Meet Cute

by Elise Faber

  I continued stroking my fingers through her hair. “And what do you focus on that wasn’t perfect?” I asked. “Because you seem pretty damned incredible to me.”

  She turned, glancing up at me, her lips so damned tempting that I had to taste her again—long and slow, with coaxing probes of my tongue. She tasted of the ice cream we’d had after dinner, chocolate and caramel with a dash of raspberry. It was from a local shop that made all their varieties in house, and it was absolutely delicious.

  Doubly so when I got to taste it off her tongue.

  “You’re good at flattery,” she murmured.

  “Except, it’s not flattery, Tammy, the savior of the dude in distress.”

  Her lips curved. “Dude in distress?”

  I shrugged. “Is there a better damsel equivalent for men?”

  She paused, tilted her head from side to side before resting it on my shoulder. “I suppose not. Yet another sexist form of the English language.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s no male word for whore, for bitch, for others,” she said, lifting her glass of wine to her lips, “that I’m too blissfully relaxed to come up with at the moment. Damsel is another.”

  “Well, we should own it,” I said, moving back to her hair, running my fingers through it again. “I’ll gladly be the damsel in distress.”

  Tammy laughed before taking another sip. “So, damsel in distress, any other roles you don’t like?”

  “Nice try,” I said, wanting to take advantage of her lounging against me all relaxed to find out more about her, about those scars and why she carried that heavy burden. I knew the outcome had become very much like mine—feeling empty and unfulfilled and yet with too much history of being hurt to easily put that aside—but I didn’t know the why of it.

  And with her on her second glass of wine, the tendrils of steam drifting off the surface of the water to gather on our skin, it seemed like as good a time as any.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” I said. “You haven’t told me about the things you look back on and regret.”

  “I’m regretting having this entire conversation,” she muttered.

  “We don’t have to have it,” I told her. “Let’s talk more about the Milk Caper.”

  Relief in her eyes, though it was trailed almost instantly by determination. “No,” she said. “That’s not what I want to do. I just . . . my mom died when I was six. My dad fell apart. Hell, my family fell apart. We were three separate beings in a house, then two after my brother moved out. By the time I left for college, I don’t think I spoke to my dad more than once a week, my brother even less.” She sighed. “Though not for a lack of my trying. I wanted to—no, I was absolutely desperate for someone to connect with me, to come to my school plays or soccer practice, to take pictures of me before I left for a dance.”

  She went quiet for a long moment, and I struggled to find the patience to let her finish her story on her own terms.

  “That’s when I started finding all of those things I wanted in other people. Sad, huh?” she said, straightening, draping her arms back over the edge again. “My boyfriend at the time, his mom was the one to take the pictures. I played soccer for myself, for my team, no fans in the stands. I never got flowers after a play. Silly small stuff, you know?”

  “Not silly.”

  A nod, her not contradicting me as she went on. “But it was also more than that. No home-cooked meals, no family time. When I was old enough, my dad gave me allowance to buy my own food, just like he did for my brother. We each had our shelves in the fridge, a cabinet with our purchases. We were like roommates.” Tammy sighed. “It was hard after my mom died, having that change. But later, I adjusted, and . . . I just forgot, you know? And then I’d go to a friend’s house and see how different it was—”

  “And you’d remember all over again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyway, by the time my dad died, I was sad, but it was almost a relief. I didn’t have to keep trying to make a place in his life for me.”

  “And your brother?”

  Her smile was sad. “He’s a product of the same system. How do you think it goes?”

  I traced her palm with my fingers, her skin warm and damp. “I can imagine.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Her hand twitched. “I think it’s been six months since I’ve talked to him? I called him on his birthday, we spoke for two minutes, and that was it.”

  “And on your birthday? Does he call you?”

  The pain in her eyes sliced me to the quick. I was a fucking idiot for having asked it in the first place.

  “Never mind,” I said, the words clipped out as rapidly as possible. “Let’s talk about—”

  She squeezed my hand. “I really am okay.”

  That smile she gave me did some squeezing of its own, grabbing my heart and clutching tightly. “Sweetheart—”

  “You know what I want to do?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want . . .” A sigh, quiet as the breeze on a midsummer night rustling through grass, brushed along my spine. “I just want to stop looking backward and to just live my life.”

  “That sounds like sound advice.”

  “Either that or thrusting my head into the sand like an ostrich.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Ostrich.”

  “Why do you care?” she asked archly.

  I cared. I cared a whole freaking lot more than was reasonable for the short length of our friendship.

  Not that I could tell her that.

  Instead, I tugged a lock of her hair, the blond strand having escaped from her ponytail, and said, “I don’t want that gorgeous face buried in the sand. Plus,” I added. “How can I be a damsel in distress without you there to save me?”

  She laughed, and fuck if that didn’t make me feel ten feet tall. “Come on, damsel,” she said, pushing out of the water. “Let’s go inside before I turn into a prune.”

  I got out ahead of her, snagging our towels and then helping her down the steps.

  “Tammy?” I asked as we walked toward the house.

  “Yeah?”

  “Any chance that the whole living-your-life thing involves me?”

