Dirty Deeds: Standalone sexy romance

by Lorelei James

  Nathan choked on his merlot. “Like tonight? After supper?”

  Tate’s eyes went wide. “You taking off right after we eat?”

  “No. But because I got called away during our original discussion, we didn’t get into specifics on certain details of these ‘lessons.’”

  He piled a gigantic helping of steaming pasta on his plate and three slices of buttered bread. She savored the smoky wine and watched the colors change from maroon to magenta in the facets of the crystal. “We didn’t discuss frequency either.”

  “Frequency?” The silver fork loaded with noodles had stopped halfway to his mouth.

  “How many times we’re going to…have lessons.”

  He managed to start chewing, albeit very slowly. “Since I’m working here on Saturday”—he paused to wipe his mouth on the linen napkin—“we should plan on spending that evening together. You know. To work on our lessons.” He took another bite of pasta, which he chased with a healthy swig of wine. “This is really good.”

  Tate frowned, ignoring the compliment. He only wanted to spend one night out of seven with her? If she was supposed to make time to get to know him via his need for romance, when would they have time for art lessons? Or more importantly sex lessons? Especially when the crazy man worked himself into the ground and was unavailable during the week?

  “You never scowl. What’s wrong? Can’t be the food since I didn’t cook.”

  She twirled her pasta through the thick, creamy sauce, but she didn’t glance up. Nor did the fork approach her mouth. “I thought we’d…never mind.”

  He sighed. She could almost hear him counting to ten. “How often did you have in mind?”

  Every day. At least once. “Definitely more than once a week.”

  Nathan’s answering laugh was low and dangerous. “Can you see why I’m frightened of you?”

  “Why? Because I speak my mind?”

  “No, because you’re trying to change mine.” He squeezed her hand in that chivalrous, it’ll-be-all-right manner.

  Tate wanted to stab him with her fork just to get some kind of passionate reaction out of him. Talk about depraved behavior.

  “Come on, eat,” he urged, putting an end to her violent thoughts. “Your dinner is getting cold. Can we talk more about this later?”

  Hooray. More talking. She downed her wine and reached for a refill. Planted a fake smile on her face. “Sounds good.”

  The rest of the meal passed pleasantly. And if it hadn’t been for the fact they weren’t exploring the nuances of each other’s naked bodies, Tate would have considered the evening a rousing success. Nathan LeBeau was a funny, well-rounded, interesting man.

  So why was she far more interested in watching that well-rounded rear end of his pumping in and out of her?

  “Earth to Tate. Why the dreamy expression?”

  The desperate-for-action part of her wanted to confess the steamy direction her thoughts had taken just to shock him. She refrained and awarded herself a mental pat on the back. See? She could act completely unaffected. “Finished?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” He shoved his empty plate aside and scooted his chair back against the wall when she stood and gathered plates. “Are we gonna do this right here?”

  Tate froze. He’d had a change of heart? Were her fantasies finally about to come true? She scrutinized his face for an answer, but he was surprisingly calm for a man about to shed his clothes. “Umm. Don’t you think we’d be more comfortable in the living room?”

  Nathan ran his hand along the flat plane of the table and gave it a resounding smack. “Wouldn’t you prefer a harder, more sturdy surface?”

  Oh mama. What did the man plan on doing to her that he required such durability? The dirty dishes in her hands almost crashed to the floor. She stuttered, “S-sure. Whatever you think will work best.”

  He frowned and glanced through the paint-taped archway separating the dining and kitchen areas from the rest of the house. “Where do you normally do this?”

  Tate deliberated on a breezy reply of everywhere or offering the sad truth that her sexual exploits had always begun and ended in a bedroom.

  While she pondered her answer, he hefted a ratty cardboard box on the table. “Ah. Your art supplies are right here, you must do this in the dining room.”

  “You were talking about art lessons?”

  “What did you think I was talking about?”

  She saw the moment the light bulb clicked.

