Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Such a pretty little loverboy,” she said, lips pursed around a cigarette. And there was a rope around Ian’s neck, and she curled her hand around it. Tightened it until Ian’s face began to purple.

  Tango screamed…

  And woke with a start, gasping. He was clinging to something, a pillow maybe, mashing his face into the side of it, holding on for dear life, and shaking.

  Wait. Not a pillow.

  He felt the sharp point of an elbow scrape across his stomach. Felt the regular rise and fall of breathing beneath his arm.

  Definitely not a pillow, but a slender girl in an old white t-shirt, her small arm curled around the back of his head.

  Whitney. Oh shit, he’d grabbed onto Whitney. Was pressing his face against the side of her breast. Had thrown a leg over her knees.

  Oh shit.

  “Sorry! Shit, I’m sorry.” He tried to scramble away from her, still groggy and disoriented. He managed to grab her boob, in his efforts – soft, yielding, unmistakably feminine – and yanked his hand back as if he’d been burned.

  “Hey, hey,” she said, arm tightening behind his head. “It’s okay. Don’t get up.”

  Except he had to, because he was literally nuzzling her chest, and there was no way that was okay, or friendly, or appropriate in any way.

  “Kev.” Her lips brushed his forehead. “Just be still. It’s okay. I’m here.”

  She was there. Small, but so very real; and she was holding him, raking her fingernails through his long hair, murmuring sweet things.

  The fight washed out of him on a deep sigh. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, quietly, and was grateful for the dark, so she couldn’t see his shamed blush.

  He was half-hard in his pajama pants, which meant the nightmare had killed his arousal, which meant that during the first part of the dream, he’d been very aroused. Oh God. And this time, he hadn’t been alone in bed, humping the mattress without any witnesses.

  He eased his hips back, leaning away from her. “Did I–” His tongue was dry and he had to swallow, wet his lips. “I wasn’t…doing anything in my sleep…was I?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Fuck.” His face flamed and he pulled it away from her breasts. “I’m sorry. Shit, I’m so sorry. That’s why I knew we shouldn’t do this.”

  She took a deep breath. “It didn’t,” she started, and paused. “It didn’t bother me.”

  “Fuck,” Tango breathed. “Don’t say that.”

  “But it’s true.” Her voice grew defiant, a little sharper along its edges. “I liked it.”

  “You’re killing me here, Whit.”

  “No, you’re killing yourself.”

  She gasped the moment the words left her lips. A gasp that sounded like regret, and like bitter honesty; like she wanted to snatch the statement back, and was so afraid she’d hurt him.

  He closed his eyes and breathed in deep the scents of the sheets, and of her, skin and soap, and laundry detergent. “No. You’re right. That’s all I ever do.”

  She shifted, slowly, until she was lying on her side and they were facing one another. His eyes were still closed, but he could feel her breasts against his chest, her leg sliding over his hip, her nose bumping into his. She pushed his hair back and clasped the back of his neck, and just held him.

  It was the most intimate moment he’d ever shared with a woman.

  He trembled, one hard shudder, and then couldn’t stop, overwhelmed by the gentle, innocent closeness. No one had ever offered him this. No one had ever let him know without words that he could just be held, and not be expected to perform.

  And then Whitney said, “I was having a nightmare too,” so soft he thought he’d imagined it. But then she continued: “I knew it was a nightmare, but it was the kind you can’t get out of. And everything’s bloody, and dark, and there’s all this screaming, and I just needed something to latch onto in the real world, so I could pull myself back. And then I felt you beside me.”

  Humping you, he thought.

  “You brought me back,” she whispered. “So don’t be sorry for it. I wasn’t sorry that I felt it.”

  Tears built up behind his lids, and he clamped his eyes tight, trying to keep them at bay. A few slid through, hot against the delicate skin up high on his cheeks.

  Whitney rested her forehead against his, and he thought he felt her shivering too.

  Sleep came on slowly, gently, and dreamless.

