Hot Maine Men Boxed Set (Hot Maine Men Series, Books 1 & 2)

by Remy Rose

We do dance and laugh and drink, but Jack keeps sneaking quick glances at me, like he’s checking to see if I’m okay. When it’s over, we say goodbye to the Maine Coastal crew and walk to the parking garage. This time, he doesn’t put his hand on my back.

  He catches my eye as he’s looking over his shoulder to back the truck out of the parking place. “Thank you, Madeline.”

  “You’re using my first name. This sounds serious.”

  “I am serious. I had a great time. I’m glad you invited me.”

  “Are you?”

  “Absolutely. The question is, are you glad you invited me?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  He turns on the radio, motions for a BMW to cut in front of us and grins at me. “Callaway, you wear your emotions the way you wear food on your clothes—right out there for everyone to see.”

  “That’s not—why would you—” I’m sputtering, trying to find words to deny it.

  “If you’re thinking I’m going to hook up with Tonya again, I’m not. I’m not even going to do any more work for her. The only reason I said she could call me was to make her go away. So I could get back to you.” He pauses. “Do you believe me?”

  I nod. “Yes. I do.” I’m kind of astonished to realize that I do believe him.

  “Good.”

  But there’s more going on here than just Tonya.

  I hate that this night is almost over, that the ride home is only ten minutes long. I hate that he knows I’m upset.

  Most of all, I hate that he’s being so calm about all of this.

  It slaps me, then—an icy-cold wave of wake up, Madeline—that maybe Jack is acting like he doesn’t care BECAUSE he doesn’t care.

  And this is what I hate most of all.

  I reach toward the dashboard and stab the volume button with my finger to turn down the music. “Okay. How do you do it?”

  “Do what?” He looks bewildered, wary.

  “Just—just move on from relationships, like they don’t matter.” Like I don’t matter.

  I’ve hit a nerve. I can only see the right side of his face, but the muscles in his cheek are tight.

  “It’s not that they don’t matter. It’s just that...I don’t know. I guess I’ve trained myself to let go. It’s a matter of protection. Survival.” His voice softens. “We’ve talked about this.”

  “Yes, I know. But you’re not the only one with trust issues, remember?”

  “I never said I was.”

  “Bad things happen to people, Jack. It hurts. It sucks. But you learn to move on.” I feel this crazy sense of desperation, like I need to convince him of this right now. “You learn to move on so you can enjoy your life. So you can be happy.” I feel a stinging in my nose. “I want you to be happy, Jack.”

  “I appreciate that, Madeline. And I’m fine.”

  “Fine and happy are not the same thing.” The clench of his jaw makes me realize I need to stop. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  But of course, it isn’t. I’m trembling inside my coat, hoping he won’t notice. By the time we pull into my driveway, the sense that I’ve fucked everything up is bubbling inside me like hot lava. There’s nowhere for it to go but out.

  He puts the truck in park and starts to take off his seatbelt. Since he left his vehicle running, it’s clear he’s not staying but just wants to be a gentleman and open my door for me. This brings me to my boiling point. He probably went tonight because he felt sorry for me and didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Little did I know that this charity gala would also turn out to be a charity case. For me.

  I don’t need his pity.

  In the way back of my mind, I know there’s a very good chance I’m completely wrong, but when you’re feeling this sorry for yourself and in the throes of PMS, rational thought takes a back seat.

  “You don’t need to walk me to my house, Jack. I’m fine—just like you.”

  “What is going on with you?”

  “I don’t need your charity.”

  “Charity? What the fuck are you talking about, Madeline?” His eyes are stormy—the ocean in January kind of stormy. He turns off the ignition and gets out of the truck, slams the door.

  I walk quickly to the side steps, fumbling in my purse for my house key. Jack is right behind me. I push open the door, furious with myself for ruining what was a really wonderful night, and he follows me into the kitchen, banging the door closed behind him.

  I turn to face him. I’ve never seen him angry—there is a wildness about him that’s disconcerting. And sexy as hell.

