Protector for Hire

by Tawna Fenske

  Instead, she answered. “Cami top and sleep shorts.”

  He closed his eyes, picturing her in his mind. Christ, he shouldn’t be doing this. He’d pledged to keep his distance, to keep himself from getting distracted by sex or connection or the heat in her eyes.

  You’re not even in the same room, his subconscious pointed out. You can’t even see her. Surely you can still keep your head clear if you keep your hands off her.

  He cleared his throat. “Panties?”

  “No. Satin sleep shorts.”

  “Are you lying back on the bed?”

  “Yes.”

  Schwartz stifled a groan. God, he could imagine her lying there with her hair spread across the pillow, her breasts pressing against the soft cotton of her top. Was it the pink one or the yellow one? Didn’t matter, he could see her nipples through both.

  “Touch yourself,” he murmured. “Slide down the strap of your top and touch yourself.”

  A sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line told him she was either doing what he’d asked or doing a damn god job faking it. He preferred to imagine the former, and he closed his eyes to picture her with her palm cupping her breast.

  “Remember me touching you in the bathroom the other day?” he asked. “The way I rubbed my palms over your breasts so softly you were whimpering and pressing against me?”

  “God, yes,” she whispered.

  “I want you to imagine I’m touching you right now. Picture my hands on you.”

  “I am. I have been for days.”

  “Soft circles,” he murmured. “So soft, you’re barely touching yourself.”

  “Schwartz.” It was half moan, half question, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “Yeah?”

  “Touch yourself, too, please? If we can’t—I mean, at least we can—”

  He hesitated, wondering if that crossed the line into territory where he could lose his head or his heart or any other body parts he needed to do the job his family was trusting him to do.

  There’s only one body part you’re involving here.

  He knew it was a lie, but he wanted to believe it anyway.

  “Okay.”

  He slid his hand to the front of his body, gripping himself firmly as he pictured her there on the other side of the wall. He began to stroke, taking his time, wanting to make sure he stayed in control here.

  “God, you feel good,” she murmured, and he had to admit she was right.

  “Are you still touching your breasts?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I want you to slide one hand down. Move your palm over your ribs, down your side, around your belly.”

  “Mmm.”

  “So soft.”

  “Yes.”

  “Think of my hands on you like that. Stroking you, moving down, sliding the tips of my fingers under your waistband. How does it feel?”

  “Good,” she gasped. “So good.”

  “You want me to keep going?”

  “Please.” She was begging, her voice a low moan he felt deep in his balls. “Please, Schwartz, keep going.”

  He did, his hand tightening around his own shaft as he kept talking. “I want you to move your shorts down over your hips. Imagine my hands sliding them down, curving over your hip bones, your thighs, your calves. Can you feel that?”

  “Yes. I can feel every inch of you.”

  “Good.” God, he wished that were true. Some inches more than others. But this was as close as he could come for now. “Open your legs for me and arch your back a little.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you feel me there between your legs?”

  “Yes. God, I’m so wet.”

  Christ. He was going to lose it here in a second if he wasn’t careful. He had to focus on her. “Slide two fingers inside yourself. Just the tips, not too fast. Take it nice and slow.”

  She gasped, and he nearly came off the bed. He had to slow down here or he was going to lose his mind. “Imagine those are my fingers inside you. Feel my breath on your belly, my mouth moving down the middle of your body.”

  “Oh!”

  “Can I taste you?”

  She moaned in response, a strangled cry that was really more of a plea. “I need you,” she gasped.

  He needed her, too. Badly. He was seeing stars behind his eyelids, and they danced over the image of her lying back on the bed with her legs open to him, her soft folds wet and waiting for him. Her breath was coming fast now, and he could hear the rustle of fabric as she writhed against the bed.

  “Janelle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me how you want it. Fast or slow?”

  “Faster now. Please.”

  “God, you taste sweet. So sweet.”

  She moaned and he swore he could almost feel her on the tip of his tongue, warm and soft with her thighs clenched tight around his ears. “Slide your fingers in deeper,” he murmured, quickening the pace of his own strokes. “Think about my tongue on you, moving everywhere at once, so soft you feel dizzy.”

  “I’m close. So close.”

  So was he. God, he could almost feel her pulsing around him. She cried out, her voice sharp and urgent before the sound went muffled. He pictured her smothering her cries with the pillow, and then he pictured nothing at all. His mind went blank, turning to nothing but flashes of color and light and sound and taste as sensation coursed through him and he felt himself explode.

  He tried not to make a sound, but the moan was practically torn from his throat, low and desperate and hungry. She cried out again, softer this time, her breath coming in panting little gasps as Schwartz slowed the speed of his own strokes and tried not to think of the mess he’d just made.

  Literally or figuratively.

  “Janelle?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  She laughed, and the sound made him warm all over again. “Okay? Are you kidding me? Every nerve in my body is out-of-this world fantastic. God, Schwartz. Where’d you learn to do that? Wait, don’t tell me your mother.”

