Anything For Love

by Melissa Foster

  “God you’re a pain. Keep Becca there. I think she’s got way more of a sex life than she lets on. I bet she’s got men shackled in her basement. Real men, not blow-up dolls.”

  “Then you two should get along just fine.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes even though Aubrey couldn’t see her. “I’m not into that stuff. Focus, Aubrey. Let’s say I do want to take things further with Beau.” She so did, especially since he said he wasn’t like the guys she’d gone out with in college. “As you’ve so kindly pointed out, I don’t have much experience in the real-life-man department.”

  “That’s hardly a problem, Char. You’ll figure it out. You’re the queen of steamy scenes. Just bring it into real life.”

  Charlotte glanced out the window. “When I’m doing research, it’s easy to flirt, but it doesn’t last. I lose my train of thought around him. You don’t understand how compelling he is. He’s sort of broody, but then he gets this little smile that makes my stomach flip, and I turn into a bumbling idiot. After we kissed, I was so nervous I basically ran away.”

  “Wow. You’re really affected by this guy. You ran away? Charlotte Sterling, have I not taught you anything? For God’s sake, your heroines would never run from a man. They’d tie him up, whip him good, and make him submit.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not me.” Although when she was unlocking the handcuffs from his bed, she couldn’t stop imagining him lying beneath her, arms shackled, while she drove him out of his mind.

  “I wish I were there to check him out and make sure he’s not a prick. I want you to finally have a sex life, but I don’t want you to get hurt. Especially since you’ve got this crazy notion that true love should be like a fairy tale. It’s going to be hard enough for you to accept that even great guys can be assholes. I think it comes with the penis.”

  “He’s not an asshole,” she said protectively.

  “Says the girl asking for advice about men. He must really be something special, because I’ve never been able to get you to see Cutter as anything more than a friend, and that is one smoking-hot, sweet-enough-to-eat cowboy—and I do mean gobble down all eight inches of the man. The way I see it, you have two choices. You can run away every time things heat up, or you can pull up your big-girl panties, stand as strong as I know you are, and see where it goes.”

  Charlotte wanted to do that more than anything. But she was nervous.

  “Who knows, Char. You might enjoy letting him pull those big-girl panties down.”

  “I’m pretty sure I will. Would! Would.”

  Aubrey cracked up.

  “But I think he’s hiding something.”

  “You just told me he’s not a jerk!” Aubrey snapped. “See? You need me there.”

  “Not that kind of something. He doesn’t say much, but in his silence, I hear…something sad. Maybe it’s just loneliness. I don’t know. But something is there that he’s not sharing, and I don’t feel like it’s a jerky thing.”

  “Hold on, chickadee. You know his relatives. Just make a phone call. Do a little research.”

  She mulled over the idea of asking Hal Braden. Josh’s father had known her parents, and he had gotten married at the inn. She’d known him forever, and he always watched out for her. It took only a minute for her to realize that wasn’t what she wanted to do. “I don’t want to go behind his back. I want him to share whatever it is because he wants to. Ugh. I don’t know what I want. All I know is that I like him, and when he’s around, this buzz of electricity sizzles between us.” She fingered the handcuffs, which were still attached to her shorts, and dug the key out of her pocket. “Maybe I’m just nervous because I saw him naked and my brain sped down an erotic path paved with shower sex and handcuffs.”

  “That’s an option. Sex it out of him. But maybe skip the handcuffs until you’re sure he’s as good a guy as you think he is.”

  They talked for a few more minutes, and before hanging up, Aubrey said, “Remember, kiss, not cock.”

  “Kiss, not cock. Got it.” She ended the call just as Beau came through her doorway wearing a tight black T-shirt and jeans that hugged his ginormous distraction. Kiss, not cock. Kiss, not cock.

  “Can you break away for a bit and come with me into town?”