  “This hasn’t exactly been a cake walk for me, you know.” He’s glowering.

  “Really? I thought you were ‘fine.’”

  His mouth opens as if he’s going to shout at me, but all that comes out is an unintelligible growl. He shakes his head in frustration, raking a hand roughly through his hair so that it’s back to looking untamed.

  “I shouldn’t have asked you to the gala, Jack.”

  “I could have said no.”

  “You’re probably wishing you did.”

  “Stop putting words in my mouth, Madeline. This isn’t all your doing. If I hadn’t gotten involved with you, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  For some reason, I find that word offensive. “Situation? Is that what we are? A goddamned situation?”

  The tears come then. I feel like crumpling into a pathetic heap on my kitchen floor, me and my tear-stained, chocolate-stained dress. “Just get out. Please leave, Jack. Go be fine somewhere.”

  I can’t stand it anymore. I hate having him see me like this. I turn away, practically running toward the living room when I’m grabbed from behind.

  “Madeline...don’t. Please don’t.” He spins me around, clutching my shoulders, his face blazing with anguish.

  “This is so stupid, Jack.” I’m sobbing. “So fucking stupid.” I put my hands on his chest, try to push him away, but his grip is tight. “Let go of me.”

  “You don’t want that.”

  His voice has changed, thickened. Through a teary haze, I can see that his eyes have changed, too. They’re burning, but not with anger or concern. “You want me to fuck you.”

  He drops his hands to my waist, pulling me against the growing hardness in his pants. It’s as if he is electricity and I’m the wire, helpless to do anything but take what he gives me. It doesn’t matter that he’s arrogant, or that I hate both of us, or that my tears have ruined what was a damned good make-up job...all that matters at this moment is that he wants me, and I want him, and we’re going to do something about it.

  But there is still the matter of my pride. “I don’t want anything from you,” I choke out, trying to ignore the surge of wetness between my legs. “Not one thing.”

  “Bullshit,” he says softly, smiling, and bends down to crush my mouth with his own. He kisses me, drinking me in like he has this insatiable thirst, with lips that are both strong and soft. Oh, God! How I have missed his mouth, and everything attached to it.

  The truth in me escapes in a low moan. His hands go to the back of my gown, and I feel his fingers working to undo the clasp. He’s breathing hard against my mouth, his tongue probing mine, and then he pulls back to mutter, “Jesus, Callaway...you fucking rocked this dress tonight, but right now, I just want it off you.”

  Hastily, I reach my own hands behind my back to unhook. He slides the zipper down, and I step out of my dress so I’m only in my push-up bra, panties and heels, my bare skin and anticipation making me shiver.

  Jack wrestles off his coat, unbuttons his shirt to reveal those chiseled pecs and abs. I have missed those, too. There is a thin sheen of sweat on his chest and impulsively, I press my nose against him, loving the clean, masculine scent of his skin.

  His voice is low, gravelly, full of desire as he spins me around, bends me over the back of the couch and presses his now rock-hard bulge against my ass. “I wanted to fuck you the second I saw you tonight. And you wanted that, to
o. Didn’t you?”

  I can barely breathe. “Yes,” I whisper.

  “I’ve got to fuck you now, Madeline. Got to fuck you hard.”

  My Christ. I am drenched—a helpless, hopeless pool of arousal. I couldn’t get away from him even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. Ever.

  His hand goes to the back of my neck, twisting my hair around his fingers and holding firmly. I feel him yank down my panties, and the flesh on my bare bottom prickles with the cool air. His fingers curve under my mound, lightly tickling my clit and then pushing inside my vagina. He expels a sound that’s a perfect blend of sigh and groan. “Jesus...you’re fucking soaked.”

  I feel his hard, smooth head poking against my wet opening. His hard, smooth, bare head. I tense up for a second. We’ve never done it unprotected before.

  “Madeline...I didn’t bring anything. I didn’t know we’d...God, I just want you so bad. I’ll pull out, I promise.” His voice is ragged, raw.

