by Lily Malone
Not Lindt. Blind Freddie could see Lindt usually had the title of best chick pool player all to herself.
By the time she’d noticed Abe wasn’t into the game—that his eyes were hooded and what she could see of them were chipped, broken and bleak—it was too late.
Her heart crashed with sympathy. She got it. She really did. A guy who’d been through what Abe had gone through would never react well to being asked for money from some woman he hardly knew … but bloody hell.
This had gone on long enough. Abe needed help. Professional help. And fast.
‘She thought I was going to hit her,’ he muttered, more to the night than to Taylor.
‘You stood up so fast …’
‘Don’t tell me you thought I was going to hit her?’ His stride hitched and he stopped short. ‘You wouldn’t seriously be here with me if you thought that.’
Had she thought that? No. No, she hadn’t, but he might have knocked someone over just trying to get out of the place. ‘I don’t think you were yourself in there.’
‘I’d never hit a woman. Ever. Men who hit women are the lowest of the low.’
‘I didn’t think you were going to hit her.’
‘Thank God for that.’ He had his fingers in her back again, pressing her forward. She had to skip to keep up, boots clapping on concrete, and while she’d been fine in her dress inside, without a jacket she was already cold.
‘Slow down, Abe. Please.’
They were off the concrete, on the squash of cut grass shaving the edge of the bowling green, then turning another corner of the clubhouse building. Nothing but stars for light.
‘Abe, I can’t see. We’ll knock something over, or I’ll knock myself out.’
‘Won’t let anything hurt you,’ he mumbled. ‘Wouldn’t do that, Doc. I’ll look after you.’
And they’d stopped anyway, finally. He was a shadow in front of her blocking out the night sky, hands on her shoulders, turning her so that her back met the brick wall of the clubrooms and it knocked her hat from her head, and when she looked up her eyes were filled only with him.
‘What happened in there? We were having fun,’ Taylor said.
Abe rubbed his forehead. ‘I’m good now. The music … the song hurt my head. You, on the other hand, you’re so beautiful.’
He pushed the long part of her fringe behind her ear, then traced his finger from the lobe to her cheek, before cupping her chin.
He pressed his body into hers, not rough, but enough to let her feel his strength, and he lowered his mouth to touch the skin at the side of her throat.
‘It was a song that upset you in the café yesterday. Was it the same song?’ She tried to remember what music had been on while they’d been playing pool, but the only tune in her head was ‘Fortunate Son’, and it was very hard to concentrate with Abe’s breath warm on her ear and his hands working her, slipping from her shoulders to her ribs to her hips, inhaling the scent of him, dark and dirty, like a nightclub dance floor.
He kissed her and spoke around it, ‘Forget about the damn song.’ His hands slid behind her, pulling her arse from the bricks, moulding her curves to his strength. ‘Let’s talk about how gorgeous you are in that dress.’
‘Abe—’
He stopped her words with his mouth, and Taylor tasted sex and deep need, and all his fear and desperation rolled into one burning combination of male vulnerability and male power.
‘We should talk—’
‘Nah, Doc. We really shouldn’t.’
He didn’t want to talk about what had happened in the club, she got that. But he needed to talk about it. He needed to work the whole thing through, and she should stop him right now because this had gone far enough and he wasn’t thinking straight, definitely hadn’t been thinking straight back there in the club—but he was stealing her reason with his lips and his fingers, now searching for the hem of her dress, skimming her bare knee, trailing higher, and the ache building low in her belly, licking, roaring, raging. It had been so long since she’d felt anything like it. Had she ever felt anything like this rush of need?
So it was too fast. Who cared?
Who cared if she and Abe were messy as hell?
She was half in love with him because he’d baked her a damn scone, and this didn’t have to be about forever, this was about right now. Maybe showing him love right now—taking the pain away—maybe that was the best thing she could do to help him?
His fingers brushed her thigh like her skin was already his, and God, Taylor, who are you kidding?
Maybe this was the best thing for her.