  Sixteen

  Morning. He became aware of its pale light the same moment he remembered the way he’d spent the night. And he felt…

  He felt peaceful. He waited for crushing guilt and shame to descend, but when his eyes slitted open, he found that he was still wrapped up together with Whitney, and that they were clothed, and that the only things they’d shared had been nightmares, and fears, and careful touches, and a sense of comfort. Benign, good, innocent things. Things as precious as gold to him, always unattainable.

  He’d slept beside a girl he wanted so badly he ached, and he hadn’t crossed any boundaries. Hadn’t betrayed her trust.

  He wanted to cheer, but was too exhausted for that, so he smiled instead, and she sent him a sleepy smile back.

  “Okay?” she asked.

  “Better than okay.”

  Except for his morning wood situation that he wasn’t going to let her see, feel, or acknowledge.

  He was saved by her phone alarm, blaring and vibrating into the quiet.

  Whitney sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yay, work.”

  Tango was relieved, in a way, that they could close this moment on a good note, before his sick, sex-craving side could ruin everything.

  ~*~

  “You can have the first shower,” he said. And she could read what else he wanted to say, self-deprecating things about not going to work, about staying home, about not being worthwhile. Things she might have slapped him for if he’d actually voiced them.

  Now, hot water coursing down her back, she passed her soap-slick hands across her body, and shivered. She had goosebumps, and her nipples were hard, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

  Last night, she’d come awake from a nightmare with something hard grinding against her hip. Her nervous system had lit up like a Christmas tree; she’d flushed hot and then cold, skin prickling. She’d known what it was, that he was hard, that he was rocking his hips and thrusting against her in his sleep. And it had stirred deep, erotic longings in her, the kind that made her blush and bite her lip and avert her eyes when the women at work talked so openly and wantonly about their sex lives. She’d had crushes, and stared adoringly at actor posters when she was a girl, but she’d never felt like this: like she could come if he traced a fingernail down the outside of her arm.

  It wasn’t just the cock against her leg, wasn’t just the dark, or the nightmare; wasn’t anything but Tango. He electrified her, in some primal, physical way that other men didn’t.

  In the shower now, she let her soapy hands linger, and wanted him to touch her so badly it hurt.

  ~*~

  Whitney was running late, so she rushed out of the apartment half-buttoned into her jacket at quarter ‘til nine. She took the time, though, to flit toward him at the kitchen counter and put her arms around him in a quick but fierce huge. “Bye,” she said, breathless, smiling at him, and was gone.

  He stood alone in his kitchen, sunlight streaking the floors, the air smelling of coffee and the Toaster Strudel he had cooking. He lifted his mug to his lips and marveled at the normalness of it. He was awake, and clean, and sober, and already couldn’t wait to see Whitney again. And he was…maybe he was happy. Maybe. At least a little bit.

  Mercy arrived a few minutes later, box of doughnuts in hand, and he froze in the act of sitting down on the couch, box held out comically in front of him, hovering over the coffee table. His eyes were trained to the crumb-filled, icing-smeared plate beside Tango’s mug. “You ate?” he asked, incredulous.

  Tango shrugged. “Freeze
r food.”

  “Yeah, but it’s calories.” Mercy sat down, dropped the doughnuts, and almost looked proud. “Did you make it yourself?”

  “Fuck you,” Tango said without malice. “I can feed myself.”

  “Except you usually don’t.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “I know.”

  “So I’m guessing this means good things,” Mercy said. He leaned back and folded his hands loosely over his stomach. “Care to tell me about it?”

  Heat bloomed in his cheeks, and he knew, fair-skinned as he was, that Mercy would see him blushing. Shit. This was therapy, wasn’t it? He had to talk; had to admit things. And what happened last night wasn’t embarrassing – only special and private, and he didn’t want to shatter the contentment it had given him by sharing it with someone.

  Who knew, he thought, that cuddling could be more personal than any sex act.

