by Larissa Ione
“Tonight,” she began, gaze still locked on the glass.
He looked up, attentive. “Yeah?”
She remembered how he’d felt when he’d slid in behind her on the couch, that comforting, forceful combination of need and demand. She felt prematurely like a cad. “I need to sleep alone tonight.”
His attention shifted to the window and he nodded. “Sure. Of course.”
She set the sponge down and rinsed her hands, drying them on her jeans as she walked over to him. “I don’t mean I don’t want to…you know. Mess around.”
“No?” That look again—adorable, desperate hope.
She shook her head, stepping close enough to put her fingertips to his shoulders. “No, I’d like that, if you would.”
He nodded, setting a hand at her waist. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“But afterward, I just want to be alone, on the couch, so I can catch up on the sleep I’ve been missing. I told you I’m kind of restless.”
“Yeah.”
“Actually,” she added, as though she’d just thought of it. “You don’t have any sleeping pills, do you? Or even like nighttime flu medicine? I know that sounds pathetic—”
“No, it doesn’t. And I think I do. I’ll check this afternoon.”
Worries swirled around in her head and she fumbled for a way to get the information she most needed from him. “Cool, thanks. I didn’t know if you only had animal sleeping pills lying around…”
Russ laughed. “I’m sure I can find you something a bit gentler than what I’d use on a horse.”
What about a dog? She dropped the baiting for the time being, too close to sounding suspicious. “Anyway. You know when you want to sleep but it’s just not happening?” She thrust her lip out in a frustrated pout.
“I thought that’s what whiskey was invented for.”
She smiled and ran her fingers through his messy hair, down his stubbly cheek. “Anyhow, thanks. But for now, chores. Then dinner, then who knows.” She grazed a conspiring hand over his neck. “But after that I’m catching up on my beauty sleep.”
Russ looked as if he was resisting the urge to turn that comment into a corny flirtation. Instead he stood and put his hand in her hair the way he seemed to love doing, leaned in and kissed her. Mouth closed, eyes closed, warm lips holding in a faint noise, a grunt or sigh.
He let her go and she stared at his chin, a little drunk from him. She reached up to wipe the yolk from beside his smiling lips.
“Okay. Put me to work.”
An hour later Sarah could confirm that shampooing a horse was indeed very much like washing a car, right down to the hose she was using to rinse the suds from Mitch. She craned her neck, looking to where Russ was standing in the pen, fussing over Lizzie’s gums. He’d ditched his sweater as the sun had risen, and he looked good in his dusty jeans, those strong, tanned arms, shoulder blades flexing under his T-shirt. That hat like a cliché, so endearing.
She chewed her lip, only fretting for a moment about whether or not to be evil to him. She let the hose trigger go, pumped it a couple times.
“Russ?”
He turned. “Yeah?”
“Hose is acting weird.”
His eyebrows rose. He gave Lizzie a pat then left her be, walking over. “What’s it doing?”
“It’s just kind of—” She squeezed the handle, soaked Russ from head to toe and sent his hat flying off behind him. When she finally released it, he blinked at her, hair dripping, shirt plastered to his chest, the front side of his jeans dark and drenched.
“Seriously?” he asked.
She bit her lip. “Yeah.”
Russ smiled, a deadly Jack Nicholson sort of smile, eyes narrowing. He took a step closer. “Seriously?”
She nodded.
“How fast can you run?” he asked.
“Real fast.”
“You better hope so.”
He took another step, and she tossed the hose aside, bolting past him into the pen and ducking between the wooden fence rails. She felt him grab her sneaker for a second, heard his feet hit the ground behind as she took off into the yard. He caught her easily after only a few seconds’ sprint into the tall grass. She yelped as he hooked her around the waist and brought them both crashing to the ground, Russ taking the bulk of the impact. Rolling her onto her back, he pressed his dripping front against her and made her feel six years old, made all the horrors from the past few weeks dissolve until the entire world consisted of just their two bodies, this patch of earth under this exact sky. She began to laugh, convulsive, cathartic sobbing laughs as Russ flipped her over on top of him. She kissed him, square on the mouth with her eyes open, and decided he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen or touched or tasted.
