“It’s that cul-de-sac. Only two houses on it, and they’re both…you know.”
“No, what?”
“Never mind. Not my story to tell. Anyway, I’ve got one more fabulous cocktail for you to taste.”
“Oh no, I can’t.” She probably wouldn’t be able to afford two cocktails.
“It’s on me, love.”
She considered Rory’s tempting, mysterious smile and thought of the trip home. Could she do it? Walk down the street, all by herself, out in the open, where anyone could follow her? Could she put herself out there like that? She’d have to return the next day, in broad daylight, to get her car.
“I’ll take it.” Her voice sounded stronger than her insides. Was that all it took to be strong? Booze and bravado? And the hope of seeing a big, burly blacksmith at the end of the road? “I’ll walk home,” she said, her voice strong and sure.
He reached under the bar for a glass and tinked it against hers, a knowing gleam in his eye. “Cheers, Uma.”
“Cheers, Rory.”
“Welcome to Blackwood.”
* * *
The walk back was quick and full of fancy. In her imaginings, Blackwood became not just a pit stop for Uma, but a real home. She’d find a lovely little cottage to rent, work weddings on the weekends, and the rest of the time, shoot photo after photo of everything. Those pictures would be shown in Rory’s bar but also elsewhere.
She was so caught up in the infinite possibilities of her new, beautiful life that she hardly noticed where she was going. She’d made it halfway to Ivan’s workshop before realizing she’d bypassed her boss’s place altogether. Fueled on pipe dreams and instinct alone, her subconscious had led her not to her temporary residence but straight to the neighbor’s. Okay, so she might have had a crush. She’d admit that. But the man probably had girls all over town.
Uma decided then and there that she couldn’t care less. Rather than hesitation and self-doubt—which was pretty much her constant MO—she made the firm, albeit tipsy decision to forge ahead.
Which was how she found herself, at crazy o’clock on a Sunday morning, doing the most spontaneous thing she’d ever done: knocking at a near-stranger’s door.
A dim light shone through the workshop window, and she might have imagined the warmth of the wood beneath her knuckles. After a few seconds, the door swung in, and Uma took an involuntary step back.
It was too late to run, too late to turn around. With a certainty she hadn’t known in months, maybe years, she knew what she wanted was right there, in the flesh.
15
He was beautiful.
Still big, still intimidating, but half-naked and sleepy, Ivan looked soft, approachable. His groggy face was hard to read, one squinty eye open, the other crinkled shut.
“Hey, Uma. What’re you doin’?” His voice was beyond gravelly, into some deeper key that wouldn’t have been audible more than a couple of feet away.
“I came to see you.”
“Yeah?”
“You weren’t here earlier.”
“Got a standin’ date Saturday night—with my nephew.”
“Oh.” That was a relief. All that jealousy for nothing. “Can I come in?”
It was almost insulting how long it took him to decide, but he eventually turned and preceded her into the room, pulling up the form-fitting boxer briefs that had ridden low on his haunches. Squeak, asleep in front of the fire, barely lifted her head in acknowledgment of the new arrival. It smelled different tonight. No longer a workshop, it had that slightly musky, sleeping-man scent. The one you don’t notice when you wake up to it but have to air out if you reenter a bedroom. It softened the usual fire and brimstone of the place.
Uma’s eyes scanned his shadowed shape, and the word voyeur popped into her head. Rory was right. It made so much sense. She’d always spent time with people who had to be the center of attention—her mother growing up, then all those drama department friends in school whose friendships hadn’t withstood Joey, and then Joey himself. It was a rare moment of insight to realize what a parasitic relationship she’d had with those people. All of them. No, not parasitic—symbiotic. They’d craved the attention, and she’d thrived off giving it to them.
This man, self-sufficient to the extreme, didn’t want anything from her. Or at least nothing complicated.
“You need a bed to crash?”
“Did you mean it when you said you’d do whatever I wanted you to do?”
