by Melissa Blue
“And I've found a wood nymph,” Marcus muttered, his words carrying across the yard. His voice dripped with all the elements that could give a woman an existential crisis—sexy, deep and smooth. His Scottish accent was just an unfair advantage.
She kept her eyes closed for just a moment. The selling point of coming outside was that she hadn't seen him. It had seemed he'd packed up all his shit for the day to retire. She wouldn't have to face him again so soon and ask herself deep questions that involved really looking at the choices she'd made in her life—specifically sex and love. Mostly sex. No they hadn't talked about either, but since that first sighting of Marcus her mind had one-track.
Did she really need to trust a man to get naked with him? How effective was birth control if you had only used it for six months, mostly to regulate your menstrual cycle? Did kismet really exist? If so, why did that construct feel the need to put Marcus next door to her? He was temptation in a six-foot-four panty-melting package. Right next door.
Why, for the love of God, why?
You know, normal questions a woman might ask herself.
So, maybe, it wasn't just the lie by omission that made her stay away. Since the moment he stood in her bathroom, her conscience had whispered a single word—sex. He made her want it, ache for it and what exactly had he done to inspire that need? Breathe.
She opened her eyes and tilted her head in his direction. He leaned against the shared fence, wearing a dress shirt and loose tie. He'd slicked back his hair and that simple change made the cut of his cheeks stark. His blue eyes were dark as always. This image fit—a boardroom king.
Yes, shirtless or in a simple white tank top paired with well-worn denims had created late night fantasies, but this was the real Marcus, the second skin. No one would have to pose him to sell her on that image. She stood, hesitated then moved to him without too much thought.
“Who are you?” she threw at him, not bothering with a greeting.
His gaze narrowed on her and she knew he'd tell her a half-lie. “Marcus Baird, your neighbor.”
She placed her hands between his and gripped the fence. “Got that part, and you know what I mean.”
He grunted, shifting his stance and taking up the space between them like it was all his. “Do you need help, lass?”
She had no right to the real him, but that also meant she owed him nothing in return. It was the coward's way out. Ivy could hold this against him so she'd never have to answer those hard questions. Everything in her wanted to take that easy road.
Ivy sighed and took him in again. His shoulders were back, his head up and he commanded all her attention without moving. He was watching her just as intently. She didn't doubt he'd win the staring contest. A nervous need to ramble bubbled up.
She asked, “Can I still hire you as a handyman or have you turned over a new leaf?” Or an old one.
“I had a meeting,” he explained in a taut tone.
Not that she'd never seen a handyman dressed up, but she'd never seen one wear tailor-fitted clothes. If she checked the label of his shirt or pants there would likely be an expensive label.
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I'll ask again, what do you need me to do?”
He's so not talking about my house. “I need two ten-by-twenty boxes.” Again she chose the cowardly path, hoping he'd let it drop. “I want to grow some rose bushes in one and seasonal flowers in the other. The gazebo will have wisteria or ivy.”
His attention slipped past her to the yard as though he could see the end result. What did it mean he let her take the coward's way out?
He pinned her with a look then sighed. “When do you need it?”
He's giving me the excuse to take the easy road. Take it, dammit. “Won't you be busy...with your own home repairs?”
He gave her a slight headshake then smiled, slow. “I'm hoping to pick up my first client in the neighborhood.”
She huffed at the lie. He was calling her on his bullshit and raising the stakes with his own. They both knew she didn't really need him for work. They both knew being a handyman wasn't his occupation. Ivy knew why she wanted the half-truth, but why did he want to play along?
Ivy gripped the fence hard enough to get splinters lodged in her fingertips. She couldn't let the farce continue. She was too nosy, for one. Too honest for another.
“You have an incredible knack to make whatever you say sound sincere. Did you go to school for that?”
The smile continued to tease the corners of his mouth. “How do Americans say it? I went to the school of hard knocks?”
