by S. A. Wolfe
“Okay.” She beams at me widely, and I want to take the four steps between us and kiss her.
That’s what the old Dylan would do.
Instead, I am partially paralyzed as she removes her coat and then a fitted workout jacket that matches her yoga pants. Her skimpy t-shirt that’s stretched across her chest and baring her belly button is speaking lulling words to my dick. I feel my groin getting excited again, so I make an escape for the door.
“Hey! Are you going to make me dinner?” She is several feet behind me. I hear the patter of her quick steps and her little breathy puffs as she tries to keep up.
“Oh, I’m making dinner. Absolutely,” I call out as I jog down the stairs. I head for the kitchen, figuring she’ll find me soon enough.
“Oh, my God!” she shouts from the dining room. “I can’t believe you guys don’t have any furniture down here. A pool table?”
I pull food out of the fridge and lump everything on the counter next to the griddle on the stove.
“Honestly,” Emma says, coming into the kitchen. “All you have in the living room is a giant flat screen TV and that pitiful couch that looks like it’s from a frat house. And a pool table in the dining room? You guys make gorgeous furniture for a living. Why the heck is it only upstairs?”
“We haven’t gotten around to it. Besides, it’s Leo’s house. He fixed the important things first. You know, like plumbing and the leaky roof?”
She scoffs and then hops up on the counter with her ass next to the butcher block. Great. I get to chop vegetables and admire her ass at the same time.
“So, Dylan.”
“Yes, Emma?” I respond as I slice some apples.
She grabs my wrist and turns it over to look at the word tattooed on the inside of my arm an inch down from my hand: Freedom. As she whispers it to herself and then studies it in silence for a moment, I find myself hoping she doesn’t ask me about it. Not yet.
She puts my hand back on the butcher block.
“What’s your story?” She chooses an apple slice and starts nibbling on it.
Her and her goddamn nibbling. She knows how to get a guy to zoom in on her mouth.
I put my head down and focus on chopping. “There is no story. At least, nothing interesting. What’s yours? How did you end up dating a scumbag? And how long did it take for you to realize you’re too good for a guy like that? Did he cheat on you?”
I sure let it rip. I let it all out.
She stops chewing, swallows, and frowns. “Well, you certainly said a mouthful. No, Robert didn’t cheat on me. Why do you care? Are you speaking from experience?”
“What did Lauren tell you about me?” I put my knife down and lean against the counter. “And don’t bother denying it; I know Lauren very well. She talks about everyone and everything.”
“Yes, she does. She said you had to go into a treatment place for a while because you are—”
“Bipolar. Yeah. I went to the funny farm a few months ago.” She looks a little stunned at my choice of words. “What else?”
“Lauren said you were a ho in college,” she whispers apologetically. “Her words, not mine.”
“Shit.” I laugh in spite of the unflattering label. “I guess I deserve that.”
I shake off that weighted voice that keeps trying to pull me down. The one that constantly reminds me that I’ve blazed a trail of fuck-ups, and they don’t disappear just because I think I’m on the straight and narrow. I get back to the business of food and feeding my vegetarian houseguest. I slap together sliced apples, onions, Gruyere, mustard, and some butter on rye, and press the sandwiches on the griddle with the back of a spatula.
“Even if you were a womanizing, sexist pig, that sandwich looks good, and it smells divine.”
“Did Lauren say I’m a sexist pig?” I ask, astounded.
Holy crap. I still have that shitty reputation, and I’m not getting any action whatsoever.
“No, I added that part for fun.” She tilts her head and laughs. “Gotcha.” This ability of hers to let go and laugh uninhibitedly, her whole body shaking with delight, is pretty cute and too captivating for me.
“Nice. Real nice,” I say, plating her sandwich and handing it to her.
I lean against the counter again and watch her take a bite. Not a nibble, a big, slobbering bite with butter drizzling down her chin. Old Dylan is telling me to lick it off her chin. Or maybe it’s New Dylan because he’s got a thing for Emma. He wants to screw her, too.
