by Toni Blake
“I get it,” Mike finally said. “I know about feeling responsible to your family. But…still. It’s a lot to ask of yourself.”
“Well, just so you know, that’s not the only reason I can’t leave Chicago for the orchard. What I’ve created there is…how I know I’ve done well in life. It’s such a huge part of me that without it…”
“Yeah?”
She let out a breath. “There wouldn’t be much of me left. Just…a little girl who worries about her family’s money problems and wants to be strong and independent someday.”
Mike’s eyes fell half shut as he gazed thoughtfully down on her. “That’s not true, honey. Surely you know there’s a lot more inside you than that—I’ve seen it myself.”
Oh crap. What had she just said? Way too much, that was for sure. And it made her want to cry all over again. But it also reminded her—she was strong and independent, and it was time to resume acting like it. So she took a deep breath, felt tougher inside—and decided to end this particular conversation. “Listen,” she said, “everything I just told you—promise you’ll keep it to yourself. Edna would be mortified—we’ve never even talked about this. And besides, it’s just…personal, you know?”
“No worries,” he replied, caressing her calf. “My Farris grudge only goes so far. And lately, that hasn’t been very far at all.” He winked, lightening the mood—and she replied with a soft smile.
Then she said, “Got anything to eat? You cheated me out of the Whippy Dip.”
Reaching in a drawer, Mike grabbed an old Steelers T-shirt for Rachel to wear, then hopped in the shower. She volunteered to put their clothes in the washer in the meantime—his dirt from the ballfield had managed to get everything a little grimy, including her top and jeans.
When he came out in a clean blue tee and a pair of gray sweats cut off to make shorts, she took his spot in the bathroom and he headed to the kitchen to see what he could find.
“Aha,” he whispered, opening the fridge to see some leftover lasagna he’d forgotten about. He’d had dinner at Grandma Romo’s with his parents a couple of nights ago, before they’d headed back to Florida, and she’d sent the whole pan home with him.
As he put two slabs on plates, then stuck them in the microwave, he remembered the conversation around his grandma’s dinner table. About Rachel.
“I thought she was very nice,” his mother had said with a bright smile.
“For a Farris,” Grandma Romo had added.
His mother had leaned toward him. “Is it serious?”
“No,” he’d quickly answered—then remembered the whole reason he’d taken her there, to make his parents think he was doing the wife-shopping thing. “Not yet anyway,” he’d added on a bit of a cough.
It had felt weird even having the conversation—because Mike had never really had a serious girlfriend, except for one back around his police academy days who had been so clingy and hard to break up with that he’d pretty much sworn them off ever since. And it also felt weird because of Mike’s…feelings for Rachel. She stole his sense of control, which he hated. But he’d liked it a lot when she’d hugged him so tight after she came. And the very scent of her was still enough to excite him. And he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her, no matter what he hated or liked about the situation. The whole thing was getting a little scary to contemplate.
He let out a quiet laugh. Mike Romo, scared. Most people wouldn’t believe it. Most people thought the losses in his life had turned him tough and mean. But maybe he was tough and mean because…he didn’t want to lose any more. And if you didn’t let yourself start caring about people, then you couldn’t lose them. A long sigh escaped him.
Then he just shook his head. Follow your own advice. Don’t take things so seriously. Move on here. Have a nice night with her.
“Good idea,” he murmured.
Mike wasn’t a big wine drinker, but when he spotted the bottle in the back of his fridge that one of his cousins had given him last Christmas, he grabbed it and dug through a messy drawer for a corkscrew. Then he found the wineglasses his parents had left behind in the house when they moved and washed two of them out.
Next, he looked to his small kitchen table. It was old, walnut, chipped in places, and atop it sat a wicker napkin basket and the little football-shaped salt and pepper shakers his mom had given him a few years ago. It hit him then that, shit, if not for his family, he wouldn’t have anything in this house, not even food.
