by Poppet
Let's go.
It's only when I put my hand on the doorknob, that I notice it's trembling.
Opening the door, he's on the other side, like a bouncer protecting a famous rock star.
Looking up into those eyes, I'm melting. My pulse starts throbbing in my ears, he's too close. It's delicious.
A warm arm slinks around my waist, and in a single heartbeat, I'm lost. Floating in his smell.
He smells wild, and free. Like the wind on a hot day, teasing its lazy fingers through your hair, setting nerves on fire.
Dissolving, my legs lock, and I'm steading myself with hard nipples against hard muscles.
“Ready to go?” caresses a baritone across my skin. Ripples titter through me.
“Yes.”
God, I sound like a porn star. All husky, and no intelligence.
Hot lips touch mine, and it's all I can do to keep my heart beating. A hand holds me tight against hips, another threads fingers through my hair, holding my head to those blistering soft lips.
“We should go,” mumbles across my mouth.
Releasing my head, he pulls me with him, and if it wasn't for the fact that he's so strong and has an arm firmly wrapped around my waist, I'd be a puddle of desire slumped over his feet in mindless worship.
I'm led to the front door, disoriented. Down the stairs, to a black beast, with hard chiseled edges, just like him.
Chapter 3
Getting into the ZR1, I inhale leather deeply. I have a thing for cars, and know it's a six-speed V8 supercharged muscle car. This car seriously fucks off, reaching 60 mph in 3.3 seconds, and does the quarter-mile in eleven seconds. It makes me feel famous, and underdressed.
The car's aggressive lines suit Dustin. Wow, so I guess personal trainers make good money. Who does he train?
It's a symbol of power, and now I'm wondering about the man shoving his enormous frame into the black bucket seat next to mine. We make choices subconsciously, but so far, Dustin is an immovable anvil, he rises to a threat, wants to defend the weak, and is picky about who he takes home.
But that's probably a story spun for my benefit.
This is a devil-black Corvette, it's mean, lean, an annihilating machine. If Erik could see me now, he'd gouge his own eyes out.
Gossamer highlights glint in his eyes when he flicks his attention to me with a smug grin.
“Buckle up.”
I do, automatically, but I guess he's going to be putting the hammer down, just to impress me.
Leaving my place on Cat Hollow Drive, at the foot of North Cat Mountain, he heads the ZR1 onto, Ranch to Market. The engine is gravel on satin; heads turn when the beast roars down the road.
We slow, pulling in around the corner, at Pizza Hut.
“Pizza okay?” he asks.
When he speaks, his lips move as if pouting for a photo, like a sex-kitten. If he models, that could explain the display of wealth under him, sitting sweetly on rubber feet.
“Sarah?”
Yanking on the leash, I dart my eyes to his, “Fine, yup.” I'm nodding, this is me, being congenial.
He looks amused, draping a hand lazily over the steering wheel, he tilts his head, slipping his eyes right down to my toes, and back up again; one long lick of desire.
It makes me apprehensive, in a good way.
“That's pretty much what you're doing to me. Are you always this blatant? I thought Southern babes were a touch more conservative.”
“I did not lick you with my eyes.”
The tumble of thunder from deep in his throat, his chest like an amplifier for his mirth, rumbles into the car's interior; his mouth has sharp corners when he smiles.
His eyes beam amusement.
“I licked you with my eyes?”
“Yes, you did,” I say, on the defensive.
“Sarah, pizza. What would you like?”
He's still penetrating me with his focus; I feel naked, his gaze is far too perceptive.
“Hot and spicy. As long as it's hot, I'll like it.”
“You don't mince your words.”
Heat creeps up my neck when I catch his meaning.
“I like chili. Mexican food's my favorite.”
“We don't have to get pizza.”
“It's quick and easy, I understand the choice, and we're here now...” I trail off after my shrug.
Why're you looking at me like that? He's no longer licking, if he was a snake I would be swallowed whole right this second.
