by Sierra Hill
Physical Distraction
Book Three
The Physical Series
by
Sierra Hill
Copyright © 2016 Sierra Hill
Published by Ten28 Publishing
Cover Design: Kari March
Stock Photo: Shutterstock (Licensed with Permission)
Editing: Stephanie Elliot
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 0692679618
ISBN-13: 978-0692679616
Also by Sierra Hill
Physical Touch (Book 1 in the Physical Series)
More Than Physical (Book 2 in the Physical Series)
One More Minute with You (A standalone novel)
The Reunion (A standalone novella)
Coming Soon:
Sweetness (The Bittersweet Series)
Table of Contents
Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
The floor of the bar crunched beneath his boots, coming alive with sound similar to the June bugs that he and his buddies squashed dead as kids during summer vacation.
The memory had him smiling, as Dylan Hemmons lifted his foot to find peanut shells lodged in the tread of his worn-leather work boots. Great, now he’d smell like he’d visited the circus Big Top tomorrow at the office. Shaking his head in amusement, he continued his noisy procession over to the bar, scanning the crowd as he went.
Having frequented an unusually large quantity of bars in the south Boston area in his twenty-nine years, Dylan was fairly accustomed to this particular sort of establishment. The type of place that held a certain appeal to the working class, blue-collar laborers where the clientele were greeted with cheap beer, loud, drunken conversations over the Pats or Bruins, and rowdy good times.
As he scoped out the joint, Dylan couldn’t recall why he’d never stepped inside this bar before. Surprising, since it was close to his own Southie neighborhood. Doing a quick survey of the room, Dylan took in the state of the bar’s disrepair. Based on the evidence on the walls and floor, this place had definitely seen better days. Chipping paint flecks on the ceiling, mounted light fixtures teetering on coming loose, and wood-paneled walls that were stained from years of grease and old cigarette residue.
Definitely a dive bar.
From the shining veneer of the gleaming wood bar top, and the tone of the current patrons perched on their stools, a few chatting like old friends, Dylan could tell that the bar had been cared for like a good, solid marriage. One where the union was often times taken for granted, yet still given just enough love throughout the years to leave both parties content and feeling cared for.
Not like Dylan knew anything about long-term marriages, much less relationships for that matter. Considering that his own mother left his father when he was still a thumb-sucking, bed-wetting little hellion, he’d never witnessed what a good marriage might look like. He didn’t even know what a bad marriage might entail, because his mother never gave it a chance. She just up and walked out on her family because his mother’s idea of a happy life didn’t include living in south Boston with a husband and two kids.
Well, fuck her.
She could rot in hell for all he cared.
It didn’t make one iota of difference to him as a kid, and certainly not now as a grown-ass man. He had his pops, his younger sister, Rylie, and his two best friends Jason and Kenny. And not to mention plenty of women when he needed companionship. He never lacked in that department. All his needs were met with the people that surrounded him.
Nothing was missing from his life with maybe the one exception at the moment. An ice-cold beer after the long day he had at a job site. The contractor he was working with was an asshole with a capital A. Thank God his friend Jason would be taking over next week, because he was afraid he might throw a wrench at the dude’s face if he barked orders at him one more time.
Patience growing thin, he chose a seat at the end of the bar, closest to the kitchen, and scanned the room. Where the hell was the bartender? All he saw was a handful of male patrons, mostly loners, sitting at the bar or at the old, battered tables haphazardly strewn around the room.
A flat screen TV hung on the far wall, silently broadcasting the end of a hockey game, while three smaller TVs above the bar ran a montage of stations, providing a variety of options for the seemingly bored clientele.
Dylan divested himself of his gray and orange Carhartt hoodie with a frustrated sigh. He placed it on the empty stool next to him, leaving him in his black, company-logo T-shirt. Quickly losing patience, Dylan once again looked around for any sign of service when a loud thump, and then crash, drew his attention toward the closed door next to the bar.
Behind it, the air permeated with a litany of obscenities coming from a decidedly female voice.
Just then, the door flew open, taking Dylan by surprise as a woman materialized in front of him, grunting and cursing like a sailor. Brow furrowed at the interruption, he couldn’t help but watch with rapt interest. Hunched over and walking backward out the door, the woman huffed from exertion, her toned arms straining with the weight of a beer keg. She couldn’t have been more than a buck twenty, carrying half her weight.
Dylan was on his feet and rounding the corner in a flash, reaching in front of her body to grab the handles from her petite hands.
Instead of letting go and offering him some sort of acknowledgment of gratitude, Dylan was on the receiving end of a haughty glare and an attitude to boot.