Regardless, the table just wasn’t cutting it. So he opened a drawer and found a red-and-white-checked tablecloth—something else his parents had left behind, of course, and he was thankful. After trying to shake the fold marks from it, he draped it across the wood and didn’t bother putting the salt and pepper shakers back on. He folded a couple of the paper napkins in half and laid forks and knives on them in front of two chairs—and even pulled the additional chairs away, out into the living room.
After pouring the wine and setting the plates and glasses in their respective spots, he looked around and thought, what else? Then he noticed a couple of candles in holders in the living room and went to get them. Finding some matches in a drawer, he lit them on the table, then turned out the lights.
Not bad, he thought.
But…What the hell am I doing?
And then he remembered—Rachel wanted to be wined and dined. And he didn’t know much about doing that, actually, but he found himself wanting to…try. To show her he respected her and enjoyed being with her. Or maybe he just hoped to somehow compare with guys she knew in the city—he didn’t want to come off like some country bumpkin. Hell, he just wanted to give her a nice evening. Or at least as nice as he could, with his limited resources.
When Rachel walked into the kitchen, still wearing only his T-shirt, the glow of candlelight made her skin appear luminescent. When she saw the table, she looked at him with a pretty smile. “What’s all this?”
“I’ll wine and dine you soon,” he said, “but this’ll have to do for now.”
And when they sat down across from each other, he thought—damn, I want her again already. All he could think about was that she didn’t have on any panties.
They made small talk then, about the lasagna from Grandma Romo, about his parents’ visit, about his job. About her high rise condo in Chicago, about her memories of growing up in Destiny, about where her various relatives had all moved to upon leaving town. They talked about Rachel’s worries over Edna’s loneliness, and about the orchard itself. He told her, when she asked about the house, that he’d grown up here and had bought it from his mom and dad when they left.
But the whole time, Mike wanted her, and he stayed aware of the way her nipples jutted against the cotton tee, of how her eyes lit up when she smiled. Even with her hair no longer in its chic style—just shoved back behind her ears after the rain—she looked…good enough to eat. Which reminded him of his promise to her.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I just wanted sex from you. I mean, I do”—he flashed a wicked grin, unable to help it—“but this is nice, too. And, uh, as soon as I can figure out where the hell in Destiny I can properly wine and dine you, I will.”
Yet to his surprise, she smiled and told him, “No. No, this, right here, right now, is perfect. It’s all the wining and dining I need.”
He lowered his chin and cast a doubtful look. “Then you’re easier to please than I thought.”
She just shrugged flirtatiously. “Maybe I am.” But then she grew more serious. “Maybe I…didn’t really mean I wanted to be wined and dined exactly. Maybe I just meant…it would be nice to think you didn’t mind spending time with me, more than just the time it takes to have sex. Like last week with your family—that was nice.”
“I get it,” he said. “I thought you didn’t want that stuff, but…I don’t mind that you do.” do.” I’m even glad you do. Because I like it, too, despite my better judgment. Yet then his gaze dropped back to her chest and h
is hard-on got even harder. “Damn,” he muttered without meaning to.
“What?”
Another wolfish expression escaped him. “Just noticing how much better you make that shirt look than I do.”
She lowered her chin, playful and sexy. “Is that so, Officer Romeo?”
“Damn straight, but don’t call me Romeo.”
“What if I do—Romeo? Are you going to punish me?”
He flashed a teasing look of warning. “I might. And you’re just askin’ for it, Farris.”
“Asking for what?”
“Well, Grandma Romo’s lasagna was good,” he said, lowering his chin, locking his gaze demandingly on hers, “but I’m still kinda hungry. So I think I might just have to make you my dessert.” And with that, he stood up, stepped to her chair, and hoisted her onto his shoulder—and with her pretty ass bared toward the ceiling, he headed for the bedroom.
Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew.
William Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet
Thirteen
Mike tossed her on the bed, towering over her, and said, “Take that shirt off.”
“You take your shirt off,” she commanded in return.
They both stripped them off over their heads and tossed them aside. And damn, she was gorgeous. Her taut nipples looked like hard pink beads just begging to be kissed, and her smooth, slender legs stretched forever.