  Her sex-starved brain zeroed in on come with me. She forced her eyes up to his as he walked toward her, but flashes of him in the shower came rushing back. She saw droplets of water streaming down his shoulders and chest, the outline of his body parts branded into her mind. This was not good. She was not a weak-kneed type of woman, but she was one hundred percent certain that if she stood up, her knees would fail her.

  She unlocked the handcuffs to keep from staring, and they slipped from her hand. Ugh! Why was she all thumbs around him? She crouched to pick them up, and his distraction was right there. “Kiss, not cock,” she mumbled to herself.

  “What was that?”

  She shot up to her feet and slammed the cuffs and key on her desk. “A line from my book,” came out faster than a bullet. “Why are you going to town?”

  “You need to pick out a medallion to go on the ceiling for your chandelier, and you need new locks on several doors around the inn.”

  “My chandelier?”

  He exhaled, like she was messing with him. “The one in the box by your bed?”

  “I forgot I had that light. How the heck did you even notice it?”

  “Very little gets by me.” He held her gaze, making her feel like he could see right through her. “And don’t ask me to pick out the medallion. I’ve worked with enough women to know that anything I pick out will be wrong. Besides, you need a nightstand, too. And locking screen doors for your bedroom.”

  “I’m not that picky, and I don’t need locks. I’ve lived here for years and no one has ever bothered me.” Except you. You bother me in ways I’d rather not think about.

  “Are you going to stare at me like I confuse you all evening, or come with me?”

  “I was just thinking of a scene for my book, not staring at you.” He didn’t look like he was buying it. “I can’t go to town. I need to figure out this scene so I can write.”

  “Great. I’ll help you work out your scene, and then you can come with me into town.” He glanced at the blow-up dolls on her couch. “Good to see you have female dolls, too.”

  “That’s Amanda Seyfried and Tom Hardy.”

  “How do you choose…? Never mind.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Why don’t we work out your scene together?”

  “Us?” Shit. That’s exactly what she needed and wanted. So why did she feel like she was about to swallow her tongue?

  “Why not? Man, woman, breathing. Surely it’ll be better than looking at dolls.”

  “No.” She tried to walk around him, and he blocked her way with a teasing—and sexy-as-sin—look in his eyes.

  “Are you the same girl who straddled a handcuffed blow-up doll? The same woman who unabashedly walked into the bathroom while I was in the shower?” He leaned in, his thigh brushing hers. “What’s the matter, shortcake? Isn’t this how you do your research with me? I seem to recall you saying I was better than a blow-up doll. Or don’t you like it when someone else takes control? When the tables are turned?”

  She pushed past him with a groan, and he chuckled. “Fine! I was trying to give you an out because you get all closed off when I get near you.”

  He clenched his jaw, his eyes suddenly serious. “I know I don’t open up easily. You shouldn’t take it personally. It’s just easier when we’re challenging each other.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” she agreed, a little relieved that he was having trouble, too. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  He cocked a grin. “Okay, where do you need me?”

  She looked up at the ceiling, thinking of all the naughty places she needed his attention, and felt her cheeks burn.

  “Look at that,” he said in a low voice. “The erotic romance writer turned fifty shades of red.”

&nb
sp; She glared at him, then began pacing, trying to figure out where to start.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be upset. It’s cute when you blush.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said sarcastically. “I know it’s ridiculous that I blush around you.” She set her hands on her hips, trying to focus on the scene structure. “Do me a favor. Don’t talk for a minute. You’re too distracting.”

  He took a step toward her, and she held her palm out. “Stop. Don’t move. I need to get into my characters’ heads.”

  “Should I call you Amanda?” he asked with a cocky grin.

  “You know what? That’s a great idea. Call me Shayna—”

  “And you can call me Roman.” He crossed his arms, glowering at her. “Another grocery boy?”

  Her jaw dropped open. “Did you read my manuscript?”

  “No. You called me Roman when I carried you to bed this morning.”

