Caveman: A Single Dad Next Door Romance

by Jo Raven

  “Missed you, girl,” he says quietly and pushes off the doorjamb.

  Missed you, too, I think, but my lips won’t move. My gaze snags on his bare chest.

  Is he doing it on purpose? Taking off his shirt to render me speechless? All that smooth, inked skin stretched over taut muscle, the studs glinting in his brown nipples, the thin, dark trail of hairs leading into his low-slung waistband…

  Whoa. I suddenly feel in desperate need of a cold shower.

  I force myself to snap out of the eye-candy feast. “The guys were asking about you. About your sister. How is she?”

  He flinches, a tiny recoil, and the blood drains from his face. Instead of replying, he moves toward the coffee table and grabs the whiskey bottle.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Just a glass or two.”

  “Have you eaten today?” I take a step toward him, and he freezes in the process of unscrewing the bottle.

  “Can’t remember,” he whispers.

  Worry makes my gut clench. “I made food. You need to eat to sober up.”

  His hand tightens around the bottle, as if he wants to crush it in his fist. “Maybe I don’t wanna fucking sober up.”

  I swallow hard, studying him more carefully. His face is drawn with exhaustion, as if he hasn’t slept since he left the apartment yesterday morning, and there’s a familiar shadow in his eyes. I’ve seen it before—after the episode at the park, after his flashbacks, after his nightmares. A shadow of pain.

  I clench my hands, unclench them. Take a step in his direction, and another. He watches me warily as I reach for his hand and clasp it in mine.

  “I made you seafood risotto,” I whisper. “Erin said you like seafood.”

  He’s still as if made of stone, his dark eyes on my lips, his body tense.

  I inch my other hand up his arm and grip his bicep. I don’t know why, but I think he’s not ready for a hug right now. Not ready for anyone to get too close. He’s like a wild animal, trapped and about to bolt.

  “It’s spicy,” I go on, pretending I haven’t noticed anything. “I hope not too much. I got yogurt to mild it down, just in case.”

  A small sigh escapes him, the steel-corded muscles under my fingers relaxing a fraction. “A spicy risotto?” he rumbles.

  “Yeah. Southern recipe. Courtesy of my Grand-grandmother Louisiana.”

  “Louisiana?” he chokes out, managing to sound both horrified and amused. He puts the bottle back down, though, and that little detail makes me bolder.

  “Yes, but the one who taught me about using yogurt to mild it down is Aunt Nebraska.”

  He chuckles, a deep, dark sound that sends butterflies swarming in my stomach.

  I tug on his hand, intent on pulling him into the kitchen where I can get some food into him, but he doesn’t move. His dark gaze glides over my skin, heating it.

  “Come on, Zane. You need to—”

  Turning, he pushes me until my back slams into the wall, and the air leaves my lungs. “Need to what?” He grabs my wrists and brings them together over my head, holding them there with one hand. His eyes are black with want. “Lemme show you what I need.”

  A thrill of fear goes through me. His grip is like titanium around my wrists, and a sting of pain goes through my bones. Gone is the softness in his eyes. What remains is heat and darkness, and I’m not sure what kind of darkness that is. Not sure he’s one hundred percent here with me.

  He gives me no time to ponder this or ask anything. He bends his head to my neck, grazing his teeth over my skin, lightly tugging on my earrings with his teeth, licking the spot behind my ear— while his other hand unties the thin strap on my shoulder and pushes down the fabric, baring my breast. My nipple instantly hardens, and he flicks his thumb back and forth, teasing me, sending liquid heat straight to my core.

  I want to kiss him, touch him, smooth my palm over the hard planes of his body, close my fingers around his arousal, watch his face as he comes undone.

  But he holds himself just far enough that even though my back arches off the wall, we don’t touch. He doesn’t kiss me, doesn’t allow me any freedom of movement. As if he’s gone backward in time, undoing all the trust we’ve shared.

  “Zane…” Frustrated, I twist my hands, trying to break free.

  His hold tightens, grinding my bones together, making me yelp. God, he’s strong. “My way.”

