Sea of Ruin

by Pam Godwin

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  LOVE TRIANGLE ROMANCE

  TANGLED LIES TRILOGY

  One is a Promise-FREE

  Two is a Lie

  Three is a War

  DARK COWBOY ROMANCE

  TRAILS OF SIN

  Knotted #1-FREE

  Buckled #2

  Booted #3

  DARK ROMANCE / ANTIHEROES

  DELIVER SERIES

  Deliver (#1)-FREE

  Vanquish (#2)

  Disclaim (#3)

  Devastate (#4)

  Take (#5)

  Manipulate (#6)

  Unshackle (#7)

  Dominate (#8)

  Complicate (#9)

  DARK PARANORMAL ROMANCE

  TRILOGY OF EVE

  Heart of Eve-FREE

  Dead of Eve #1

  Blood of Eve #2

  Dawn of Eve #3

  STUDENT-TEACHER ROMANCE

  Dark Notes

  ROCK-STAR DARK ROMANCE

  Beneath the Burn

  ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

  Dirty Ties

  EROTIC ROMANCE

  Incentive

  ONE IS A PROMISE

  EXCERPT

  “Here he comes.” Virginia wraps a liver-spotted hand around my arm and points her filmy eyes at the vacant street. “Hear that?”

  All I hear is the too-damn-early squawk of birds telling me to go back to bed.

  “He’s bringing the marijuana into our neighborhood.” The saggy skin on her neck quivers. “I just know it.”

  A smile struggles behind my pinched lips. When my hundred-and-ninety-year-old neighbor isn’t complaining about the Bosnians moving in with their pink flamingos and loud music, she’s fretting over alleged drug activity. I love Virginia dearly, but her over-imagination is horribly discriminatory.

  For the past few weeks, she’s had her floral smock all twisted up over the tattooed devil on a motorcycle who rides down our block. She can’t see two feet in front of her, but her hearing is sharper than a bat. And she says he’s coming.

  A gentle fog blankets the sleepy road. The giant oak trees and quaint brick bungalows in this neighborhood date back to the 1920’s, as do most of the residents. Since I’m the only one under the age of seventy, they all come to me when there’s a problem. Last week, I spent an entire afternoon chasing a poor squirrel out of Jackie’s basement. And Wilson, the Vietnam vet who lives across the street, needs help programming his TV on a weekly basis.

  I still don’t hear the offending motorcycle, which Virginia claims rattles her fine china before the Lord has risen for the day. She also swears the pot-smoking heathen tries to run her over when she steps off the curb. Of course, she chooses to alert me of his misbehavior at six every morning.

  Seeing how I’m not an early riser, I’m prepared to do anything to put an end to her banging on my door.

  So here I am. Armed with coffee—I can’t function without it. Standing in my front yard—it’s cold enough to freeze my tits off. Dressed to kill—I know how to rock a slouchy crop top and cheeky boyshorts.

  The plan is simple. I’ll wave down the biker with a little flash of skin. He’ll pull over because he’s a man. We’ll have a friendly stop-pissing-off-my-neighbors conversation, and I’ll be back in my warm bed in no time.

  “I’ll take care of it, Virginia.” With a grip on her bony elbow, I guide her across the driveway.

  Her house slippers shuffle along the pavement, chafing my patience. By the time I coax her into her home next door, I’m shivering so violently my bones hurt. I consider slipping back into my house to pull on some leg warmers, but an engine rumbles in the distance, maybe two…three blocks away.

  Curling my hands around the warm coffee mug, I tiptoe through the chilly grass and step into the middle of the empty street. The gray sky casts the fog in a wintry glow, making it feel colder than it should in late September.

  The purr of the engine grows louder, and after a few shivery breaths, the motorcycle thunders like a black stallion out of the mist at the end of the street.

  I’m hoping for a bald, grizzly-bearded biker dude. Never met one I didn’t like.

  He motors toward me, straddling a beast of a bike and maintaining the prudent speed limit. Heavy boots, faded denim, and a black leather jacket come into view, but that’s where the stereotype ends. Beneath the half-shell helmet is a young, clean-shaved face and huge brown eyes.