  “Oh my gosh. Really? That’s so embarrassing.” She covered her mouth, but she couldn’t stop her laughter from coming out. “I swear I’ll be the old lady in the nursing home talking about all these men, and they’ll think I’m a slut. Roman is the hero in my story.”

  “That’s better than a grocery boy,” he teased. “And it’s kind of cool that you get so caught up in your work. Passion for what you do is a good thing.”

  “Well, it’s my life. Literally. Let’s get this over with.” She was nervous, but she’d look lame if she turned him down. Plus, she’d never know what it would feel like to have a man his size lying on top of her. Him. To have him lying on top of her. She didn’t want anyone else to be in that position.

  Great. Now she was thinking about all his body parts pressing down on her. Kiss, not cock. Kiss, not cock. That did not help. Now she was thinking about kissing his cock.

  She tossed the dolls off the couch and grabbed Beau’s arm, positioning him by the couch. Her hero was supposed to wrap his arms around the heroine’s waist from behind, and when he kissed her neck, she’d turn, and they’d stumble to the couch kissing as he stripped away her clothes. She and Beau would simply pretend, but then he’d lay her on the couch and she’d feel what Shayna would feel as Roman came down over her. She could do this.

  “We need to…” She glanced at the couch, wondering if she should just ask him to lie on top of her, but that felt too mechanical. She worried it wouldn’t feel the same as if they pretended to do a little foreplay.

  “Here’s the setup,” she finally said, hoping she didn’t sound too nervous. “It’s after your shower. I mean, Roman’s shower, so he’s naked.” Kiss, not cock, she reminded herself. I’m just a writer creating a scene. It’s not really Beau. He’s Roman. “Shayna is painting in her studio, and you come in and put your arms around her from behind.”

  He moved behind her, and his arms circled her waist, covering her entire belly. His forearms brushed against her breasts, and she felt her nipples pebble with delight. Sweet Jesus, please don’t let me embarrass myself.

  “Like this?” he asked in a rough whisper.

  “Yeah,” she said a little shakily. “And then you kiss her neck, and she’s still painting.” She pretended to paint and closed her eyes as his warm lips touched her skin. That was not pretend, and it felt oh so good.

  “How’s this?” He pressed a kiss just below her ear.

  “Good,” she whispered. Each kiss was firmer, lasted longer than the previous one. She tried to distance her thoughts enough to pick apart the sensations, but she was already lost in the feel of his hard chest against her back, his muscular arms belted across her, and anticipation pulsing inside her with every touch of his lips. “And her shoulder. Kiss my shoulder…”

  His mouth trailed over her skin, and she melted against him. His hold on her tightened, and she felt his arousal pressing into her. God you feel good. I want to turn around and kiss you. Oh yes, lick my shoulder like that. Mm. That’s good. She pressed her lips together to keep her thoughts from floating out.

  “Like this?” He placed openmouthed kisses along her shoulder. “Better?”

  “The best” slipped out soft and lusty. Her knees buckled, and Beau splayed his hand over her belly, his fingers brushing the waist of her shorts. Heat rushed through her core, and she imagined turning in his arms and climbing him like a mountain, wrapping her legs around his shoulders, and that incredible mouth of his—

  “What’s next?” he rasped.

  He kissed her jaw, her earlobe, down her neck to her shoulder, working his way over every spec of exposed flesh. Every mind-numbing kiss sent a pulse of heat between her legs.

  “Hey, shortcake?” he said in a low voice between scorching-hot kisses. He sealed his mouth over her shoulder and sucked. “What’s next?”

  Next? An orgasm if she wasn’t careful.

  She pushed from his arms, gulping in air, and headed for her desk. “That’s a wrap. Get out of here. I have to write.”

  “No way, shortcake.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the door. “Town. Now.”