A brief hesitation, then a slightly breathless, “Yeah.” Another pause. “You drunk?”
She shook her head, and it was as clear as a bell. Clear and calm and supremely focused. “I drank enough to give me courage, but the walk home sobered me up.”
“Where’d you walk from?”
“The Nook,” she answered, recalling Rory’s words about this little section of town. Cell Block Eight. “You went to prison.” It was more of a question than an accusation.
He tensed up at that but didn’t deny it.
“Why? What’d you do?”
“Beat someone up.”
“What for?”
“Had my reasons.”
“Were they good? Your reasons?”
“Thought so at the time.” In the middle of the room, he looked away and turned back to her. Ivan rubbed a hand over his eyes and spoke wearily, “What can I do for you, Uma?”
Something came over her. That inner voyeur, once identified, had taken on a life of its own. Here, with a half-naked Ivan, its pull was strong, deep in her bones.
I want to see you.
She wondered what it would take to get him to pull his underwear off.
“Take off your shorts.”
Uma thought the words and then they were out, charging the air between them. Positively zipping with energy. A barometer in that room would have swung wildly in both directions, unsure whether to settle on Stormy or Electric. Either would have suited her fine.
She was fierce, wide awake, as she watched first surprise, then awareness overtake Ivan’s features. His chest rose and fell, the sounds coming from him grown harsh.
He was measuring her, she could tell, trying to figure her out. She saw the exact moment he decided to give up.
Smart man. It was a lost cause.
“Come closer,” he said. So Uma could see him better? So he could get a clearer look at her? So he could touch her? She wasn’t sure she could take him touching her, but she gave him three small steps.
Still a ways from the rumpled bed in the corner, he stood beside his anvil, shirtless in the half-light. She wished he’d pick up the hammer and make the sparks fly again. She wished for bared teeth to go with the dark smattering of fur across his chest and arrowing down into his waistband. Uma wanted him feral, a beast she could tame. Would he bite her if she let him?
Her gaze slid down his body, taking in the long lines marred by gentle whorls of dark hair and the occasional scar. Thick thigh muscles wrapped in white, white skin. Their heft excited her. Her nostrils flared with some strange, animalistic desire to bite him.
Oh, that. That notion was right.
“Will you take your shirt off?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No.” It didn’t even sound like her voice—harder, surer.
A strangled little half sigh escaped his mouth, and Uma felt for him; she really did. Only she wanted so badly to see him that she couldn’t let him off the hook. So she waited.
And then he did it. Throwing his head back to look down his nose at her in that defiant way that big men have—professional athletes in the stadium, soldiers on the battlefield—he curled his fingers around the elastic clinging to his hips.
Without blinking, Uma stared, panting lightly. Nothing could have pulled her away.
For once, she wasn’t the self-conscious one. For once, she was in th
e position of power, the watcher instead of the watched. Was it wrong to enjoy it? Probably. She nearly put her hand out to stop him. She shouldn’t demean him like this.
He smiled. A strange hybrid of a smile—a perfect mix, much like the man. The kind of smile a gentle monster would give. Half-sweet and half utterly wicked.
Uma fell into the moment headfirst, drunk off stronger things than booze. She squinted and bit her lip in concentration.
She’d done strip shows for Joey—pathetic seductions after a few drinks on a Friday night. He’d enjoyed her embarrassment, probably more than the nudity itself. The bastard had gotten off on her powerlessness.
This was different.
Uma commanded, and Ivan complied. He could overpower her at any moment but chose not to. She was drunk off his acquiescence.
The shorts made a sound as they dragged over his skin, a slight rasping against hair, followed by the creaking of bones as he bent to tug them off. None of it was particularly graceful—his grace was reserved for the anvil—but it was lovely. Perhaps even lovelier for the lack of finesse.
