Dirty Deeds: Standalone sexy romance

by Lorelei James

  “What kind of games?” she asked with a touch of wariness.

  Nathan shook the canister of whipped cream, squirting a generous line on the waffle square perched on his fork. With the tip of his tongue, he swirled the whiteness into a peak, then he sucked it clean. He offered a casual shrug, even when his stomach tightened in anticipation. “Something new, I think.” He sprayed another dollop, slowly licking off the sweetness with long strokes of his tongue.

  Her eyes darkened. Her breath quickened. Nathan noticed she wasn’t nearly as confident as she’d been a minute ago.

  “I’ll warn you,” she said. “I don’t like to lose. I won’t play fair if it means I have a shot at winning.”

  “Sportsmanlike conduct be damned?”

  “You’re on.”

  He grinned before he popped the waffle in his mouth. “Let the games begin.”

  Tate contemplated the kind of games Nathan had in mind while she loaded the dishwasher.

  True, she’d purposely brushed her breast over his shoulder. But only because he’d sneakily pressed his groin into her behind, disguised as “helping” her retrieve a coffee cup.

  They’d promised Val no hot kisses. No lingering looks and no sex.

  Especially no mind-boggling, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex.

  The silverware clanked in the basket as she sprinkled in soap and latched the dishwasher door. She faded out for a minute, reliving the inferno they’d created last night.

  The absolute darkness. The rough texture of his hands on her skin. His sharp teeth on the back of her neck. The rasp of his beard on her spine. His hard thrusts as he’d lost himself inside her. Such passion, followed by such sweet kisses and loving caresses. Her toes damn near curled even now as she recalled the eroticism Nathan exhibited. The flush spreading over her cheeks owed nothing to the steamy water rising from the sink.

  The dishwasher kicked on, startling her into dropping the twisted dishrag to the floor.

  Normally she didn’t have sex on the brain. Then again, she’d never had sex with a man like Nathan LeBeau. Whenever he waltzed into view her hormones went haywire. What caused this reaction? His overwhelming masculinity? His insistence on romance when he had little time for it?

  Tate sighed, realizing it was a combination of all those things. He was so…devastatingly male.

  A shout permeated her thoughts. Outside the bay window she saw all four kids hanging on Nathan, trying and failing to wrest the water hose to the ground. He’d make a wonderful father. The kind who’d take an active part in child rearing and enjoy it. The kind of man she’d imagined settling down with someday.

  She squashed that thought immediately.

  This was strictly a summer fling, not a prelude to a real relationship. Her longing for more with Nathan had increased only because of Val’s moratorium on sex. Plus, the happy family aura in this house would skew anyone’s judgment. She didn’t want forever. Neither did he.

  Her gaze was drawn back outdoors. In the yard, amidst shrieks and pleading bribes, Nathan surrendered, taking in a face full of water and a soaking to the skin.

  And Nathan soaking wet was a sight to behold.

  Those sopping-wet clothes definitely had to come off now. Tate drifted into the fantasy of peeling the black tank over his head. Leaving a trail of hot kisses on his cool skin as she gradually headed south. Pop pop pop went the snaps on his cargo shorts, until his briefs were exposed. Inside the damp cotton, she’d wrap her warm hand around—

  “Tate, come on.” Tanner’s exasperated voice cut through the screen door and knocked her from her wet dream. “Uncle Nathan said if you didn’t get out there, he’d drag you out.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said, picking up the dishrag and tossing it on the counter before stepping onto the patio.

  The minute her feet hit the hot concrete, she faltered.

  Nathan stood armed with the hose, wearing a grin just a shade shy of evil. “Hello, Tate. Nice that you could join us.”

  She shivered despite the early morning heat. “Nathan, please.”

  “Please what?” He arced cold water over her bare toes.

  The stinging sensation galvanized her into action. “Please do not spray me,” she pleaded, sidling across the patio, over the ceramic bricks toward the grass.

  He followed her, splashing water up her calves. “You’re asking a lot.” Craftily, he asked, “What do I get if I don’t spray you?”

