Uninhibited (Unlikely Lovers)

by Brooks, Cheryl

  He gave her a gentle hug. “Maybe it was your hair.”

  “My hair? How is hair understanding?”

  “Don’t know,” he replied. “Just is. Thick, shiny—smells nice, too. Yes, it’s one of the most understanding heads of hair I’ve ever seen.”

  “Let me get this straight. You think my hair is understanding, you’d like to be a songwriter, but you’re tone deaf, and you scare people away because you need them too much. Sounds like you’re alone because you’re, um, sort of...nuts.”

  “You’re not the first to suggest that. But really, I’m not.”

  “Isn’t denial on the list of symptoms? You know, like a heart attack victim who swears up and down it can’t possibly be his heart that’s hurting him?”

  The line moved forward again until they were almost inside the door. Soon she wouldn’t need him to keep her warm. Perhaps she wouldn’t mention it until she truly got too hot. Even then, she might only fan herself.

  “I’m pretty normal if I’m not left alone too long—although I’ve been alone for almost a year now.” He blew out a breath. “Maybe I am a little nuts.”

  Great. “Glad you’re able to admit it.”

  “Yes, but I have a feeling that with you around, I’d never be lonely or crazy ever again. Wouldn’t it make you feel good to know you’d done that for someone?”

  She had no idea how to respond to that. “If you didn’t drive me crazy, I suppose it might. What else is in it for me?”

  “You’d have me to keep you warm.”

  “I think your jacket could probably do that all by itself. What else?”

  Leaning closer, he whispered in her ear. “I’d feed you when you were hungry, take care of you when you were sick, massage your feet when you’ve had a hard day, and give you as much love as you could stand.”

  That sounded almost too perfect. She stood there in a daze, her lips parted in awe. “What’s the catch?”

  There was always a catch.

  Chapter 2

  Alan John was about to fall off the no-sex wagon with a bang. He’d kept his distance from women so long it had almost become a habit. Almost. At least until he’d spotted this woman and every drop of moisture deserted his mouth on its way to his groin. He could no more have passed her by than he could have voluntarily stopped breathing.

  “No catch,” he replied. “I really would do that for you.”

  “It sounds terrific, which makes me wonder why you’re alone.”

  He shrugged. “I get too close. I have no personal space myself, so I tend to forget that other people do, and it drives them nuts. Does that make sense?”

  “Maybe. You’ve certainly invaded mine.”

  Truth be told, he was wrapped around her like a cloak. That she let him do it was probably a good sign—perhaps even a miracle. “Yes, but do you mind? I need to be close. I can’t help it.”

  “Your mother didn’t hold you enough when you were a baby?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe.”

  “And in trying to fulfill that need, you scare people away and make it that much harder to get close to them. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, I suppose I do.” She took a step forward, and he stayed right with her, much like her shadow would have done.

  “Then public displays of affection aren’t taboo with you?”

  “No. I’m doing it right now, and we’ve only just met.” Pitching his voice lower, he added, “Imagine what I’d be doing if we really knew each other.”

  “Like what?”

  Alan could smell the hot fudge from where he stood—tempting, intoxicating—but its effect was nothing compared to what she was doing to him. Her scent, her warmth, her soft body leaning against his…

  He pressed his lips to her neck. “Like that.”

  Taking his hands from his pockets, he wound them around her waist in a gentle caress before pulling her against him. “Or this.” One hand moved lower, sliding down over her hip, pushing her sideways, hoping she could feel his erection brushing the seat of her pants.

  Alan wanted sex so badly he couldn’t see straight. A year of abstinence hadn’t done a damn thing to improve his self-control—not when a woman like this one crossed his path. Unfortunately, she shifted away from him slightly, removing the pressure of her buns against his cock.

  He winced. “Sorry. That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, but not the way you might think.”

  “Not in the mood?”

  “Wouldn’t matter if I was,” she muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” she replied. “Too hard to explain. Just leave it be.”

  He shifted into a less erogenous stance but stayed closer to her than he probably should have. The line moved forward again and, all too soon, it was her turn to order.

  “Know what you want yet?” he asked.

  “No. You’ll have to decide for me. I can’t do it.”

  She didn’t seem flustered—although his nearness would’ve had that effect on most women. She sounded sad, hopeless.

  When the kid behind the counter asked for her order, Alan took her at her word. “She’ll have a hot fudge sundae with chocolate cheesecake on Jamocha fudge with extra dark chocolate chunks mixed in. Better make that two. Oh, and don’t forget the whipped cream and pecans.”

  “I didn’t know men ever got PMS,” she commented. “How interesting.”

  The boy grinned and shook his head, scooping out a huge lump of ice cream before plopping it onto the marble slab with a flourish and mashing it down with a spatula.

  Turning his head, Alan buried his face in her hair and inhaled. Her fragrance flooded his senses like a rose in full bloom, stealing its way through his body all the way to his toes. “So is that what the problem is? PMS? Or are you always like this?”

  She heaved a sigh. “Have been lately. Just don’t give a damn about anything.”