  Her lips curved, slow and sexy and full. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I think there’s a damned good chance of that.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Tammy

  I stopped just before I stepped inside the house, not wanting my makeshift bathing suit to drip all over the floor.

  “What is it?” Tal asked, his front coming very close to my back.

  “The floor,” I said by way of explanation.

  He stepped in front of me. “What’s wrong with the floor?”

  I snorted, patted his cheek. “Sometimes, I forget I’m with a man who’s spent his last years cloistered in a mansion with people to take care of his every whim.”

  “Hey! I resent that comment.”

  I gave him an arched look.

  “Sometimes, it’s a trailer and not a mansion.”

  Giggles bubbled out of my chest, and I shook my head at him. “I don’t know how you can always make me laugh,” I said. “But I’m glad for it.”

  Fingers on my cheek, a damp chest against mine. “Me, too.”

  Golden eyes, wide pupils, beautiful, long lashes.

  “You’re so fucking pretty,” I said.

  His cheeks went a little pink. “Tam—”

  I dropped my towel.

  Which was slightly less impactful since I was wearing a bra and his underwear, but the way his gaze dragged over my body, a nearly tangible scorch of heat, as though it were invisible fingers, made every inch of me jump to absolute rigid attention.

  I wanted him.

  Again.

  Without all the angst.

  “Tal?”

  Those pretty gold eyes had landed somewhere in the vicinity of my breasts, and I glanced
down, discovered why. My bra was plain white cotton, and the water had made it see-through.

  Maybe I should be embarrassed that my breasts were on such blatant display, but aside from being completely over with the angst and insecurities, I was also absolutely and unequivocally attracted to this man. Seeing him look at me like that—heat in his eyes, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession, his cock hardened behind the closure of his swim trunks—I couldn’t be insecure.

  I just . . . wanted.

  My fingers went to the waistband of the boxer briefs, and I started to push them down.

  “No,” he murmured. “Wait.”

  And then he scooped me up and carried me to the bed.

  It was my turn to say, “Wait.”

  “No?” he asked.

  “Not on the sheets,” I said. “They’ll get wet.”

  His smile was absolutely wicked, and I felt it right between my thighs, as though he’d thrust home and filled me to near-impossible proportions. Then he slowly released me, my body sliding down his, feeling every hard inch against me as my feet inched toward the floor.

  Lips parting, breath trembling, I managed to not turn into a pile of goo.

  Or not too much of one, anyway.

  His fingers brushed back and forth above the waistband of the boxers, dipped beneath, the calloused length the sexiest roughness, especially when it became more than a finger, when both of his hands slipped beneath the sodden fabric to cup my ass and tug me toward him.

  “Wet, huh?” A finger slid between my cheeks, the tip growing, gliding smoothly as he slid it forward and inside.

  I moaned, the blunt intrusion making my knees buckle.

  And then his hand was slipping free, the boxers were on the floor.

  His lips found mine for a brief, blazing kiss. Then I was free again, my knees buckling again, my hips jerking, moans pouring out of my mouth as he bent, rucked up my bra, and sucked one of my nipples deep.

  Pleasure flowed through me, filling me from my toes all the way out the top of my head. I scrabbled at his shoulders, trying to hold him closer, even as he pulled away, making me groan for an entirely different reason this time. I wanted more. I wanted him inside me and—

  I reached for the tie of his swim trunks.

  He brushed my hands away, reached for the drawer and pulled out a condom.

  But I wasn’t going to be deterred. I pushed him back a step, tugged open the fly, and pushed the shorts down. His cock sprang forward, and I gripped it tightly, dropping to my knees. “There you are, you glorious thing,” I murmured, flicking my tongue over the blunt head, slipping it in between my lips to taste the salty skin.

  Tal made a choking sound, his fingers tangling in my hair. “Baby,” he murmured.

  “Nope,” I said, releasing him with a soft pop. “It’s my turn to taste you now.”

  And I did just that, using my tongue to trace patterns up and down the hard length of him, wrapping my fingers around his cock, and stroking him firm and slow and sure. His hips jerked, curses poured out of his mouth, but I didn’t let go, didn’t stop until finally—

  “Fuck!”

  He tugged my mouth off, reached for me.

  I let him tug my bra off because not only was it what I wanted, but it was something that was difficult with the wet fabric and my injured shoulder. As soon as it hit the floor with a sopping thunk, I pushed him back onto the mattress and climbed over him.

  “Tammy,” he began.

  “No?” I asked, brushing my pussy over him, the scorching brand of him slipping between my folds.

  “Yes,” he groaned, head thrown back, the tendons of his neck standing out in sharp relief. “But—” His fingers dipped between my thighs, making me hiss out a breath, my thighs contracting around his.

  “What?” I breathed.

  “I needed to make sure you’re ready.”

  It was my turn for a wicked smile. “Oh, I’m ready, baby.” And I reached for the condom, rolled it on, and sank down onto him, my lips parting at that glorious pleasure pain of him pushing in, pressing deep, filling me plumb full. It was the freaking best, and almost too much, especially in this position. But Tal didn’t move, just kept his hands on my hips, holding me in place, the hard thrust of him so freaking deep. “Tal?” I asked.

