Big Package

by Wilder, Blake

  “He proposed to me, and I threw up into my duck confit. The idea of marrying him made me physically ill.”

  Holy shit. “Are you serious?”

  “You don’t joke about puking in public. Yes, I’m serious.” Paris stood up and opened the fridge. “Does Lydia have any wine?”

  I dumped the sauce into a pan. “I take it your boyfriend didn’t appreciate your response.”

  “Nope. He ended it, and I don’t blame him. My biggest feeling was relief. I’ll never do that again—date someone just because they’re a good guy and everything is smooth and easy.”

  “What is it you want?” I asked, sorry I had.

  She stood up and spun, triumphantly holding up a bottle. “I found wine! And what do I want?” She unscrewed the top. “Passion. That’s what I want. I want passion and love and big, dramatic romance.”

  Jesus. She wanted exactly what I did. I had to remind myself Paris wasn’t the type to rusticate in Indiana. “You’re not keeping the store, are you?” I asked without preamble.

  Her face fell. Then she shook her head. “No. I can’t. I have a business in L.A. I don’t belong here. This isn’t my life.”

  I nodded. “I get that.” I did. And it meant she was off-limits. For anything serious anyway. “Does my mom know?”

  “No. I promise I’ll tell her soon. I just feel bad. She’s being very nice to me. So are you.”

  Picking a piece of pasta out of the boiling water to test it, I shook my head. “I won’t say anything to Mom. And I’ll continue to be nice, but you should know, what I really want to do with you is be naughty.”

  Paris lifted the bottle of wine straight to her mouth and took a swig. She eyed me as she swallowed and lowered the bottle. “Can you give me a good reason why we shouldn’t do that?”

  Four

  Paris

  Joe turned back to the pot of spaghetti, pouring it into a strainer, my question hovering in the air, unanswered.

  I was a pretty forthright person, the type to go for what I want.

  I wanted Joe. For sure. No, that hadn’t taken long to decide, but sometimes things were just obvious.

  Like Indiana being fucking cold in December. Like Fendi boots being impractical in the snow. Like tomato, garlic, and basil being one of the most perfect combinations in the world.

  Wanting Joe was just obvious. He was big, gorgeous, solid. Nice.

  That was the part that made me just a little hesitant. He was so nice. That was also obvious. He played Santa for the little kids in a tiny Indiana town, helped his mom raising his nephew, was able and willing to literally pick a city girl up—and carry her over the ice when she wore ridiculous footwear for the weather.

  I’d dated a nice guy before. For way too long, as a matter of fact. My almost fiancé—I felt my stomach clench a little remembering that horrible night when he’d proposed—had been nice. Very nice. Romantic. Sweet. He was the send roses, candlelight dinner, speak French kind of guy. I mean, he’d been French so that had just been icing on the handsome, suave, European cake, but yeah, it had swept me up a little bit. Or a lot. The thing was, candlelight wasn’t the same thing as fire. Heat. Sparks. The passionate chemistry stuff I really wanted. And it was really hard to break up with a nice guy.

  But Joe was different. He wasn’t going to be proposing to me over a white tablecloth with a three-carat diamond ring and three dozen roses. He wasn’t going to be proposing. Period. And if North Pole had a white-tablecloth restaurant—or a jewelry store for that matter—I’d walk Main Street in my favorite red teddy and no coat or shoes.

  Plus, he’d spanked my butt.

  I’d told him to spank it harder, and he had.

  Heat shot through me as I remembered that. Joe’s big calloused palm against my butt had been the hottest thing I’d felt in months.

  Victor, my French boyfriend, would have never done that.

  Had he, even once, I might not have given him the shrill, horrified, “No!” at Patina, one of the most expensive restaurants in L.A. when he asked me to marry him. I certainly wouldn’t have puked.

  That was still the most awful memory of my life. I loved that restaurant and could never go back. Damn Victor anyway.

  But back to the hot, blue-collar, small-town guy with the big hands he was willing to spank me with.