Abe hitched her leg higher so he could tuck himself tight into her body and she felt the ridge of him right there, through her dress and her knickers, and she wanted all that material gone, no barriers and him filling her.
Not having that made her moan.
His mouth stole that too. Took the groan from her lips and swallowed it whole, made it his.
His belt buckle clinked.
Abe swore as he tried one-handed to undo the buttons of his fly, and at least some little semblance of reason returned with the chime of his belt and she finally caught a lungful of fresh air that didn’t taste of him.
‘We need protection, Abe.’
His lips stilled against her throat and he lifted his head. ‘Pardon?’
‘We need a condom.’
‘I think … in my car.’ He shuddered. She felt the shake right through his shoulders and back.
Then he pulled away, making a space between them. ‘Jesus, what is this?’ He grasped her shoulders. ‘Did I hurt you?’
She had bruised lips, weak knees and aching need, but the only thing that hurt was her heart. It broke at his pain and confusion.
‘I’m not hurt, Abe. I’m fine. I want you. I want what you’re doing. You didn’t do anything I didn’t want.’
To prove it, she took his hand and put it over her heart so he could feel its hammer.
His head came up then, like she’d punched him. The Grand Canyon opened between them, filled with rocks and sticks and all the space in the world.
‘I’m so busted up. I’m no good for you. I’m no good for anyone. I don’t deserve you, Doc.’
‘Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare think that.’ It came out fierce enough to surprise them both.
He put his hand out to touch her face, brushed beneath her eye. ‘I’ve made you cry.’
‘I cry watching Toy Story III. It’s okay. I’m fine. But you can’t keep doing this, Abe. You have to talk about what’s hurting you.’
She was the one who stepped across the canyon and into his space. She wrapped her arms around his shaking shoulders and buried her cheek into his chest, not letting go.
His heart thudded there, alive and hot-blooded, but the rest of him felt like stone.
She held hard so he wouldn’t feel alone as the night cooled around them and, far away, someone murdered a song that might have been ‘Honky Tonk Women’.
It took an age for Abe to unwind, for his arms to come around her, and they stood there rocking as one under the stars of the Chalk Hill sky.
CHAPTER
15
‘So I have a theory,’ Taylor said later, while Abe played with the handle of a cup of tea he didn’t want, and she scooped up the last of the whipped cream off her plate with her finger. Late night scones were amazeballs. She’d had two.
His bleak gaze clicked hers. ‘What theory?’
So far, they’d skirted the earlier scene at the pub. Abe had needed to unwind, not get worked up, and Taylor wanted to get him away from the Bowling Club and back to Ella’s because that seemed like the place he felt most comfortable.
Now, though, it was time to test his boundaries. Shake him up a little.
‘This is Taylor Woods’ theory of de-sensitisation. You won’t find it in any text book, but I want you to give it a try. Are you game?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve gotta do something otherwise they’ll shove me in
the nuthouse.’
Taylor’s inner politically correct editor argued the use of the term ‘nuthouse’, but let it go.
‘It’s a song that sets you off, am I right?’ she said.
His face shut down. ‘Yeah.’
‘What’s the song?’
A twirl of a teacup, left, right, left again. ‘Something about a church. Take me to church? Slit your wrists type of song. Moody as all hell. Don’t even know what it means.’
‘I know the one.’ Taylor got up and moved to get her tablet and her earpieces from where they sat on the kitchen counter. She entered the song name into Google and got a search list, walking back to the table with the device.
Abe almost exploded. ‘I can’t listen to the damn song, if that’s what you’re about to do.’
She put the tablet on the table and pulled her chair nearer to his. ‘See. If you can’t listen to it, there’s your problem. You’re giving this song that power over you.’
‘Don’t go all shrink on me, Doc. I just hate the song. End of story.’
‘Hating a song is different. You didn’t say you hate the song. You said you can’t listen to it. Can’t gives the song power. Hate gives you the power.’