  “A hearty thank you?”

  He shook his head. “Try again. The rest of us are wet, it’s not fair that you’re dry.”

  “But I wasn’t playing.”

  “You’re playing. You started it.”

  Tate ignored his double meaning and gauged her chances on making it to the shelterbelt where the hose didn’t reach. If she ran like the devil was chasing her… She glanced up at the devil himself. “What do you want?”

  His gaze devoured her—head to toe—and everywhere in between. “What I can’t have, at least not today.” After a sly grin, he cocked his head toward the trees, sending his braid swinging. “I know what you’re thinking, jungle girl. You can’t outrun me.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the record I set at basic training for the hundred-yard dash.” Nathan gestured with the hose. “But give it your best shot.”

  Tate took off. When the first blast of icy water hit the back of her knees, she screamed. Outraged kids rushed Nathan, and she hightailed it across the yard until another wet explosion soaked her backside. He was fast. She took shelter behind a small mountain ash tree.

  Nathan advanced.

  Her pleas for mercy were lost as he doused her, loudly touting his superior warfare skills.

  Wiping the water from her eyes, she glanced up at his sudden silence.

  Nathan stared slack-jawed at the thin material of her tank top. The hose, now limp, drooped forgotten by his side.

  When he licked his lips, desire hit her like a bulldozer.

  Her nipples hardened, aching for the heat of his mouth to take away the chill. And was that water dripping from his chin? Or drool? No matter, she decided, wantonly raising her arms, reaching with catlike languor for nothing in particular. Chewing her lower lip, she moaned into the stretch, her breasts pushed together higher, testing the limits of the flimsy fabric. She lowered her palms in a don’t-shoot-me gesture. “I surrender completely. Do with me what you will.”

  Nathan hung his head and groaned.

  She smirked. Winner round one: Tate.

  After a rousing game of duck, duck, goose, the kids scrambled off to the swing set and jungle gym area, leaving them alone.

  Tate flopped on the ground, gasping for breath. “Now I know how Val stays so thin, chasing after kids.”

  “She loves it. These hooligans are her life. She’s probably pacing the hospital corridor, wondering what horrors we let them eat for breakfast. I’m surprised she hasn’t called a hundred times.” Nathan plucked at the lush grass. “Thanks for cooking, by the way.”

  “No problem. I like to cook, but it seems pointless for one.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Tate’s eyes closed to the sun’s light as she relished the decadent warmth on her skin. Stretching her arms overhead, the lazy move lifted her tank top, exposing her belly.

  Next to her Nathan sighed his apparent contentment.

  She smiled, ignoring the prickles of grass on the backs of her legs and arms and inhaled the dank smell of earth. A tickle moved over her stomach. Thinking it was a bug, she brushed it away.

  It happened again several seconds later.

  Tate opened her eyes to see Nathan rolling a long blade of grass between his blunt fingers, dragging it over her bared skin with unwavering concentration.

  “That tickles,” she said.

  “It’s supposed to.” Resting on his elbow, he swirled the tip over her navel, glancing up to witness her reaction.

  “Stop that,” she said halfheartedly.

  “I’m pract
icing.”

  “For what?”

  “For when I use my tongue on you this way.”

  Heat shot straight to her core, but she didn’t move or even think beyond imagining it was his tongue tantalizing her.

  He zigzagged the green strip from hipbone to hipbone, then lower, down to the slight rise of her pubic bone.

  “Nathan.” Tate scrambled onto her elbows. “Stop. We promised Val we wouldn’t…” Her wary gaze drifted to the loud argument coming from the sandbox.

  “We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re just sitting on grass enjoying the heat.” He blew gentle, coffee-scented breath across her bare midriff. “Can you feel the heat, Tate?”

  Every inch of her body flamed with desire. Any coherent response dried up in her parched mouth.

  “Besides,” he continued, “they can’t see us.” Rotating the stem, he traced a path between her inner thighs. “I’m wondering how you taste here.” He crisscrossed the tip over her knees, down her shinbones to the tops of her bare feet. “And here. And everywhere in between.” He wove the strand through her toes like the finest silken ribbon. “Would you like that?”