  “Oh,” Mercy said, grin widening, if that was possible. A sharp smile – hell, an alligator smile. “That happened, huh?”

  “No, not that. Just–” He huffed out a breath. “We slept. Really slept. In the bed together. And it was nice.” If there had ever been a less adequate word than nice, he didn’t know what it was.

  He expected Mercy to laugh at him, but instead the big man’s expression softened. “Yeah. I get that.”

  “She did try to get me to put the moves on her when we got home last night, though.”

  “Ha! Damn, I like this chick.”

  “You can’t have her,” Tango said, more bite to his voice than intended.

  “I’ve already got my own.” Mercy flipped the box open and pulled out a maple-frosted doughnut. “I’m just glad for you, man.”

  And the thing about Mercy was, when he said something like that, he always meant it.

  ~*~

  “Well aren’t you just all smiles this morning,” Cathy said at her elbow, and Whitney started.

  Coffee slopped out of the mug she was stirring and she jumped back before it could splatter against her white blouse.

  “Oh, goodness,” Cathy said, and handed over a wad of napkins from beside the sink.

  “Thanks.” Whitney blushed as she mopped up the mess. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you walk up.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cathy said. “I didn’t realize you were lost in dreamland.” When Whitney glanced at her, she smiled, and elbowed Whitney lightly in the ribs. “So what’s his name, huh?”

  Whitney knew she blushed. “Why does it have to be a boy?”

  Cathy patted her shoulder. “Oh, honey. I have three daughters. That smile is always because of a boy.” She lifted her brows for emphasis.

  Whitney laughed, stomach full of butterflies. “Okay, so maybe there’s a boy.” When she turned away from the break room counter, Cathy fell into step beside her, and they headed back for the warren of cubicles.

  “What’s his name?” Cathy sounded so much like an excited, gossipy teenage girl that Whitney couldn’t disappoint her.

  “Kevin.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “Cathy!”

  “I’m just curious. I’m old and married; I need to live vicariously.”

  Whitney was very glad, suddenly, that she wasn’t one of Cathy’s three daughters.

  “I think he’s cute,” she said, “but I’m a little biased because…”

  Because he was wonderful. And because he was stepping off the elevator right now, and was turning and seeing her, and smiling.

  If it was possible, he looked even better and more present than he had last night: clean flannel shirt under a leather jacket, jeans, sneakers, hair shiny and golden, tied back in a bun at the nape of his neck. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked shy and nervous, but he looked happy too, and that flooded her with warmth to see.

  “Kev!” she said, and thought her smile might dislocate her jaw. “What are you doing here?” Cathy forgotten, she hurried toward him, managing to slop hot coffee down her hand. She had to pause and hiss. And crap, there wasn’t anywhere to even set her mug down.

  Kev closed the distance between them. “Here.” He took the mug from her, and if its hot, wet edges burned his fingers, he didn’t react to it.

  “Careful,” she cautioned. “I’m just kind of a mess this morning.” She was still blushing, and still smiling, and he was here.

  “I don’t believe it.” He smiled back. “Where can I put this?”

  “Oh, back here. In the breakroom.” She turned to lead him that way.

  Cathy was still standing where Whitney had left her, staring in wide-eyed surprise, gaze fixed to the mug in Kev’s hands.

  No, Whitney realized with a lurch, not the mug, but at Kev’s hands. The dark tattoos on his fingers and the backs of his hands.

  She’d been set to introduce the two of them, and instead she had to clamp down on a sudden surge of anger. “Excuse us,” she said, and took Kev by the sleeve, leading him around Cathy and into the break room.

  “Ugh,” she said when they were alone at the sink, and he was pouring out her twice-spilled coffee.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, just…nothing.” She couldn’t tell him what she’d noticed, not when he was in such a good mood. She couldn’t ruin that with her petty anger over the prejudices of her coworkers.

  “Run some cold water on that,” he said, tapping the red patch on the back of her hand with one tatted index finger. He turned the tap on and she stuck her hand beneath it.

