No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

  It’s like she knows.

  Just how bad she’s messing me up, screwing me for life and for any other woman.

  My eyes fuse on her sweet face, wait for her gaze, and I smile like a total fool when it comes.

  Fresh need erupts out of me like a howl, this fierceness ripping through me, making my blood pulse in time to her music.

  And before I know I’m moving, I’m striding toward the bed, reaching for the guitar, pulling it out of her fingers and setting it aside where it won’t get busted.

  Goddamn if I can resist when I’m alone with her sweetness.

  Her eyes widen, a gasp catching in her throat.

  “Blake?” she asks. “What’s—”

  No. Don’t talk, darlin’.

  That’s what I’m telling her by stealing her mouth, robbing her voice, begging her to sing to me with her lips instead. I’ll pull the moans out of her if I have to.

  There’s something about her voice.

  Whether she’s murmuring sweet things to me, teasing, laughing, sighing, or crying out in pleasure.

  No matter what she does, it’s always music to me.

  And I need to make her sing her pretty heart out right the hell now.

  I don’t think I’ve ever touched a woman like I touch Peace today—shoving my fingers under her clothes, playing over her body in animal touches, exploring every inch of her with just my fingertips.

  Her tits fall into my hands. I knead her rough. Loving her for being fragile, but loving her even more for being something I can break.

  She arches for me, giving up these lush whines as I flop her back against the bed, stripping her one garment at a time.

  Taking my time.

  Taking her in.

  Taking my woman.

  Making this last when it’s one thing I can hold on to, with everything else being so fucked.

  She’s a flower in the wind. One fine day she might blow away.

  So I let my lust memorize her.

  With every bleeding look that follows the curve of pale shoulders, the swell of her body, the hourglass taper of her thighs.

  With every touch of my fingers.

  With the way I savor every frantic sound she makes, how responsive she is when I grab at her hair and pull just right, taking her lips like I’m starving.

  I pluck every string she’s got, making her quiver.

  And oh, hell, does she sing for me.

  Her voice rises in moans almost lyrical. They slur perfect notes even when she’s crying out for me as I taste her.

  “Blake!” she whimpers, pushing her pussy against my thigh.

  “Not yet,” I growl, giving her hair a fierce tug that makes her eyes flash. “Hold still.”

  And she listens while I run the full gamut of Peace and then some.

  Her honey lips, the dark inviting depths of her mouth, her wildflower tongue.

  Then her snowy throat, sucking at her pulse, trying to leave marks.

  I know I’ve lost my shit.

  I know.

  But I’m feeling territorial, and it doesn’t help one bit when my nostrils flare, smelling how bad she wants me. Her scent comes thick on the air, something luscious and sweet like cream and cake.

  My mouth sails onward to the dip between her tits, already filming with sweat as her temperature roars, glistening in a sheen against pale flesh.

  The pink, tempting tips of her nipples, delicate and pale as candy, roll against my tongue in perfect hard swells. I can’t help but toy with her again and again, drunk on the way she jerks, tenses, shudders, ripples flowing down her in waves.

  My cock beats like a jackhammer, so hard it could bust up cement.

  I’ll tell you one thing.

  A man doesn’t know intoxicating till he feels a woman respond to him like this.

  Like all I have to do is kiss her—pressing my lips to her belly just below her navel where that little gem shines—to make her desire overflow.

  Hell, she can’t contain her voice, her writhing, the mad, sexy way she fists at my hair.

  “Blake!” she whines my name again.

  I love how open she is.

  So free, so easy, so hungry.

  Her hips show me exactly what she wants when she spreads her thighs and lets me see her—every delicate pink fold, every wet curl of flesh, the way her pussy moves like she’s already craving me for dear life.

  It ain’t even a tease.

  As if I could deny her invitation.

  As if I could resist her feast laid out in front of me, begging to be ravished with the psycho hunger burning me down.

  And goddamn, do I feast.