  In her mind’s eye, Tate saw his callused hand circled around her slender ankle as the tip of his pink tongue slowly licked between her toes. She felt the scrape of his white teeth and the urgent suckling as he immersed each toe into the hot slickness of his mouth. Followed by the raspy stubble of his strong jaw against her vulnerable instep, the oh-so-sensitive ball of her foot, the susceptible tendons above her heel. A low moan escaped before she stopped it.

  He chuckled and moved to the other foot.

  The anticipatory beating of the pulse between her legs and the answering pull in her nipples felt like a string stretched to the limit. She scooted out of his reach.

  His heavy-lidded gaze raked over her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said, her voice sounding breathy and aroused even to her own burning ears. Dammit. Playing footsie with him was not on the list of options today.

  Yet she admitted round two definitely belonged to Nathan.

  Thumb in mouth, Hannah loped over.

  Immediately Tate leapt to her feet and swung Hannah onto her hip. “What’s wrong?”

  Hannah removed her thumb long enough to say, “Want Momma,” before she tunneled into Tate’s neck with a little heartbreaking sob.

  Tate sent Nathan a panicked look.

  He rose to his feet. “I’m thinking we’d better use some diversionary tactics. Got any ideas?”

  “What’s on the list?”

  Nathan scowled. “Don’t know and don’t care. Sometimes Val’s rules go too far.”

  Amen to that. “Earlier I checked out the art supplies here, but they’re pretty dismal.” She shifted Hannah to the other hip. “Want to take them over to my house for a change of pace? Let them paint and do crafts for a while?”

  “That’d be good.” His eyes brightened. “Can I bring Duke?”

  Just what she didn’t need, monster mutt in her newly repainted interior. Her eyes narrowed over Hannah’s head. “Why?”

  “He adores the kids. Plus the poor thing’s been alone since yesterday. Do you think you can handle them for a few hours?”

  “You’re leaving me alone with four kids and a wild bear?”

  Nathan laughed. “Duke will be the least of your worries. I’ll be right outside. I’ve got to get the last dirt pile moved today.” He stroked Hannah’s cheek. Tate’s heart swelled at his loving gesture, before she tamped it down. “With any luck, next week I’ll start planting.”

  Chelsea yelled for Hannah. She squirmed to be let down and scampered off.

  He ran a hand over his stubbled chin. “I need a shower.”

  “I could always get the hose,” Tate suggested sweetly.

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Your choice.” She gave him an appreciative once-over. “Still, doesn’t take much for me to imagine you naked.” Tate ventured closer. “Will you think of me when your hands are circling your—”

  “Tate,” he warned.

  She traced a beaded droplet of sweat from his temple to where it stopped on his jaw. “Wouldn’t it be fun creating our own sauna under the pounding spray of hot water? Suds. Steam. Your body becoming my own personal Slip ’N Slide? Mmm. I feel dirty just thinking about it, don’t you?”

  He forced a laugh as he turned away. “I would’ve been better off if you’d hosed me down.”

  The twins helped Nathan outside at Tate’s house until they realized no amount of cajoling would convince him to let them drive the Bobcat.

  After they disappeared inside, Nathan wondered how Tate was holding up. The four lovable monsters overwhelmed him most days. And he was used to them. Not to mention the attention his neurotic dog required. Best that he let Tate and Duke work out their differences without his interference.

  He’d finished spreading the last load of soil when Tate stepped into view. “Hey,” she said, pouring him a drink. “How’s it going?”

  “Almost done.” Nathan knocked back the water and held the cup out for more. “Glad it’s not blazing hot out here today.”

  “I’ll bet.” Tate lugged the jug to a rickety wooden bench, frowning at the clipboard and drafting papers spread across the slats. She plopped herself on the ground. “Worked up an appetite yet?”

  Not for food. “Nah. What’re the kids doing?”