“Quick and easy, ah huh...” he says, his voice lilting with laughter.
It dawns on me. And here I am justifying myself and being a total loser.
“Take out, it's quick and easy. Dustin, stop it, you're making me squirm.”
“I do love a quick and easy take-out.” His smile is dangerous now, the tension in here could arc a lightning bolt from Houston, it's so magnetic.
I get it. I'm take-out, and he's taking me home. And I've yet to prove him wrong on the quick and easy. What can I say? It's not every day a superhero wants to take me home.
“Mexican it is,” he says, gunning the ZR1 back to the road.
I love downtown Austin, and I'm not surprised when he starts heading out of the suburbs. He's got the feel of a desert night about him; isolated, quiet, private, hiding secrets. He hasn't got a single neighbor - I'd bet my life on it.
The sound of this car is a horny lion's roar kissing a jet engine, it sends a shiver through me like a grungy guitar solo. We breach the crest in perfect timing to see the violet crown. Just after sunset, the hills get a violet glow in winter. Here, we're on the cusp of Texas Hill Country with its rolling hills, it's easy to forget you live in a city.
With a tanned finger on a dial, music weaves its lusty strands around us; ZZ Top's guitar sizzles straight through my heart. The thrum of a bass pounds anticipation directly into my seat, the singing of the guitar hardens my nipples, it always has, it always will. Really good rock makes me horny.
Thrusting the ZR1 around slower obstacles, I'm sensing his need to get away from my past, rocketing into a future, a future descending into darkness, when night's velvet tongue slides over you.
The double lanes mean his impatience has room to flex its muscles, bulleting us past the carwash and vet, taking the slipway, and blurring past the garden centre, along Ranch to Market 620.
There's something hypnotic about the highway at twilight. It makes you feel isolated and alone, with miles and miles of unconquered territory just waiting for your footfalls.
It's got a magical essence which thrums excitement into your veins. This is insane, it's an adventure, and I have a sharp injection of exhilaration piercing through me.
I flick my attention from the view out the window, to the man driving.
Relaxed back, this car is barely roomy enough for his height. He's a lot taller than Erik, which puts him at about, shit, nearly seven feet tall. I thought it was hard for tall guys to get big builds?
But then he's probably been training all his life. He doesn't look young. My age, or older, but he wears it well.
He weaves through the lanes, like a fighter pilot after a heat seeking missile. How fast is he going? He's lucky the bulk of the traffic is heading in the other direction. Diving past Forest North Elementary School on our left, the wind coming in is laced with the afterglow of the day's heat.
The road curves, and I'm holding my breath as we take the ninety degree redirection to ghost past the businesses on Research Boulevard. We're charging now, as if a fleet of ufo's are on our heels.
He lives miles away! What the hell was he doing in my corner of Austin?
He hooks a right just after the Cheesecake Factory. The scene becomes suburban, hilly, with trees shadowing us on either side, running down the side of Bull Creek Park.
Driving over the river, the water permeates the air with a frosty-moss redolence. Instantly the air is cooler, erasing the waning heat with crisp invasive fingers. The road narrows, and he's forced to rein in the
horsepower.
A slipknot wriggles in my solar plexus when he slows the Corvette down, turning left onto Westlake Drive.
Halting the beast just off Westlake, at a little shopping spot, he gives me a smile.
“Do you know Maudies Milagro?”
“Kinda,” I say.
He opens his door, “This should heat things up for you.”
Before I can think of a suitable comeback, my door is opened for me, and a hand is presented. I take the offered hand, drawn out, and the door closes.
Über casual, he puts his arm around my shoulders, strolling with me up to Maudies.
It's already fairly busy, but I don't really care, because he's behaving like a possessive lover. The second we crossed the threshold and people glanced our way, the arm around my shoulder moved to around my waist, tucking me closely against him.
He offers me a menu, “Get whatever you want.”
