“Who are you?” The question wasn’t accusing, but still he felt compelled to answer.
“I’m...a customer of Beth’s.” He winced inwardly as he spoke, knowing that Beth wouldn’t care for that description. Her expression didn’t change, however, and he found that part of him didn’t like that.
“He’s where Beth was all night, Mamesie.” Jo slid off the bench, casting him a challenging look. Wow, these women didn’t give an inch.
“Given the way he’s got his hands on my daughter, I gathered that,” said the older woman. She smiled at him. “Well, he can come for lunch as well.”
“Uh...” He didn’t know how to respond to the unexpected offer. Beth released his belt loops as he stepped back. A derisive noise came from Jo.
The older woman—Mamesie—hummed as she looked him up and down. He found himself standing straighter under her eyes.
“Do you eat lunch?”
“Yes.” He knew where she was going with this.
“Were you planning to eat lunch today?”
“Yes.” His throat felt tight. Beth fascinated him. He still wanted her. But lunch with her family?
He didn’t do that.
“Well, then you can eat lunch with us.” Mamesie gestured for them all to follow her. Amy and Meg did immediately, but Jo lingered on the steps, watching him. When she was sure that he was looking back, she pointed at her own eyes with two fingers, then at him to indicate she was watching him.
He felt like he was caught in a windstorm, being pulled along through no decision of his own.
What the hell? He planted his feet. He was a millionaire. He owned a very successful chain of hotels. He didn’t do things that he didn’t want to do. He would just wait until the rest of the women had headed into the house, then get in his car and go. That was what he’d planned to do anyway, wasn’t it?
Beth crossed her arms over her chest. A knowing smile curved her lips—one that said she’d expected him to do just this.
That was why she’d left in the middle of the night—she’d wanted to beat him to the punch.
That didn’t sit right with him. Besides, something about this woman fascinated him. Yeah, he didn’t do family stuff, but it wasn’t like she was expecting him to, right? Where was the harm? They both knew this wasn’t a long-term deal. That didn’t mean he had to pretend that he wasn’t interested in her, which he most certainly was.
“All right.” He enjoyed the look of surprise that crossed her face. “What’s for lunch?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE LAST THING Beth had expected was for Ford to accept Mamesie’s invitation to lunch, and she really didn’t know what to think about it. He hadn’t needed much convincing, either, which surprised the hell out of her. A guy like him—she didn’t expect him to do family stuff.
Nothing about their opposites attract–style hookup was normal, so she supposed that lunch with her family while her body was still sore from the way he’d used it the night before wasn’t that weird.
Still, she felt apprehension as she led the way into the house—not a common emotion for her. She wasn’t ashamed of her home, not at all, but as she and Ford followed her mother and sisters into the well-worn house, she tracked his gaze, seeing things through his eyes.
When her dad had been alive, they’d had money. Not a ton of it, or they probably would have lived in a different part of the city, but they’d had enough to keep the house in good repair.
Then her dad had died overseas. He’d always been the primary source of income for the house—Mamesie made good money on her pottery when she sold it, but an artist’s income was sporadic. Over the years they’d found ways to make the house their own on a budget, and the result was cluttered and cozy.
Beth liked to think of it as bohemian, but she suspected that when Ford looked at the scarves pinned to the walls, the worn rugs layered on the floors, the tables full of scented candles, he saw junk.
Didn’t matter, she reminded herself. He wasn’t the one who lived here.
“Mamesie’s made soup.” Pushing away that thought, Beth made a show of sniffing the air. “You’re lucky. She makes the best soup in the South End.”
“What’s that other smell?” Coming up beside her in the tight hallway, Ford inhaled deeply. Beth ignored the sparks that danced over her skin as his pelvis brushed against the round curves of her ass. “Is it citrus?”
“Lemongrass.” Beth gestured to a small diffuser that sat on a table. She was pleased with his comment, since the scent was her favorite. “Mamesie changes the oil in it depending on her mood.”
“Smells great.” He sniffed again, and she just blinked at him. The comment was not what she expected from the terse, tense man who’d stormed into her garage yesterday. She’d thought she had Ford Lassiter figured out, but it seemed like maybe she was wrong.
Unbidden, something fluttered in her midsection.
“Amy, Jo, set the table.” When Beth led Ford into the cozy area that held the living room and dining room, they found Mamesie with brightly quilted oven mitts on, carrying a large pot of steaming soup from the kitchen. Setting it on the scarred wooden table, she wiped the sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her kimono. “Meg, you get the bread. Beth, why don’t you play us a little something while they set the table?”
“Play something?” Ford turned to Beth, surprise evident on his face. She couldn’t help the quick, bright streak of pleasure at being asked to play.
Holding up her hands, she wiggled her fingers, smirking. “These babies are good for more than one thing.”
His expression darkened, heated, and Beth felt an answering tangle of warmth tightening in her gut as she thought about how it had felt to have her hands on his body.
“Beth?” Mamesie cast her an exasperated look, and Beth flushed, just a bit. She and her sisters were open about their sexuality, and they’d learned it from their mother, but there were still some boundaries. She wasn’t about to cross one now by jumping on Ford here in the living room, no matter how much the man could turn her on with a single look.
