The sound of keys hitting a table made me flinch, and I glanced over to see him standing in front of the bed, hands on his hips. “You done? Not much to look at.”
“Nice place.”
“Right.” He thought I was being sarcastic. I wasn’t. Where I lived wasn’t much better.
I tugged off my leather jacket and placed it on the back of one of his chairs. The air in this place was cool, and my nipples hardened, surely visible beneath the thin fabric of my tank—with a built-in bra, I hadn’t worn anything else. My ex used to say it was trashy, but he was the one who was trash. His dirt had imprinted on me like a tattoo so I wasn’t sure I’d ever get his stink out of my skin. I forced him out of my head. He wasn’t allowed here in this space, in my life.
When I took a step toward the man standing by the bed, he reached back, grabbed his T-shirt and pulled it over his head. I sucked in a breath. Fuck, he was gorgeous. Not cut, but still muscled, with dark wiry hair coating his tanned skin. He had a couple of tattoos, old black ones that had discolored with age. I tried to estimate how old he was, but he had the kind of weathered face that spoke of hardship rather than time.
I toed off my boots, kicking them out of my way and continuing toward him in my bare feet. I was the one approaching him, yet I was prey under those dark eyes. He took me in like a starving man, like he would die if he didn’t get his hands on me. When I stood in front of him, he sank down onto the bed, his thick thighs spread.
He didn’t touch me yet, only motioned me to step closer with the twitch of two fingers. “Show me what’s under that skirt.”
“What’s your name?”
His gaze flicked to me. “You need that to show me your pussy?”
I swallowed as I grew hotter and my insides clenched. “I do.”
“Lance.”
I waited to see if he’d ask me my name. He didn’t. So I lifted up my skirt.
He sucked in a breath, barely detectable, and his hands slid up the front of my thighs. He brushed a finger along the small scrap of fabric that made up the front of my thong and murmured, “You’ve been wet since the bar, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, my knees trembling as his finger slid under the fabric, and then down to where it narrowed to just a string that covered my entrance. He tugged, so the thong tightened against my clit. I moaned softly as heat roared through my veins.
“Spread your legs wider,” he said, tugging harder, and I bit my lip to hold back a whimper. I did as he asked, while his finger continued that tugging torment, the friction on my wet flesh driving me crazy. What would happen when he actually touched me? I’d fly apart.
He pulled my underwear down, and I stepped out of them. His hands gripped my ass and pulled me closer, between his legs, so his nose nudged the top of my pubic hair. His finger rubbed my pussy, up to my clit, then back. “Knew you’d be perfect. Soft, pretty, pink, and so damn wet for me.”
I had to brace a hand on his shoulder, because just that one finger was enough to throw me off balance. The bulge in his pants was obscene, and I wondered when I’d get a hand on him. Then he slipped a finger inside of me and my head fell back, my eyes closed, and I moaned. “Fuck.”
He buried his face against me and his tongue began to work. He licked up my wetness as he worked his finger in and out of me slowly. As he began to suck my clit, he added another finger inside me, curling them to reach my g-spot. I rose up on my tip toes, wanting closer, but also feeling like I should pull back, the sensations all at once addicting and scary. But damn, Lance could eat pussy. He put his whole body into it, working his jaw, his neck, his fingers, lips and tongue. Even his hands kneaded my ass, squeezing the firm flesh. When a finger lightly tapped my hole, I cried out, my skin a giant network of nerves on fire for Lance.
He hummed against my clit, and I slipped my other hand into his hair, shamelessly grinding into his mouth, seeking that release that was close, so damn close. My body was tightening, and oh God it was coming, and it was going to be amazing…
His mouth and fingers left my body and then a hand smacked me, right between the legs, jolting me out of the beginning of my orgasm and making me cry out. I balled my hand in a fist, ready to pummel Lance for whatever the fuck that was, but then I was tugged into his lap. My legs straddled his waist, and he held both my wrists behind me with one hand. Also? He looked goddamn pleased with himself. Meanwhile my body ached with unfinished business.
“What the fuck was that?” I might have screeched.