  She smells so fucking good I can’t stop myself.

  My tongue goes to work, skimming up her thighs, dipping between her folds. I lick hard and wild over every inch of her like a starved beast, tracing delicately along the outer flutters of pink to gather that first tart wetness on my tongue, then searching deeper, craving more.

  She’s better than any booze ever invented.

  Pure addiction, drawing me in, driving my tongue to coax her wet heat even as I drink every bit of her with a desperation that scalds my blood.

  Fuck.

  I’ll remember this for life, the way her thighs clench against my shoulders.

  The way her belly tightens and ripples.

  The way she screams Blake! like she’s in agony, her fingers clawed in my shoulders, both pushing and dragging me closer still.

  Finally, I let her clit have it. Suck it between my teeth, hold it, lash it with one fiery lick after the next. The devil himself couldn’t eat pussy any hotter than I devour her just now.

  And she responds. Oh, mama, her body spikes up in a tight arch, and I growl, pinning her down.

  I’m not done, woman.

  And I delve my tongue inside her, thrusting again and again and again.

  Telling me she wants me.

  Telling me she’s ready.

  Telling me that she’s so mine I won’t let her leave this town.

  Gonna do whatever the fuck it takes to keep her here.

  Especially when her body goes rigid, twitching, electric, and comes for me so sweet I think I’m hooked on her for life.

  Peace goes off like a wildcat, hissing her pleasure, every last bit of her rolling. My tongue never stops, fucking her through it, totally obsessed with owning her as she comes, now and forever.

  My cock is on fucking fire by the time she lets up.

  This hell between my legs might be worse than my bum leg—good thing I’m looking at the cure.

  I flow up her body, capturing her mouth, tasting her lips, giving her back the taste of herself. She takes it with a shrill moan that just makes my cock jerk even harder.

  Damn, I love a girl who isn’t afraid of herself. Who can lose herself in sex and passion without restraint.

  There’s something both deliriously filthy and angel pure about the way I delve my tongue in her mouth, priming her till she’s begging again in little whimpers.

  Who am I to deny a lady?

  Nudging my knee against hers, spreading her, I curl my hand against her hip, pulling her up as I kiss her deeper, softer, slower, longer.

  I hold her spellbound in that kiss as I slide in. My eyes waver shut. I let those silky depths slide over me, pull me into the heavy, sweet fullness of her flesh.

  She drives me out of my mind.

  The way she moves against me, the way we fit together.

  I almost can’t fucking stand the idea of ever pulling out when it’s so hot inside her, so right, and the pleasure we make is deeper and headier than anything I’ve ever known.

  But my body’s pure greed.

  I want all of her.

  And I don’t have a prayer of stopping this rhythm any more than I could stop the ocean tide. Not when she’s already rising up, pulling me into her, looking at me with her eyes so dazed and so hot, with that sweet pleading expression on her face, this thing almost like pain, as if she can’t
endure the intensity.

  I know, darlin’.

  I know.

  Can’t stand it myself, but I don’t want it to end, crashing my body into hers.

  I bring our strokes together till somehow I’m not sure who’s pushing or pulling anymore, only that we’re bound and twined and frantic and breathless, trading kisses and sighs and whispers of each other’s names. I can’t stop saying hers, over and over again.

  And I can’t get enough of hearing Blake on her lips, or how she holds on like she’s never wanted for anything else.

  The world could shatter and burn around me, right now, but I wouldn’t know anything but her.

  I’m in too damn deep.

  Her rolling tide pulls at my desire, turning it into something more than the hot-burning lust threatening to burst right out of my veins. It goes molten, something that’s stitched into my skin and bones.

  Pure instinct has me moving harder, faster, trying to get deeper inside her, even though I’m filling every bit of her. I try to bury myself where she’ll never forget me, where I’ll never be without her. I make her unforgettably mine in every stroke, claiming her body, mind, and soul.

  Never. Leave. Me.