  Then he’s grabbing my hips and spinning me around, so that I’m facing the wall, and I turn my head not to crash my nose into the plaster.

  “Zane, stop.”

  His hands still on my waist. I can feel the heat of his body, even though no other part of him is touching me. He’s like a wall of fire, kept at bay by an invisible barrier. A barrier about to shatter at any moment.

  Seconds drag by. His breathing is harsh and uneven. His hands tighten under my ribs. “Are you sure you want me to stop?”

  His voice is low and rough, and it does crazy things to my insides. His breath washes over my neck, lifting the fine hairs there, and Jesus, his hard-on presses into the small of my back, searing hot through my dress.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he says, his voice rumbling in my ear, his firm chest covering my back.

  “Let me turn around, Zane.” I want to see him, touch him. Can’t do this…

  “You know it’s me, don’t you? You can tell. You can trust me.” He releases my waist and places his hands flat on the wall, on either side of me. I can see the colorful ink on his arms, covering his skin all the way to his wrists. And I can see… Shit, I can see fine, silvery scars on the inside of his forearms.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “Rough day.” His voice breaks a little on the two words, and although that’s not what I was asking—those scars, oh God, I think I know what they mean– my heart hurts for him.

  “What happened? Is your sister—?”

  “Don’t.” His hands tighten into fists on the wall, his knuckles white. “Not now, not tonight. I can’t.” He shudders. “Please.”

  His arms shake.

  Crap, is this about him, or about me? Because I can’t force myself to do it this way? Can’t force myself to put faith in anyone anymore?

  I feel my resolve crack. This is a challenge, and I’ll take it. After all, I wouldn’t be a survivor without being a fighter, would I?

  I push back against him. “Do it,” I breathe. “I trust you.”

  “Dakota…” He presses himself closer to me, his cock a line of fire on my back, his mouth on the sensitive skin of my neck.

  His cock becomes more insistent in the small of my back, and I moan helplessly. With my sensitized breasts squeezed against the wall, my hands splayed, right next to Zane’s, I can only feel as he trails his mouth on my bare shoulder, along my arm. It makes me want his touch, his mouth on other places where I throb with need.

  His hands are back on my body, smoothing over my sides. I gasp when he lifts my dress and tears my panties clear off me. He strokes the curve of my ass, dips his fingers between my legs, thrusting into me, and I shiver all over, about to come apart.

  “I know what you need,” he whispers as he pumps his fingers in and out, ratcheting up the pressure inside me. “Move with me. Ride my hand. Come for me.”

  “Oh God.” My hips roll. I can’t believe I’m about to come like this, standing, braced against the wall of his living room. My body is a roaring rollercoaster of pleasure, the pressure mounting to the point of pain, and something inside me uncoils.

  I sob as the pleasure takes me apart, shatters me to a thousand pieces. My knees buckle, but he’s there, holding me up, his arm around my waist—crushing me to him so that I can feel how excited he is. He groans, and I clench again, gasping with aftershocks.

  “That was so hot,” he whispers, and I can hear the sound of a foil crinkling.

  That’s it, I think, my thoughts still hazy. He’ll enter me here and now, fuck me against the wall, and strangely the thought excites me, although a
tiny voice in my head whispers that it’s probably how he fucks all those girls in bars and clubs. That now I’m turning into one more anonymous fuck for him, faceless. Run-of-the-mill.

  But as if reading my mind, he whispers in my ear, “There’s no one like you.” He shifts behind me. “I know you, too. Your scent. Your taste. Your hair. The moth on your back.”

  His hand nudges my legs apart, lifting my ass, and I squirm uneasily. “I trust you,” I whisper. “But I still want to see you. I want to see your face when you come.” And Jesus, I’ve never said things like that to anyone before. Never felt things like that.

  He says nothing, and my eyes sting. Then something large and thick slides over my seam. His cock sends delicious tremors through me as it strokes me on the outside. I want him inside me.

  Then he pushes into me, breaching me. “Hold on tight,” he whispers, and I bend my head, pressing my hands into the wall, as he plunges into me all the way. His thick length fills me up completely.