  Nathan gaped at her. “You thought I was gonna nail you right here on this wobbly table?” He shook his head. “Give me some credit, Tate, for planning our first time to be a helluva lot more romantic than that. Besides, we just finished eating!”

  She snatched up the empty wineglasses. “I don’t think the ‘wait for an hour after you eat’ rule for swimming applies to sex, Nathan.”

  “I wasn’t talking about sex.”

  “That’s apparent.” Cheeks burning, she inclined her chin toward the box sitting way too close to the candles. “While I soak the dishes, why don’t you spread everything out on the table so we can get started?”

  He gave her a dubious look. “Get started on what?”

  “Making lo…” she couldn’t resist teasing, “lots of art, of course. You want coffee?” Tea? Or me?

  Dammit, Tatum Cross, knock it off.

  “No thanks.”

  “Then dig out the graph paper and colored pencils. I’ll be right back.”

  Tate tidied up the kitchen and strengthened her resolve to keep her thoughts focused on teaching Nathan the fundamentals of drawing. If he learned something, maybe then he’d be inclined to teach her a thing or two.

  She breezed back into the dining alcove and plopped beside him. “Now, I won’t bore you with a bunch of artsy-fartsy techniques you won’t need. Learning the still-life form is sufficient for your purposes.” She ripped off two sheets of graph paper and set one in front of each of them. “Since you’re used to working with angles when installing sewage systems, it’ll be easier to think in linear terms.” Grabbing a charcoal pencil, she traced a line down the center of the page. When he mimicked her movement, she tapped his knuckle until he dropped his pencil. “Uh-uh. Watch first. Then you can get some hands-on experience.”

  Hands-on experience? Nathan thought. Just what he didn’t need; the mental picture of her capable hand gripping his thick cock instead of that skinny pencil.

  “Are you paying attention?”

  “No.” Nathan bent closer to the perfect drawing she’d whipped off in thirty seconds. “How did you do that so quickly? It looks just like a tree.” He handed over his blank paper and urged, “Do it again. Slowly.”

  This time when she sketched, he focused only on how the stark simple line changed. How it took on a new shape just by linking smaller and fatter lines to it. Inspired, Nathan plucked up the pencil, slid the pad of graph paper under his elbow and copied her technique. He didn’t watch or worry how his picture turned out.

  Tate offered suggestions while she worked. Her tone was encouraging, never patronizing. It was almost…fun. When she finished her drawing, they both leaned back and looked at his.

  Nathan felt a rush of humiliation. His picture was god-awful. His six-year-old nephews had creations on Val’s refrigerator superior to this piece of crap. He threw his pencil down in defeat.

  “Now don’t get discouraged.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it takes patience. Besides, I’m thinking you’ll be a natural. Aren’t most Native Americans somewhat artistic?”

  “Only the ones who’ve been incarcerated and can devote every waking hour to sketching and drawing in jail.”

  She spun the pencil back to him, along with a white eraser on a stick. “You have some interesting break-away points, but we should be concentrating on a smaller scale. If you could keep these wild lines to a minimum, you’ll be an expert in no time.”

  That bit of praise lifted his spirits. “So I’m not comp
letely hopeless?”

  “After your first attempt?” She leaned over to blow out the candles. They were dripping red wax down the silver candlesticks and onto the lace doily. “Give me a break. And give yourself a break too. This isn’t easy. Practice, practice, practice.” She tossed the paper in front of him. “Try again. Except this time we won’t freehand. We’ll block it out using the squares on the graph paper as reference points.”

  They drew tree after tree. Then they worked on single bushes, clumps of bushes, hedges and shrubbery. Finally, after what felt like the millionth attempt and dozens of pieces of crumpled paper later, he’d crafted one that wasn’t half-bad. When he passed it to Tate for her inspection, she beamed.

  “See? You’ve made huge progress in just the last hour.”

  “All thanks to you. Anyone ever tell you you’re a born teacher?”