  That’s what I’m saying as I make her writhe, make her twist, make her clutch with her thighs shuddering and tight. She won’t be long.

  Her eyes flutter open, sunny jade-green staring up at me, her strawberry lips parted in an O, waiting for me to say the magic words.

  “Come for me, darlin’. Come like you mean it,” I growl. “Gonna go hard, gonna go with you.”

  There.

  Her face tenses. Every last bit of her convulses, her hips insane, tits thrusting up against me and her face so slack, so gorgeous, so completely lost as she falls apart.

  I’m roaring when my cock explodes, sending lightning up my spine, reckless in my release.

  I never had a chance today.

  Not when I’m this riled.

  She takes me with her, that tight flux gripping against my cock, destroying my self-control.

  Don’t leave me.

  In every thrust, in every pulse of black magic between us, every seething breath as pleasure cuts through me like a flaming sword, I hear the same word.

  Stay, darlin’ lady.

  Stay, stay, stay, stay...

  * * *

  It’s almost zero degrees outside, but it’s got to be running at least a hundred in my bed.

  I’m a sweaty mess, and I don’t give a damn.

  Not when I’m tangled up with Peace, content and lazy with her stretched half on top of me. Her fingers lace in mine and her mystic-flame hair spills over my shoulder.

  “So,” she teases softly, her voice husky in the way that makes me burn. It’s how she sounds when she’s been singing for ages.

  And how she sounds when I’ve been making her hit high notes for other reasons.

  “That happened,” she continues, a smile playing at her lips. “Again.”

  “Sure did.” I chuckle, trailing my fingers up her back just to feel her shiver against me. “And I wouldn’t mind it happening again and again, either.”

  “Mmm...I guess that means we should have the talk.”

  I blink. “Broccoli, you realize no man has ever wanted to have the talk?”

  “You’re not every man.” With a sunny smile, she kisses my shoulder. “And I don’t think you’re scared to talk to me about your real feelings. Or about what this means.”

  Shit, she’s right.

  Still, it makes me pause.

  I know this girl’s practically been after me ever since she laid eyes on me, if I’m being honest about the way she was looking at me that night I found her standing on the side of the road next to a burning van.

  But I don’t know if she gets what wanting me means.

  I turn that over for a minute, picking my words carefully before I say, “I can’t do casual.”

  Might as well be blunt and get it out there. She’s watching me intently.

  “Not with Andrea to think about, I mean. After the way she lost her ma, I can’t afford to have someone in her life who’s just gonna leave her. So when I say I like you, that I feel things when I’m with you...I ain’t saying that easy, Peace. Not saying it light. It’s serious shit. If we’re gonna do something, I’m gonna treat it that way. Serious.” I look down into those rich, warm green eyes that watch me without judgment, without even a flicker of hurt. “But I know you don’t do permanent. I know you don’t stay. And I don’t wanna tie you down. Especially at your age. No twenty-five-year-old wants to jump in with a family and a kid already waiting.”

  Her eyes sparkle.

  There’s a long, breathless silence. Like waiting for a verdict.

  Then she smiles.

  “Blake Silverton, you might just be the dumbest man I’ve ever met,” she says firmly.

  Huh?

  She pushes herself up, breasts plush against my chest, and kisses me like mad.

  It’s a fierce kiss full of half-breaths of muffled laughter, her mouth curling on mine, and despite myself I can’t help but laugh against her lips as I lift a hand to weave my fingers through her hair.

  When I nip her upper lip, though, starving for her taste, she pulls back, smirking down at me, and I grin.

  “So you wanna tell me why I’m dumb, why you’re laughing at me, and what I did to earn that?”

  “Easy. Did you ever ask me if I do or don’t do permanent?” she asks softly. “Or did you just assume because you’re scared I’m going to leave?”

  I want to tell her that’s not fair.

  Dammit, though, she’s right.

  She’s right, and it’s almost frustrating, how easily she sees through me.