  I cry out.

  Pain. Pleasure. Pain. Pleasure.

  I’m going mad, my body shaking as I try to separate the sensations, but they keep mixing, confusing me.

  “Hold still,” he says and thrusts inside me, again and again, erasing the pain, turning it into mind-numbing pleasure.

  “I’ll fall,” I choke out, my muscles locking and quivering, my arms shaking.

  “You won’t.” His arm around my waist tightens. “I’ve got you.”

  Small explosions start in my core, ripples spreading, rolling over me, rising into waves, cresting and crashing.

  “Zane!” I come hard, the pleasure burning a fiery path up my spine.

  “That’s it,” he whispers, thrusting inside me, prolonging my orgasm. “Fly and let me catch you.”

  It does feel like flying. It’s as if my body is a cloud of shiny particles, hanging in dark space, the only sound my heartbeat and my ragged breathing. My head swims.

  His thrusts slow down. His arm around my waist tightens.

  “Zane?” He’s still fully hard. He still hasn’t come, and I expect him to start moving again. Find his pleasure.

  But he stills completely, the only movement the throbbing and twitching of his thick cock inside me.

  “Fucking hell,” he mutters.

  “What is it?” I want to turn, but he’s holding me so tightly pressed to his chest that I’m effectively immobilized. The haze is lifting off my mind, and several scenarios flash through my head. He realized he forgot to put on the condom. He’s caught in a flashback and doesn’t know who I am. He pulled a muscle in his back and can’t move. He got a cramp.

  Shut up, mind.

  Slowly Zane starts to pull out of me, and I moan at the friction inside, where I’m still super sensitive.

  Pain and pleasure. That could be the definition of what I have with Zane.

  When he’s finally out, he releases me, and I slump against the wall. I turn to face him, at long last, and find him standing there, hands fisted at his sides, his hard-on still sheathed in a condom.

  He glances down at it, then up at me, and his eyes are wide. “I… I need…” He makes a choking sound at the back of his throat, and worry turns my insides into ice.

  “What, Zane?”

  “Dammit. I need to see you, too.” He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “See your face.”

  He stalks closer to me, cups my cheeks, his gaze dark with desire. Then he grabs my hips and starts walking me backward—toward his bedroom.

  My eyes blur. I stumble, and he catches me, always catches me when I’m about to fall. He lifts me, holds me up. I should be scared by the way I feel—this raw emotion filling my chest from side to side—but my heart feels strangely light.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Zane

  I walk her backward into my bedroom, trying not to think too hard about what I’m doing. I mean, fuck, I had her exactly where I wanted her, where I’ve been trying to get her from the start. My way. How I’ve always done it in the dimly lit backrooms of bars, in toilet stalls, with chicks whose names I never knew.

  And I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go through with it. Couldn’t finish it.

  Dakota bumps into the doorframe, and I steady her, wrenching my thoughts to the here and now. She’s staring at me, those large blue eyes round and brimming with questions, one strap of her white dress untied, almost baring the sexy mound of her breast.

  My dick hardens more, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to groan out loud. I steer her toward my bed and push her down. I press my knee between her legs, and lean over her, touching her perfect lips, taking in every detail of her pretty face.

  I missed her. God, how I missed her during this weekend from hell. I want to map her body, draw it, cover it with my designs. Cover it with my body, my essence. Mark her as mine. I want to touch, and taste, and smell, and I want to push into her, spill into her.

  Make her mine.

  Christ, I can’t keep my head above the water anymore. I feel like I’m on a train that’s gone off the rails. Too fast. I’ve never done this before, this… relationship stuff. If this is what it is. Shit, I’m so out of my damn depth here.

  Then she reaches between us, wraps her small hand around my dick, and holy crap, I don’t care if I die tonight. My hips jerk, my stomach muscles tighten, all air leaves my lungs, and all I can think of is hammering into her.