  At twenty feet away, I know I’m in trouble, because this man is fucking gorgeous.

  It’s his smile. A heart-thudding, sexy-as-fuck, world-changing smile that shines from the inside out. It lifts his cheeks, illuminates his entire expression, and damn if I don’t feel it pulling on my own lips.

  He slows his approach and stops on the curb beside me. With his eyes on mine, he turns off the engine and kicks a leg out, balancing the bike between muscular thighs wrapped in frayed jeans.

  I float toward him, and his gaze follows, tracing my face as if absorbing every detail. We’re both smiling, locked in a wonderfully bizarre introduction.

  Our eyes dance over each other, greeting, exploring, and connecting in a moment of silent fascination, where time and words are inconsequential. I hear the crescendo of possibilities, feel the vibrations answering inside me, and everything just…clicks.

  His grin, complete with dimples, grows impossibly wider as I drink him in. Golden complexion, pillowy lips, straight white teeth, square jaw—every symmetrical feature renders a sculpture of masculine beauty. Carved to perfection, rebellious around the edges, and flirtatious without opening his mouth, oh baby, he’s all that and a lit fuse on dynamite.

  “I expected the black jacket, shit-kickers, and faded jeans.” I step close enough to feel the heat of his body. “But those dimples…”

  “If you pinch my cheeks and tell me I’m adorable, you’ll never see them again.” Amusement gleams in his eyes, but something else sifts through his gravelly voice, something dark and sinful. “Christ, your smile is beautiful.”

  “Thank you for giving it to me.”

  He gives me more than a smile. The look that follows marks the before and after in my life. The air ceases to exist, and the only thing between us is the anticipation of what is coming. In that flicker of time, with something as inconceivable as a look, he claims me, owns me, and ruins me for all others. It’s a look so defining it puts quotation marks around mine, his, us, and forever.

  My pulse pounds. My skin tingles, and a cocktail of desire circulates and multiplies in my blood. This is it, the suspended moment I will forever remember. The one that determines my ultimate happiness or demise. The pinnacle point that reveals who I am and what I want.

  He releases the chin strap of his half-helmet and lets it dangle against his neck. “You’re shivering.”

  Am I? I snap out of my daze and lift the mug to my lips. “Are you married?”

  “I will be.” Resting a leather-sleeved forearm on the gas tank, he leans in. “Does five o’clock tonight work for you?”

  I sip the coffee and hum. “Is that a proposal?”

  “It’s a foregone conclusion.” He rubs his jaw with a gloved hand. “I always wondered what you would look like.”

  “You wondered what I would look like?”

  “My forever.”

  His response triggers giggly chemicals in my brain, but I do my best to behave like a twenty-four-year-old woman.

  “I can’t tell if you’re being sincere or fucking with me.” I wish the coffee would kick in so I could keep up. “I’m leaning toward mental patient. Did you escape the hospital on your bike?”

  “Mental patient? You’re the one standing in the street, freezing your ass off, and smiling like you were waiting for me.”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Perfect,” he murmurs, his gaze transfixed on my mouth.

  I bounce on my toes, trying to work some blood into my iced-over muscles. “We need to tal
k.”

  His eyes fly to mine. “Is that right?”

  “Yep.” I roll back my shoulders. “It’s about to go down.”

  “I can’t wait.” He grins.

  “Hold this.” I hand him the mug and reach for the lapels of his motorcycle jacket.

  He lifts the coffee to his lips, watching me with curiosity as I slide down the heavy zipper and expose his black t-shirt beneath.

  Tendrils of ink snake along the side of his neck and disappear beneath the cotton that stretches across his wide chest. My fingers itch to feel the carved ridges of those pecs, so I surrender to it, flattening a palm against the cement wall of his torso and gliding over the rippling terrain of his abs.

  Broad through the shoulders, narrow at the waist, he’s all testosterone-fueled muscle wrapped in leather and denim and heat. I’m definitely going to curl up against that. For warmth, of course. Not because I’m under the hormonal influence of holy-shit-he’s-sexy.