He made the kisses deeper, dirty hands in her formerly clean hair. She locked her thighs around his hips, wanting to stay right here for a month, so filled with good feelings there was no room left for bad ones. She felt Russ grow hard and contemplated a near-literal roll in the hay, then decided the risk of ticks and every other thing lurking in the grass was a mood killer.
She let the kissing linger for another minute then freed her mouth. “You feel like a shower?”
“I feel like you just gave me one back in the paddock.”
“Do you feel like a proper one, with soap and hot water and naked strangers corrupting your cramped little ancient bathtub?”
He smiled, expression shifting in a way she adored. “Yeah, I could go for that.”
She got to her feet and let Russ take her dirty hand in his for the short walk back to the pen. He let Mitch out into the main yard and put away a few things and led them inside. They ditched their shoes at the door and headed for the bathroom.
Russ got the shower running and they watched one another undress. She loved his body…unlike any man’s body she’d been intimate with before. Not skinny, not bulky, strong and muscular but not from the gym. Just exactly what a man ought to look like, she decided. Russ had sexy shoulders, triceps so defined she wanted to bite them. He also had the very start of what would be an inevitable middle-aged belly, a charming flaw flying in the face of his otherwise too perfect working man’s body.
Russ shed his shorts, his sudden and complete nakedness pulling her out of her spacey admiration and into darker, curious realms. She undid her bra and let him step forward and push her panties down, his erection brushing her navel. She was about ready to trade a kidney for a box of condoms.
Strong hands took hold of her jaw, and she melted into him, into his forceful mouth and eager body, into the moans humming in his throat, begging to be unleashed. She slid her hand between them and stroked his soft chest hair, squeezed the hard swells of his shoulders. For a few greedy seconds, she explored his back and that textbook-perfect ass, then he pulled away, grinning. Sliding the shower curtain open, he gestured for her to get inside.
It wasn’t the ideal tub for a tryst—narrow and rounded—but with Russ here she couldn’t imagine a better place to be. He climbed in after her, dragging the clear curtain around them and angling the showerhead at her back.
“Jesus.” His gaze slid up and down her front. “You’re gorgeous.”
She bit her tongue, tempted to contradict him. Tempted to say she’d prefer to weigh ten pounds more and be filling her modest B-cups again, lose the ribs, lose the holes in her side and the bruises that peppered her like finger-paint smudges. Instead she let him ogle, let him feast on whatever he saw and whatever made his green eyes narrow the way they did now.
She reached around the curtain for the shampoo bottle on the windowsill, snapping it open and getting her hands full of lather. Russ leaned in and let her wash his hair before he returned the favor, his fingers dawdling well after the suds had disappeared down the drain. They passed the soap back and forth and explored one another’s bodies. Their curious, slippery hands lingered here and there, eyes darting as though they’d invented all this nonsense and couldn’t quite comprehend their own genius.<
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A guy. A girl. A Chihuahua. Two of them will find the love of their lives.
Venus in Blue Jeans
© 2011 Meg Benjamin
Konigsburg, Book 1
Coming off a broken engagement to a lying charmer, all bookstore owner Docia Kent wants is a fling, not a long-term romance. And for her fabulously wealthy and fabulously nosy parents to butt out of her life for a while. The Texas Hill Country town of Konigsburg looks like the perfect place to get both. Especially when she gets a look at long, tall country vet Cal Toleffson.
Cal has other plans for Docia. One glance at the six-foot version of Botticelli’s Venus, and he knows he’s looking at the woman of his dreams. Now if he can just fend off the eccentric characters of Konigsburg long enough to convince her romance isn’t such a bad idea.