“You were so close,” he said, like I didn’t know.
“I—”
"I wasn’t ready for you to come yet.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I was perfectly ready.”
He didn’t answer. I half-heartedly tried to gain use of my hands, but his grip was unbreakable. With just the forefinger of his other hand, he lowered the top of my tank top. The fabric pushed my breasts together and he admired my cleavage, taking his sweet time, while I tried to grind myself on his hard dick.
As mad as I’d been, I was also out of my mind with arousal. Denying me that orgasm only made me want it more. I was about ready to do anything for him just to get off. I made a moan of frustration, and he smiled. He actually smiled. And it changed the shape of his whole face. He had one dimple, and a broad grin that made him look five years younger. But just like that, it was gone, and then he was pushing the fabric of my tank top down lower until both of my breasts spilled out of the top.
He groaned at the sight of my tits. “More perfect than I imagined.”
I squirmed on his lap, still trying to rub my bare clit against the rod in his pants. He cupped a breast and sucked my nipple into his mouth.
“Oh fuck,” I gritted out just as his teeth scraped the sensitive peak. I was grinding into him shamelessly now, and he let me, but held me back just enough that I couldn’t get off. There wasn’t enough friction. Meanwhile he tormented my breasts, sucking on patches of skin until blood rose to the surface, then admiring his handiwork. Every time, he knew just when to stop before the pain became unbearable, and all it was doing was making me desperate. He pulled my tank top over my head with one hand and went back to admiring my tits.
“Please,” I nearly sobbed. “Let me come.”
In quick motion, he tossed me onto the bed on my stomach. With one hand on the small of my back to hold me down, he brought down the other hand onto my ass once, twice, in sharp smacks. I writhed beneath him, as he smacked me a few more times, my pussy gushing with each blow. Fuck I loved this, rough and hard and messy. I spread my legs, the cool air hitting my heated, wet flesh. He smacked my pussy too, and I screamed.
His body coated mine, and his denim-covered cock ground into my ass. My sensitive nipples rasped along the rough sheets. His fingers jammed into me and I tried to crawl away even as my hips tilted to let him in deeper. A firm hand on my shoulder prevented me from getting anywhere.
“Gonna get a rubber, baby,” he murmured in my ear while his fingers did delicious things to me. “Don’t move.”
Like I could move. My legs felt useless, spread open wide just for him. His hand left me, then the heat of his body. I closed my eyes, listening to the clunk of his boots hitting the floor, the rustle of his jeans. I peeled back my lids as a shadow fell over them, and watched as he rummaged in a box beside his bed before pulling out a strip of condoms. His naked body was solid, that dark hair covered his thighs, and groin. His cock, thick and glistening with pre-come, jutted out from a thatch of curly hair. He rolled down the condom and turned to me as he stroked his dick a couple of times.
He didn’t have that smirk of a conquering man, and if he did, I might have left right then and there. I wasn’t something to conquer. This was a two-way street. But no, that wasn’t how he looked. Instead, his gaze took me in like I was some secret treasure that only he knew about. Like my body held the Holy Grail. Like my pussy dripped with the fountain of youth.
When his weight hit the bed behind me, I gripped the sheets with white-knuc
kled fists. He pulled my skirt down my legs and then tugged me up onto my knees. I was shaky, but managed to stay there. I heard the sound of him stroking his dick, and then a hand ran over my ass, up my spine, into my hair. He gripped it, and tugged back, and my pussy pulsed. “Fuck me,” I said, my voice garbled with the angle of my neck. “Please just fuck me.”
He slammed inside, and a scream ripped up my throat. He started out at a slow pace, but with each snap of his hips, he gained speed until he was pounding into me. My arms gave out, and I crashed face-first into his sheets, my ass still in the air. He gripped my hips for leverage, squeezing so hard I felt him in my marrow. I glanced over my shoulder through my mass of hair and locked eyes with him. His pupils were dilated, and sweat dripped from his temples. His chest muscles bulged, veins extended in his neck as he fucked into me with wild abandon. His angle was perfect, sliding over that perfect spot inside me.