  “Definitely not,” he said. “Stella Patton gave me many life lessons, but phone sex wasn’t one of them.”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  “Want a confession?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “That was my first time.”

  “You were a phone-sex virgin?”

  “Apparently so.”

  She made a soft little hum in the back of her throat. “I like that. The idea of deflowering you. Of bringing out a side of you no one else has ever gotten to see.”

  Schwartz lay back against the pillow and closed his eyes. You did that long before you picked up the phone.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Schwartz woke up grumpy.

  He heard the cheerful, imaginary echo of his brother’s voice in the back of his head. Don’t you wake up grumpy every morning?

  “Shut up, Grant,” he muttered out loud. Rolling over, he punched his pillow as his chest clenched tight.

  Dammit, he missed the bastard. He hadn’t realized how much until Grant had shown up in his life and in his kitchen, sharing bad coffee and a plan to drag him into a mission that was a matter of life and death for someone who clearly mattered a whole lot to their family.

  And now she mattered to him.

  He didn’t need this right now. Schwartz rolled again and stared out the window. The sun was just starting to light up the tamaracks, staining the sky a soft purplish red. A western meadowlark flitted from branch to branch on a fir tree.

  Another beautiful morning on this, the twenty-ninth day of September.

  He rolled the date around in his mind like someone poking at a bad tooth with the tip of his tongue. Ten years ago today, he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. It was the day he’d ruined everything, disappointed his family, and lost his place in the world. He closed his eyes and smelled the tang of gunpowder again, heard the shrill hiss of the rocket and
the screams of dying men.

  Your fault. All your fault. You deserve to be alone.

  A rustling sound on the other side of the wall made him open his eyes.

  He wasn’t alone. Not by a long shot.

  Janelle.

  He rolled over again and punched the stupid hot dog pillow. What the hell had he been thinking last night? Talking to her that way, urging her to pleasure herself while he followed suit on the other side of the wall. He pictured her touching her body, those small hands caressing soft, luscious breasts as his palms moved down the side of her body and under her waistband until—

  Okay, so he hadn’t actually touched her. That was something. His judgment was a little fuzzy, but at least he hadn’t ruined it completely. He could still stay objective here, still keep her safe without the threat of hormones or affection or anything else clouding his thoughts. He could still do this.

  He could still prove himself, even if it meant keeping his hands off her for good.

  With a sigh, Schwartz threw back the covers and swung his legs out of the bed. It was chilly in the cabin, and he tugged on a pair of worn jeans and an old sweatshirt before lumbering into the living room. He got to work gathering wood and feeding Sherman, throwing himself into mundane tasks so he wouldn’t think about rockets or family or pale blue eyes flashing up at him with laughter.

  He got the fire blazing again, and was sitting on the floor in front of it rubbing Sherman’s belly when Janelle walked in. He saw her out of the corner of his eye as she stumbled sleepily into the living room, pulling his old sweatshirt over her head as she moved. She bent down and tugged on a pair of wooly socks with pink and orange polka dots.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Good morning.” Was it his imagination, or did she blush when she looked at him? He only dared to glance at her from his peripheral vision, so he couldn’t be sure. Her hair was rumpled and her cheeks were rosy and all he could think about was how urgently he wanted to watch her pleasure herself the way she’d done it last night.

  Hell, that was a lie. He wanted to be the one pleasuring her.

  He turned away completely, making sure he couldn’t even see her shadow. He concentrated on watching the fire, on scratching the happy spot at the center of Sherman’s chest. The dog gave a low groan, oblivious to his master’s surly mood.

  “You’ve got it nice and toasty in here,” she said, and he heard her sock-clad shuffling across the wood floor behind him. “Thank you.”

  He grunted in reply, hand still on his dog’s chest, eyes still on the fire. He’d be okay if he didn’t look at her. He could feel her moving behind him, drifting toward the door, her gaze on the back of his head.

  Still, he said nothing.

  She cleared her throat. “Last night was—”

  “So how’s that espresso machine working out for you?”

  The silence stretched out behind him. When she answered, her voice was stiff. “Fine. Just fine.”

  “Good.”

  He kept rubbing his dog’s belly, but Sherman raised his head and pricked his ears, sensing the tension between them. Schwartz stayed silent, hating the tight feeling in his chest, wishing he could just give in and touch her. Devour her. Love her.

  Love? What the actual fuck?

  “You know, Schwartz, it wouldn’t be the worst thing if we slept together.”

  He closed his eyes, hating the hurt in her voice almost as much as he hated himself.

  Hating that he was about to make it worse.

  “I see,” he said. “And you’re qualified to know that would be such a great idea because your last relationship worked out so well?”

  He had his back to her, so he didn’t see the blow coming. One minute he was sitting there peacefully rubbing the dog’s belly, and the next he was marveling at how such a tiny woman could deliver a kick to rival that of an angry moose.

  “Ow!” he growled, jumping up from his spot on the floor. He spun to face her, rubbing his tailbone. “What the hell?”