And his body. Lord, his body. From the irresistible blend of uncertainty and cockiness in his eyes to the hard curves of his chest and the sleek line of his flank, he was beautiful. Below the waist, his penis—no, his cock—rose, half-hard, from a dark thatch of hair.
An answering weight settled in Uma’s belly, making her panties uncomfortably wet. She liked that he was already aroused, the fact that this situation made him hot.
“You like me telling you what to do,” she said in a voice clogged with desire. It wasn’t a question.
He licked his lips before speaking, glancing down at his erection and letting out a tiny, strained laugh. “Guess so.”
She couldn’t laugh with him or even smile. This beautiful man, stark naked in front of her, was no laughing matter.
“Good.” She stepped closer to him, with a first, brief pang of uncertainty, wishing, yet again, for something to filter the intensity of the moment. To protect her. “Don’t move.”
She waited for a beat, testing whether or not he’d do as she asked, giving him time to defy her. But he was still, utterly still, breath bated, waiting. For what came next. For her.
She circled him, and the view from behind was just as satisfying. He was massive, with muscles that should have intimidated but only turned her on. She reached a hand out, tentatively at first, to curve over one hard hip, and mumbled, “You’re so warm.”
He shuddered in response.
A patch of freckles congregated on his right shoulder blade, a sweet constellation. Stretched up on tiptoes, Uma managed to press her lips to the center of the cluster. He smelled perfect, like his bed—warm and clean and manly and sleepy, with a burnt metallic undertone. Her tongue painted a wet stripe across the dots, confirming that his taste matched his smell: elemental and delicious.
Standing behind him, she laid a trembling hand on his other hip and hesitated before leaning fully into his body, her head settling on his back with a sigh. She swayed against him, a strange, sexy slow dance that finally swung her back around to his front.
He reached for her, and she almost stepped back, loathe to give up control. But when he bent to touch his mouth to hers, it didn’t matter who was leading. The sparks between them had a life of their own. He kissed her long and slow until she was too breathless and had to break away. The noise of protest he made was gratifying, and Uma loved this feeling of being in charge. She tugged at his hips, pulling him closer to the bed. She sat, and he slid onto his knees between her legs.
Another kiss, hotter than the last—deeper and needier—had her clutching his hair and him holding her still and everything so close to combustion that she stopped it. She had to now, or it would be too late.
Catching her breath, she urged him back to standing, bringing his cock right there, fully hard and straining in her direction, and this was right. Ivan naked and Uma clothed, calling the shots.
Funny how it felt so scripted, all of this, like a choreographed dance she’d plotted out ahead of time, like she knew exactly what she was doing. And yet, from one moment to the next, she had absolutely no idea what was coming.
You’re a voyeur. The words echoed through her brain. They were both at the mercy of Uma’s long-denied, never-acknowledged, messed-up desires. Desires that pushed her to take hold of him and cant her face forward to rub against his erection.
Ivan’s entire body tightened at the contact, and his breathing grew loud and ragged above her. His hands stayed suspended by his sides, however, wanting but not daring to touch. The skin of his cock was soft against her cheek, softer still when it pulsed against her hot, dry lips. It occurred to her that this may be the first time she’d ever held a man like this, admired his body without the pressure of what was expected of her.
Ivan was letting her give rather than demanding anything of her.
Another shuddering breath from Ivan led her eyes inexorably up, up, up over miles of craggy terrain, to his face. He was crushingly handsome. The most beautiful man she’d ever seen, especially with that particular look. Lost, hungry, and close to losing control. His fingers, white at the knuckles, dug into his thighs.
It made Uma feel like pushing him further, to get a glimpse of the wild animal poised to emerge. Without moving her gaze from his, she bent again and ran her tongue down his length, leaving a wet path in her wake. His low, breathy moan spurred her to continue, wetting his entire cock from root to tip. She imagined how all that saliva would help her slide onto him. Not that she’d need it. Her underwear was drenched.
“Uma,” he whispered, “please.”