A frisson singed the air between them. How could it not? He was breaking out the charm and this would only be the beginning. “What do you know about Jay Z?”
“More than enough. Spent some time in Brooklyn.”
She bit her lip to hold back a smile. It's probably what he was working for. “How much?”
“For the boxes?” His gaze slid down her frame in a slow sweep that left her skin tingling. Her nipples would send up a needy protest next if he kept looking at her like that.
“Yes,” she said in a flustered rush.
Just like the last time she'd seen him, he looked at her as though he wanted her naked, panting and his—not just for his every whim, but his to devour as though she was sustenance. She wanted to know how he'd consume her. Craved to know if he'd lick the tips of his fingers once satisfied. Her nails dug deeper into the wooden planks while she tried to ride out the hungry stare.
He didn't let up the intensity as he leaned forward. The absent move was possessive. Her space was his. She was his. A thrill shot down her spine, and that was wrong. He was all wrong.
“You fed me,” he said, “makes me grateful. Forty bucks is all I'd require.”
She was twisted enough to want him to ask for non-monetary payments. But, again, he was breathing. That was enough for her to lose the hold she had on her principles. “Now I know you're just toying with me.”
He raised a single brow and she had no doubt he used that same haughty expression in the boardroom. “I can charge you four hundred dollars if that would make you feel better about this deal.”
Her mama didn't raise a fool. She went into her house to get two twenties. He was still waiting, wearing a smirk now since he likely knew she wouldn't turn down the deal.
Ivy only handed over one bill. “I'll pay the other half when you finish the job.”
“Fucking shark,” he muttered but pocketed the money. “Anything else?”
What else could there be? Okay. Stupid question even if it was only in her mind. “I think that covers what I need from you.”
He shook his head as though disappointed in her answer. “You've been watching me from your bathroom window.”
Her face heated as she sputtered for a second. Her next words may have come out squeaky. “I've seen you working while I re-painted my bathroom.”
Marcus glanced off to the side and then back to her, still looking like he could devour her in a glance. “Is that what you call pressing up against your window and drooling on the glass?”
Not once had she seen him peer back. How the hell did he know? “Slander,” she said half-joking and completely horrified he'd seen her lusting from her bathroom.
He shrugged off the accusation. “You could have brought me something cold to drink and watched me work up close. I wouldn't have minded.”
Marcus was cocky—unsurprising. “You're not full of shit, but yourself.”
He only smiled at the insult. “Why didn't you bring me something cold to drink?”
From the low octave, Marcus wasn't really talking about playing a subservient role, catering to his needs. No. He might as well have said, “Why didn't you come over so I could make you come?”
Sexual attraction was probably as easy as existing for him. Follow the instinct where it naturally lead. The sound of a man's voice made your clit swell, let him lick it. Women who were much more experienced than her were likely swayed by h
is effortless seduction. Probably never had a moment's regret afterward either. Ivy wasn't a complete novice, but there were just some things she hadn't fully explored.
Marcus was so out of her league. He'd want it all, every inch, every taste of her and he wouldn't be satisfied until he left her in a mindless puddle of who she used to be.
If she wanted to talk herself out of this exchange, the latter thought wouldn't accomplish that goal. The promise of debauchery made the hairs along her arms prickle.
Marcus's gaze narrowed on her, probably detailing every subtle reaction that reinforced his worldview—he could have her. She had shot down damn near a legion of men who had thought the same. What was it about Marcus that didn't put her back up at that certainty?
She pulled away from his heat and held his gaze. “I didn't, and won't, come over to your house...for drinks. The reasons for that are legion.”
“Top reason?” he shot back so quick she had to blink.
“You asking that is reason number four. It's like you want to know so you can make a strategic plan.”
He squinted then nodded as though that was a fair assumption. “But that's only number four? What's one?”
She wanted to quench his thirst and this was only their third conversation. What else would she feel the need to give up by the tenth or twentieth? “You know the effect you have on women.”