  I’m a few days away from my period, so I don’t worry about pregnancy. And I trust him. “It’s okay.” I can hardly breathe. “I just want you. Please, please just fuck me, Jack.”

  I spread my legs and he groans again, tightening his grip on my hair. Grunting, he slides his bare cock into me. I gasp. He feels so big, so hard, so good.

  “Take it, sweetheart,” he’s groaning. “Take all of it.”

  And I do. I open my legs wider as he fucks me, his thrusts becoming harder and deeper as though he’s trying to prove something—like this is an urgent reclaiming on the fringe of desperation.

  “Madeline...Christ, you feel so good. So hot, so wet...” He pounds into me over and over. I have to bite my lip not to cry out, because I feel like I’m being stretched to my max.

  I am turned on beyond belief.

  He’s holding my hips as he fucks me. He’s hard as steel, and I know he’s almost there. I’m riding the crest of my own crescendo, tightening around him, begging him to fuck me harder. With a few more deep thrusts, he groans my name and pulls out of me just before we both come.

  I lean over the couch, trying to catch my breath. When I turn around, Jack is standing there with hands on hips, pants still down at his ankles and his massive erection slowly waning. There are damp pieces of his hair curling on his forehead. I go to him, looping my arms around his firm waist and feel his lips on the top of my head.

  “Jack...” My eyes are burning. I’m not sure what else to say.

  He takes my chin in his hand, tipping my head back so I’m looking into his eyes. I look deep, deep—searching for something I hope is there.

  “We’re quite a pair, huh?” He smiles ruefully.

  After a moment, I respond with another question. “Where does this leave us?”

  He doesn’t answer. But from what I see in his gaze, I can guess what he’s thinking.

  Nowhere.

  Chapter 31 ~ Jack

  September 25

  I’m driving to Ed’s house, having a major attack of the should-haves. They’ve been slamming me hard over this past week, like someone’s taking a sledgehammer to my gut, and I deserve every blow for fucking up my life and more importantly, Callaway’s.

  I should have dropped her off at her house without going inside.

  I should have been friendly, not flirty, at the gala thing.

  I should have said no to the gala thing.

  I should have kept it in my pants when I was working for her.

  But no matter how much you know what you should have done...when you look into big, dark, shimmery eyes that make your knees wobble and your gut twist, common sense is out the door, down the road and flipping you off when you try to chase after it.

  Yeah. I’ll blame it on her eyes.

  Today’s gloomy and windy as hell, the wind kicking up leaves along the sides of the road and turning them into mini-tornadoes. It’s Friday. I could ask Owen to get a couple beers later, if I feel like being social. Or maybe I’ll just stay home like I’ve been doing all week. Grab a take-out at Pat’s Pizza, maybe some breadsticks. Don’t know, don’t care.

  Fuck.

  Before I left Callaway’s house, I apologized. She didn’t like that. I told her, as nicely as I could, that I got caught up in seeing her again and didn’t intend for things to go as far as they did. I stopped short of saying that it never should have happened. I was practically begging her to see what I am—anything to change that look in her eyes.

  Look, Callaway...I’m all wrong for you. You don’t want me. I’m a player. I can’t give you a commitment.

  She didn’t say anything at first—just stood there in her underwear (which made her look even more vulnerable) staring down at the floor and kind of hugging herself. Pieces of her hair were falling into her face. I went up to her and brushed them away—couldn’t help myself; she looked so small and lost. She turned those big dark eyes on me again and then said, okay.

  And that was it. I felt this major urge to hug her, but I was scared if I did, I wouldn’t let go. So I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek—she didn’t move a muscle—and left.

  There hasn’t been any contact since.

  It was even harder to leave her that time than it was before. Leaving sucks. And no one knows that more than Ed King. Today is his last day in the house, which is why I’m going over there. I figured I could rake up some leaves or do some yard work for him—just give him some company while the movers pack up his life.