“Oh, my God, Dylan. This is heaven,” she says.
That’s exactly what I’d like to hear you say to me in bed.
Ah, man, I need willpower for this damsel in distress. And she’s hardly in distress; she seems to hold her own just fine. Maybe I did blow this out of proportion so I could play the rescuer for a change. But what kind of guy breaks into his former girlfriend’s house? A piece of shit I’d like to pummel, that’s who, and that’s all I need is to get into another fight.
“I’m glad you like it.” I start eating my sandwich, sensing her eyes on me. “Let me get you a drink.”
It’s merely a good excuse to open both the fridge and freezer doors to chill down my cock. I grab two cans of seltzer and seriously consider throwing some ice cubes in my briefs. I crack a can open and hand it to her then polish off the rest of my sandwich in three bites.
“This is great.” She takes a swig of her drink. “Do you cook like this every day?”
“I can,” I say, knowing damn well I am trying to impress her and give her another reason to stay here.
“We should probably discuss this set up.” She puts her empty plate down next to her and leans forward with her hands gripping the edge of the counter.
I stash the cutting board and pans in the sink for later and then return to my position of leaning against the counter approximately three inches from her small hand. “What do we need to discuss?”
“How long am I staying here? I have to get my car fixed. Plus, I have a lease on the cottage, so I have to move back sometime. Do I pay you rent while I’m here?” She rattles this off like it’s a business deal.
Emma is not a business deal to me, though. She’s already under my skin, embedded where the bad stuff used to dominate and still partially resides. I think she could knock that shit out of me.
“You can stay here as long as you need to. I’ll get your car towed and fixed; my friend owns a repair shop in the next town. We’ll get your lease cancelled; I know Joe, the man who owns those cottages, and he won’t have a problem when he hears that you’ve got some asshat ex breaking in whenever he feels like it. So you are not moving back to the cottage, and you’re not paying rent here. There, are we done with that?”
She crosses her ankles and swings her legs out, back and forth like a kid. “Why are you doing this? You’ve known me five days and most of that time you weren’t speaking much to me. I got the impression that you were rather aggravated having me in your space at work. When I overheard you with Carson, it pretty much confirmed what I thought. So why would you want me living here?”
“I told you why I was tearing into Carson. It’s not you. I’m glad he hired you, and since we’ll be working together, helping you settle in Hera is the least I can do.”
“Except I’m not settling. You just moved me out of my new home. I can’t settle in here; this home belongs to Leo.”
“He’s busy settling into Lauren’s house, and that belongs to Jess, so I guess, we’re all settling where we can.”
“I don’t think that’s the whole story,” she says with a sly smile. “I think you’re a nice guy. Although, it may be hard for you to admit it to yourself because it’s apparent you’ve been dealing with some tough personal issues for a long time.”
I close my eyes and hang my head with a sigh. That is exactly what I don’t want to hear; a woman I am attracted to feeling sympathy for me and attempting to reassure me like I’m her new friend. That�
��s a mood killer. I consider doing the dishes to top off my night when she places her hand on my arm.
“Thank you,” she says sweetly and leans in close, kissing me lightly on the cheek.
I am so still that all I hear is my own breathing. She’s lit the fuse. I want to kiss her. Hard. I don’t want to talk; I want to touch what I haven’t been able to touch for months.
She doesn’t move back; she hovers there next to my face with her lips a whisper away as her hand slides up my arm. I don’t wait for another sign; I move swiftly and cup her face with both hands. I’m so hungry for her that I collide into her mouth. I keep the kiss slow and firm. I am not going to woo her with soft kisses and tenderness when I have spent five days living like a raging bull, thinking of her.
As my tongue caresses hers, exploring every part of her soft mouth, she runs her fingers up my arms and over my shoulders. Her soft hands are all over me. She caresses my head and traces my scars while her other hand runs down the back of my neck. This touch—her hand stroking across my scalp—is different than all the women who have been touching my buzzed head for months. The other women felt like intruders; Emma doesn’t.