  If at all possible, her smile brightened further. “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely.” He tapped his pencil on the paper. Why didn’t she talk about her job in Denver with the same zeal? “You head of the art department at your firm?”

  Her face went blank. “No.”

  “Why not? You obviously have the skills.”

  “You’re biased.” With false enthusiasm, she lined up sharpened pencils in shades of black, gray and white. “Guess what’s next?”

  “What?”

  “Rocks!”

  “God no.” The crick in his neck screamed when he’d straightened from the hunched over position. His poor backside had lost all feeling from sitting on the hard chair. No breeze had stirred the frilly curtains, making the already stifling atmosphere even more unbearable. How did people stand being stuck inside in one place all day, every day? He’d been at it a few hours and he longed for a lungful of refreshing night air. He glanced at Tate to see how she’d fared.

  She looked fresh as a daisy. Except where her hair stood on end from repeated, probably frustrated passes through it with her hands. And where her bottom lip was temptingly plumped from pulling it between her teeth. Sighing, she extended her arms high, the middle flaps of the fringed halter-top separated, giving him a glimpse of her cleavage. “You have another suggestion?”

  Hoo-boy, did he ever, but it didn’t have a damn thing to do with rocks…unless getting his rocks off counted. He didn’t dare let his thoughts follow that direction. Right now he had to convince Tate to finish the landscaping schematics. Tonight.

  His gaze shifted from the picture of cats playing poker on the far wall to the stained-glass panel beside the front door. “I suppose I could get my clipboard from the truck and show you my preliminary ideas for your landscaping. Put all this newfound knowledge to the ultimate test.”

  Tate’s elbows landed on the table and she studied him suspiciously. “You think you’re ready for something so elaborate?”

  No. But you are.

  He shrugged, wondering if it looked as forced as it felt. “Truth is, I’d like to turn in the final landscaping design to the Beautification Committee before you start investing in plants, grass and rocks. Especially if they don’t approve of the plans and demand a bunch of changes.”

  Although Nathan’s explanation seemed reasonable, there was something slightly off about the way he’d phrased it. But Tate was at a loss to put her finger on specifics so she let it go. “I guess I could take a look.”

  “Great!” He bounded out of the house and returned brandishing the clipboard. Then he plunked the plans in front of her tired eyes and waited expectantly.

  One brief glance and she knew the plans needed way more than a quick look. She gave a silent groan at the childlike scribbles. Not that she dared vocalize her dismay. Nathan was mortified by his lack of artistic talent. But the Beautification Committee would never approve this dismal plan. Any delay in approval meant a delay in listing the house and returning to her life in Denver. She had no choice but to fix it right now.

  In order to spare Nathan’s feelings she’d have to divert his attention from the sad fact she was essentially starting from scratch.

  After an hour, he hadn’t seemed to notice she’d erased every trace of his original drawings and replaced it with her own. The conversation hummed along, mostly about how he’d brainstormed plans for her landscaping. He asked and answered questions while she sketched like mad, implementing her skills to make his vision a reality. By the end of hour two, she worked in silence and he watched without comment.

  Finishing touches complete, she slid the clipboard to him for his perusal. “Well? What do you think?”

  “I think you are amazing,” he said, his gaze glued to the almost 3D explosions of color on the paper. “It’s like you read my mind. This is exactly what I’d envisioned.” Nathan looked up at her, his eyes gleaming. He cupped her face and brushed his mouth across hers. “Thank you.”

  Startled by his first show of affection today, Tate leaned into his embrace. “I should be thanking you.”

  He chuckled against her cheek. “Oh yeah? My back would be singing your praises if we could veg on the couch for a while. These chairs belong in a torture chamber.”

  She’d forgotten he’d worked a twelve-hour day. “I agree. You want something to drink?”

  “No.” Batting away his hair, he vigorously rubbed the back of his neck as they strolled to the sofa.

  “Why didn’t you braid your hair earlier?”