One night of mind-blowing sex isn’t the only thing that leaves them both stunned. With Docia’s bookstore under attack, Konigsburg suddenly doesn’t seem so welcoming. Once again she finds her trust tested—and is left wondering if she was ever meant to have a happily ever, after all.
Warning: Contains explicit sex, hot Texas nights, cool sarcastic friends, the world’s sweetest hero and the world’s saddest Chihuahua.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Venus in Blue Jeans:
Cal took a moment to look at her. Her copper curls floated around her face and shoulders. Her white silk blouse hung slightly open, so that he could see a sliver of peach-colored lace peeking out. Her deep green eyes met his, and her face was suddenly illuminated by their light.
Venus.
His gut tightened almost as much as his groin. Oh, yeah. Nothing like a little performance anxiety to pep things up. As he watched, Docia’s lips edged up slightly, and another jolt hit his solar plexus. Whatever doubts might be assailing his mind, his body was definitely ready to go for it.
He reached for her, then slid his fingers into the silken softness of her hair, pulling her gently toward him, lowering his mouth to hers. Her lips had an echo of sweet wine. His tongue plunged deeper into her mouth, touching, exploring—teeth, tongue, warm, wet depths. She gave a small purr of pleasure as she turned her body against his, slipping her arms around his neck and pressing her soft breasts against his chest.
Cal moved his hands downward, sliding them beneath the edge of her blouse, touching, stroking. Smooth, satiny flesh. Silk warmed by Docia’s body. His hand cupped her breast so that it filled his palm like a ripe peach. He flicked his thumb across her nipple, feeling it jut hard against his fingers.
“God, Cal,” she murmured.
Her hands moved down from his neck. Then she pulled his shirt free and slid her hands underneath, brushing across his chest. One palm rested for a moment on his heart while a warm fingertip pressed against one nipple. Threads of heat flowed from where her fingers touched him.
He shifted his shoulders, pushing her back against the sofa cushions. The soft mounds of her breasts pressed against his chest again. His shaking hands fumbled at the top button of her blouse, trying to slip the small fabric-covered disk through its hole and failing. Then her cool fingers covered his, and the button slid free.
And the next and the next.
Cal looked down at peach-colored lace and silk outlined against the shimmering paleness of her skin underneath. His breath caught in his throat. “Docia, you’re so beautiful.”
Even as he said it, he knew how miserably inadequate the words were. You’re exquisite. At this moment, you’re everything I’ve ever desired in a woman. I’ve never touched anyone like you before. Please God, don’t ask me to stop.
When she spoke, her voice was a hoarse whisper against his ear. “Cal, we can’t do this here.”
For a moment, he was lost, trying to find his feet again. Had she suddenly developed second thoughts? And if so, why right now, in the name of heaven!
“What?” he murmured. “Why not?”
Docia giggled, a quick throaty sound against his chest. “We can’t both fit on this couch. Not two people our size. Gravity alone is going to do us in before we get much further.”
“I’m glad one of us thinks this is funny,” Cal muttered and then snickered. In another moment, they were both chuckling breathlessly, their foreheads pressed together.
Docia pushed against his shoulders. “Come with me, Doc. I have the greatest oversized bed you’ve ever seen. I promise we’ll both fit into it with plenty of room left over.”
The bed was big enough for the two of them, plus three or four other average-sized citizens of Konigsburg. Not that Cal was eager for a sextet at that particular moment. A stack of red and blue pillows covered one end of the bed. Tall posts supported some kind of white canopy overhead.
Cal wasn’t really noticing the details right then—he had too much he needed to do, like breathe.
And he couldn’t seem to stop touching her.
Even as he reached for the remaining buttons on her blouse, he couldn’t help grazing his fingers along the smooth white skin of her collarbone, his thumb sinking into the small indentation at the base of her throat.
Docia laughed softly, emerald eyes shimmering in the semi-dark, then pulled the blouse from her shoulders and dropped it behind her. “Your turn.”