Then she opens her legs and I push myself between them. I use one hand to grab her ass and pull her towards me, and she wraps her legs around me. That’s when I really begin to come undone. Any part of my body I thought I was controlling is succumbing to her. I hold her waist and move my hands slowly up her rib cage and cup the sides of her breasts before my mouth takes over her neck and works its way down to that hollow dip in her collarbone. She moans softly. This is too good. I don’t want to stop touching her, feeling her heightened passion each time my hand or mouth moves across her skin, tasting and smelling with basic animal instinct.
“Dylan.” Her voice is soft but insistent.
I stop kissing her and bury my face in her neck. “Damn.”
Her legs drop their hold on my waist, and I remove my hands from her. We languish in that awkward moment when you both know you have crossed a line.
“That was…” she begins, trailing off.
“Sorry, I’ll never do that again,” I say hoarsely.
“I was going to say that was great.” She looks at me with disappointment. “Seriously, I know a great kiss when I get one and that was a great kiss.”
“Hell, don’t say things like that.” I put another foot of space between us. “Don’t encourage me to lead you on. I don’t want to be a prick. Not to you.”
She gives another one of her light-hearted laughs and covers her mouth. “You’re actually sweet and funny. Don’t worry about me. No one can hurt me unless I let them, and I’m not that kind of woman.”
“What about Rocky, your Italian stud? You cried over him.”
“I didn’t cry because we broke up. I wanted the break up. I cried because the thought of having to deal with Robert again is too much for me to handle.”
“Then it’s good we’re not going to let this go any further. I’m not worse than Rocky, but I’ve got a shitload of baggage that no one deserves to get stuck holding.”
“His name is Robert, and I think you are better than him.”
“I’m damaged goods, Emma.”
She groans and gives an exaggerated eye roll. Her perfect eyebrows scrunch up for a second before she shakes her head then grabs my wrists, gripping them tightly to maneuver me closer to her.
“I hate when people use that corny line.”
“It’s true. There’s no other way to describe me.”
“Dylan, why do people who think they are damaged goods believe they are protecting others by shutting them out?”
“It’s the way we’re wired—poorly—or maybe we’re just different. I can’t change that.”
“If we were all wired the same way, life would be very boring.”
“Except, sometimes my mind is stuck in high gear. It’s fucked up. My brain doesn’t always let me downshift to a lower gear. Sometimes, it’s like a never-ending race, and I don’t know where the finish line is. This may be impossible for me to explain to you.”
“Well, that does sound difficult,” she says softly. “But I’m no angel, either. I’ve certainly made my mistakes. Doesn’t youth allow a certain degree of bad behavior before we grow up and evolve into full-fledged, tax-paying adults who put real tables in their formal dining rooms instead of old pool tables?” She smiles and then laughs.
Her witty quip tugs a stubborn grin out of me. It doesn’t last long, though. I have to give her a dose of my reality. “I can’t be involved with anyone, Emma.”
“Oh, you mean it doesn’t work?” she says, pointing to my groin.
“It works fine, thank you.”
“Yeah, I thought so. Your special someone made an appearance when I kissed you.”
“I would hope so. It’s been a long time.”
Why do I keep giving her personal information like that?
“So what do you want to do now?” she asks. “Watch TV? Tell me your deepest, darkest secrets? Do you want to kiss again?”
She’s definitely flirting with me, and I like it.
“No to all of the above. I get up early to go running, so I need to get some sleep.”
“It’s barely ten o’clock. Isn’t there a fun local bar we can go to?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Oh, come on. You’re going to bed this early on a Friday night?”
“You’re welcome to watch TV, but I have to sleep.”
“Boy, all that exercise and pumping weights makes you a tired grump. I guess I’ll read a book or visit some chat rooms with perverts. That’ll be entertaining for a few hours, I suppose.”