  Which might explain why he hadn’t driven her insane yet. “Is that why you don’t mind having a perfect stranger hanging onto you like a leech? Or is this your typical night out at the ice cream parlor?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Guess I’ll have to make the best of it while I can—unless, of course, you want to go home with me.” He didn’t have much hope there, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “That’s okay. Really. I don’t mind. I’ll just go home tonight and dream about this fabulous woman I shared my coat with for a while.” Better change the subject. “Speaking of clothes, do you suppose they have feelings? I mean, do they hang in your closet and grumble because you haven’t worn them in a long time, or do they get pissed when you spill gravy on them?”

  Turning, she gave him a slow blink and the best have you lost your mind look he’d ever seen—which wasn’t surprising considering he’d gone from the erotic to the absurd in the space of thirty seconds. “I have no idea.”

  “Don’t care, either, do you?”

  “Let’s just say it’s not a possibility I’ve ever considered—until now. But yes, if clothes had feelings, they would probably get mad when you spilled stuff on them. I’m sure your coat is outraged at having to work twice as hard to keep two people warm. And just think how ticked our clothes will be when we get chocolate all over them.”

  “Guess you want me to back off, huh?”

  “Yeah.” She sounded a tiny bit disappointed at the prospect, although that might have been wishful thinking on his part. “I need to pay this guy for the ice cream.”

  “My treat.” Reaching over the counter, he traded the clerk a twenty for the two sundaes.

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “But I want to. Besides, I think you need a treat. I’m guessing no one’s treated you in a long time.”

  “You’re right about that,” she said with another sigh. Glancing around the crowded store, she added, “Looks like we might have to eat this in our cars—o
r take it home.”

  Alan’s heart nearly stopped at the thought of her hopping in her car and driving away. “Please don’t leave yet.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t run away. I promise.”

  “That’s what the last one said. She told me she was going to the restroom. She never came back. I think she climbed out the window.”

  “That’s weird. How long had you known her?”

  “We’d been living together for about three months.” Which was longer than most of his women lasted.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Although I could probably top that story.”

  “I’ve had worse things happen to me, too,” he admitted. “This girl left all of her furniture at my place, so in a way, I came out ahead.”

  Shut up, Alan. Telling her his horror stories probably wasn’t the best tactic—especially that story. Having a woman leave everything behind to get away from him didn’t bode well for future relationships. Still, a guy never knew what it would take to gain a woman’s sympathy.

  He nodded toward a young couple gathering up their empty dishes. “There’s a table opening up. Better grab it while we can.”

  She hesitated. “Well…okay. I’ll stay at least as long as it takes to eat this.”

  “Yeah, right. For all I know, you might be a champion sundae eater. You could be gone in sixty seconds. Maybe I should handicap you, letting you only eat one bite for my two.”

  “And just how would you do that?”

  “I won’t give you a spoon.” He snatched hers from the dish. “Or I’ll feed you. It’s very romantic. And besides, we’re sweethearts, aren’t we?”

  She pulled out a chair and sat down. “I thought we were pretending.”

  “Yes, but if we pretend enough it might actually happen.”

  Arching a brow, she scooted up to the table. “Do you always become sweethearts with a woman this quickly?”

  “I have to move fast.” Placing his chair right next to hers, he sat down close enough that their shoulders, hips, and thighs touched. “You know…before they realize they can’t stand me.”

  She didn’t exactly snuggle up to him, but at least she didn’t move away. “I usually like to know a man’s name before I can consider him my sweetheart. Right now, all I know is that your name isn’t Mitch.”

  “Mitch? Oh, yeah, right—the guy you don’t know that you have to buy a gift for. Maybe I could help you with that. I used to know a Mitch. He was a big NASCAR fan—went into mourning when Dale Earnhart died.”

  “I doubt that all Mitches would feel that way,” she said. “I could be wrong, but...”

  “Okay. Um, he also liked—” He paused, grimacing. “No, can’t tell you that part. Too kinky. Maybe your Mitch is a football fan.”

  “Hmm, yes, he might like the Colts—or maybe IU or Purdue.”

  “Do you have to pick one? I mean, aren’t there any generic teams?”

  She stared at him incredulously. “Don’t you know?”

  “Never watch football—or any other sports for that matter,” he said around a mouthful of ice cream. “Waste of time.”

  “Not enough contact for you?”

  “Not unless I’m playing, and that’s not the sort of contact I like.”

  “But we were talking about Mitch,” she reminded him. “He might like it.”

  “Might like girls with big—nope, better not say that. Too crass.”

  “Are you ever going to tell me your name, or is that asking too much at this point in our relationship?”

  “We have a relationship? That’s great. Really great.”

  Retrieving her spoon, she ate a few bites of her sundae, then leaned back, tipping her head to one side. “You know, you’re kinda cute, now that I can actually see you. Dimples, nice smile, longer hair than is stylish these days, but it works for you. You remind me of a young Russell Crowe. Too bad you’re so crazy.”

  She wasn’t the first person to tell him he looked like Russell Crowe. He didn’t see the resemblance himself. “Crazy isn’t all bad. You might even decide you like it. How old are you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “If we’re going to have a relationship, yes, I think it matters.”