He took hold of the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head, wishing he’d worn something with buttons too, so that he could have taken it more slowly, let her see a little bit of him at a time. Clothes made him look more normal. Without them, she’d see him the way he really was.
One of his girlfriends in Kansas City—Karen, was it? Maybe Janice—had referred to him as her “great, hairy beast”. She’d meant it affectionately. Cal hadn’t felt the love. But the image had always stuck in his mind after that.
King Kong was about to enter the bedroom.
Docia caught her breath as he dropped his shirt to the floor beside her blouse.
She’d never seen a chest that broad before. His pectorals curved down to his flat stomach muscles. A thick pelt of dark hair covered the surface, arrowing down to the waistband of his pants. He looked primal, like a warrior, like someone who’d lurched out of the forest seeking a mate.
Not that he’d have to do much seeking from what she could see. He could probably just crook his finger and a dozen potential mates would come tripping through the woods without further ado.
She forced herself to breathe in and out while she sorted through appropriate adjectives. Magnificent. Glorious. Spectacular.
“Wow.”
Oh, very good, Docia. Four years of college English and that’s the best you can do?
Cal raised his eyebrows, questioning.
Docia couldn’t stop herself. She reached toward his chest, burying her fingers in the dark, crinkling hair, touching the point of one brown nipple with her pinky. She heard his quick inhale.
His eyes looked slightly glazed. “Now you,” he gasped.
Docia’s fingers dropped to the button at the waistband of her pants, and suddenly her shoulders stiffened. Right then, she could remember every one of Allie’s scones she’d consumed over the last month, not to mention all those plates of tapas Lee had fed her, laden with cheese and olive oil. And then, of course, she also remembered Donnie’s cracks about her love handles.
Oh well, maybe some men like doughy hips. And she couldn’t do much about spot reducing at the moment. She was who she was, after all. She’d learned that much over the last couple of years.
Docia pushed her pants down to the floor and stepped out of them defiantly. At least she had on some of her better underwear.
Cal watched her for a heartbeat or two, his eyes hooded. Then he stepped toward her, raising his hands to cup her breasts. Docia closed her eyes, feeling the warmth spread outward as the rough calluses of his palms rubbed across her skin. Heat stretched over her body and down to her thighs. His fingers moved and the catch at the front of her bra opened. Her breasts slipped loose as he pushed the straps from her shoulders.
And she stood in fro
nt of him, wearing only a scrap of peach-colored silk at her crotch.
Cal stared, his pulse racketing in his ears. There she was again—Botticelli’s Venus with her wild red curls drifting around her face and shoulders. Perfect breasts, high and full. Waist narrowing to a gently rounded stomach. Long, creamy thighs stretching to muscular calves.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. If he was dreaming, this was when he’d wake up, hard and aching.
“Your turn,” she whispered.
He came down to earth with a thump. This was it. The point at which some of his past sexual encounters had come to an abrupt halt. The time when he’d need to get enough blood back into his brain to soothe, to reassure, to explain that, after all, size was relative and bodies did adapt to each other.
But he might as well get it over with.
He unzipped, pushing his slacks and underwear down together, feeling himself spring free. No point in delaying the moment—he wouldn’t get any smaller.
At least he profoundly hoped he wouldn’t.
Docia’s gaze was riveted on his groin. She stared at his cock, as he’d known she would. His throat was dry with wanting her. Somehow he had to figure out how to say all the things he needed to say to get past this moment. All the encouragement and reminders about how well they’d fit. How they were made to fit together. How if she lost her nerve now he’d probably go jump off a cliff somewhere.
She reached for him suddenly, before he realized what she was doing. Cool fingers wrapped around his shaft, measuring him, sliding lightly down the length of him.
“You’re very big.” Her voice sounded husky.
Cal swallowed, nodding. Even if he tried to speak, he figured his voice wouldn’t be more than a croak. And he wasn’t sure he could speak at all as long as her hand stayed where it was currently.