  “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “Never hurts to treat it, though.”

  “My hero,” she said, only half-joking, tipping another smile up to him.

  Even in the awful fluorescent office lighting, he looked beautiful, the bags under his eyes less noticeable, his delicate features clean and sharp-edged, eyes clear, almost ice-colored indoors.

  “Why are you here?” she asked again, softly, with all the warmth she felt. “I thought you had a session this morning.”

  “We pushed it back. I wanted to come see if you could take an early lunch with me.”

  A part of her worried that he was skipping a therapy session. She thought it was important to keep going, and not just quit the moment he felt a little better. But she wasn’t going to ruin this moment, when all she wanted was to melt against him.

  “Let me get my purse.”

  ~*~

  They took his bike just up the street to IHOP. When they were seated, and sipping water, waiting for their food, Kev rapped his fingers against the side of his glass and said, “She freaked out about my tats.”

  Whitney felt her stomach drop, but said, “Who?” She wanted to pretend he hadn’t noticed Cathy’s reaction.

  His wry half-smile said he knew that she knew. “The woman at your office. I saw the way she was looking.” His fingertips danced on the glass again, and the dominoes looked like they were knocking into one another.

  “Kev,” she said with a sigh. “Cathy’s just one of those people. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Those people?”

  “The kind that think the way they do things is the best and only way. The small-minded kind.” It made her angry all over again just saying it, thinking of Cathy’s over-plucked eyebrows disappearing up into her hair in the kind of shock usually reserved for car accidents.

  “I’m not worried,” he said, and looked like he meant it. “I’m always an anomaly, everywhere. Nothing new.” He shrugged and stared down into his glass. “I just don’t want you to suffer for it.”

  “Suffer?” Her heart swelled with love for him, the way he was selfless to the point of self-flagellation. “Nothing anyone at work says could ever make me ‘suffer.’ I’m so glad you came to see me today.”

  Their food arrived: club sandwich for her, and cheeseburger for him. The waitress gave them a quick, warm smile like she thought they were cute, and Whitney felt some of her disquiet ease. There were people like Cathy in the world, sure, but there were also people who just liked to see others happy.

>   “Can I ask you something?” she asked, nibbling a fry. “And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

  He paused with his burger halfway to his mouth and his brows jumped. “That sounds kinda scary,” he joked, but she saw the way his mouth trembled.

  He really shouldn’t have skipped his session.

  “Your tattoos,” she said, touching the back of her own index finger with her thumb. “The dominoes. Can I ask what they mean?”

  He set his burger down and wiped his hands on a napkin, studying her. “Most people don’t ever ask.”

  They just wrote him off as a guy who’d covered himself in tattoos, she thought, and her throat felt tight.

  “I’m asking,” she said, giving him a hopeful smile.

  He smiled back, nerves showing in the way his nostrils flared. “Okay.” He eased his plate to the side and laid his hands on the table between them, palms-down.

  Whitney pushed her plate over too, and because it felt like he’d been offering his ink to her, she reached to trace the domino on his ring finger.

  “When I was sixteen, my friend,” he said, and paused, pain flickering across his face. “My friend said something to me. When I was…” He cleared his throat, and she hated herself a little for making him talk about something that brought up old hurts. “When I was trying to figure out who I was. What I was. He said, ‘You always try to deny what you really are. You line up all these reasons. But then, it gets harder and harder to fight your nature. Your true nature.’” His pronunciation had become crisp as he quoted, and Whitney remembered a long black coat, and shining auburn hair under hospital lights. “’But it never fails. One-by-one, like dominoes they fall, all the reasons why not.’”

  His head dropped lower, as he stared at the swirls of ink on his hands. “My reasons fell, and I had to face what I was.”

  “And that was?” she whispered.

  “An addict.”

  She cupped both her hands over the backs of his. “You became addicted. What you are is a man. A good man.”

  He sent her a pitiful look from beneath his lashes.