Yum! Standing here, smelling the food, my stomach has just reminded me I can't live on hormones alone. I point at what I want, on the menu, then spying margaritas.
“Could we take home a margarita too?”
“Home?”
His smile is so indulgent, he looks like he just came in my face, when I least expected it.
“Uh, you know what I mean.”
But my cheeks are hurting they're so hot. I feel his silent laugh while he orders.
Thank God these people are on the ball, because I'm pretending to examine everything but him, waiting for our dinner. He's not letting me go, leaning against the counter, linking his ankles, he's scoping the patrons.
Maybe he's a bodyguard for someone? He sure seems to always be looking for danger. He's super-aware, all the time.
We leave with Hernandez Enchiladas for me, two burgers and Beef Chile Relleno's for him, and a side order of serranos.
Back in the car, I have that hesitance that happens when you've finally stopped long enough to put your thinking cap on. What the hell am I doing? Is running away from Erik really worth the risk of going home with a total stranger?
Flicking my gaze to him when he punts the car back onto Westlake, the bad girl jumping up and down inside my underwear is saying, but what a stranger!
It's a winding road, meandering through suburban perfection. I live in a copycat road, where all the houses look the same. Out here, there's variety, each home putting a unique postage stamp on the landscape's envelope.
We slow again as he turns into Toro Canyon Rd. It's less populated. He's right, Erik will never find me here. He turns into a long drive nestled between Toro and Toreador, mountain side. Instantly shielded by trees, we pickle up a paved drive.
This is almost laughable. The Bull Mountain imagery suits him, just like Cat Mountain suits me. I guess we'll be playing cat and bull, rather than cat and mouse.
Shutting the engine off in front of a solid looking wood front door, he runs a hand up my leg.
“Home sweet home.”
His fingers leave a heat tattoo on my thigh, racing tendrils right into desire's greedy clutches.
It's dark now, and I'm grateful for it.
He leans against me to reach for the food. Solid, hot, instant comfort, instant ache. Pulling back, he pauses, and I'm frozen. Literally like a kid caught drawing on the wall in crayon, I can't move. I don't want to.
Dipping his head, chamois soft lips press into the hollow between my collar bone and my neck.
“Are you coming?”
I can't answer that. He knows how to play vocabulary as if it was an angel's harp. I would very much like to be coming, and if you don't move those sinful lips off my neck, I probably will be, a lot sooner than I anticipated.
“Ahhm – yeah.”
I'm just reinforcing the impression that I'm mentally challenged. So what. Maybe I can find out what life is like when you don't think. The hussies always have fun, and they usually end up with hot guys. I don't need to play dumb around him, I just lose my intelligence completely the second he's too close.
His hand runs down my thigh again, sparking jolts of desire so hard into me, my chest feels hollow. He presses his lips in a slow trail up my neck, to below my earring.
“We should get inside, before the food gets cold.”
I nod.
“You smell good.”
So do you. You smell like sunshine, and summer. “Thank you.”
He pats my leg, and pops his door open. The cold air rushes in, dousing me with anticlimax.
Unbuckling, before I can open my door, he's there, pulling it open.
I love men with manners.
He offers me his free hand, drawing me out with surprising support, in one swift motion. When I try stepping back, he catches his arm around my shoulders, the car door is already swinging shut, and I'm corralled inside his warm arm, to the front door.
Crickets are chirping, wind is whispering arcane secrets from leaf to leaf, and I am held by a man who rescued me, who is solid, and warm, and inviting, and safe; tilting my head back to look at the stars, I have a glow tingling down my spine.
Sometimes magic happens. Today feels predestined, and way too perfect.
The door swings open, and I'm encouraged to move forward. The arm slips off my shoulders, tracing strong blunt fingertips down my spine, again resting at the base with that strangely familiar touch of an old lover. That's what it is. He touches you as reassurance. He did it at the store, at my place, and now again. It works. Like a charm.
The lights flick on. The door thuds closed behind me, locking out nature, making it instantly too quiet; awkward.