“Shorts, too,” she said, pointing, so he gladly dropped them and let her see he was already excited. He went even harder when she glanced between his legs and got that dreamy, ready look on her face.
“Lay back and get comfortable, honey,” he said, watching her sprawl prettily across his bed. Then he hit a button on his iHome and Mazzy Star’s “Fade into You” filled the room with slow passion.
Next Mike was bending over her, sinking his mouth to one breast, then dipping two fingers between her thighs. Beneath him, she gasped, whimpered. Within moments, he wondered how he was going to keep from plunging his erection inside her until after he was completely done pleasuring her with his hands and mouth—but he was determined to hold back, because her body was beautiful and needed to be touched and kissed and licked by him, and because her unfettered responses made him wild. He was back to being Tarzan again, but he was damn well done trying to fight it. Me Tarzan. You Jane. Sex good.
She lay back into his pillows, arms flung carelessly above her head, eyes shut—yet then she opened them and met his gaze. He could see all the yearning and heat inside her and wondered if his own eyes revealed as much, if his desire was just as transparent.
“Watch me touch you,” he said, and they both looked to where he now firmly molded and massaged her breasts; she thrust them upward and, mmm, he loved that—loved when Rachel gave herself to him so willingly.
She was the only woman he’d ever met who could give as good as she got with him, verbally and in other ways, too—but now that they were getting to know each other, he was seeing more and more gentleness inside her, more tenderness, and he realized she was…everything. She was tough and capable, she was smart and funny, she was feminine and sensual, and she could even be docile and sweet.
After thoroughly caressing her breasts, he slid his palms downward, over her slender torso, then peered down into her eyes and said, “Watch me kiss you.”
She bit her lower lip, and again, complied—both of them glanced downward as he rained tiny kisses across her breasts and below, sprinkling them across her sexy stomach, over her navel, across her bare hips. The lower he went, the harder she breathed, and the more he wanted her. All of her. In every way.
And yeah, she was still reckless in his book, but he’d learned that she wasn’t reckless in every way—like financially, for instance. And so, when she was reckless, maybe it was for a reason. Maybe it was because she was carrying a huge weight on her shoulders—this concern for being able to provide for her family, this need to label her success—and maybe being reckless was her way of letting off steam.
And right now she wasn’t reckless at all—right now she was simply…his to pleasure.
Finally, he used both hands to slowly re-part her thighs. “Watch me lick you, honey.”
The sounds that echoed from her throat were like a hot, erotic symphony, drowning out all other noise—the softly playing music, the steadily falling rain outside. He peered up at her and their eyes met. And…damn. His chest constricted. He’d never felt so…close to a woman. Simply close. More than just the physical part. His scalp tingled and his hard-on intensified. She was all he knew in that moment. Everything else fell away.
Soon Rachel was biting her lower lip, her eyes falling half shut. Her fingers dug into the bedcovers beside her. Mike watched, his whole body tensed and rippling with as much sensation as if he were the one being pleasured. He wanted to make her come. But more than that. In that moment, he wanted to make her feel…everything he felt. That this was more than just physical, more than just the casual sex they kept discussing, that with every tug of his mouth on her sensitive flesh they were growing closer.
“Oh God!” she cried out, and Mike could have sworn he felt the orgasm pumping through her. When her body went still, her breath remained shaky, heavy, audible.
He slid up to angle his body across hers, cupping the nape of her neck, his fingers threading through her hair. He stayed almost painfully aware of his aching erection, pressed against her thigh now, as he brought their faces close, felt her breath on his lips, let their foreheads touch for a long, lingering moment.
“You were right,” she whispered.
“About?”
“What you can do with your tongue.” She smiled—soft, sexy.
He returned a small grin, her words sending a hot spasm through his already aching cock.
She touched his hair, looked up into his eyes. “Guess you just showed me outrageous again.”
“And I’m not done yet, honey.”