He muttered something under his breath that might have been bloody shrinks. She gave him the benefit of the doubt and moved on.
‘You said you don’t know the lyrics.’ She pressed the link to the song’s lyrics and pushed the tablet in front of him. ‘Have a read.’
His foot kicked beneath the table.
‘Just read it, Abe.’
Heaving a put-upon sigh, Abe pulled the screen nearer and started reading. At one point, he huffed a laugh.
‘What?’ Taylor asked.
‘You know that thing with songs where you think the lyrics are completely different to what they actually are?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I got that thing going. I thought it was about having the time of your life. Not shrine of your life.’
She let him finish reading.
‘Don’t really know what he’s going on about,’ Abe said when he got to the end. ‘But it’s not what I thought anyways.’
‘And you’ve never seen the video?’
‘Nup.’
Taylor took the tablet from him and pressed another link. The initial notes of the Hozier song filled Ella’s kitchen, and it didn’t take much by way of body language skills to judge how the music made Abe feel.
‘Just watch it. It’s only a video,’ she coaxed.
‘Stupid bloody video.’ But he watched, and as he watched his hunched shoulders relaxed. By the end of the song he was leaning forward over the table, hands loose in his lap. ‘Who knew it was a song about gay blokes and a lynch mob?’
‘I think it’s beautiful. I think it’s really sad,’ Taylor said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Still hate it?’ Taylor asked him.
‘It’s not ever gonna be a favourite, put it that way.’
‘Fine, Abe. I won’t rush out to buy you the album.’
He had the grace to grin.
That grin did silly things to her tummy. It had little boy mischief coupled with a grown man’s slow appraisal, and it was infinitely better than all the bleak.
‘Are we done with the head fuck, Doc?’
‘Not quite. One more step.’ Taylor plugged earpieces into the device and stood. ‘I think you’ll be more comfortable for the last step over here.’
Abe’s grin grew wider as he watched her move into Ella’s lounge where they’d sat for the foot massage the night before and flick on the lamp.
‘I finally get to lie on your couch.’
‘Sit. Lie. Whatever rocks your boat, Chef.’ She stood there, one hand on her hip, taking no nonsense, while she waited.
It took a beat, but he got out of his chair and sauntered over, sitting himself at one end of the couch.
‘Put these in and close your eyes.’ She handed him the earpieces. ‘Don’t open your eyes until the song is finished. Okay?’
‘Okay. Don’t be too long, though. I’m getting kinda sick of the song.’
And that was a good thing if a girl was going for de-sensitisation, but for now she ignored that, waited till he closed his eyes, then started the song.
The tension in Abe’s face had been all dumped out, leaving him relaxed. His eyelids flickered, but didn’t open, and his index finger gently traced the edge of the tablet. One foot twitched in time to the music.
Taylor didn’t have to consider her next move, because she’d had it on her mind for days and it definitely moved front and centre since she’d had Abe’s hands and lips on her earlier.
She was no shrinking violet. She was no seventeen-year-old virgin doing this for the first time.
She was in control of whatever happened next, and the man on her couch was gorgeous.
That’s all she needed.
The zip slid easily down her side, and she stepped out of her dress.
* * *
He’d thought the singer sounded like a guy in pain. Now that Abe knew the lyrics, and now he’d seen the film clip, it made sense. Pretty crazy situation all-round, really. Hardly an easy-listening classic. Never gonna be elevator music.
He wanted to open his eyes. What was Taylor doing? Was she watching him? Was she standing there? She could have gone to make herself another cup of tea, for all he knew.
How much longer did the song have to go? He was over it.
There. Finished.
He tugged on the cords and the ear bits popped out. Abe opened his eyes.
Holy church of red lacy bra cups!
‘Now this …’ Abe cleared his throat, sat forward and lifted his left hand so he could touch the skin of Taylor’s thigh. ‘This is a first-class theory right here, Doc.’
‘Feeling de-sensitised?’ she cooed at him.