  I watched him plate the spaghetti, lifting the bottle of wine to my lips again. I probably should have used a glass and offered him some too, but Joe didn’t strike me as a wine drinker. Beer. He was a beer guy for sure, I decided, watching the muscles of his back bunching as he reached and lifted and then following down to the tight ass behind the worn denim of his jeans and then on down to the powerful thighs and long legs until I got to his feet. In boots. Common-sense, winter-weather-appropriate boots. That were very big.

  A warm shiver went through me as I took another swallow of wine. I should probably slow down on the alcohol. With the lack of food and sleep, the wine was going to my head very quickly.

  Finally, he turned with a plate of spaghetti and sauce. He stood holding it, just looking at me.

  I tipped my head, waiting for him to say something.

  “I can’t.”

  I frowned. “You can’t spank me?”

  His eyebrows rose. He was clearly surprised by my response. Not to mention confused.

  Oh, right. We hadn’t been talking about that. I’d just been thinking about it. Oops.

  “Um, sorry. Tired.” I looked down at the wine bottle and wiggled it. “Maybe tipsy.” Did that sound plausible at all?

  “Actually, I think I can spank you,” he said after a moment, the corner of his mouth curling up in a very sexy way that made my stomach flip. “Somehow I think that would be very easy, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh.” Oh. Well, then. That was a fabulous answer. “Give me a few bites of spaghetti and a couple minutes for the carbs to hit my bloodstream, and I’m all in,” I told him, reaching for the plate.

  He shook his head and let me take the plate. “Wow. Are all the women in California so...out there?”

  Looking for a fork, I laughed. “Spanking is so not out there in California. You should see some of the stuff people are into.” I opened and slammed shut three drawers before he shifted to the side, opened the drawer by his hip, and extracted a fork, handing it over.

  With a huge grin, I twirled it in the pile of noodles, twisting several around the tines and taking a big bite.

  “I meant the way you’re so open about sex and what you like and what you want and everything,” he said.

  I looked up, chewing. His eyes were on my mouth, and I instinctively swiped my tongue over my lower lip, wondering if I had sauce there. His pupils dilated. So I did it again.

  “Most of the women I hang out with are pretty open about sex and what they like,” I told him. “But I’ve learned that you can’t expect people to read your mind. If you want something, you have to say it.”

  I took another bite and studied him as I chewed and swallowed. Seriously, for sauce from a jar, this wasn’t bad. It could have been because I’ve maybe never been hungrier in my life. It also could have been because I’d never had a guy dressed in flannel and denim cook for me before. Maybe it always tasted this good when there was testosterone dripping all over everything.

  “Did your Indiana girlfriends not talk about sex?” I asked.

  “They did. But not in the first hour of knowing me.”

  I grinned at him. “They were just better at keeping their thoughts to themselves,” I said. “I’ll admit that’s not something I’m particularly good at.”

  “You’re saying they were thinking about sex within an hour of meeting me?” he asked. His expression was a mix of amusement and confusion, like he couldn’t quite figure me out.

  He was leaning against the counter across from me with his hands braced on either side of his hips. The position pulled his shirt across his wide chest and flat abs and kind of put everything below his waist on full display. />
  I took another bite and let my gaze travel over him from head to toe. Slowly. I swallowed. “Oh yeah, they were.”

  I took my time bringing my gaze back up to his. Brawny. That was the best word for him. He was like a superhot lumberjack or something. Not that I knew a lot about lumberjacks. But there was flannel. And a beard. And boots. And big, rough hands. I also doubted very much that Joe had ever eaten, or even heard of, Matelote de Poissons. Which put him a few points ahead of Victor anyway. I hated Matelote de Poissons. Even more, I hated that Victor would order it for me without even asking.

  As I got back to the general area of Joe’s fly, I noticed that there was a much more noticeable prominence there now. I also noted that his hands were gripping the edge of the counter a little harder now, evidenced by the white knuckles. When I got to his face, I noted his jaw was clenched, and his cheeks were a little flushed.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Not really.”