  His fingers twitched, gaze locked on mine. “Hang on, Hazel Eyes. I need a second.”

  My hips flexed. He moaned. “To what?”

  “To find some fucking control.”

  “Oh, no.” I peeled his fingers from my hips, laced them with mine. “Oh, no, baby. We’re not doing this thing with careful control.” I writhed forward, pressing our interlocked hands over his head. “We’re done with that bullshit.” I nipped his throat, found his mouth for a kiss that sent my head spinning. “We’re living this. Big and out loud and to our grandest potential.”

  Those gold eyes were blistering, scorching into my soul.

  And then he flipped us, began stroking fast and furious, angling our hips so that he hit the absolute perfect spot. I was close in seconds, hurtling too fast, too rapidly for that edge.

  But thankfully, he was right there with me, driving deep and steady, his face pulled into fierce, striking lines.

  I moaned, tearing my gaze from his, unable to hold it as pleasure swarmed up and carried me over the edge, dragging me down the other side as he thrust several more times and froze, my name emerging from his lips, giving me the strength, somehow, to peel back my lids, and see the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

  A man staring down at me with affection, with need, with pleasure in his eyes.

  Not just an orgasm.

  But deeper, more meaningful.

  “I see you, sweetheart,” he murmured, lifting one hand to cup my cheek. “And we’re going to see what we can do about filling each other’s holes.”

  That was sweet.

  So freaking sweet.

  It was just also . . . so freaking bad.

  I started laughing, my fingers finding his jaw, tracing through the bristles. “Filling holes indeed, you wonderful man.”

  Pink on his cheeks.

  Affection in his eyes.

  Then he started laughing, and it was the absolute best sound I’d ever heard.

  The next morning, I was in the arms of a warm, snuggly Talbot, and I didn’t want to ever get up.

  But nature called.

  So, I was required to slip from Tal’s arms, out from beneath the cozy blankets, off the comfortable mattress, and pad across the floor until I reached the bathroom.

  I did my business, took care of my ablutions, and then pawed my way through his drawers until I found one of his T-shirts, tugging it over my head. Then I did some more padding, this time past the temptation in bed and down the hall to the kitchen. I was starving, and I knew that he was going to wake up the same.

  We’d worked up quite an appetite the night before.

  Giggling, I walked into the kitchen.

  And then did a very un-cop-like thing.

  I screamed.

  The man in the kitchen spun toward me, raising—I reacted without thinking, my body seeking cover, moving to put a wall between myself and the intruder before I fully processed what he held—a camera, pointed in my direction.

  Pounding footsteps—from in front and behind.

  Then Tal was there, putting himself between me and the man, the camera. I don’t know why I was frozen, why I should have been reduced to a piece of furniture when I could take on an attacker with a knife, drag down a suspect, keep my head clear in any multitude of stressful situations.

  But this one—a strange man, creeping toward me, a camera pointed in my direction, especially when I was naked beneath Tal’s T-shirt—well, it had me reduced to a lump.

  The shutter seemed gunshot loud, whirling clicks radiating about the space like bullets, gouging the peace and quiet by bouncing off the floor, the cabinets, the ceiling. My eyes drifted around, half-expecting to see gouges in the wood of the
cupboards, chips out of the tile, holes in the sheetrock overhead. But . . . nothing was different.

  Except, me.

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” Talbot growled.

  The clicks didn’t stop, even as the intruder said, “Come on, man. I’m just trying to—”

  “You know you can’t use those pictures,” Tal said, still standing between me and the cameraman, shifting as the man came closer. “You’re trespassing.”

  “I take ‘em, someone will buy them. That’s just the way it is.” He walked toward us, still clicking away, the fucker, and I finally got my head out of my ass enough to actually be a part of this conversation.

  I stuck my head out from behind Tal’s shoulder. “Look you—”

  “Tammy,” Tal said. “Can you please walk to the panel there and hit the code six-four-seven-two?”

  I blinked.

  But despite being more than used to giving the orders, his tone had me instantly obeying. I moved to the keypad, punched in the numbers. Crossed back to Tal.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  The paparazzo was moving around the room, his camera still pointed at us, at me, at Talbot. It was the most unnerving thing I’d ever experienced, even more so because of how casual he was, just walking around in a home that wasn’t his, taking pictures in a constant fury.

  “You need to leave,” Tal said.

  “I just need—” The camera dropped, and I saw the greedy look in his dark brown eyes, the shadows beneath, the lines around his mouth. He smelled like cigarettes, the odor filling the room, masking the lovely spice of Tal’s scent. I hated that, hated the man who’d destroyed the small slice of peace, of happy we’d managed to build.

  It was as though he had jabbed his fingers into the wound on my arm, was jiggling them around, just for good measure.

  “He asked you to leave,” I said. “And as an officer of the law—”

  The front door burst open.

  Two huge guys launched themselves at the intruder, and in approximately one-point-five seconds, he was face-first on the floor, his camera ripped out of his hands, and those hands restrained behind his back.

  Talbot turned to face me, one hand on my uninjured arm, the other on my cheek. “God, Tammy, are you okay?”