  She shifts beneath me, parting her legs more, so she can press up. She’s naked under her dress, her panties gone, and I lift the soft fabric to see her, really look at her for the first time. I was right, she’s shaved, smooth and beautiful, open for me, her clit like a pearl inside an oyster, waiting for me to touch it, roll it between my fingers.

  Fuck, this girl is breathtaking. I trail my hand down her neck, over her breasts, watching her nipples pebble. I lift the dress higher and caress her flat stomach. I dip my thumb into her cute bellybutton, then continue the journey down.

  She moans when I touch her clit. She’s so wet from coming twice, and her slickness sends a jolt of painful need down my balls.

  Fuck.

  My fingers dip inside her, and she tightens around me immediately. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply her scent of arousal—salty caramel and smoke.

  Now. Yeah. Observing her face, seeing how her lovely features shift with every move of my fingers inside her, I know I can’t wait any longer. I pull out my fingers and grab my dick, positioning it at her opening and sinking into her heat in one slow thrust.

  Pressure is building fast behind my balls, so fast I can hardly breathe as I rock in and out of her, my thrusts going faster and faster. Her lips part, her brows lift as if in surprise. Don’t know why, but then she tightens around my cock like a fist, and her back bows right off the bed.

  She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and as her orgasm rips through her, I reach for her face, stroke her cheek.

  And cry out as pleasure crashes through me, taking over me. My body seizes with it, my lungs compress until I can’t breathe. Holy shit, I come so hard I see stars and comets, and the whole fucking galaxy.

  She’s at the center of it all, filling my vision until I can’t see anything else. Goddammit, I’m in love. I’ve fallen for her, and I’m in too deep.

  I should know better. Should keep to Zane’s Law. Never let anyone close because they’ll leave or die.

  Yeah. Too fucking late for that now.

  I’m lost in a dream memory of pain and terror, hands pawing me, voices screaming my name, when something breaks through. The dream shatters, and I groan, caught on the cusp between insanity and reality.

  Where am I? What happened? Why can’t I move?

  My teeth are grinding together, and I’m wrapped around something warm and soft. I blink crummy eyes and wait for my blurry vision to sharpen. I hope I haven’t done anything stupid while dreaming, because last night…

  Last night I was with Dakota. And she’s right here, curled in my arms. She
has her back to me, the deathmoth tattoo barely visible in the gray light of dawn seeping through the window. I study the sweet curve of her shoulder, the pale expanse of her neck.

  Then she tenses, curls up tighter. A whimper escapes her.

  So this is what woke me up. Bad dream? I frown in the half-light, not sure what to do on this end of it, not being the one having the nightmare.

  Sometimes, back when I lived with Emma and had bad dreams, she’d wake me up and stroke my arm until I could breathe again.

  Uncharted territory.

  I reach up and cup Dakota’s shoulder, then stroke her arm. “Shh, it’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re okay. I promise.”

  She whimpers again, then jerks and twists around. Before I realize what’s going on, she’s turning in my arms, clutching me around the neck, nestling close.

  Shocked into stillness, I don’t move as she rests her head on my chest, her soft hair tickling. After a small eternity, she settles, and I wrap my arms around her again.

  Cuddling. On my bed. With a chick.

  Must be the end of the world. I wait for darkness to set in. For an earthquake to hit or a bomb to go off, calamity to strike, and take us both down.

  Nothing happens.

  I relax a little, and thread my fingers through her hair. “Are you okay?”

  She nods. “Nightmare.”

  “What about?”

  She swallows hard. I can feel her throat move. “Falling.”

  I tense. “Why are you so afraid of falling?”

  She says nothing.

  “Go back to sleep,” I whisper.

  “Don’t want to.” She sounds like a petulant child, and I smile in spite of myself. “Tell me about you.”

  “My life’s not a fairytale.”

  “Never said it was. I’m also building my folder on you, you know.”

  “You are?” There’s a pleasant catch in my chest, like a kiss at my very center. Oh, fuck. And the worst part is that I want to tell her. The whole sad story of my past. All that fucks up with my head. All I’ve lost and may still lose. “What do you wanna know?”