  “You make a damn good cup of coffee.” He takes another sip, smiling around the rim as his eyes follow the movement of my hand.

  “Thank you.” I hook a leg over the bike, slide onto the wide spread of his thighs, and straddle his lap, chest-to-chest. Oh my, he’s big…everywhere.

  He doesn’t balk at my boldness, and instead balances the mug in one hand so he can wrap the heavy jacket around my back. “Better?”

  “Way better.” I sigh at the heat radiating from his shirt and grip his biceps, folding my legs around his waist and making myself at home.

  We could fuck in this position, with our chests pressed together, groins aligned, and his steel-hard thighs flexing beneath me. He only needs to pull himself out and thrust his hips. My hunger for him pulses, hot and reckless, between my legs. Such an outlandish reaction to someone I just met, yet it feels so impossibly right.

  He tucks me tight against him inside the jacket and runs his nose through my hair. “Is this how it’s going down?”

  “Depends on how you do with that talk we need to have.”

  “All right.” He chuckles, and the sound vibrates through me. “Get on with it then.”

  I tilt my head back and peer at him through my lashes. “I hear you’re trafficking drugs through my neighborhood.”

  With his face angled down and inches from mine, his gaze drifts up, ticking over the surrounding homes. “Is that the rumor in the knitting circles?”

  No doubt my neighbors are leaning over their walkers and squinting out their windows. But none of them have the eyesight to see the intimate cocoon of man and leather I’m indulging in.

  “Never underestimate a concerned citizen with a knitting needle.” I wink.

  He tips the mug back, his throat working as he drinks. The deep swallow, bouncing Adam’s apple, and taut tanned flesh over corded muscle—it’s all so captivating. Why am I spellbound by a man’s neck? I want to sniff it. Lick it. Mark it with hickeys.

  Passing the coffee back to me, he stretches the zippered flaps tighter around my shoulders. There’s not enough room for both of us in this jacket, but his gloved hands span over the bare skin of my lower back, minimizing heat loss.

  “Tell your concerned citizens,” he says, “they’re welcome to search my person anytime they want.”

  I’ll be the only one searching his…everything. “They won’t go near you. Something to do with your habit of running over old people.”

  “Why did the old lady cross the road?”

  I laugh, startled at the absurdity of the question. “To get to the other side?”

  “One would think. But the old lady in question crossed the street to beat me with a rolled-up newspaper as I rode by. Lucky for her, I have ninja reflexes and avoided a collision.”

  Eeesh. That sounds like Virginia. She’s a shit-stirrer, which is why I don’t take her complaints seriously. But if I ever want to sleep in again, he needs to find a new route to wherever he goes at six in the morning.

  “Where do you live?” I reach for the lip of the half-helmet, dying to see his hair.

  “Renting a house a few blocks away on Lemona.” He nods behind him and lifts his gaze to my hovering hand. “Go ahead. Take it off.”

  I remove the helmet and widen my eyes at the skin-fade hairstyle. Clipped close on the sides, it could almost be a military cut, but the thick brown strands on top are long enough to suggest his hair would be wavy if he let it grow.

  “Going for the Marine look?” Juggling the helmet and the mug between us, I run a hand over the softly sheared hair above his ear.

  His eyelids grow heavy, and he leans into my touch. “Something like that.”

  Does that mean he’s military?

  I position the helmet back on his head, straightening the straps against his chiseled jawline. “Where do you go every morning?”

  “Work.” He points his chin in the direction of the city behind me. “Downtown.”

  There aren’t any large military bases in St. Louis, but I ask anyway. “Armed forces?”

  “Non-intelligence agency. Boring government worker.”

  I have a hard time imagining that. “Desk job?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And you cut through this neighborhood because it’s quicker?”

  “Yup.” His eyes stay on me, penetrating in their perusal.

  “If you jump over to Mackenzie, it might add like…thirty seconds to your drive. It’s a main drag, so you won’t be stirring up quiet little neighborhoods, and more importantly, I’ll be able to sleep in. Would you be willing to do that?”