  There’s a Dunkin Donuts about a mile away from Ed’s. I go to the drive-thru and get a couple of coffees and Boston Kremes, and when I pull in Ed’s driveway, he’s standing at the front door. Almost like a little kid, excited that someone’s coming over. It makes my throat tighten up, honestly. Old people get to me, and Ed—he’s the epitome of a gentleman. Class and character.

  The movers are here—couple of big, burly guys who nod at me as they carry Ed’s dining room table into the open mouth of the van. It’s about half full already.

  “Mr. Decker. How are you this blustery morning?” Ed’s wearing a dark green flannel shirt with his Chinos—little more casual than he usually dresses.

  “I’m stellar, sir. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Fine. The word jolts me back to when I said that very same word to Callaway. Apparently, Ed and I share an affinity for using words that mask what’s really going on.

  I hand him one of the coffees and the bag of donuts, and he makes a big deal of how I didn’t need to do that. We go into his kitchen and stand at the bar. Our voices bounce off the walls and there’s a loud echo, but it seems like the silence is even louder.

  Ed catches me looking around. “Strange, isn’t it, to see it empty like this? Feels like the spirit of the house is gone.”

  He’s right. The house definitely has a different vibe to it now.

  “I don’t feel her here anymore,” he sighs.

  “I’m sorry, Ed. I know this isn’t easy.”

  “No, it’s not, but it’s the way it must be.” He takes the lid off his coffee cup, brings the steaming cup to his lips and blows on it. “I can still picture everything here, though—ghosts of how things were.” He points with a slightly-hooked index finger in the direction of where the dining room table used to be. “This morning, I was remembering the holidays—how the table would look. Marian had these dishes that she loved—white with beading around the edges. Everything had to be just so...she wanted holiday meals to be special, and it was all in the details. She loved taking out her mother’s silver, dressing up the table. And centerpieces—she’d make them herself the day before. Mums and gourds for Thanksgiving, clipped green boughs and red berries from the woods behind the house for Christmas.” His eyes warm up and brighten, remembering. “At first, I wasn’t too fond of my part in the preparations—peeling the onions to boil, cutting up the squash—but I caught on pretty quickly that it meant spending time with her and seeing her about as happy as could be, so those ended up becoming some of my
most favorite memories.”

  Ed’s eyes are brimming. I’m racking my brain for something to say to him when the movers come in again, clumping up the stairs in their work boots, most likely oblivious to the fact that this man’s entire life is about to change. Ed gives me a sad little smile and sighs again. We drink our coffee, talk about the Sox’s chances in the playoffs, and then Ed narrows his eyes at me. “Things going all right for you personally, Mr. Decker?”

  “They’re going fine, thanks.”

  I’m basically owning that word.

  He’s still looking at me closely, so I feel like I have to explain—playing right into his hands. Crafty, that Ed.

  “I met with my father a couple weeks ago.”

  “And how did that go?”

  “I’m not quite sure how to characterize it, actually. He told me he’s planning to retire and wants me to run one of his new stores. And then step in to head the company.”

  “Well, now. That’s an interesting turn of events, isn’t it?” Ed takes the last sip of coffee and pushes the lid sideways into the empty cup. “What was your response?”

  “I didn’t give him one. Not yet. But I plan to tell him no. I like working for myself.”

  “And you wouldn’t have to deal with your father, or your brother.” He arches a thin eyebrow.

  Grinning, I shake my head. “It’s more than that, sir, but you’re right. I wouldn’t.”

  “Even if you decide to decline your father’s offer, I do hope you can come to some sort of mutual understanding with him, and with your brother. For your sake as well as theirs, so you can have peace. I want that for you, Mr. Decker. Peace in your heart and mind.”

  “Thank you, Ed. I appreciate that.”

  “And that young woman you were seeing?”

  Knew this was coming. “It’s over.” I say it quickly, maybe a little too abruptly from the looks of Ed’s expression.

  “You’re sure?”

  This time, my response takes a second to come, and from Ed’s face, he’s onto that, too. The guy doesn’t miss a beat. “It just—wouldn’t have worked out. It’s totally my issue. This girl, she’s...” I trail off. God damn that I trail off, because Ed notices.