have twenty of everything.”
I shrug.
“Well, if the apocalypse comes, I’m moving in.”
I think I’d be okay with that.