  “They all crashed while watching Beauty and the Beast. They’re pretty cranky.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Did you know your dog snores?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes he even wakes me up.” Nathan wasn’t about to confess it was because Duke slept at the bottom of his king-sized bed. Tate would never consent to spend the night if she suspected he kept the dog in close quarters out of sheer loneliness. He changed the subject before she thought to ask specifics. “You brought the baby monitor and DVDs from Val’s house?”

  “Umm, not exactly.” She emitted a tiny, self-conscious laugh. “If I admit I own a copy, will you think I’m hopelessly juvenile?”

  Pure sweetness. And Tate be thine name. He faced her, refraining from stroking the rosy flush along her cheekbones. “No. But it is a pretty romantic movie.”

  She frowned and scooted back into the bench, scattering papers. Scrambling to pick them up, she studied the drawing she’d replaced on the clipboard, angling it sideways. “What is this? A new project?”

  He wanted to snatch away the clipboard holding the initial sketches for the landscaping for the new fire station. During breaks on jobsites, he’d been implementing some of the techniques Tate had taught him. “Why?”

  She pointed to the bottom corner. “Just wondering what this scruffy green cat has to do with anything.”

  “What?” He leaned over, zeroing in on the area where her index finger tapped. “That’s not a cat. That’s a bush.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really? ’Cause no offense, but that is the worst-looking bush I’ve ever seen.” She squinted at the opposite corner. “So this row of spikes over here, resembling a medieval torture device is…?”

  “A stand of young aspen,” he said irritably.

  “Wow. Those are some horrifically deformed trees. Why—”

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than make fun of my pathetic drawing skills?”

  “Sorry.” Tate placed a small, consoling kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Poor baby. Don’t take this personally, but I don’t see how you can sell your landscaping services with these depictions.” She jumped to her feet. “Hang on. I’ll check on the kids and be right back.”

  Nathan brooded while she was gone, refusing to reexamine the primitive illustrations. He knew it didn’t look like he’d spent any time agonizing over these plans, when in truth he’d sweated bullets on this drawing. What if she was right? What if his lousy renditions would keep him from getting any landscaping business?

  Tate bounded back and dropped beside him, setting the baby monitor withi
n reach. She opened a plastic case, extracted an eraser and obliterated the sorry-looking bush from existence. “There,” she said. “Let’s start from scratch.”

  “What are you doing?” He grabbed at the clipboard.

  She held it aloft and pinned him with a haughty look. “I can’t dig trenches with my bare hands or heft boulders like they were pebbles, but I can draw simple bushes and trees. Let me fix it.” After rummaging around in the box, she withdrew four colored pencils. “This cat bush,” she teased, “is it blue-green, grass-green, gray-green or forest-green?”

  Nathan considered the pencils. “Grassy-green.”

  “Gotcha,” Tate said, and bent to her task.

  Soon the rapid scratching of her pencil created a shape. Mesmerized, he suggested, “Think chokecherries.”

  Tate smothered a giggle. “That was supposed to be a chokecherry bush?” She deftly dotted the pencil and created small red-black berries, adding brown to flesh out the branches. “See? Doesn’t that look better?”

  “Couldn’t have looked worse,” he grumbled. “Okay, Picasso. Let’s see you fix that spiky clump of aspen.”

  “Ugh.” She shuddered. “Don’t call me Picasso. I hate his stuff.” She dug through the box with one hand while the other erased. “Are aspen leaves crimson-red or orange-red?”

  “Crimson, but they only turn that color late in the fall. Don’t you want them yellowish-green to match the other greens?”

  “No. It’ll make a bolder statement to show them in autumnal colors.”

  Nathan cocked his head, studying her confident strokes. “So if you don’t like Picasso, which artist do you admire?”

  Scratch scratch. “I guess Monet is my favorite.” Black blended into the leaves, creating a small twiglike base. “His paintings are simple, yet complex.” She reached for the eraser and said, “Malcolm used to make fun of my peasant tastes. Tried to steer me in a more sophisticated direction…until our client admitted he was tired of abstract art designs and favored realism.”

  Silence.

  No doubt if she’d had a free hand, she would’ve clapped it over her mouth for that admittance. Instead, she began sketching like mad.