‘Ah, no. Feeling a whole lot of sensitised, but not cos of a song.’
Her skin was the softest thing he’d ever felt. It slid beneath his fingertips like cream from a warmed cup.
‘The theory is, now any time you hear that song—’
He breathed out. His woman was beautiful. ‘I got a whole shiny new memory to go with it.’
‘You do. I hope it’s a nice one,’ she said.
His hand traced the inside of her thigh and his fingers plucked the silky red lace of her knickers. She shivered.
‘It’s a very nice one,’ he agreed.
The green dress lay like a patch of grass near her feet. The rest of her was pale skin, eyes peeking out from her fringe and boobs trembling inside a matching bra.
She hadn’t removed the boots.
Abe leaned forward, taking a hip in each hand. He got a thrill every time he made a new piece of her quiver. The knickers were smooth across her bum, loose around her legs, plenty of room to move, but first he had to kiss that curve beneath her belly button. That curve had been invented just for him.
Her belly tasted like fun. It tasted like a place he’d want to stay a while. Like high tea at an English castle, where a butler in a black hat offered dessert on a silver tray.
It sparked a thought, and he glanced up. ‘Where’s your hat, Doc?’
He had his fingers inside her knickers, tracking to that secret place where she was all about heat and tremble, want and need.
‘My what?’ Her voice was husky, slow. Eyes shut to lashes. Lips parted.
Her hands fluttered to his shoulders, hips circling to meet him, trying to get his fingers more where she wanted them most.
He might be in the English castle at high tea, but Taylor was on a beach drinking good tequila, smoking cigars. His girl was getting all down and dirty on what was happening right here between them. He’d put her in Mexico maybe, or Cuba.
Abe slid his hand away and she muttered a protest.
‘You’ve lost your hat, Taylor.’
Her soft minty eyes—gone dark in the smoke of whatever clouds he had her riding on—were on him as he
opened his mouth and licked the taste of her from his finger.
‘That hat cost two dollars second-hand, Abe. It got knocked off at the back of the Bowling Club. Put your hand back where you had it, right now.’ Three seconds later. ‘Please.’
So he did. He leaned his forehead into the velvet skin of her tummy as she wrapped her fingers round the back of his head and tugged him close and her moan danced above him.
This woman blew his mind.
She was Paris at midnight.
CHAPTER
16
‘It’s got to be said, Taylor Woods, that you have quite the most fantastic set of tits,’ Abe said later as his right hand lazily circled said breast, cupping it, weighing it, like he was memorising coordinates.
‘Why thank you.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
They lay facing each other on the bed, elbows propped lazily, a hand to an ear. It was midnight. Dark, shuttered time for two people who had nowhere else to be and were happy right here.
He’d surprised her, Abel Honeychurch. The man was quite the genius with those hands. She felt like a cat whose fur had been stroked in the right direction, with the exact perfect amount of pressure, for hours and hours on end.
Plus a tub of Bailey’s ice-cream.
That good.
‘I like that you leave the light on,’ Abe said. His voice, like his hands, was gentle. If she was thinking Country and Rock, she’d add that it was the end of the big night, he’d sung his heart out and now he chatted off-stage, thanking the band, conserving those last beats of raw energy.
She shrugged. It was a shrug with dual purpose. It moved her right boob more fully into the fingers worshipping it, as well as responded to his comment about the light.
‘Life’s too short for worrying about whether my bum looks big in a sheet.’
‘Your bum looks perfect. You’ve got this cute little bit I can get hold of here.’ He rolled her hip, pulling her forward, planting a kiss in her hair.
She wasn’t silly. It wasn’t a white overhead bedroom light on full-bore under which she lay. The thought of her pale flesh in that type of display made her shudder, but she’d learned a few tricks in her time and one of them was to drape a bedside lampshade with a flimsy piece of material. A sarong if she had one, a head scarf if she lacked the sarong. She’d draped Ella’s guestroom lamp with a pale green scarf, and it worked for creating the perfect light and mood.