“This cunt,” he panted, “squeezing my dick just right. Fuck.”
He reached between my legs and attacked my clit with rough fingers. His finesse was gone, but then so was mine. I’d been on the edge of a blade since I’d first seen his dark eyes. I didn’t need finesse, I needed this—rough and desperate and needy.
His finger pinched my clit just as his cock rammed my spot and I couldn’t keep it together any more. My body flew apart as my orgasm hit me like an explosion. I was cracked glass inside, held together only by the frame of my body, my soft skin, which Lance was piercing with every thrust, with every “baby” and “fuck” and finger-shaped bruise he was leaving on my hips.
“Fuck!” He roared, and then he was coming too, pulsing inside me.
He fell to the bed on top of me, his hands on either side of my head, as my knees finally gave out and I slid to my stomach. His breath gusted in my ear, and I felt his lips nuzzle my chin, seeking something, until he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. I shuddered at the touch, the bloom of heat in that soft touch echoing throughout my body. I was lying naked with his dick still inside of me, but yet that kiss undid me. It might have been the most intimate thing he’d done to me.
He pulled out, and I closed my eyes. He retreated to his bathroom, and I heard the toilet flush, the sink run. He returned and pressed a warm, wet cloth between my legs. I didn’t open my eyes, not as he spread my legs a bit to clean me, not as he then covered me with a sheet.
When we’d first met, I’d assumed he was one of those men with rough childhoods. Who enjoyed hookups, who avoided anything long-term. And no judgment from me. But yet the way he fucked me, and the small moments where he kissed the side of my mouth, and cleaned me up, spoke of a different kind of man. He’d been in love once. Actual, real love. I was sure of it. I’d been in love too—or what I thought was love at the time—a love that had burned way too bright and left behind nothing but ash. I wanted to ask Lance if it’d been that way for him too. He lived like a man who’d been left with a handful of ashes.
The bed dipped and I finally turned my head to see him laying beside me on his back, staring at the ceiling, arm thrown over his eyes. His dick was soft against his thigh.
I guessed it was okay if I slept there, which was great, because my body wasn’t really working. I wasn’t even sure a power nap would do it. I needed some REM. With my eyes, I traced his scarred hands, the sharp line of his jaw, his crooked nose and the scar on his chin. Those black tattoos—now gone a bit green—were blurred enough I couldn’t make out any of the writing. I was close to falling asleep when his voice rumbled like car tires on gravel. “What’s your name?”
“Tara,” I answered.
He grunted, and I closed my eyes and fell asleep.
Three
Tara
When I woke up, he wasn’t in bed with me. I blinked at the window along the wall, showing the sun rising just over the horizon through dirty, cracked glass. My internal clock never failed to wake me up at goddamn dawn even on a Saturday.
And now I had to do the walk of shame home in a tight tank top, tiny skirt and my boots. Ugh. Hadn’t thought about that last night as I’d been laser-focused on getting into the pants of the dark-eyed man. Lance.
It took me a moment to recognize a rhythmic scraping sound coming from somewhere in the room. I flopped onto my back, then propped myself up on my elbows.
Lance sat with his back to me at his long workbench, wearing only his jeans. The sheet previously covering his tools sat in a heap in the corner. His arms were moving—forward, back, forward, back. After a moment, I realized the sound was sandpaper. He was sanding something by hand. Smoke wafted above his head, and I caught the scent of a burning cigarette. Cigarette, coffee, and sawdust. That was the smell of Lance.
I wasn’t quite sure where my clothes were, but his boots had been plunked near the end of the bed. I wasn’t about to walk around here barefoot, so I scooted to the end of the bed and slipped my feet into the large, worn boots. I wrapped the sheet around my body before I clunked across the platform, not bothering to hide that I was awake. He didn’t look up, not until I came to stand beside him.
His cigarette dangled from his mouth, needing to be ashed, and a mug of black coffee sat beside him as he sanded what looked to be a wooden table leg. All around him were bits of furniture, as well as a circular saw, a router, and various other tools. Hardware was organized in little plastic drawers, and a memory crept into my head like fog—my brother’s room, his LEGOs sorted by color and shape in a plastic organizer. That time I accidentally tipped it over, and he didn’t get mad, only tightened his jaw and spent hours fixing what I screwed up. Funny how the roles were reversed later.
