It was…ordinary. Immediately Devon sensed there was something wrong with this world. Maybe it wasn’t April 1. Maybe time had frozen, or sped up, or shifted to a parallel dimension. A new and unfamiliar twinge of emotion sprang up inside her. Was this a feeble spark of something that might could be termed hope?
And oh, yes, look outside the window—flying pigs, no less.
Once again secure in her own well-protected lifestyle choices, Devon rocked back on her slippered heels and prepared for impending disaster. Blissfully ignorant, Chance continued talking while secretly she ogled him and his sodden, dripping, drenching hunk of body.
Her eyes lingered on the black T-shirt that clung to his well-hewn arms. On that bulky chest that might have attracted a more shallow female. She knew those military types believed in physical fitness, and she told herself it was logical that such athletic musculature would cause her tongue to cleave to the roof of her mouth.
Proof that the man was human was a small scar above his right eye, nearly concealed by the thick curl of black hair. The scar was a neon sign that perhaps he wasn’t quite as lucky as he believed. Devon liked it, the way it spoke of hard-fought battles, as if his waterlogged attire and slightly swollen nose weren’t enough. But oddly, it was the tiny scar that kept tempting her eyes.
Survival. That was what it stood for. The scar told of disasters surmounted, and wounds that were healed. He carried no provisions for emergencies. He simply persevered.
Fascinating.
And exactly why had this unlikely specimen of oozing testosterone showed up in her house tonight?
Just as she was contemplating the slim, statistically unlikely, struck-by-lightning, lottery-winning long shot that he might have brought something good into her home, the man stopped his cheerful chattering and swore.
“Phone died?” she asked, blinking innocently, as if she didn’t know.
“It must have been the battery,” he muttered, and right then the bank of overhead bulbs began to spark, pinging one after another like targets in an arcade game. Devon exhaled with relief. There was an odd comfort to her survivalist existence, and she didn’t like change. When she was a young and naive twenty-one, she’d been tempted to believe that the curse wouldn’t affect her life. That she should go balls-out like her brothers, Cam or Reg. After four bad breakups, long nights alone with Ben & Jerry’s and a lot of movie rentals, Devon realized that balls-out was for idiots who actually enjoyed emotional pain.
Exactly on schedule, her backup generator kicked in with its comfortable hum, illuminating the room in an eerie yellow glow. Chance looked at her with surprise and respect, not quite so life-zestful anymore.
It was about time. If things had stayed the way they were—communication working, electrical facilities intact, fuel gauges functioning—she might have been lulled into complacency. But Devon knew that history repeated itself. The statistics never lied. “Are they coming to get you?”
“We got cut off before I could give Scott the address. If he were more resourceful, maybe he’d reason it out, but God bless him, he’s not the brightest tool. We usually just call him Tool, in fact.”
“I think you’re stuck,” she announced, folding her arms over her chest, and his amused gaze drifted lower, touching on the perfectly adequate curve of her breasts. It was as if he could see through her crossed arms, see through the heavy flannel, see through every bulletproof (literally) defense she had ever designed.
A perilous tingle slid down her body, a tingle that had nothing to do with temperature, and her nipples tightened into buds.
Seeing the very visible proof of her discomfort, he smiled, a cocky, pilot’s smile accustomed to wrangling gravity and seducing women while weighted down with a ball and chain. Prudently Devon reminded herself that there was no insurance policy on her vagina.
“Do you have a car?” he asked.
“No,” she lied because she never drove on April 1. Ever. Even if the insurance company allowed it, she wouldn’t.
“What about the Ford that’s parked in the garage?”
“I don’t have a Ford in the garage,” she lied.
Chance pointed to the keys that hung on the hook next to the door, and the big keyring labelled “FORD”.