Marcus hit her with another lopsided smile. It wasn't a bright one that made her want to return the gesture. This smile invited her to get bare and sweaty with him. “Just on you.”
She gasped, uncertain if that was an insult or a compliment. “And that makes your flaw better?”
He rolled his shoulders. “We all have flaws. You can take me or leave me, lass.”
With any other man she'd take the latter option. Walk away. Leave him. He's trouble. She loosened her hold on the fence.
He reached into his pocket instead of answering. Marcus held up the twenty. “I'll do your yard for a kiss.”
She sucked in a deep breath. Today he didn't smell of freshly cut wood and sun. Today he smelled like money, a musky spice and trouble. “Probably not a good idea.”
He placed the twenty between the slats of the wooden fence. “What's the harm, lass? It's just a kiss.”
Despite the nerves clenching her stomach, Ivy laughed. “Double dog dare me?”
“Triple dog dare you.”
There was plenty of harm with the simple lip-to-lip touch, but...her gaze fixated on his mouth. His bottom lip was full enough to sink her teeth into. All those years ago when she was idealistic, she'd written down “spontaneous” as a must for her real life hero. Wouldn't kissing a man over her back fence cover that?
No. No. She should kiss him because she wanted to. No expectations beyond that need. Despite knowing better, knowing he was Mr. Wrong—she wanted to. So, Ivy leaned into him and tilted her chin in an invitation.
Marcus didn't waste time to interpret that action. He cupped her face and pressed his mouth to hers and still a hard smack to her lungs would have been gentler. An explosion of sensation worked through her lips at the simple touch. All she could do was breathe him in and claw at his tie to make sure he didn't pull away.
He traced her top lip with his tongue, not asking for entrance, just teasing her mouth. He shifted, kissing her a little deeper before scraping his teeth across her bottom lip this time. She wrapped her hand around his tie, jerking him closer, but he still took his time getting to know her mouth with his.
This wasn't a kiss that fixed anything broken. This was a takeover. A wine and dine her and whisper silken promises until she gave. And then he'd tear her down and make her something new.
She wouldn't blame inexperience for falling deeper into the kiss. Marcus was just damn good. He tilted her head more and finally breached her mouth with his tongue. Shallow swipes at first, and then deeper and slower. Her moan came out more like a low needy whine. A rush of embarrassment should have followed the sound. There was only liquid heat soaking her panties.
So she kissed him back, hoping to end the slow immersion. She wanted that heat to consume her, them. Ivy licked and nipped him as he'd done to her, leaving no corner of his mouth unexplored.
He pulled back in an abrupt jerk, a rough groan escaping his lips as he frowned down at her. “Either we stop now or I'm jumping over this fence.”
She couldn't tear her gaze away from his mouth. His bottom lip was fuller, or maybe it was the flush of his skin that made his mouth appear different. But she'd done that. She'd made him call Uncle first. The tie slipped between her fingers as she let him go. Silk, the high, high-end kind.
Dammit. A kiss was fine. She'd needed more—she needed the truth for anything else between them.
Ivy's shoulders slumped. “You can jump the fence as long as it's to get started on my garden.”
He nodded, no flicker of surprise in his gaze. “Figured as much. There's something off with you, lass.”
She staggered back a step. “Something's wrong with me because I won't have sex with you?”
He studied her, stoking the heat his mouth had sparked in that short moment. “When I look at you like this you get this expression like you want to run hard and fast away from me. That's off.”
“I want more...intimacy.”
If the fence didn't stand between them, Ivy had no doubt he'd have taken a step forward, crowded her space and let his mouth whisper against her skin. His muscles coiled beneath the tailor-fitted suit, his lids lowered along with his voice. “I want you, lass. The scent and taste of you drives me mad when I let it.” He placed a finger beneath her chin.
Her lungs couldn't catch the next breath. He murmured, “And now you look scared again. Aye, something's off. Not sure what, but something about you isn't adding up.”