Lance glanced at me, his gaze dipping down to where I clutched his sheet at my chest, then down to my bare legs and his boots. His gaze held there for a minute before he focused back on his sanding job. The cigarette in his mouth twitched, dropping ash on his jeans, which he ignored. “There’s coffee. Don’t got fancy creamer and shit, but there’s milk in the fridge.”
I didn’t take milk in my coffee, but I pretended I did just to see what was in his refrigerator. Because I was a nosy bitch. Too bad there wasn’t anything exciting. A styrofoam egg carton, some Chinese takeout containers, and a few energy drinks.
With one hand clutching the sheet to my chest—I still hadn’t located my damn clothes—I poured my coffee into a mug that looked like it was an ancient artifact. The rim was chipped and there was a crack on the handle that had been glued. The side read CHAMP in faded block letters.
I clomped back over to him, not really caring how ridiculous I looked or sounded in his boots. I really should find my clothes and get the walk of shame over with, but I wasn’t going to pass up coffee, and Lance didn’t seem in a hurry to kick me out. I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was curious about him. What kind of man lived on the outskirts of town all alone in a rundown warehouse making furniture? The muscles in his shoulders rippled as he sanded the chair leg, and sue me, but it was damn hard to look away.
He didn’t have a hat on now, and I could see he was in desperate need of a haircut. The front strands of his dark hair hung in his eyes and he blinked them away with a scowl.
I leaned against the table, mug in hand. He cut his eyes to me, and his gaze stopped on the mug. I didn’t miss his short inhale. I looked at the mug again, wondering if I missed something. “It okay if I use this one?”
“Yup.” He took a sip out of his own mug and grimaced.
I pressed the backs of my fingers to his mug. Cool to the touch. I picked it up, dumped out the cold contents and refilled it. When I returned to place his newly hot mug of coffee next to him, he was glaring at me.
“What?”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I’m aware of that. I did it anyway.”
He was still glaring. “Look, this is not a thing I do, this morning after—”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Look, this isn’t a thing I do either. Don’t act like I’m changing the rules all of a sudden be
cause I refilled your coffee mug. I’m still out of here as soon as I find my clothes, and you don’t have to see me again, okay? Unless you want me to just take the sheet and head on out. Like I give a fuck.”
His nostrils flared, and I waited him out, sipping from my scalding hot coffee. I’d walk out with this sheet, but I wanted coffee first. He’d brought me to his place. Not a motel. His place. So I wasn’t here for him acting like I was some big imposition into his life.
He gestured behind me. “Your clothes are folded on that chair over there.” His eyes flicked to my mug. “But finish your coffee first.”
I took another sip to show him I was going to go ahead and do just that, then hopped up onto the edge of the table near where he was working. I swung my legs, his large boots still on my feet, sheet wrapped around me. His lips curled into a half-smile before he took a drag on his cigarette and stuck the butt into an empty beer can. He blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, still watching me.
“So you build furniture?” I asked.
“I do.”
“Is that your job?”
He waited a beat before answering. “It is.”
In the morning light, I eyed the table and chairs in his kitchen. “Did you make those?”
“Yup.”
They were gorgeous, smooth and stained a dark brown. I ached to trace the wood grain with my fingers. “They’re beautiful.”
When I turned to him, his one eyebrow was raised. “You really want to talk about furniture?”
“What do you want to talk about? The weather? Politics? How cereal is a perfectly acceptable dinner option?”
The rumble in his chest was a soft chuckle. He found me amusing, which was my comfort zone. I wasn’t typically a girl who had the opportunity for nights like last night. I was the one guys laughed with and drank a beer with, but I wasn’t usually the girl those men took home for a one-night stand. I wasn’t gorgeous with long legs and a flat stomach. I was short and curvy. I did have great tits though.
Hidden Truths (Boots Book 1) Page 2