  “I didn’t ask,” I admit. “I should’ve. Sorry.”

  She settles against me again, folding her arms on my chest and watching me thoughtfully. The way her eyes glow, rich and deep makes me feel like I’m the only man she’s ever looked at in the world.

  “Maybe I wander,” she murmurs. “Maybe I take flight. But it’s because I’m looking for a home that’s not my poor van. It’s not that I can’t stand staying in one place. It’s just that I haven’t found the place I want to stay just yet. That doesn’t mean I won’t stay, once I find it.”

  Am I it? I wonder. Are we it?

  Because there ain’t no denying.

  I’m a package deal.

  Love me, love my daughter, pain in the nub she might be.

  I smile faintly, coiling Peace’s hair around my fingers. “So what about Andrea?”

  “I adore Andrea.” She smiles shyly. “As much as I adore her father. I think she likes me, too.” Then she laughs, biting at her lower lip playfully. “Not sure about her dad, though. He gives me a lot of mixed signals. Especially when he’s hurting and grouchy.”

  “Hey,” I grumble. “Pretty sure what we just did wasn’t a mixed frigging signal.”

  “Okay.” She rolls her eyes playfully, wiggling her body against me, and fuck if my cock isn’t already springing to life at the feel of her. “So are we coming through loud and clear and reading each other, then?”

  “Yeah,” I growl thickly, tightening my fingers in her hair, drawing her toward me. “I’m addicted to Broccoli now. And I want you to be addicted to me. So get your cute ass down here and kiss me, lady, and I’ll show you exactly what kind of signals I’m giving off.”

  17

  Out of Tune (Peace)

  If I wasn’t on birth control and Blake wasn’t stocked up on condoms, I’d be in major trouble.

  Because as often as we fall into bed together, I’d be giving him a second kid after an entire week of this.

  A week of passion.

  A week of pleasure.

  A week of emotion bordering on pain, whenever I wrap myself around him and beg him to take me, beg to come deeper, beg him to never stop touching me with his hands, his mouth, his silver voice that’s like a physical caress every time he grinds out my
name.

  Peace, Peace, Peace, he growls.

  God, I’m flushed just thinking about it.

  And I need to keep my eyes—and my wits—on the road.

  Life goes on, even with great sex and the sweet insanity of falling in love.

  Honestly, I don’t know how we find time for so much sex when we’re both so busy.

  Blake’s working quintuple duty.

  Looking for arsonist clues, working with Sheriff Langley to put an intensive search out for Clark Patten, helping prep for the carnival and run safety checks, doing his job as fire chief with people and home inspections, and still sneaking in a radio show or two in between breathless nights with me.

  I don’t know how he does it and still has the energy to sweep me into his arms.

  I’m just exhausted, running around keeping up with my clients.

  Everyone wants a spa day, I guess, before the big carnival officially opens. They’re keeping me busy with massage and aromatherapy sessions.

  Not that I mind. It’s good money, it lets me feel useful, and—

  Okay.

  This is silly, but it makes me feel like a contributing member of Blake’s household, instead of a freeloader. Papa Bear let me buy groceries the other day, and it made me weirdly happy.

  Like this could be everyday life, if I—if we—gave it a chance.

  We could have this comfy, lovely home where we might both be busy people, but we always find our way back to the same warm place every night.

  Am I just dreaming while wide awake?

  Hoping for more than I can have?

  I don’t know how to be a mother. A stepmother. Andrea’s honestly too old to need one; she’ll be eighteen in two years. I don’t think I offer much, really, jumping right into the terrible teens.

  But I can be her friend. Hardly a bad thing to be.

  Maybe it’s because Andrea’s on my mind that the girl I see as I drive past the carnival grounds looks just like her.

  I glimpse her through a gap in the temporary wooden fence they’re erecting around the carnival grounds, several workers pounding tall, thin planks into the earth to form a safe windbreaker.