  “I’m thirty-two,” she replied.

  “Great. I’m thirty-four. That’s perfect.”

  “Yes, Not Mitch, I’m sure it is.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You still want to know my name.” He cleared his throat. “Well, then. Here goes. Would Paul be okay with you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Or would you like Alan better?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s not a matter of preference. It’s a matter of fact. Either your name is Paul or Alan, or it isn’t. Which is it?”

  “Wait, I’m not done yet. How about Ryan?”

  “Ryan,” she repeated. “Yes, Ryan is fine. So which is it?”

  “All three,” he replied. “My parents couldn’t decide, and the worst part of it is, my last name is John.”

  “So your name is Paul Alan Ryan John?”

  “Close. It’s actually Alan Paul Ryan John.”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “Alan. It makes me sound a little bit like Elton John—you know, Alan and Elton? They sort of sound alike.”

  “Too bad you’re tone deaf.”

  He stared at her blankly. “Oh—not a songwriter. You remembered.”

  “It hasn’t been that long ago,” she said. “My short term memory isn’t shot yet.”

  “That’s good—or maybe it isn’t. I’d probably be better off with a woman who couldn’t remember much. That way I could do all the things I want to do all the time, and she wouldn’t get tired of it because she wouldn’t remember.”

  “They say menopause will do that to you. Maybe you should date older women.” She hesitated as though afraid to ask the obvious question. “So what is it you like to do all the time that women get so tired of?”

  “First off, there’s the contact thing,” he began. “And I like to kiss a lot.” Stopping there, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’ve been told I’m voracious.”

  “Voracious?”

  “Sexually voracious.”

  “Sexually?” She seemed curious.

  Good sign.

  “Yeah. I want it all the time.”

  “All the time?”

  Here goes nothing… “I’ve never been with anyone who would actually let me do it, but I think I could probably go six or seven times a day—maybe more.”

  She sat and stared at him for a long moment before she finally blinked. “No wonder you think football is a waste of time.” She glanced at his dish, which was almost empty. “Is chocolate a good substitute?”

  “No.” He pushed his bowl away. “It isn’t.” With a sniff, he ran a nervous hand through his hair. There was no substitute for having a woman wrapped around him while he fucked her hot, wet pussy. None. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip.

  “Drugs?” she suggested.

  “Never tried any.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Smoking?”

  “Never tried it. Too expensive and I don’t like the smell—aside from the fact that it’s unhealthy.”

  “Masturbation?”

  “Helps, but not much.”

  “Pornography?”

  “Oh, hell, no.”

  “And how long since—”

  “I don’t think I’m addicted,” he said, interrupting her. “I can go without it for a while, and I don’t have to do it that often, but—”

  “How long?” she repeated.

  God, she was pretty, even while interrogating him on a very sore subject. Gorgeous green eyes, thick sandy hair, lips so luscious he couldn’t wait to devour them. He sucked in a ragged breath. “About a year.”

  “That must seem like an eternity for you.” She swallowed hard, the corners of her mouth turning down as though she’d just eaten something rotten. “Then
again, if you were addicted, I bet I could cure you.”

  Not likely. “How?”

  “Spend a little time with me, and you won’t want it anymore.”

  “No way.”

  “It’s true.” She smiled grimly. “My last boyfriend would be banging away, and then his dick would go soft.”

  That had only happened to Alan once—after he’d already come three times. “Sounds like that was his problem, not yours.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m beginning to see a pattern. The boyfriend I had before that said he didn’t want to get married because he didn’t want children. He broke up with me, and now he’s married and has a set of twin girls.” She sat there, staring at her melting sundae, the whipped cream slithering down the slope like an avalanche. “Then, of course, there was my husband.”

  “Husband?”

  “Yeah. Dane and I got married right after I finished college. If I got it from him once a month I was lucky. He said he was too busy. I think he has three kids now. I’m not sure.”

  “But that’s still not your fault.”

  “Maybe, but I can’t help thinking that the only consistent component in all of those lousy relationships was me.”

  Alan sagged back in his chair. He’d never thought about it that way. “Mine, too. What are we gonna do?”

  “Eat ice cream, I guess. Too bad it’s making me sick.” Pushing her dish aside, she stood up. “Look, Alan, it’s been very nice meeting you, but I really need to go home.”

  He gaped at her, aghast. “Couldn’t we help each other?”

  “I think I’m beyond that.” Alan had never seen such a tragic expression on a woman’s face before—like her dog, cat, and entire family had bailed on her.

  “Wait, please.” He’d been anxious before, but he was desperate now. “Give me your phone number, your e-mail address, anything.”

  She shook her head. “Not a good idea.”

  “Then let me give you mine. Don’t leave yet.” Snatching up a napkin, he pulled out a pen wrote down his name, phone number, and email address. “Don’t lose this.” He pressed it into her hand. “You might change your mind.”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “I really don’t want to go through all of that crap again. I’ve had enough.”

  Alan watched her leave the shop, feeling like his heart had been yanked out of his chest and stomped on.