Tempting the Deputy

by Heidi Rice

  “What?”

  “It’s not that big. I can easily edit the scar out of the finished picture. If that’s what you want.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. But it’ll be much easier to do that effectively with bare skin.”

  “I…” He hesitated; he still wasn’t sure about losing the hair. Knowing she’d be able to see the mark a lot more clearly and might figure out what it was, and how he’d got it. But somehow her steady gaze, devoid of judgment, had him nodding. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “You’ll have your chest waxed? Really?”

  “Yes, really.” He broke eye contact, her pleasure at the concession somehow meaning more than it should. “But I want some more of your fried chicken first. To get my strength up.”

  *

  Stop hyperventilating over his chest.

  Charlie stirred the warm pot of wax, checking the thermometer for the umpteenth time to avoid staring at the man sitting half naked in front of her.

  They’d set up their home-waxing parlor in the house’s main bathroom, and she’d made Logan as comfortable as she could on the chair he’d carried up from the kitchen. It was a big airy room, with windows looking out into the Montana night. But Logan was a big guy, and somehow he seemed to have sucked the air right out of the room as soon as he’d taken off his T-shirt.

  His chest was magnificent. Something she’d noticed as soon as he’d hefted up his T-shirt to show her the scar above his left nipple. She’d found it difficult to disguise her breathing difficulties then; she was finding it even harder now.

  More than anything she would have liked to photograph him like this before she waxed him, sitting on the chair, his shoulders back, his expression tense, the contours and slopes of that hard masculine body so perfect she could feel the raw power emanating off him.

  Truth be told, the pelt of dark hair, that grew in springy curls over his pectorals then tapered into a thin line down clearly defined abdominal muscles was as spell-bindingly male as the rest of him. And she would be sorry to see it go. The burn on his chest that he was so self-conscious about, though, wasn’t the only scar. There were several more nicks and cuts, one nasty one on his shoulder and another on his ribs.

  His skin was pale after the winter months, but still held the remnants of a tan. She wondered if the Tates had Mediterranean or Native American ancestry because he had the kind of swarthy complexion that she bet went a deep copper brown as soon as he saw the summer sun. She would add some color to his skin for the calendar shot in Photoshop, lose the slight tan line on his neck. But she wanted to persuade him to let her at least keep the scars, all of them, because it was his very imperfections that made his body so physically compelling.

  And frankly a little overwhelming.

  It wasn’t like her to be overwhelmed. But then she doubted she’d ever seen a more ruggedly male physical specimen in her life. The previous men she’d dated had been arty, big city bad boys, who labored with their minds rather than their bodies. That had to be why this man’s body was so breathtaking. It was an instinctive feminine reaction to the alpha male of the species.

  An alpha male who was currently scowling at her—as if he was not at all happy about what was going to happen.

  Supper had been a mostly silent affair, after he’d agreed to let her wax him. Logan was a man of few words it transpired. And as a result the tension had been building between them ever since. At least it hadn’t stopped him devouring two platefuls of her fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

  That he’d put his trust in her, despite his misgivings, felt somehow significant. So whatever happened, she did not want to muck this up.

  She stirred the wax again and laid out the gauze strips she would be using, trying to still the slight tremor in her fingers. What on earth was she getting nervous about? This was no big deal.

  He’d already taken a shower at her instruction, but had put his jeans back on.

  “Could you undo the top buttons on your fly?” she said, as nonchalantly as possible.

  He grunted an acknowledgement.

  She checked the thermometer again at the sound of the buttons sliding out of their holes. Ran through the steps in her head that Kelsey had outlined.

  “Right, let’s get this over with.”

  Scooting closer on her stool, she ran her fingers along his V. His stomach muscles trembled as she pushed back the denim, slid her thumbs along the roped sinews and tugged the waistband of his boxer shorts down to rest on his hip bones. His skin felt warm against her fingertip, as she ran it down the happy trail of hair.

  Heat surged. She could feel his eyes on her, watching, waiting.

  Did he feel the heat, too? Why did the blast of connection, which could only be sexual, feel like more than that?

  “Tell me if the wax is too hot,” she murmured, her voice a husky whisper.

  Taking the wooden spatula, she smoothed the warm brown viscous substance over the strip of hair that led from the top of his pants, to just below his belly button.

  His grunt sounded even deeper and huskier than hers. But he said nothing as she smoothed the strip of gauze over the wax, then pressed it down.

  “Feel free to yell if you want,” she said, and met his gaze. “Your brother certainly did.”

  The intensity in his blue eyes did nothing to calm the riot of sensations prickling over her skin.

  “Just get on with…”

  She ripped the strip away.

  “Shit!” He hissed, the sound deep and guttural. “That hurt.”