She smiled and shook her head, instead using the moisture to stroke her hand up and down, up and down. Every pull at him bumped the head against her lips and waiting tongue and brought him closer to the bed, so his knees were finally trapped between Uma’s.
This is power, she realized. From underdog to top dog in the blink of an eye. Having this big man at her mercy made her feel wicked and alive. He could break her with one hand, if he chose, and yet—
How easy would it be to pull Ivan atop her and let him take over? He’d yank her clothes off and see what lay beneath.
She stiffened at the possibility. Could he stand to look at her if she let him do that? What would he think, seeing another man’s ownership scrawled so blatantly across her skin?
What Joey had done, forcing her the way he had… He may have bested her physically, but he would never know this kind of power. Never.
Rather than dwell on the past, Uma pulled away.
“Touch yourself,” she ordered and was gratified when he lifted his hand. Slowly, he clasped himself, almost tentatively at first, which seemed so wrong for a big man like him.
“Tighter,” Uma scraped out over a throat that was raw with want. “Squeeze yourself tighter.”
Being in charge apparently changed her, made her into a tyrant.
“I want you so bad, Uma.”
She admired how big he was, his hand, his cock, his thighs.
“Use both hands, Ivan. Pretend you’re fucking me.”
“Feels so good.” His molasses voice slid over her, dark and sweet, and she nearly lost it. They were the three sexiest words she’d ever heard. She wanted to take them and bottle them and spread them all over herself, writhe in the sensation they gave. His loss of control was a drug.
“It looks good, Ivan.” This couldn’t be Uma talking. She was no femme fatale. “You’re beautiful.” His head jolted up at her words, with a little scoffing sound. “You are.”
She leaned back on his bed, raking her eyes down to her own filthy peep show, then back up, dying to see his face when he came. Ivan the Viking warrior, above her, pretending to take her, using himself. The rhythm took over, and Uma imagined his ass hardening with each thrust. Her own hips writhed slightly, trying
without success to gain some sort of friction on the bed. She could have reached down, but touching herself could wait until she was alone in bed. She wanted to be present for this. Every detail needed to be imprinted on her brain, available for playback at her leisure.
She startled them both by moaning. His eyes popped open to meet hers. It wasn’t clear which did it, Uma’s moan or meeting her eyes, but something in him snapped. His hand moved faster, gripping himself so tightly that it had to hurt. That sound of skin on skin, with the occasional slick, sliding noise, was absolutely filthy.
“Oh, fuck, Uma.”
Her eyes darted, face to cock and back, taking in every detail of this man losing it for her. His hands forgot to do the little twist at the top; his muscles bunched almost painfully; veins protruded along his thick forearms. He looked surprised when he came, on a quiet moan, eyes half-closed but still burning into hers. She looked away long enough to watch three long spurts fill his cupped palm.
There came a moment of stillness, rife with what they’d done. A harsh breath escaped when Uma finally remembered to let it out, and she croaked, “Come here.”
After wiping his hand on his discarded shorts, Ivan flopped onto the bed and lined himself up beside her and pulled her into a tangle of limbs, his naked and hers fully clothed. There was something almost sad about the contrast. She didn’t dare picture it with her clothes off—his pristine skin still looking naked beside hers, littered with ink.
He leaned over her, a sweet smile on his face, and said, “I want to kiss you again.” Asking permission, taking care in that way he had.
Uma couldn’t help but smile back at him, just a little.
His lips were full and soft, his kiss so sweet. And so intense. It started slow, then lost control. Even with a couple of jarring tooth clashes, it was the most passionate kiss Uma had ever had, deeper tonight with their new knowledge of one another.
Twice, he reached for the button on her jeans, and twice, she pushed him away.
They made out like that, mouths and hands and writhing bodies, for what seemed like forever, learning each other. First hungry, then deep and sweet, tapering off to gentle caresses, until she settled into his neck, and he eventually relaxed and fell asleep, half on top of her.
Under Her Skin Page 15