“What are we in the mood for, girls?” Gesturing Ford to the threadbare sofa draped in brightly patterned blankets, she crossed the room to her old but very well-loved piano. It had been a vintage piece, a garage sale find, when her father had purchased it for decoration, and now it was ancient. Beth had fallen in love with it at first sight, prompting their dad to sign them all up for lessons. Meg, Jo and Amy could plunk out a simple melody, but Beth was the one with the passion.
“What was it that you played a couple of nights ago?” Amy asked as she set mismatched silverware on the table. “That one by Sarah somebody?”
“‘Sweet Ones,’” Beth answered as she ran her fingers lightly over the keys. “Sarah Slean.”
Her breathing slowed as she seated herself on the bench. It was solid wood, but it was so comfortable for her that she swore the years had molded it to her curves.
The fluttering she’d felt at having Ford in her home eased, her world centering as she placed her fingers on the necessary keys.
She could feel Ford’s eyes burning into her from behind as she started to play, but within a moment she was drawn completely into the music. Her body moved as she played, and sweat beaded on her brow—she’d always been an energetic musician. The energy that filled her demanded it, though, and when the cover song she was playing ended she segued right into another, one that she’d written herself that matched the tempo of the first song.
Coaxing the last notes from the battered instrument, she inhaled deeply, folding her hands in her lap.
“Nice one, Beth!” Amy hooted from behind her. “Did you write that?”
“I did.” An uncharacteristic hint of shyness colored her words. She knew that she could play, was talented, even. But while she never minded playing one of her own compositions for he
r family, she rarely felt confident enough in their strength to play them for anyone else.
They were a part of her, something she’d given birth to. Someone could hate her tattoos, her hair, but if they hated her music, it would hurt.
Stretching for something to do with her arms, she twisted to look at Ford. He looked slightly taken aback, and she held her breath until he spoke.
“You’re very talented.” His tone indicated that she’d impressed him, and warmth suffused her. She shouldn’t have cared about his opinion—she barely knew him—but she liked to at least try to be honest with herself. There was something here between them. Something more than sex. They were so different that she really didn’t think it was going to go anywhere, but that didn’t turn off the interest rising inside her.
She liked that she’d impressed him. Liked that he was here, in her home.
“Thanks.” Rising from the piano bench, she sauntered across one of the worn rugs until she stood directly in front of him, her knees brushing against his own. His stare traveled the length of her body with intent, lighting her up from inside, and she sucked in a breath.
“Why aren’t you doing something with your talent?” Her pulse skipped a beat when he took one of her hands and studied the faint smears of grease that never seemed to come off. “Why work as a mechanic when you can do something so fantastic?”
What?
Both flattered and stung, she tugged her hand back. He’d unknowingly just aired her deepest dream. The one that her life would never allow. “I like my job. I’m good at it.”
“But—”
She shook her head, cutting him off again. She didn’t want to talk about this. Thinking about what she really wanted hurt. “How would I make a living at playing the piano? A few bucks here and there while I chased gigs at restaurants full of snooty people? I need a steadier paycheck than that.”
He didn’t seem convinced, so she continued. “And like I said, I like what I do. I have passion for it.”
It was true. She loved cars, loved picking them apart to discover what was needed to make them run again. She was good with her hands, and this was one more way to use them. “Isn’t there more than one thing that you love?”
“No.” Ford pulled back a bit, and puzzlement was clear on his face. She wasn’t entirely sure that he was understanding what she was saying. “No, I really just work. My company is my life.”
“That’s sad.” Stepping back, she led the way to the table, but he’d confused her as much as she’d confused him. He’d said that his company was his life, and she was inclined to believe him. But how could he live that way? Didn’t he have a hobby? Friends? Something more than casual sex with a near stranger?
She didn’t think he would appreciate it if he knew, but his words made her heart ache. He had what appeared to be a boatload of cash, but what good was it if all he did was work for more?
They were so different. And yet when they sat down beside each other at the table, and their hands brushed, something sizzled inside her. Beside her Ford shifted in awareness, and she felt her pulse quicken.
They were different, and yet that connection—that sexual tension—was undeniable.
She was willing to see where it could go. She wondered if he would be, too.
“Soup’s up,” Mamesie said. Beth busied herself by passing the pot to Ford first, since he was the guest. She watched him ladle some of Mamesie’s Italian wedding soup into a green glazed-pottery bowl. She liked watching his hands, liked remembering what they’d done to her body.
“So. Ford, right?” Meg took the pot next, serving herself into a bowl of cherry red. “You must be rich.”
“Margaret Marchande.” Mamesie spoke sharply from the head of the table. “You’re being rude.”
Meg shrugged, grinning. “We’re all wondering, with that Turbo sitting in the garage. That suit you’re wearing. Though it looks a bit rumpled, hmm, Beth?”
Beth rolled her eyes. “Meg’s obsessed with how the other half lives. Your half, I guess I should say.”
Ford arched an eyebrow as he spooned up some soup and made a noise of pleasure. He didn’t seem put off by the question. “I am wealthy, yes. I own a chain of hotels.”
