Rough & Ready

by Tracy Wolff

  I rip my mouth from his, gasp for breath, but Tanner won’t let me go. He follows me, his mouth ravenous on mine while the heat of his body sears me wherever it touches. In moments, the pleasure swamps me, overwhelms me, and I follow him straight into ecstasy, my body spinning wildly, gloriously, completely and totally out of my control.

  Chapter 16

  Tanner

  For long seconds—minutes?—I don’t move, just rest with Elara’s legs around my waist and my face buried in her neck as I wait for the stars to stop exploding behind my eyes. For my breathing to even out and my head to stop spinning.

  It takes longer than it should, longer than it ever has before. Then again, making love to Elara took me higher than I’ve ever been before. Higher, even, than I ever went with Allison.

  Because it feels weird, and awful, to think about another woman while I’m still inside Elara—even one long dead—I banish Allison from my head. And start to slowly pull out of Elara.

  She grumbles a little, tightens her legs around my waist and holds me in place for several long, pleasurable seconds. “Don’t go yet,” she murmurs to me, turning her head so that she can press kisses to my cheek, my ear, the top of my head even as her fingers comb through my dreads.

  “Okay,” I agree, because I’d have to be pretty stupid to resist that request when the only reason I worked up the energy to move in the first place is because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t crushing her.

  We stay like that for several more minutes, stroking and kissing, petting and whispering. Laughing softly at whatever stupid thing comes into one of our heads and then out of our mouths. Eventually, though, the summer night grows cold and Elara shivers despite the protection of my jacket on her back and my body pressed against her front.

  “Time to go,” I tell her as I finally pull away.

  She moans a little but doesn’t fight me as I carefully lower her legs to the ground. I keep ahold of her for a minute as she sways, tries to get her bearings, but eventually she’s good. Eventually I have to step back, to let her go.

  It’s harder than it should be considering this is our first time together—and considering that we haven’t even had a first date yet. Not really.

  I slide her straps back into place while she pulls down the skirt of her killer red dress. Disposing of the condom, I zip myself back into my pants and look around the ground for the panties I ripped off of her in my haste.

  I find them under the bench and stuff them in my pocket so no one knows what went on in here. If I was someone less famous, I might not care, but people saw us wandering this way. The last thing I want is someone figuring out what we’ve been up to and blabbing it to the press.

  Then I gather up the cork and foil from the champagne bottle, put everything on the tray. There’s a trashcan outside, complete with a receptacle for glasses people might have brought out here. I dump everything in it, before reaching for Elara’s hand.

  “Do you want to go back to the party?” I ask as she picks her purse up from the bench. “Or are you going to head home?”

  She looks me up and down, a mischievous smile on her Nordic goddess face. “I’m pretty sure you’re in no condition to go back into the ballroom.” She gestures to my bare chest, in case I haven’t figured out what she’s talking about.

  “I’m not going back in,” I tell her. “But I didn’t want to assume that you wanted to stay with me.”

  She rolls her eyes, lightly slaps my bare chest with her purse. “I think it’s safe for you to assume.” She looks suddenly stricken. “Unless you don’t want to be with—”

  “I do,” I interrupt, quickly cutting her off before either one of us can make ourselves crazy wondering what exactly happened here…and what each other is feeling. “I was actually hoping I could talk you into a real date? Now that you know I’m not a total creep.”

  “I never thought you were a total creep,” she answers, lifting my hand to her mouth so she can press a kiss against my palm. “Just a semi-creep.”

  That startles a laugh out of me, especially considering if I concentrate I can still feel the lingering warmth of her lips on my skin. “And now?” I ask as I guide us around the side of the hotel, in an effort to avoid the ballroom.

  “Now?” she asks, pretending to think about it. “Now I realize that what I always took for politeness or charm in interviews with you is actually a deep-down decency that few people seem to have anymore. Especially the ballers I’ve known.”

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that, especially since there’s such honesty in her face and voice when she says it. Because I want to live up to her vision of me—and the honesty she’s always putting out there—I give her the most truthful answer I’ve got. “I’ve never seen the point in being shitty to someone. I mean, yeah, there are a lot of jerks out there—I’m not saying otherwise. But, overall, everyone’s just trying to get by, trying to make a life for themselves and the people they love. I’ve always figured, why not try to make things easier for people instead of harder?”

  “Like I said, really, really decent.” She grins at me from under her wild mane of curls.

  I reach out, tweak one of them. “For a baller.”

  “For anyone.”

  We finally make it to the front of the hotel, the path we’re on spilling out just around the corner from the main entrance. “Did you valet?” I ask. “Or use the parking lot?”

  “Valet.”

  “If you get your ticket out, I’ll take it to the stand, get both our cars.”

  For a second she looks like she’s going to argue over the twenty bucks or whatever it is, but the look on my face must change her mind because she hands over her number without a word.

  When I get up to the valet desk, the guy working it looks at my open shirt but doesn’t say anything. One of the many upsides of almost always being the biggest guy in any given situation.