  Chapter Seven

  BEAU HAD NO freaking idea what he was doing. He hadn’t intended to ask Charlotte to go into town with him. He’d only wanted to show her he wasn’t a dick because he’d shut her down before, but one look at her had done him in. Going to town alone was the exact opposite of what he wanted. And what the hell kind of scene working out was that? Holy fuck. Now he was stuck driving to town with a hard-on that refused to deflate because Charlotte’s scent filled the cab of the truck and her long legs were propped up on the dashboard, her knee-high fringed black boots bouncing to the music as she plucked away at her laptop. She’d complained the whole way to the truck about not being able to afford the time away from writing. He’d finally given in and retrieved the damn laptop. She hadn’t spoken a word since.

  It was a long ride down the mountain, and after half an hour of silence, he said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Mm-hm.” Type, type, type.

  “How do you work out scenes with those dolls? They can’t hold you or kiss you.” Or touch you the way I want to.

  Her fingers stilled and her cheeks flushed, as if she could read his thoughts. “I use them for positioning. I can usually get my head into theirs once I see how the mechanics work.”

  “Get your head into theirs?”

  “Well, not theirs, but my characters’. You know, sort of pretend to be them, feel what they would feel if they were real. I don’t usually have anyone to work out scenes with, except Cutter every few weeks when he brings groceries.”

  Beau gripped the steering wheel tighter at the thought of Cutter’s hands on her. He told himself he was just watching out for her, but it was bullshit. It had been forever since he’d felt anything even close to jealousy, but he recognized the unexpected emotion just the same.

  “I thought you and Cutter were only friends,” he said tensely.

  “We are. He’s great at positioning, though.”

  He stared at the road as they sped toward town, gritting his teeth in an effort to keep his thoughts from coming out. But it was no use. They barreled out anyway. “You and I have very different definitions of the word friends.”

  She began typing again. “We do?”

  “Mm-hm.” I don’t kiss women I want to only be friends with. He shoved that thought down deep and said, “Don’t take this wrong, but wouldn’t it be easier to watch porn?”

  “Oh God. Have you ever really watched porn, other than when you need something to jerk off to?”

  “Jesus, Charlotte.” He’d just found the perfect boner killer—talking to Charlotte about jerking off to porn.

  “What? It’s not like it’s a secret that people jerk off to porn.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t. So why don’t you clue me in as to why dolls are better than porn?”

  She leaned back in her seat, still looking at him. “Porn is cold and unemotional. To be honest, I have no idea how it turns anyone on. I mean, where is the love? The romance? The foreplay that makes your
heart flutter? How about tender whispers or rough demands underscored by intimacy, not heightened by camera angles?”

  “Not all people want or need emotional connections to get turned on,” he said, although he’d never been one of those people. As much as he didn’t want emotional connections, he’d always needed them to truly enjoy sex. Needless to say, he hadn’t enjoyed sex in a very long time.

  She gazed out the passenger window. “I know they don’t,” she said a little sadly. “You asked why I don’t use porn for motivation. That’s why. I can place the dolls however I need them to make sure the mechanics work—on the stairs, the bed, the counters.”

  He imagined making love to Charlotte in each of those places.

  “And then I mentally put myself in their place, imagining a man’s hands on me, or his mouth. I close my eyes and picture myself as the heroine. A redhead, brunette, blonde, buxom or flat chested, small waisted or curvy, until we become one.”

  She closed her laptop and absently touched her neck. He wanted to touch her neck. To feel her pulse fluttering against his tongue again.

  “Then I picture my hero, from his face all the way down to his feet, moving through each body part until I can feel him breathing with me. Until my flesh goes hot because I feel his skin heating up, and I imagine the romantic things he’d whisper, the feel of his body pressed to mine, the sounds he’d earn by touching me, or kissing me, and the sounds he’d make.”

  Holy hell, he was hard again.

  She turned toward him. Her skin was flushed, and in a sated voice, as if she’d just experienced something wonderful, she said, “That’s why I don’t watch porn and why I’m totally fine up here by myself without having to deal with the dating world. I want what my parents and grandparents had, where relationships and intimacy mean something, and I don’t really believe that kind of love exists anymore.”