  I swallowed hard. “Oh. Sorry.”

  He looked at me for a long moment. “When I said I can’t, I meant that I can’t get naughty with you.”

  “Oh.” I frowned. “Actually saying ‘I can’t’ in response to my question means you can’t give me a good reason why we can’t get naughty.”

  He nodded. “I can’t go there. I have this problem.”

  My eyes went back to his fly. “Not as far as I can tell.”

  He coughed and shifted. I met his gaze again. Was I embarrassing him? He really was a nice guy.

  “I have this problem where I fall in love and then get my heart broken when the woman realizes she doesn’t want to be here long term. And I’m not leaving. So getting involved with a California girl who’s already planning her exit seems like a really bad idea.”

  I kept my gaze on his as I set my plate to one side. I shook my head. “Actually, that’s perfect.”

  “It is?”

  “You already know I’m leaving,” I said.

  “Which makes it really stupid to ignore that and get all wrapped up in you, doesn’t it?”

  I smiled and took a step closer to him. “Haven’t you ever had sex just for sex? A casual fling? A one-night stand?”

  I glanced down to see his hands gripping the counter again. I stopped right in front of him. We weren’t quite touching, but I was definitely in his personal space.

  He smelled good.

  Like Guy. That’s what the cologne would be named if it smelled like Joe.

  He shook his head slowly, his gaze on my mouth again.

  I reached out and put my hand on his chest. It was hard. Hot. His heart was pounding.

  “You’ve never just had hot, sweaty, rock-your-world sex because it would feel good and be fun? Without worrying about things like introducing her to your parents and if you both like kids and dogs and finding out what her ring size is?”

  Again, he shook his head.

  “Oh, Joe,” I said, stepping even closer so now that very nice bulge behind his zipper was against my stomach. I slid my hand up to the back of his head and my fingers into his hair. “You really need to. At least once. And I’m the perfect choice. I can tell you exactly what I want, and I’m leaving soon and can buy my own rings. Really, when is a chance like this going to come up for you again?” With my heels on and him leaning a little, I only had to go up on tiptoe to put my lips again his. “You really should take advantage.”

  I kissed him.

  Maybe it was the wine. The lack of sleep. The low blood sugar.

  But I was pretty sure it was the fact that there was no way Joe was going to critique my pronunciation when I said quelle heure est-il?

  Oh, and the big hands thing. As he settled those huge paws on my ass, I realized it was definitely those too. I gave a little moan and opened my mouth.

  Joe did too.

  Then he took over.

  When I say took over, I don’t mean he used his tongue first or something. I mean He. Took. Over.

  Before I knew it, I was backed up against the center island of the kitchen, and one of his hands was in my hair, holding my head right where he wanted it, the other gripping my ass. He stroked his tongue against mine and pressed his hard cock into me. That firmness and the seam of my jeans hit my clit perfectly, and I arched into the pressure, gripping his shoulders, trying to get even closer. I wasn’t a bit intimidated by him or the fact that I didn’t know him or that I was alone with him. I was damned grateful to be alone with him. It was going to make getting naked a whole lot easier.

  I ran my hands down his sides and under his shirt. Getting my hands against his hot bare skin and on those hard muscles I’d ogled earlier.

  He gave a deep groan that shot bolts of lust through me.

  He dragged his mouth from mine to my ear. “You are so fucking hot.”

  “God, I want you,” I told him, nearly panting.

  “Just like this? Right here? Now?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  He half chuckled, half groaned.

  I started unbuttoning his shirt. I got it halfway undone and leaned in, putting my mouth against his chest. I kissed, then licked, then nipped.

  “Fuck,” he muttered.

  He pulled my head back with his hand in my hair. The tug sent electric shocks to my clit.

  “Damn,” I breathed, staring up at him.

  “You just want me to fuck you right here on the kitchen island?” he asked, his eyes dark with lust.

  “Yes.” I wanted that so, so much. Victor had never even said the word fuck. Not even in French.

  “We barely know each other.”