  Five minutes later they’ve brought our cars around and I’m finding it surprisingly hard to let Elara go. “Give me your address,” I tell her. “Let me follow you home. Make sure you get there okay.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t have to do anything. Neither do you. But I’d like to know you get home safely.”

  She shakes her head like she can’t believe me, but she says, “I’ll text you when I get there.”

  It’s my turn to shake my head.

  “Seriously? You want to drive all the way to my house just to make sure I’m safe? That’s crazy.”

  “Not that crazy,” I tell her. “That’s what guys do when they care about a girl.”

  “Do you—” Her voice breaks and she has to clear her throat, start again. “Are you saying you care about me?”

  I raise an incredulous brow. “Did the last two hours not convince you of that?”

  “Sex isn’t caring. Especially—”

  “For a baller. Yeah, I got that from you. But I thought we established that I’m not like most ballers.”

  She bites her lip, thinks about what I said. “Yeah, okay. You can follow me home.” She holds up a hand. “But I’m not inviting you in. I’ve got to be up at six tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine. That’s not why I’m following you home.” I lean forward, press my lips to hers in a gentle kiss that still manages to somehow rock my world. And hers, if the glazed look in her eyes is anything to go by.

  Reluctantly, I pull away before the valet has to come up and ask us to stop blocking traffic. Not to mention the fact that I was getting looks when we were waiting for the car—either people are concerned about a six-foot-six black man “loitering” at the front of an exclusive hotel or they recognize me. I never really know which it is until something happens to tip the scale in one direction or the other.

  “Text me your address,” I tell Elara as I wait for her to climb i
n her car.

  She nods, then waves a little as I close the door. I wave back like the besotted idiot I am, then make my way to my Escalade. By the time I’m buckled in, her address is on my phone. I probably won’t need it as following her home means following her home, but it’s good to have in case we get separated. Or in case I want to send her a present…

  Turns out Elara lives about twenty minutes from the hotel, in a neighborhood that’s nice but not flashy. Upper middle class but not ostentatious with it. I like it.

  Once we make the turn into her neighborhood, I follow her down several winding streets until she pulls into the driveway of a small white house with a blue tile roof and dozens of colorful pots in the front yard. It’s not as colorful as the rec center, but nothing is, short of San Francisco. It’s happy-looking, though, all the pots filled with brightly colored flowers that make me smile just to see them.

  I idle at the end of the driveway, waiting until she’s pulled into the garage. Once she climbs out of her car, I give her a brief wave, then do a U-turn at the corner and head back the way I came.

  Seconds later, my phone rings.

  “Everything okay?” I ask as soon as I hit accept on my in-dash computer.

  “Everything’s fine. Except…”

  “Except?” I’m intrigued by the sudden shyness in this strong woman’s voice.

  “I thought you’d stick around for a couple of minutes, maybe have a cup of coffee—or at least give me a hug before you took off.”

  That’s news to me, as she’d been pretty clear that she wasn’t inviting me in. “I didn’t want you to think I was angling to stay when you made it clear that’s not what this was about.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want you to stay,” she says, and I make another U-turn, this time in the middle of the street. “It’s just…”

  “Just…?” As the older brother and guardian of four girls, I have a lot of experience with waiting out the opposite sex. Something’s going on here and if I keep the silence long enough, she’ll cave and tell me what’s wrong. They always do.

  Sure enough, she blows out a long breath and continues. “I don’t sleep well with someone else.”

  She’s completely matter of fact when she says it—which shouldn’t raise any red flags—but it does anyway. I don’t know why. Instinct, maybe?

  I pull back into the driveway to find her still in the garage. She’s standing beside her car, head bowed, shoulders slumped. And I know—as soon as I get a look at her—that my instincts were correct.

  Something’s not right here.

  My heart kicks up a notch as I get out of my SUV and walk toward her slowly. She’s looking straight at me, but the way she’s still clutching the phone to her ear makes me wonder if she’s even seeing me.

  “Hey, Elara. You good, sweetheart?”

  She smiles at my deliberate use of the word “sweetheart” but doesn’t call me on it the way she did in the locker room. She lowers the phone, though, and nods before walking the four or five steps into my waiting arms.

  I feel myself relax the moment she rests her head on my shoulder, feel the tension leech right out of me even though I’m still concerned that something isn’t right.

  “You okay, honey?” I ask as I wrap my arms around her.

  “Yeah. I was just afraid you thought I was ditching you.”

  It’s a valid fear since a part of me was afraid of just that, but I don’t say so. Not when I’m still trying to figure out what’s happening here.

  “From what I’ve learned these last few days, if you were ditching me, you’d say so in no uncertain terms. You’re not exactly the beat-around-the-bush type.”

  She laughs then, as I intend her to. But she still doesn’t pull away. Instead, she wraps her arms around my waist and holds on tighter. “I like you,” she tells me.

  It’s my turn to laugh, even as my heart melts for this woman just a little more. “I like you, too, Elara. A lot. But I’m guessing you know that already.”

  She steps back but reaches for my hand. Holds tight. “Come have some tea. Or a drink. Whatever you want.”