  “Honestly? My arms were too tired.”

  “Want me to braid it?”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  Mind? She drooled over the prospect of wrapping that black silk around her hands. “Not at all.”

  Nathan placed his rough palms on either side of her face. He kissed her with a mix of passion and tenderness that made her lips tingle and her head buzz. “Where do you want me?”

  In my bed. Naked. Above me. Or below me.

  Seriously, Tate. Snap out of it.

  Was she turning into a nympho? Okay, technically she couldn’t be a nympho. One actually had to engage in sex in order to be a nympho. Logical explanation for her behavior was Nathan emitted some strong pheromones when he was touching her. She hadn’t exhibited these shameless sex-on-the-brain thoughts during their art lesson.

  “Tate?”

  “Oh right. Face the door.” She squeezed in behind him as he perched on the edge of the couch. “Relax.”

  Her fingers untwined the smooth strands shot through in spots with gold. The unique color mixed with the black must have been from the hours he spent working in the sun. She’d kill for such perfect hair. No wonder he kept it long. When she noticed the tension rolling off him, she began by massaging his scalp. Crown to nape, back and forth, left to right, from his cute ears to his strong jaw until he practically purred.

  Eventually Nathan’s muscular shoulders eased down. His head drooped toward his chest. She began to braid his hair. She took her time, enjoying the simple intimacy of touching him without restriction.

  “Tate?” His voice was strangely soft and tentative. “About that first after-dinner suggestion?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  Everything in her body went tight. Feeling victorious, she kissed him. She let the tip of her tongue taste the fine, surprisingly silky hairs on the back of his neck. Then she inhaled his manly musk, nearly hidden beneath the scent of her vanilla shampoo. “Got something to put on the end of this rope?”

  His triceps rippled when he passed over a fabric-coated hairband.

  She tugged his head back by the braid. “I hope you make up your mind soon about my suggestion.”

  He immediately tensed up.

  Tate laughed. “But, hey. No pressure. Now that you’ve lost every bit of relaxation, why don’t you lie down?”

  “Come on, Tate, give me a break. A man can only take so much.”

  “Seriously. Your spine is so stiff I could crack concrete bricks on it. How about if you lie facedown and I’ll massage your shoulders and back?”

/>   His feet shuffled on the edge of the Oriental rug. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want to. No strings, Nathan, unless you want them. But you do have to take off your shirt.” She doubted she’d con him into taking off his sweatpants, so she didn’t bother to suggest it.

  Nathan winced when he lifted the too-small Sturgis Rally and Races T-shirt over his head. He barely fit. Lengthy arms and legs hung off both ends of the couch. His back was virtually as wide as the floral cushions.

  Tate sighed at the glimpse of all that reddish-gold male flesh. She straddled his tight butt and flexed her fingers. It didn’t seem like work digging into his taut muscles, following the curves and hollows of his sleek skin. His body was absolute perfection. Without conscious thought her insides contracted in response to his masculine form.

  By the time she’d reached the tapered section of his lower back, she realized just how completely she’d relaxed him.

  Nathan had fallen sound asleep.

  She tossed his work clothes—jeans, tank top and boxers—in the dryer. Grabbing the romance novel from the library table, she settled in the Barcalounger across from the couch. He didn’t stir. He didn’t snore either, which was a bonus.

  Even the buzzing dryer didn’t rouse him. With a resigned sigh, Tate placed his freshly laundered work clothes on the coffee table. She covered him with a faded wedding-ring quilt. Something sweet moved through her as she watched him doze so peacefully. Yet stomping like an elephant held a certain naughty appeal too.

  When he awoke, would he come looking to surprise her?

  She slept in the nude. Just in case.

  But the next morning when Tate woke up, Nathan was gone.

  Teeth-clenching frustration set in that nearly undid years of orthodontics.

  It was distressing to think her judgment was still skewed when it came to men. She should’ve learned her lesson after the disaster she’d left behind in Denver regarding Malcolm.