“I got it,” she spat, shrugging off his offer to help, as his hands fought for ownership of the icy cold barrel.
The woman swung around, her hip bumping sharply against his, the exposed flesh of her butt from her low-riding jeans, skimming his crotch.
And holy hell, he felt that bolt all the way down to his toes. It was physical lightning, a flood of an electric current striking through the marrow of his being. A sudden need to cover her with his body – his mouth taking great pleasure in working her over until she was screaming his name – zapped through him, sending blood down to his dick.
“Did you hear me asking for any help?” she said, her head still turned away so he couldn’t see her face. Dylan didn’t need to see it to know she was whipped-up mad about something.
Dylan blinked, her ac
cusatory tone stunning him back to reality. The one time he wanted to act like a goddamn gentleman and it backfired on him.
“Well no, but you looked like you could use some help. Sorry I misread the situation.”
“I’m not a damsel in distress. I can handle things on my own. Thanks.”
She bent at her knees, carefully placing the keg on the ground before angling it on its side and rolling it to the empty space under the bar. Still crouched over, Dylan watched as she deftly adjusted the tap, finagling the hose and tubing over the keg spout.
Dylan stood immobile from behind her, his eyes trained on the view of the curves of her ass outlined beautifully in her tight jeans. And in her stooped position, those jeans inched down, exposing the lacy edge of a lime-green thong that peeked out from underneath the denim material.
Was he drooling?
Feeling a small wave of dizziness, and a lot dumbstruck, Dylan stepped back, accidentally bumping into a bottle-lined glass shelf. His mouth had gone completely dry, as if he’d been lost for days in the Mojave Desert. Swallowing thickly, he turned away to readjust the bottles that he’d jostled, trying to re-enlist his brain to focus. Slowly moving his feet, Dylan began progress toward his spot he’d staked out at the bar, when the bartender tapped him on his shoulder from behind.
Turning back around to face her, figuring he’d get another lecture about his knight-in-shining-armor hero complex, all rational thought went right out the window. The woman standing in front of him, merely an arms-length away, was honest-to-God, the most wickedly beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
And he’d seen his fair share.
Honey-blond hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders, framing her delicate heart-shaped face. Her skin held a light-golden tan tone, the color of almonds. The color confused him, since winter in New England did not bode well for anything but pasty-white. Hers, however, held a natural, healthy glow, as if she’d just returned from a tropical vacation.
And tropical vacations equaled bikinis. And bikinis equated to tan lines. And tan lines were only visible on naked bodies. And now all that Dylan was thinking about was her naked body.
Dylan soaked in her features. Her eyes, which had been shooting daggers at him a few minutes before, were now mellowed to a soft shade of chocolate-brown, her long lashes fringing her lids. A small freckle, or maybe a mole, dotted the upper left side of her nose. And her lips were a glossy pink.
Kissable. Fuckable.
And then he made the mistake of looking south, past her neck. Just a quick glance and he was stunned stupid. She had a fabulous rack. Round, lush, and straining quietly against the white V-neck she wore.
Shit, he needed a beer. Stat.
Her smoky voice broke through his thoughts. “Hey listen. I’m sorry if I sounded rude. That was very gentlemanly of you to offer me help. I’m not used to such chivalry.”
She gave a sarcastic laugh, leaving him to believe there was a story behind it, and grabbed a towel from the bar to wipe her hands. “So, what can I get you for your trouble, Mr. Chivalrous?”
There were a hundred responses that came to Dylan’s mind about what he wanted from her. And all of them dirty.
What could she get him? You. Naked. On your knees. Bent over. Naked. Did he already mention that one?
Dylan cleared his throat to dislodge the filthy images of this woman sprawled naked in front of him.
“Beer.” His voice was gruff, raspy from where his thoughts had been.
She flashed him an incredibly white smile – one that would stop traffic. One that would’ve had him tripping over his own feet if he hadn’t already been sitting down. “I’m pretty sure I can help you with that. What kind?”
Yeah, she could definitely help him – in more ways than one. The beer would be just the start.
Ah, hell. Knock it off, D.
“A Sam Adams, please.”
Dylan observed from his perch on the barstool as she busied herself – her movements fluid and intoxicating. He nearly salivated watching her drawing the pour from the spout, as the amber liquid frothed and swirled in the tallboy in her slender hands, topping it off at the brim with a nice, foamy head.
And yeah, that’s exactly where his mind went again. Her hands. Wrapped around his dick. Her mouth covering him. Giving him head.
Fuuuuuck.
“You’re an electrician?” she asked, setting the cold glass on a coaster directly on the bar in front of him, jarring him out of his porn-infested imagination.