Ivy could easily say the same about him with a different set of evidence. Still she knew what he meant and she bit her lip, debating confessing to him why she wasn't dragging him up to her room. She could still taste him, and that was swaying her more than it should have.
“What?” he shifted forward as though ready to pounce.
But confess to a man who had almost kissed her stupid without trying? Ivy wouldn't just feel out of her depth, he'd know she was. She shook her head before answering. “Maybe if we knew each other better, I'd tell you.”
“Speaking of...” He held up a finger and reached into his pocket again. “Ivy Elizabeth Temperance Stewart.”
She blinked at her full name tumbling out of his mouth. “How the hell...”
He pulled out a letter that was folded in half and a little crumpled around the edges. “It's why I came outside. The mailman dropped it off at my place by mistake.”
Snatching the letter out of his hand, she caught sight of the handwriting and sighed. She should have known. Only her mother's mother would address her with her full name or write a snail mail instead sending off a text or even an email or hell just picking up a damn phone. But that wasn't her current problem.
“I'm impressed,” she said to him. “You kept a straight face when you said it.”
“Got all the laughter out when I first saw it,” he said in a dry tone. “Temperance?”
The question was the perfect segue, but she liked the way he looked at her. There was no ulterior motive to his lust. He wanted her—that simple. Marcus was pure testosterone and all of that masculinity had been directed at her. The sensation of being seen as desirable was addictive. If she told him the truth all that could change, and not for the better.
Ivy wet her bottom lip—nerves skipping over her pulse—and she tasted him again. Better than chocolate and she would cut a bitch for chocolate. If and when he needed to know, she'd tell him.
“I won't complain too much,” she said. “My father's parents saddled me with that moniker, felt guilty about it fifteen years later and then bequeathed me this house.”
“Why guilty?”
“It's not even a family name. And what do you expect
when you meet a woman named Temperance? It's right up there with Bertha and Minerva.”
He glanced down at the envelope and then at her. “Queen Elizabeth was a well known virgin.” He did this little head tilt as he narrowed his eyes at her. “You're blushing, lass.”
“Yeah.” Of course he would know that random factoid. Of course she'd blush like a kid with their hand stuck in a cookie jar the moment he dropped the “v” word. As long as she played it cool he'd be none the wiser.
“Well, it's the name I was given,” she said. “Thought about changing it, but I love my grandparents.”
“Robert is my burden. My mother loved the poet. I used to beat the shite out of my brothers when they called me Bobbie. Now that we're older they know better, but I hear whenever my brother gets hammered he sings Robert Burns's diddies at my uncle's pub. He's like a stereotype. Bless him.”
That was interesting. His expression had gone soft and that made her want to ask about his family. Why didn't Marcus get “hammered” with his brother? But if she opened that door, he could smash through hers.
“Bobbie?” That name gave her the impression of men who were aging pop stars or who perpetually looked to be in the throes of puberty. Marcus was neither. Not even close. “You?” She snorted.
“Fucking family.” He smiled at her, likely knowing she wanted to laugh. “Give me an hour or so and I'll come help you with your garden.” He paused and the smile widened. “Queen Elizabeth.”
Her head suddenly felt woozy at the added emphasis he put on the name. He couldn't know. No way. She pushed out a breath and tried to keep up her playing-it-cool act. “All right, Mr. Burns.”
He notched his head down in acknowledgment and left her there. She put her hands on the fence again to keep herself upright. Maybe it was just Marcus who left her lightheaded.
Who was she kidding? No maybe about it. She wanted him and that was saying a whole hell of a lot.
She glanced at his house and tried to practice breaking the news to him. “Marcus, the other reason, the big reason why we probably won't have sex in the near future...” She groaned, closing her eyes. “Marcus, my grandparents giving me the middle names Elizabeth and Temperance turned out to be quite prophetic.” She sighed, opened her eyes to glare at his house. “Marcus, my cherry has never been plucked.”