  “I know. Sorry,” she said and actually meant it. Up until an hour ago, she would have gotten a certain amount of sadistic pleasure out of having Logan Tate and his chest hair at her mercy. But not anymore. Because she now knew this was the very least of the pain he had once suffered and endured in his life. The hurt and humiliation that had shadowed his eyes when he had let her examine his scar had touched something inside her that she didn’t want touched.

  Her empathy.

  She shook off the sentimental thought—because it was not helping with her breathlessness. She examined the rest of the job as dispassionately as she could in the face of that phenomenal V.

  “Only about…” She did a quick calculation—luckily he didn’t have any hair on his ribs or his shoulders. “Five more strips to go. If you think you can stand it?” she said. Not sure why she would want to give him an out.

  “I can, if you can,” he said and she had the weirdest feeling he knew… That hurting him was hurting her too. Not good.

  Something had changed between them tonight, something profound. Her lungs squeezed as she stirred and smoothed the wax for the next strip.

  Get on with it, Charlie. Before you stop breathing all together.

  *

  Holy hell. How the heck did women stand that? And why did they?

  Logan examined the stinging skin of his chest and rubbed the ugly mark on his left pec, while his torturer packed away her waxing supplies.

  He looked as bare as a baby, a rather red baby, but for the burn mark. The top edge of the Double T logo was clearly visible now—just as he had figured it would be. But she hadn’t said anything. And the hair would grow back eventually.

  Whether he’d be able to forget the feel of her fingers, gliding over the warm wax before she ripped out each length of hair, was another matter. Because on some totally screwed-up level, there had been something erotic about the whole procedure.

  Erotic, except for the damn pain. If he’d wanted any evidence that he wasn’t into anything real kinky this was it. At least the pain part of the whole procedure had stopped the erection pounding to life in his pants from getting ahead of itself when she’d slipped her fingers under the waistband of his shorts.

  Only problem now was, as he watched her short hair fall over her face, his dick already seemed to have forgotten the pain she’d caused.

  “We all finished?” he asked.

  She glanced at him. And hesitated. But t
hen she lifted a small tub out of the box. “Would you like me to put some aloe vera on your skin? It should help with the stinging.”

  “Aloe what?” he asked, stalling for time.

  They both knew he could do it himself. But the arousal her suggestion had triggered was impossible to ignore.

  “Aloe vera.” She read the label on the tub. “It’s supposed to soften, hydrate, and nourish your skin and reduce redness, dryness, and scarring.”

  Did he want to cross this line? Could he stop himself?

  “What does it smell like?” he asked. “Because I don’t want to smell like a bouquet of roses.”

  Not true, if her hands were rubbing the lotion in, he didn’t care what he smelled like. It would be worth it.

  She unscrewed the lid and sniffed, then held out the jar. He took a deep breath in, and caught nothing but the tantalizing scent of her.

  “Okay?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  Scooping out a handful of the gel, she rubbed it into her palms, then moved closer. Her fingers began at his waistline. Heat pooled in his crotch—warm and fluid and uncontrolled—as she massaged in the gel. He dropped his head back against the chair, stared at the light fixture above his head and concentrated on keeping his mind the hell out of his pants. Not easy when he had just agreed to a much greater torture than getting his chest hair ripped out at the roots.

  Her fingers, strong and bold, roamed over his abdomen, trailing up his ribs, and massaging his pecs. He jolted as her thumb stroked over the scar, touching the old burn. No one had ever touched the mark before, not specifically. He opened his eyes, forced himself to watch her reaction.

  Her gaze met his, almost as if she’d sensed him watching her. Shock reverberated through him first. That wasn’t disgust or pity he could see in her face. She was turned on. As turned on as he was. Her arousal reflected in the dark dilated pupils, the flush of awareness on her skin.

  Shifting forward, he cradled her cheeks in his hands.

  To hell with it, he wanted to taste her, just once.

  Her hands rested on his waist, but she didn’t object, didn’t push him away as he brought her mouth to his, and whispered over her lips.

  “What’s going on between you and my brother?” He needed to know, to be sure, the spike of jealousy torturing him.

  Her gaze became heavy-lidded, the provocative smile spurring him on. “Nothing. We’re pals. That’s all.”

  “Good.” The final thread on his control snapped like a high-tension cable.

  She opened for him, letting him plunder, letting him explore the sultry taste of her. The pounding in his crotch became unbearable. The sting from the waxing making his skin all the more sensitive. He tilted her face, angling her mouth to take the kiss deeper, to possess more. To possess all of her.

  She delved back, her hunger as wild and unapologetic as his own. Her fingers plunged into his hair and massaged his scalp.

  Sensation rippled over his skin, the liquid weight in his groin deepening. The pounding heat becoming a throbbing wound.

  Her taste was sultry and spicy and yet so subtle. He drew back first, rested his forehead on hers. He listened to her staggered breathing, absorbed the light brush of her breath on his jaw.