“Sarah?”
Swiveling, I stare up into his tense face. “Hmm?”
He swallows audibly, and my attention is distracted by the hard male lump in his throat, doing the love dance.
The sound of our food packet smacking tiles jolts me. I'm imprisoned by his arm, his hand tracing my neck, my jawline, keeping my head tilted up.
“You're gorgeous.”
The mule inside me kicks me hard in the ribs with a 'yeah right'.
My objection is swallowed when his bulk blocks out the light, nighttime curls her shawl around me again, it's warm, and wet, and running inside my lower lip. I'm still holding a take-out margarita.
Without even looking, it's removed from my grasp and set on the table at the door.
Stuff ladylike.
Snaking arms up, finally touching his nape, I run fingertips into his short hair, surrendering to the endless kiss; breasts grazing hard muscle, fitting snugly over his stomach.
He's not shy; it's hungry, bold, stroking me in more ways than one. Backed against the wall, he leans into me, my heart starts pounding a wild, loud, tribal frenzy. I'm aching inside, drooling at the thought of the kind of night I hope I'm in for.
Closing my eyes, I indulge. Lips against lips, tongue against tongue, body against body, breath mingling with breath. Why does he smell so damn fabulous?
He's warm, and so strong I may as well be in a straitjacket. The hand on my breast moves, bracing him against the wall, as if he's forcing himself off me.
“Sorry,” he whispers into my mouth.
I'm betraying my need, my lips are trembling with the stuttering of my breath.
“Don't be.”
Fuck dinner, just keep doing that, don't stop now. You taste like spring rain; invigorating.
He props his other hand next to my head, bench-pressing himself away, a cold gap grows between our bodies.
“It's –” He swallows again.
I put my hands on his chest, feeling his own heart gonging under my palms.
“It's been awhile...”
He clears his throat, standing straight, stepping back, and I keep my hold on his heart, stepping forward with him, not allowing him to disconnect. This is life support. As if I was just raised from the dead, and ready to live life on the razor's edge.
Chapter 4
His hands wrap over mine, claiming them, squeezing them a touch too tight.
“Don't,” he orders.
Releasing me, he scoops up the packet from the sandstone tiles, striding away from me, down a dark passage.
My blood's as thick as molasses. I can't seem to move. My insides are still trying to untangle themselves.
Which is just as well, because he's coming right back this way, with two beers.
“This way,” he says, as he gusts past me.
What's the hurry?
The door next to me flings wide, and he disappears down steps.
Basement? He's taking me to the basement?
The dragon's taking me to the cave.
“Sarah? You coming?”
“Yup!” I say back, finally ungluing my shoes from the floor, taking a baby step forward, getting my drink off the table.
Music floats up to greet me. It's Great White. Now I can safely peg his age somewhere between forty and fifty.
Wow! This is impressive.
Black marble steps are highlighted with flames in sconces. They must be gas powered, because he just 'switched' them on.
Making my way down the stairs into his 'den', as my foot connects with the floor, he offers me a Shiner Bock beer.
“I have Corona too, if you prefer?”
I don't want him to go, “I'm good, I have margarita.”
Smiling up at him, I'm struck with the ambience in here.
He's giving me a quirky grin, “Make yourself comfortable.”
Walking over to a charcoal rug and puffy black leather couches, I sit down, noticing the closed curtains on one end, and the dancing fireplace recessed in the wall.
This is cozy. So he's not prone to exaggeration. He says exactly what he means.
Walking behind a matching marble bar running down this side of the 'den', he comes back, offering me a plate and utensils.
“Thanks.” Taking them from him, he's distracted, uncapping his beer and setting his own down.
So we're either leaning to eat on the black coffee table, or it's lap food.
Plonking himself down, he stretches out his legs, relaxing back in his chair, taking a deep pull on his beer. It lowers, and the soft lighting from the flames on the walls turn his skin to cascading gold. It hides his eyes, making them two enigmatic pools.