“That sure does look like car keys to me, hanging right there next to the door, exactly where any person with a lick of brains would put them. My ex-girlfriend, she was always losing her keys, and I told her that she should rig up something like that so she wouldn’t forget. We broke up because I just couldn’t handle dating a bubblehead. You don’t look like a bubblehead. Now, I understand that you wouldn’t want to go out in this weather. Hell, neither would I, but that would leave me here, dripping all over your very clean living room, coating this newly waxed floor with water and muddy ooze, and you don’t look like a woman who’s comfortable with ooze.”
“I wouldn’t have to be comfortable with the ooze if you sat outside all night,” she explained.
“Or alternatively, why don’t you drive me home?” he asked, in that sweetly, coaxing voice as if she were some brainless female that would roll over and play “America’s Next Ho” at his command.
It was a testament to his physical appeal that both possibilities were not out of the question.
“I’m not driving in the storm,” she insisted, shoring up the remainder of her defenses.
“Then, as you said, I’m stuck,” he told her, leaning back against the wall, completely at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings. His hands were jammed deep in his pockets, the prototypical male pose designed to accentuate the male package. As if she would fall for such a primitive ritual designed to show off a man’s mating prowess. She would not look, would not look.
Devon looked.
At the sight of the large denim-encased bulge, Devon swallowed, and something swollen and throbbing thrust inside her. An unbidden fantasy of sex with this man and his…swollen, throbbing sex.
Outside, while the elements raged, a tree branch crashed against the window, shaking the unbreakable glass. The branch was an ominous sign, reminding her of the last time she’d had sex on April Fools’ Day. Peter Hollowell had ended up with a bee sting on his privates. A swollen and throbbing bee sting.
Devon pushed all thoughts of sex aside and collapsed into the nearest chair. “Do you want to sit down?”
“I don’t want to drip all over your furniture.”
“I use Scotchgard.”
“Still, I can stand,” he answered, completely nonplussed, breathing completely even, the broad planes of his chest falling up and down. The soaked fabric clung like a second skin, lovingly caressing the hard textures of his body.
Her fingers curled into fists. Tight, non-caressing fists. “I have some sweats you could probably wear. My brother’s. If you want something dry.” Something that wasn’t quite so…stimulating.
He raised his right leg. “I don’t think I could get anything past this without divine intervention.”
“A hacksaw would do the trick. I have one.”
His mouth drifted to a lazy grin, an easygoing expression that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “A hacksaw? Who are you? Some sort of engineer?”
“I’m an actuary,” she replied. “But I believe in tools.” Locks without keys were pretty common in her experience. From there, a hacksaw seemed like a no-brainer.
He looked skeptical, but didn’t call her a liar. “As long as your hand’s steady, I’m willing to give it a go.”
3
CHANCE WAITED. By now, the tequila had worn off, and he was stuck with an extra weight on his leg, and an extra six inches in his shorts.
Holy shit. Who would have thought it?
The woman—Devon Franklin was what her Stanford University diploma said—had prepared for any and all emergencies. He’d only met one other woman who’d stocked a hacksaw, and after he’d discovered her fondness for Spanish Inquisition-style torture, he’d understood why. Leather and steel just didn’t fire his juices
. He liked bare, sweaty skin against his chest, big squishy globes of female sexuality that made him happy to be a man.
Devon Franklin had globes. No, they weren’t big and squishy, but those weren’t mosquito bites, either. His mind wandered, pondering the exact size, color, shape and palm fit of her globes, and before he knew it, his mind had her naked and panting, and…
Whoa.
He shifted in his jeans, wearing a hard-on that no amount of denim was going to hide. Maybe he wasn’t in such a hurry to get back to the base after all.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement and he wheeled around, but it was only the security monitors on her wall. Only.
Was she in witness protection? Doubtful. Little Miss Devon Franklin was nobody’s fool. She would have taken down whoever was out to get her first.