“Goodnight, Emma.” As I head out of the kitchen, she’s on my heels again.
“You sure don’t know how to throw a sleepover. Maybe I’ll go through the Mercer file. I’ll call you if I need help,” she says as she walks up the stairs behind me.
Fortunately, my room is the first one at the top of the staircase.
“Sleep well,” I say. “When I come back from my run, I’ll make breakfast.”
She shakes her head and walks down to her room at the end of the hall, muttering, “Sounds like an exciting Saturday.”
I close my door and do a face plant on the bed. How am I going to sleep with her down the hall? I hear her grumbling in the bathroom before singing some twangy country song. I wait until I hear her walk back down the hall to her bedroom and close the door, then I dash to the bathroom and take the coldest shower of my life.
Eight
Emma
It’s ten thirty-two and I am still awake, lying in the dark. Back in Jersey, my friends and I would be out drinking and dancing on a Friday night. It is one thing to live alone and spend some quiet weeknights knitting and watching TV, however it seems pretty pathetic to go to bed this early when I have a new, hot buddy down the hall who would rather sleep than talk to me. The laws of attraction are not working in my favor.
I take my phone off the nightstand and check the time again. Ten forty. This is going to be a very long night. I might as well call Lauren and Imogene to see what they are up to and live vicariously through them.
As I scroll through the phone list for Lauren’s number, I come across Dylan’s name. I forgot he added his phone number to my contact list on my first day at Blackard Designs so I can reach him when we are at work because the sound of machinery drowns out the PA system.
Okay, hot stuff.
I start texting. r u awake?
My action hero is probably sound asleep. Building muscles and running endless miles to nowhere makes even the mightiest very tired.
The phone in my hand pings.
Go to sleep.
I can’t help smiling, knowing he’s having trouble sleeping, too.
I respond. I’m bored.
That’s because you’re supposed to be sleeping.
I laugh out loud and respond. Sigh.
/>
Stop.
Still bored.
There’s no response, however I hear heavy footsteps pounding down the hallway, coming my way. Dylan throws open my door and has a knee on the bed, one foot on the floor, and his hands on either side of my head before I notice he is only wearing boxer briefs. In the dark, his face is unreadable above me as I clutch my phone to my chest.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he says in a raspy voice as he holds his face a couple of inches from mine.
“Okay,” I whisper.
When Dylan’s lips greet mine with a tender stroke, my heart begins racing from their slow assault on my mouth. His tongue darts in and out, touching my lips with soft flicks. Unlike our furious, hungry kiss in the kitchen, this one creates a burning need inside of me as his mouth tastes me, slowly at first and then deeper.
He lingers on my mouth and all I can think about is how Dylan makes kissing a work of art. Then his lips graze my cheeks and circle around my temple, down to my chin, taking his time to cover every part with sweet kisses. When the stubble on his chin strokes my cheek, shivers run down my body from my hard nipples to my center. I am going to soak my panties.
I drop the phone at my side and kiss his mouth again at the same time that I run my hands up his hard chest, feeling every punishing muscle he has created. He moans as I touch him, and our kiss deepens before coming to a lingering end.
His mouth is slightly parted while short breaths escape as he looks at me. In the moonlight, his blue eyes glow whiter with a distinct intensity. I slide my hands back down his flexed arms to his hands, covering them with my own before I clasp his wrists. He has a hungry yet indecisive look about him.
As much as I am attracted to him and beginning to like him a lot, I am just as confused as he is about what we’re doing. My job and being self-supporting is important to me, and getting mixed up with Dylan may cause conflicts I have not thought through as of yet. How can I think about being practical when I have this hunk hanging over me? We’re both frozen in time, deliberating what we should or can do next.
“I’m going back to my room, and you need to go to sleep,” he says finally. His tone sounds regretful, and I am thankful for that. I’d hate to think this is easy for him, that I am just another prospective notch on his bedpost.