  “You’re acting like a jerk,” she snapped, eyes flashing with fury as she folded her arms over her chest.

  “That fucking hurt!”

  “Acting like a jerk is different from actually being a jerk. You might think you can fool everyone into thinking you’re this curmudgeonly, surly bastard who doesn’t like being around people, but I know better, Schwartz.”

  “When did you put on your goddamn boots?” he growled, focusing on the ache in his ass so he wouldn’t have to focus on the truth in her words.

  “You’re a cream puff,” she snapped. “A sweetheart. A nice guy who buys thoughtful gifts and rescues helpless animals and does favors for family members he hasn’t seen in a decade.”

  “Seriously, I think you dislocated my tailbone.”

  “You want people to think you’re this big, scary grump who hates everyone,” she said, not winding down in the slightest. “But I saw you smiling in the café with all those people around you yesterday. I hear you singing to Sherman when you pick burrs out of his ears. I watched your whole face light up when you saw Grant’s number flash on your caller ID yesterday. You are a nice guy who cares about others, and that scares the hell out of you for some reason.”

  “You couldn’t have aimed a little higher, maybe taken out a kidney?”

  “And even though you’re standing there pretending you don’t give a damn about what’s been happening between us, I know it’s all an act.”

  He grimaced, hoping like hell she couldn’t see how her words were finding their mark. “Who the hell puts pointy toes on snow boots?”

  “I know you like me, Schwartz.” She took a step closer, so close he could feel the heat from her bare legs. “And I like you, too, despite the fact that you’re acting like a bastard right now.”

  He swallowed hard, pushing down the urge to reach out and grab her around the waist, pulling her to him. Instead, he rubbed his tailbone again. “I can already feel the bruise forming.”

  She glared at him, her frustration making her even more beautiful than she already was. “I want you and you want me, and I really don’t see how it’s going to hurt anything if we enjoy each other’s company while we have the opportunity.”

  “Was that some special kick my sister taught you, or just a lucky shot?”

  She glared at him for a moment, then shook her head in disgust. “Good talk, Schwartz.”

  She stomped off to the bathroom, hair trailing behind her, boots thudding on the wood floor, her legs bare and beautiful beneath the hem of his sweatshirt

  He waited until the door closed to let the big, stupid smile spread across his face.

  …

  All morning long, Janelle felt guilty about the things she’d said to Schwartz. Okay, so most of it was true. That didn’t mean she had a right to say it out loud. Not when she was a guest in his home and a grateful recipient of his gruff brand of personal protection. Hurling accusations at a guy who was saving her ass was probably not the best way to show gratitude.

  They worked in silence in the office, their laptops on opposite ends of the desk, the air around them crackling with energy.

  At noon, she got up and made grilled cheese sandwiches, using extra butter the way she knew he liked it. She cut an apple into thick slices and dunked the ends in peanut butter, something he’d done a few days earlier. She arranged half the apples on each plate, pulled two Pop-Tarts out of the toaster, and carted the whole mess into the office using a baking sheet as a tray.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting a plate at him. “A peace offering.”

  He turned and looked up at her with wary gray eyes. “What for?”

  She sighed and sat down in the other chair, pulling her plate onto the desk beside her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

  He studied her for a moment, then looked down at his sandwich. “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not fine. I was rude and I apologize.”

  “You were right and I
accept.” He picked up the sandwich and took a bit. “It’s okay, Janelle. You had a point. I was being a dick this morning.”

  “I didn’t use that word, exactly.”

  “That’s right, we’re avoiding dicks around here.”

  She felt the heat creep into her cheeks and looked away, intent on rearranging the apple slices on her plate. “Be that as it may, I had no right to talk to you like that. You’re inconveniencing yourself to protect me, and I appreciate that.”

  He set his plate on the desk with a clatter and reached out to grab her hands. The unexpected contact sent an arc of electricity to her, a feeling that ran counter to her renewed pledge to respect his wishes and keep things platonic.

  But she didn’t pull back. She let him grip her knuckles between his massive palms, his eyes searching hers as he held her with more than his hands.

  “You were right to call me on it,” he said. “I was having a bad morning, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

  “A bad morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  She bit her lip, hesitating. “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay.” She looked down at the apples again, wondering if she should have used more peanut butter.

  “But I will.”

  She looked up from her plate to see those gray eyes looking haunted again. She felt an overpowering urge to reach up and smooth a hand over his cheek and tell him everything would be okay.

  But he was still holding both her hands in his, so she shut up and waited for him to continue.

  “How much do you know about my military service?” he asked.

  The question took her by surprise, and she had to think for a moment. “I know you were the first person in your family to join the army. Everyone else was a marine.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. I know you got hurt in Iraq. Badly.” She swallowed, not certain how much to reveal, but knowing she couldn’t lie with those eyes searching hers the way they were. “Your mom and Sheri—when we were in Kauai organizing your sister’s wedding? They told us some things.”

  “Like what?”