While he was contemplating her don’t-tread-on-me personality, conflicted with the sultry mysteries of her body, he noticed her image flickering on the tiny screen. It probably wouldn’t be right to spy, but they were her security monitors, and she was aware they were there, and what was he going to do? Glue his eyeballs shut?
Right. His conscience now free, he watched as she dug into her closet, neatly putting aside an eye-popping array of tools.
Actuary and engineer, since a hardware store sure as hell didn’t have that many tools. One by one she pulled out a hammer, two sets of wrenches—metric and standard, three pairs of safety goggles, a crowbar and a vibrator.
He kept his laugh low, starting to like this Devon Franklin, ever practical, ever prepared.
She put the saw on the bed and then sauntered over to her bedroom mirror. Her hands moved to the long braid that trailed down her back. It surprised him how badly he wanted to see that silky fall of hair framing her sweet face.
Silently he prayed. His breath caught, waiting to see if she was going to let it loose.
But then she scowled at her reflection and the braid stayed in place. Chance shook his head, disappointed with her. Still, she wasn’t immune to him, the night was young and it wasn’t as if Scott was going to come roaring to the rescue. No, for the moment, Chance and Devon were all alone.
“Got it,” she called as she entered the room, holding the saw like a trophy. As she moved toward him, he watched her walk, watched the easy sway of her hips. Not showy, but purposeful. He’d bet everything that she did was purposeful. Having sex, for instance.
Realizing that he was drifting a little too far and a little too often down into the dank gutter of carnal delights, Chance told himself to throttle back. But then she stood opposite him, hacksaw in hand, in that old-lady nightgown that revealed exactly nothing, and his stubborn mind started undressing her all over again.
Unaware of his debauched thoughts, she glanced at him, glanced at the saw, then glanced at the heavy chain around his ankle. “I think you should sit down.”
If he sat down, there was no way in hell she’d miss the hard-on. “I don’t want to mess up your house,” he said, because honestly, she was a very nice lady, and he’d feel a lot more comfortable if she was staring at his ankle, rather than his crotch.
“Please. I can’t do this while you’re looming.”
“No one ever called me a loomer before,” he said, but now he was resigned to defeat. He had tried to stay a gentleman, she had rebuffed his attempts and he had no choice but to willingly go along with whatever things she had in store.
He sat, his legs splayed to give her plenty of cutting room, because that was one big-ass cutting instrument. Sure, she looked competent and efficient, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
She sank to the floor, wedged between his knees, creating even more pornographic images that were cheap and sordid and completely undeserving of such a capable young lady, who’d been nothing but gracious—except for the nose job, but hell, he couldn’t really blame her for that one.
Soft and capable hands shoved up the hem of his jeans and grasped him around the bare calf. Honest to God, it was better than porn.
Chance grabbed the wooden chair arm for support, and tried to ignore the firm feel of her fingers on his bare skin. She took the saw, poised it over the chain and her hands moved back and forth with a slow, steady, rhythmic movement.
“You need any help?” he asked, trying to be polite, trying to ignore the way her neckline gaped only slightly below the two unfastened buttons at the top. Or the way a dark vee promised great treasures to whoever delved farther below. Never shy about exploring, he leaned over, angling a little farther, until she pushed him back with a firm hand to the thigh.
“You need to sit still,” she ordered, in that firm, husky voice that was some cross between schoolmarm and nightclub singer.
“It’s going to be a lot of work to cut through that steel. I just don’t want you to exert yourself too hard on my account.”
She rested the saw on the chain and shot him an intense look. “Do you want this off?”
“I’d love to get it off, ma’am,” he answered sincerely. She blushed, and he was a no-good scoundrel for teasing her, but he liked to see her blush, her cheeks pink, her brown eyes dancing with life. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Sit still,” she ordered.
“Maybe if you could sort of brace against my leg for moral support. It’s a little unnerving, the size of that blade, and I’m very attached to my leg.”