Arching an eyebrow, Dylan wondered what kind of mind reader-slash-fortune teller this woman might be. After all, this was the state of Massachusetts and a lot of witches still resided in the area, so anything was possible. Otherwise, how else would she know his profession?
He flinched when her hand darted out to touch the left side of his T-shirt, just above his heart, her beautiful mouth curving up into a sly smile. His pec instinctively flexed under her touch, the warmth from her fingertips lighting a fire in his bones.
“The logo on your shirt. It says Hemmons & Son Electrical. I thought that might be a pretty good indication you’re an electrician.”
Dylan took a long drag of his beer, keeping his eyes focused on her over the rim. Setting the glass back down, he nodded toward the emblem.
“Oh, right. Yeah, I’m an electrician,” he said, shrugging with indifference, but feeling the complete opposite on the inside. He wasn’t sure where she was going with her question.
Maybe she was one of those bartender turned psychiatrists, proving that men really do open up after a few beers. Or was she just making polite bartender conversation? Whatever it was, Dylan wasn’t going to fall for it by laying out all his problems like some sap, sharing how his current line of work really didn’t fulfill him, and he had aspirations of something more.
Dylan had never been tongue-tied or nervous around women. Born a natural charmer, he flirted with ease with women young and old since he was a young boy. It came easy to him and had gotten him out of trouble more times than he could count. He could write a book about all the juvenile delinquent messes he had gotten into with Jason and Kenny. And using his sexual prowess on women? Well, that got him laid more often than not.
But something about this woman’s self-assured confidence had him sweating bullets. Like she could see through him and saw that the life he was living was a lie. All that through just one simple question about his profession.
No one had ever asked him if it’s what he really wanted to do. It was just kind of expected of him. Dylan aimed to live a life that made his pops proud of him – which included serving his country in the Marines and then returning home to work in his father’s company. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what he really wanted to do.
He made a great electrician, was good at his job, led his small crew effectively, but the day-in-day-out grind felt like an anchor. Pulling him further and further down and away from his own dream.
Dylan’s father, Dan Hemmons, started his electrical company fifteen years earlier, with the hope that both Dylan and his younger sister, Rylie, would join in the family business. Dylan enlisted in the Marine Corps right out of high school, though, wanting to see the world for a few years before returning to fulfill his family obligation.
Rylie, on the other hand, went to college on a volleyball scholarship, and then obtained her Masters in physical therapy. She was the first of the Hemmons clan to go to college, and her accomplishments made Dylan and their pops proud.
With Rylie now in the medical field, it left Dylan the only offspring to work for his pops. And he was not about to break his father’s heart by denying the man of his wish. His pops had experienced enough heartache when his mother left the family years before for Dylan to act like a self-centered prick.
Dylan had hoped that upon returning from his tour in Afghanistan, he would be able to put in a few years with his dad, while honing his craft on his own time, and then take a stab at his own dream. It seemed that while he was overseas, he’d f
ound his calling creating metal art sculptures out of used and recycled parts. With a few exceptions, not many people knew of his artistic side. And no one knew he’d felt so strongly about it to dream of making a living doing it.
Dylan didn’t realize he was tracing the stitched lettering on his shirt until he caught the woman watching with apparent fascination. The look in her eyes sent flames shooting straight to his cock. Was he just imagining her interest? This woman was insanely hot.
He’d seen hot waitresses before, and even took a few home on occasion, but he couldn’t figure out why someone of her caliber would be tending bar in such a rundown place like this. There was something about her that set her above the riff-raff. An air of dignity. A quality that he couldn’t quite name, but saw it in how she carried herself.
“Can I get your number?”
He practically choked on the beer he’d just taken a swig of. Her question caught him off guard, but now it was definitely obvious that she was interested in him. Hells yeah, this was his lucky night.
Granted, it wasn’t female companionship Dylan was looking for when he dropped into this bar tonight. He wasn’t out on the prowl or looking for action. The only reason he’d set foot in the bar was to meet up with his old Marine buddy, Charlie Collins, to discuss some of the pieces he’d been working on. Charlie’s wife owned a gallery in Cambridge and was considering showing Dylan’s work.
“You want my phone number?” he parroted back, hoping the incredulous tone in his voice didn’t sound as obvious as it was.
She chuckled, a light shade of pink surfacing on her cheeks. Her blush was sexy as hell. It made him wonder what would happen if he leaned over the bar and whispered in her ear exactly what he wanted to do with her once she called him.
“Well, the number for your business, I mean,” she said, correcting his assumption. “I’m kind of in need of a good electrician, along with some other contracted services for this place.” Her hand made a sweeping motion across the bar, gesturing at the various areas in need of repair.