  “Tea works. Or water. Whatever you’ve got.”

  “I’ve got both. And I still remember when you agreed to drink coffee even though you hate it. So, for real, what would you like?”

  “Tea’s good,” I say, because I don’t mind the stuff and because it takes longer. I want the extra minutes to talk to her.

  She leads me through the garage door into her laundry room and then into her kitchen. “You can grab a seat at the bar, there,” she tells me as she walks toward her stove. “Or you can head into the family room and I’ll bring your tea in.”

  “This is good,” I lean against the far counter, not even pretending not to look around her home.

  It’s different than I was expecting. Not girlie, by any means, but warmer than I anticipated it being. Homier. I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t be, considering the amazing job she’s done decorating the rec center. Just those cool, Nordic goddess vibes of hers, I guess.

  “I’ve never seen blue cabinets before,” I say, watching her put a kettle on to boil.

  “I never had, either. But I fell in love with them the second my contractor showed them to me.”

  “Contractor? You remodeled the kitchen?” I look at the room with new eyes, knowing that she picked everything in here from the big glass circle lights hanging over the island to the open, rustic wood shelves on either side of the sink.

  “I remodeled the whole house. It was in really bad shape when I found it—it was a foreclosure and the people before me had gutted the place. Which means I got it cheap and that I was pretty quickly able to turn it into a home that I wanted to live in.”

  “Well, if this room is any indication,” I say, admiring the big, rectangular pot of herbs that runs along the base of a cabinet by the back door, “you’ve done a great job with that.”

  “Thanks.” She flashes me a smile. “It’s no Del Mar compound, however, complete with outdoor swimming complex.”

  I shrug, suddenly embarrassed by the extravagance of where I live. “My sisters all live on the property. As they got older, it just seemed easier to have a lot of land where they could all have their own places but I could still be around if they needed me.”

  “You’re an amazing big brother, you know that?”

  I shrug. “I just do what anyone would do.”

  “As someone who’s got three big brothers, I feel qualified to say that’s not true. You do a whole lot more.”

  Her words annoy me, even if she doesn’t mean for them to. Because, seriously, what the hell is wrong with this woman’s family? Her mom sets her up with that total dick the other day and now I find out her older brothers don’t seem to care much about protecting her, either. What. The. Fuck?

  I know everyone’s not like my family and me, always up in each other’s business, but come on. Family means a lot of things, and responsibility is one of them.

  I don’t say that, though—not yet. One semi-date doesn’t give me that right.

  “English breakfast tea okay?” Elara calls from the pantry.

  “Sure. Anything, as long as it’s not that perfumey stuff.”

  “Perfumey stuff?” she asks, face scrunched up in confusion. “Oh, Earl Grey.”

  “Right. That. It tastes like I’m drinking perfume. Not flowers, but actual perfume.”

  “I’ve always thought so, too.” She puts a couple tea bags on the counter, then opens the cabinet to the right of the stove. “Okay, so, I have a tradition. Anyone who has tea or coffee in my house has to pick their own mug.”

  “Really?” The idea intrigues me enough that I move closer to the cabinet. “What kind of mugs are we talking about here?”

  “Take a look.” She steps aside, gets busy pulli
ng out a sugar bowl and cutting up a few lemon slices.

  I laugh when I get a load of the first row of cups—she’s got one with a donkey on it that says KISS MY right above it. Another shaped like a basketball. One that reads, YEAH, WELL, MAYBE COFFEE’S ADDICTED TO ME. EVER THINK OF THAT?

  I shift them aside, find one with a mermaid on it. Another that reads WANNA TACO BOUT IT? One that says SSSSSH…THERE’S WINE IN HERE. On and on the mugs go—some cute, some inspirational, some funny as hell. I finally settle on a bright pink one that says ALWAYS BE YOURSELF. UNLESS YOU CAN BE A UNICORN. THEN ALWAYS BE A UNICORN.

  Elara takes one look at the mug I’ve chosen and cracks up—exactly as I intended. Except then she says, “I’m pretty sure you are a unicorn.”

  “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “I love unicorns.” She takes the mug from me, plops a tea bag in it.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Sure it is.”

  I reach for her, but she jukes to the left superfast. I laugh, because shit. Only Elara would throw out some basketball shit in the middle of her kitchen at midnight. While holding a sparkly pink unicorn mug.

  Once the tea is ready, she nods for me to follow her into the family room and I do, no longer surprised by how warm and welcoming the room is. I am, however, incredibly impressed by the massive couch right in the middle of it. When you’re my size, you learn pretty quickly that there’s a lot of furniture you don’t fit on, but that’s obviously not going to be a problem here.

  “Want to watch a movie?” she asks after we get settled. She reaches for the remote with her free hand.

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She drops her hand, takes a sip of her tea.

  Silence stretches between us—the first awkward one we’ve ever had. I think about suggesting that I leave. Think about making small talk about something stupid. But in the end I do what comes naturally. What feels right.

  I put my tea on the coffee table in front of us, do the same for Elara’s. Then I lift her onto my lap, wrap my arms around her and say, “Tell me.”