She leveled him with a flat stare. But to his eternal happiness, she scooted closer, her chest resting mere inches from his knee. Not shy at all, Chance moved his leg, closing the distance, gratified to feel the soft cradle of her bosoms warm against him.
She glared, and he shrugged innocently. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s sort of comforting.”
She muttered something which could have been “whore dog” but no matter, because she didn’t move. He sat there quietly, his life in her hands, while she sawed at the chain. The gentle weight of her breasts brushed against him, back and forth, and he watched her work, the dark line of her lashes, the way she bit her lip with concentration. When the chain refused to budge, she scooted closer, pulled up the hem of her gown, locking her legs around his one, using his weight for leverage. Chance had always loved physics, but never so much as now.
With each stroke, the teeth of the saw cut deeper into the metal, and she moved closer, too, her gown inching up higher, exposing nicely toned legs. Starting to realize that he wasn’t nearly as much in control of his emotions as he wanted to believe, Chance shifted uncomfortably and she stilled her sawing.
“I won’t be held responsible if I amputate your foot.”
“I’m doing my best,” he apologized. “It’s not every day I sit through this, and your legs are starting to distract me. You got some very adequate muscles there, not too hard, not too soft. I dated a biker once—Schwinn, not Harley—and she had these rock-hard calves, like somebody injected a steel paperweight under her skin, and sometimes when she’d be rolling around…well, we don’t need to go there, but yours are a lot nicer. Firm, but they don’t feel like office furniture.”
“I suppose you broke up with her, too,” she muttered.
“Actually, she found religion and felt like I was a sinful influence, so she told me that it was best that we didn’t see each other anymore.”
Two months later, the female in question had called him at 3:00 a.m., well and truly plastered and ready to denounce all her newly found principles of the more celibate lifestyle, but Chance didn’t feel like that bit of information was germane to the conversation.
“You don’t look very heart-broken,” she told him.
“No, ma’am. I like my women soft. More—” he gestured with an innocent hand “—pliable.”
She didn’t answer, but went back to sawing, although he noticed that she was working it with a lot more force than before. This woman had some seriously untapped energy that was just begging to be tapped. Honestly, she’d be a lot less tense if she gave herself over to a willing man, which was one of those bullsh
it justifications that men use when they know they have no business thinking what they’re thinking, but Chance tried to be honest with himself. He knew his flaws, and he took responsibility for them.
Next thing he knew, the steel link broke in two, and the chain rattled to the floor, the ball rolling free. He’d still have a leg iron around his ankle, but he could live with that one. At least he didn’t have to drag that damned cannonball around anymore.
Now that her work was done, Devon moved back, and tucked her gown demurely around her ankles, breaking his heart in the process. The view of those legs had been mighty nice. In fact, the only nicer view would be legs spread, locked around his back, squeezing around him….
Chance snapped out of the fantasy and noticed her curious look. “Thank you for doing that,” he told her politely, sincerely, and without a trace of “I think we should get naked” in his voice.
“No problem. Let me get you those dry sweats.”
When she moved to rise, Chance offered her a hand, taking a little too long to let go. Once again, she looked at him curiously, appraisingly, not the impatient go-to-hell sort of glares he was getting earlier. She probably didn’t realize that her mouth was slightly open, her eyes slightly darker, and he didn’t feel it was in his best interest to point out either feature to her. But he noticed. Something was changing….
As she walked from the other room, his mind was full of sinful ideas that should have shamed a more gentlemanly man. But Chance had a full appreciation for the biological desires and habits that had been preordained when man had arisen from the primordial ooze with his cock fully erect.
He liked Devon Franklin. She wasn’t his usual pornolicious bedmate, but she intrigued him. Not many women were that cynical and hard-nosed, but still wore flowery flannel. He ached to know what was underneath all that flannel, and undercover recon of the female form was what Chance Cooper did best.
Just Fooling Around: Darcy's Dark Day/Reg's RescueCam's Catastrophe/Devon's Dilemma Page 10