“What are you doing with our Beth, then?” Jo’s words were more than a bit aggressive, but Beth was pleased that Ford barely blinked at her sister’s sharp tone.
“I—”
“I think we know what he’s doing with Beth.” Amy cut him off, and Beth was disappointed that she didn’t get to hear what he was going to say. Her youngest sister grinned over her own bowl of soup, and Beth frowned back at her. They all shared the same open attitude about sex, and they weren’t shy about details with one another, either. But Amy’s words stung a little.
Did her sisters really think it was impossible that a man like Ford would want to be with a woman like Beth for more than just sex? What the hell?
Underneath the table, Ford settled his hand on her thigh, squeezing gently. She wasn’t sure if it was because he’d sensed her upset and was trying to soothe her, or because he’d craved the touch, but when his hand slid a few inches higher, she felt her breath hitch.
She’d thought that one time would be enough. But here she was, need gathering hot and tight for him again.
“I think that’s enough of the grand inquisition.” Pushing away her half-empty bowl, Beth stood. She wanted another taste of this man, and she wanted it now.
Ford had just finished his soup as well, so she stacked his bowl with hers, then tugged at his sleeve to get him moving. “Come on.”
“Thank you for the hospitality.” Ford nodded at Mamesie before Beth was able to tug him from the room. That he took the time to thank her mother did something funny to her insides.
Without another word, she pulled him from the room, ignoring her sisters’ knowing laughter that followed her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FORD FOLLOWED BETH’S curves back out of the garage like she was a piper and he was dancing to her tune. When he’d placed a hand on her thigh, he’d wanted her attention, but he hadn’t expected her to all but melt into the touch.
She was so fucking sexy. No other woman had ever gotten him hot like this.
He paused just outside the door that divided the house from the garage. He wanted to just look at her, to try to analyze why her hair, her ink, her devil-may-care attitude got to him the way that it did.
He watched as she sauntered to the front of his Turbo. His pulse stuttered when she undid the knot she’d made at the waist of her coveralls. They fell to the stained concrete floor, leaving him with a killer view of her sweet ass in insanely tight little shorts.
This. This was why she was so sexy—her unapologetic hunger. The way she wasn’t afraid to get down and dirty, to push him to do the same.
The need to grab that tight little ass, to darken it with his palm the way he had the night before, was nearly impossible to contain.
Hitching herself up onto the hood, Beth fisted her hands in the hem of her thin T-shirt. Tearing it up and over her head, she tossed it aside, then tugged the elastic from her messy braid. Inky black and violet rioted over her shoulders as she settled back onto her elbows, parting her thighs.
The silver bar nestled in one of her taut nipples glinted. Her breasts looked heavy and full, ready for his mouth. And when his gaze strayed between those sweet thighs, he saw that the crotch of those little shorts she was wearing was already damp.
“Fuck.” He was off the stairs and to her before he could take his next breath. He put his hands on her knees and spread her legs farther, dipping his head to inhale her sweet scent.
“That’s the idea, Sir Lassiter.” She stretched out the sir on that velvet tongue of hers, and pure lust rocketed straight to his cock. “Fuck me. Now.”
“Bossy little woman.” Lifting his head, he feasted
his gaze on those luscious tits. Needing to touch, he slid his hands up to cup them, catching the ripe nipples between forefingers and thumbs. She arched beneath the touch, falling back onto the hood of the car. Hooking her legs around his hips, she pulled his aching erection against her barely covered core, moaning when she rubbed over him.
He was going to have her again. Fuck, he needed to have her again. He braced his hands on the cool metal on either side of her, dipping his head to nip at her neck. “The garage door is open.”
“So it is.” She rocked her hips against him, and he saw stars. “In a few minutes, you’re going to be fucking me hard, right here on your pricey little car. And anyone could walk by and see. Anyone at all.”
Fuck, fuck, but that turned him on even more. He knew he had a bit of an exhibitionist streak, but he tried not to look at it too hard.
Right now, with her dirty words and her tight little body, she was urging him to grab that desire that he tried to deny with both hands. Demanding that he own up to his dirty side.
Cupping her breasts in her hands, she began to play with those tits of hers, undulating when she pulled on her piercing. His last shreds of sanity fled.
“I hope someone walks by.” If he was going to do this, then he was going to do it right. Grabbing her just above the knees, he hauled her down the car’s hood until her ass rested on the front edge. She gasped at the sudden movement, but the groan that followed it told him she was right there with him. “Undo my pants.”
“Gladly.” Extending her arms, she worked the button at his waist free, then slowly—maddeningly—lowered his zipper. Those wicked fingers of hers brushed against his rigid length, and he hissed at the sensation.
“Pull me out.” She stroked down his length again, fingers teasing him through the thin cotton of his boxer briefs, and he delivered a sharp tap to her hip. “Now.”
Working her hands inside his waistband, she circled his shaft, rubbing a thumb over the tip. He felt red-hot liquid bead beneath her touch as she tugged the elastic down beneath his erection.
Playing Dirty Page 6