  “That makes it even hotter,” I assured him. I reached for his fly and got him unbuttoned and unzipped. I slid my hand between the denim and his underwear. Cotton. I’d bet my new Prada handbag that they were white briefs. But suddenly, those seemed extremely sexy.

  I ran my hand down his hard length, but before I could curl my fingers around him, he pulled my hand away. “Um, no.”

  I blinked up at him. “No?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to have me by the balls soon enough,” he said. His mouth curled in a sexy smile, and his voice was husky, but he was definitely not letting me touch him. “How about I get you firmly in hand first?”

  “What do you me—”

  Before I had even finished the question, he spun me so I was facing the island. He put my hands on the cool granite top.

  “Don’t move them,” he ordered, his gruff voice right in my ear.

  “But—”

  Suddenly I felt a sharp sting against my right butt cheek.

  I gasped. He’d spanked me.

  Then the heat settled low and intense in my pussy.

  He’d spanked me.

  “Don’t move your hands,” he repeated firmly. Then he ran his hand over my ass, almost as if he was relishing the feel. “Though making sure you know who the boss is here seems like it might be a good idea to make the next couple weeks easier.”

  I wiggled my ass. “I do own the Holly Jolly,” I reminded him.

  “I don’t work for the Holly Jolly.”

  He moved in right behind me, his cock now pressing into my ass. He ran his hands to my lower stomach and then up. He cupped my breasts, giving them a squeeze. My head fell forward, and I took a deep breath. It had been a long time since someone other than me had touched my breasts. He started unbuttoning my shirt.

  “Well, I don’t work for you either,” I said, trying to keep my thoughts straight as I watched his thick fingers undo the tiny buttons on my blouse.

  The thick fingers that I desperately wanted pinching my nipples and rubbing my clit and thrusting into me. But I really should just shut up. I was willing to be good. Dammit, submissive even. I figured I could pull that off. Not that I’d had any practice with Victor. Or Stephen. Or Daniel. They’d all been CEO, suit-and-tie guys. Sophisticated. Smooth. Stephen had been sexy. Daniel had been a little bossy… Okay, he’d been an arrogant prick, which was not the same
thing. But none of them had been dominant. Not in the “I’m going to make you come just like this, and you’re not going to do a thing but say my name, nice and loud” way. Which was what Joe said just then.

  Holy hot small-town construction worker.

  What had I had against Indiana again?

  “I will do whatever you say,” I managed to tell him. Meaning every word.

  “Good girl.”

  My inner muscles clenched hard. Wow. The coming right here like this was not going to be a problem. I was almost there already.

  He had my shirt unbuttoned and spread the silk open, running his work-roughened palms back and forth over my bare stomach and then up to cup my breasts through the Jean Yu bra. Not that I thought Joe would care at all about the designer of my expensive bra and panty set. He didn’t seem like the type to care about lingerie. He seemed like the type to care about getting rid of lingerie.

  He reached behind, unhooked the bra, and flipped the cups up, replacing them with his hands.

  Yep. Getting rid of it. I moaned as he played with my nipples. “Joe.”

  “I like it. I’m going to need more of that,” he said gruffly.

  “Then I’m going to need more,” I said. Somehow. It didn’t come off flirtatious. It came off desperate.

  He didn’t seem to care.

  He slid a hand down and undid the button on my jeans. “More, huh?”

  “Yes. More. Lots more.”

  He unzipped me, pressing into me from behind. He was hot and hard and huge.

  “I can help you with that,” I said, pressing back.

  “Nah. I’m fine.”

  I ground against him a little. He groaned.

  “Okay, no condom,” he finally admitted, his voice a little ragged.

  “Oh.” Dammit. I didn’t have one either. Who would have thought I needed to pack condoms for my trip to Indiana. I was using the shot for birth control, but we should use a condom. Seriously. We barely knew one another. That was the smart thing to do.

  Sometimes I really hated being smart.

  “Does—”

  His hand slid into the front of my jeans, cupping me through my dark purple silk panties with his big, hot hand.