  “Only if you say yes.” His dimples deepen.

  “Say yes to what?”

  “Whatever I want.” Gruff and thick, his voice electrifies the currents pinging between us.

  “That sounds dangerous.” And gloriously naughty. “How about we start with a date?”

  “We can call it anything you like.” He pulls me closer in the circle on his arms, crushing the coffee mug between us.

  “There’s eleven things you should know before dating me,” I say.

  “Eleven?”

  “No more. No less.” I’m making this shit up as I go.

  He laughs with delight twinkling in his eyes. “Okay, lay them on me.”

  I gather a deep breath, as if preparing to give a long-winded speech. I’m playing with him. Stalling him, if I’m honest. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, and despite the chill creeping over my exposed legs, I don’t want him to leave.

  “I can’t walk past a mirror,” I say, “without checking myself out.”

  “As beautiful as you are—”

  “It’s not vanity.” Though the compliment has me beaming. “It’s a matter of professional growth. Dancers live, breathe, and thrive by watching their reflections.”

  “Ah.” He glances at my thighs where they hook around his waist. “That explains why you’re so fucking fit.”

  “Straight-up cardio, all day, every day.” I finish off the last swallow of lukewarm coffee. “Your turn.”

  “I didn’t realize I was participating.”

  “Tell me eleven things I need to know. Feel free to start with the most scandalous ones first.”

  His smile is infectious. “I have a huge appetite. For food and other things.”

  “I exercise for a living, which means I’m always hungry. For food and other things.”

  He groans. “I’m ready to start that date now.”

  “You haven’t heard the rest.” I cock my head. “The next thing you should know is the only movie genre that exists is Dirty Dancing.”

  “That’s not a genre.”

  I arch a brow.

  “Okay, I get it,” he says. “There’ll be no discussions about what we watch on movie night.”

  “Unless Dancing with the Stars or So You Think You Can Dance is on. Those take precedence.”

  He shakes his head, smiling. “I can live with that, if you can live with my mode of transportation.”

  I crane my neck to peer at th
e sexy lines of the Harley we’re straddling. “What if it’s snowing?”

  “We stay in bed.”

  Well, damn. I press my grin against his chest. I’ve been smiling so hard and so long my cheeks hurt. Who knew an unexpected moment with a stranger could be so agreeable. I want to pour this feeling into a fireproof box and keep it under my pillow.

  “Give me another one,” he says.

  “I have a tendency to break out in dance.” I wriggle on his lap. “Anywhere. Anytime. If there’s an opportunity for spontaneous dancing—in the supermarket, at a bar, on the toilet, you better be prepared.”

  “This, I have to see.” His gloved thumb strokes the skin along my spine, making me shiver. “You should know I’m not a good dancer.”

  “That’s my job. As long as you have rhythm and you’re not afraid to let loose, we’ll get along just fine.” I tilt up my chin and sink into his warm brown gaze. “I own a crapload of beauty products and clothes. My spare room overflows with dance costumes I can’t part with, stockings of every color and style, beaded bras, double-sided tape, false lashes, dance shoes… You get the idea. Dressing up is my job, so don’t expect me to give up a drawer for your sleepovers, because it ain’t happening.”

  His lips bounce between mirth and contemplation. “I don’t wear underwear.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus. If I dipped my finger down the back of his jeans, would I slide right into his crack? I might be on the extreme side of outgoing, but I should probably wait for our date before playing with his butt cleavage.

  “I don’t share,” he whispers.

  “I don’t cheat,” I whisper back. “But there’s no place for jealous cavemen in my line of work. I dance with guys. Wear skimpy clothing around guys. Shake my ass in rooms filled with guys. Can you deal?”

  He groans and slides his cheek against mine. “I’ll deal.”

  We continue our back-and-forth conversation, and I lose count of how many things we share about ourselves. He admits to being a mercurial hothead, a workaholic, and an opponent of alcoholic beverages that require a corkscrew, while I express my love for stretching, body massages, and all things Beyoncé.