With that, he lowered a tender kiss to her still perfectly rigid nipple before he eased himself back between her thighs, upright, on his knees. And then he finally took his own pleasure, thrusting deep. She cried out, and he moaned at the warm entry. And he couldn’t go slowly.
Closing splayed hands over her hips, he drove into her over and over in powerful strokes he felt at his very core. He clenched his teeth, but his groans leaked through at each warm plunge. The longer they moved together, the faster his strokes became, and she looked almost anguished with pleasure as she met each thrust. His heartbeat pounded in his head, and in his arousal, until…“Aw—aw, shit, honey—now.”
The climax rushed through every molecule of his body, swallowing him, drenching him in sensation. And when finally it passed…damn. Two rounds of sex, after three full ball games—he was exhausted and collapsed gently onto her body.
“Was that outrageous enough for ya?” he rasped near her ear.
Rachel’s whole body tingled as she watched him sleeping beside her. But she wasn’t tired. She was…energized. Somehow the sex with Mike just kept getting better. And it had started off freaking astounding.
Glancing to the bedside clock, she could see it was nearly ten. And it had been a long time since she’d had to account to anyone for where she was at night, but it dawned on her that she should call Edna so she wouldn’t worry.
She was pretty sure—even if she hadn’t left her purse in Mike’s truck—that there was no cell reception here anyway, and she didn’t see a phone in the room, so she decided to ease away from him to go in search of one. Leaving the bed, she quietly snatched up Mike’s loaner tee and slid it over her head.
Candles still burned in the kitchen, so she blew them out and switched on an overhead light, soon spotting an old wall phone with an old-fashioned dial. She didn’t know anyone even had those anymore except for Edna. She put in Edna’s number and waited as it rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s me. Did I wake you?”
On the o
ther end of the line, Edna sighed. “I’m old, not dead. It’s not even ten o’clock.”
Good point. She’d been living with Edna long enough to know her grandmother wasn’t in the habit of dropping into bed until after the late news.
“Talk fast,” Edna said, “’cause I’m busy watching this here Bret Michaels Rock of Love marathon.”
Bret Michaels? Oh brother. So it was VH1 instead of MTV—close enough. But Rachel tried not to think about the things Edna was learning from Rock of Love and said, “I’m just calling to tell you…I don’t think I’ll be coming home tonight.”
“Figured that.”
“Why?” She’d stayed out this late with Tessa and Amy before and still come home. And on the night of the donkey ball game, too.
“’Cause why on God’s green earth would ya wanna sleep alone when you can sleep with Mike Romo?”
Rachel’s jaw dropped. But she decided not to admit to anything just yet. “What makes you think I’m with Mike?”
“’Cause I have caller ID, dummy.”
Rachel just sighed. “You shun all other forms of modern technology, but you have caller ID?” Edna’s old kitchen phone was the only one Rachel had used, so she’d apparently missed seeing a much newer one.
“Yep. Like to know who’s callin’ me. Especially when it’s my granddaughter thinkin’ she’s about to put one over on me.”
Bret Michaels and caller ID—who’d have thought?
After hanging up with Edna—who’d informed her the commercial was over and she had to go—Rachel moved wet clothes from the washer to the dryer, and experienced an odd thrill that bordered somewhere between erotic and domestic just from handling Mike’s clothes. She felt the same way about wearing his T-shirt—it turned her on a little just to think of it being his, being close to his skin. Good God, get hold of yourself, woman.
Next, she went to the bathroom, and a glance in the mirror revealed…crazy hair. Especially now that it had dried while she’d been rolling around on a pillow during sex. She hadn’t bothered washing it in the shower, thinking maybe it would retain some of its usual style if she left it alone, but clearly she’d been mistaken. And yet…the way Mike had looked at her, she’d have thought she was a beauty queen. She sighed, trying to fluff it a little, but then gave up. Because…apparently how her hair looked wasn’t important to Mike. She usually paid so much attention to her appearance—only…maybe she was learning it didn’t matter so much, at least not in Destiny, at least not with a guy who really liked you.