  “Not a good idea,” he managed, round the ball of lust blocking off his air supply. Although for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why.

  She pulled back abruptly, forcing him to let her go.

  “Shame,” she said, not disputing his assertion. “Your lip action is impressive.”

  He chuckled, the bark of amusement a relief.

  Jesus, she was a piece of work.

  But as she finished packing up the supplies, his amusement died.

  She handed him the tub of gel. “Put that on, if you need it. And let me know when you can do your shoot? Next week would be good, before the hair grows back.”

  He grasped her wrist as she turned to go, feeling irrationally annoyed by the clinical shift from siren to businesswoman.

  “You’re going to pretend that didn’t happen? What’s the deal?”

  She tugged her wrist out of his. “You tell me?” she said. Then turned and walked out of the room.

  He sat in the bathroom, frustrated and annoyed and feeling like the biggest dumbass on the planet. And he wasn’t sure why.

  Was it for starting something he knew he shouldn’t finish?

  Or not finishing something he should never have started?

  Because his dick was telling him one thing, and his head was telling him something else. And neither one of them was making any sense at all.

  And he had a bad feeling that staying the heck out of Charlotte Foster’s orbit for the next month was not going to be enough to cure the hunger powering through his body now he’d tasted exactly what he was missing.

  Chapter Six

  “Excellent, now turn into the light.” Charlie lifted the camera and fired off another barrage of shots. “Wonderful, you look super hot.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, the camera lies.” Lyle sent her a rigid grin, the smooth line of his buttocks peeking out from the fringe of the flag, which draped over his torso to cover his crotch. “I think my nuts have shrunk to the size of frozen cranberries.”

  Charlie laughed, as she carried on clicking the shutter. If the rest of the guys were as good-humored as Lyle in the face of extreme discomfort she was going to be very lucky. They’d been out in the chilly spring weather for over a half an hour and this was his first complaint. She needed to wrap it up soon though—even if he was more immune to the cold than she was, he was starting to shiver, and that would blur the shots.

  “Only a few more poses now; you’ve been terrific,” she said as she circled him one last time, pleased with the play of light over the tight muscles of his backside. With his chest bare, his head up, and his shoulders back, the lean lines of his body spotlighted by the glow of twilight filtering through the trees on the riverbank, Lyle Tate looked magnificent. He reminded her of the young buck she’d spotted on the drive into town that morning, his stance reflecting the strength and majesty of a creature in its natural habitat.

  She smiled at the lyrical direction of her thoughts. Somehow she didn’t think Lyle would be impressed with being compared to an elk. However majestic.

  “Wait a minute. Can I just…” Approaching him from behind, she yanked off a glove with her teeth and touched his shoulder blade to tilt it down. The slick oil they’d covered him with earlier coated her fingertips as her hand glided over his back to adjust his position. He allowed himself to be moved, relaxed and uninhibited by his nakedness.

  She checked her viewfinder again, and her breath caught.

  This was it, the shot she would use. The bulge and slope of muscle and sinew beautifully delineated as the golden dusk shone off the oiled surface of his skin—the red, white, and blue of the Stars and Stripes perfectly juxtaposed against the vivid blue of his eyes. Excitement hummed through her at the prospect of playing with the colors in Photoshop—making that vivid blue really pop.

  “Perfect,” she murmured.

  He chuckled. “Awesome, but can you get on with it? I need to get my pants on before I lose the ability to have little Lyles.”

  She couldn’t hide her smile as she took the shots.

  She saw a shiver wrack his body, and forced herself to lower the camera. She would happily stay out here another hour, but she had what she needed.

  “Thanks, Lyle, I’m done,” she said, as she screwed on the lens cap.

  “Hallelujah,” he muttered, wrapping the flag around his waist and dancing across the back lawn toward the house.

  She laughed as she looped the camera strap over her shoulder. But as her head came up to follow Lyle’s mad dash to save all the little Lyles currently freezing in his nuts, she caught sight of Logan standing on the back porch.

  “Get out of my way, bro, popsicle coming through,” Lyle shouted as he shot past his brother and dived into the house to head for a
long hot shower.

  The screen door slammed.

  Charlie’s smile died as she packed the camera into its case, and collapsed the tripod she’d used at the start of the shoot.

  Where had Logan come from? How long had he been watching the shoot? And why did he look pissed off? She hadn’t seen him since the waxing incident yesterday evening. Had assumed he’d be out this evening, like he had been every other evening except yesterday—especially after the disastrous end to their impromptu kiss.

  Despite her indignation, she felt self-conscious as she mounted the steps to the back porch, his accusatory stare doing nothing to cool the heat spreading up her torso, or the kick of her heart against her rib cage at the memory of that stupid kiss.

  She might not know much about love and commitment and long-term relationships, but she knew about sexual chemistry—and the hot glare of it that had flared the moment their lips had touched had been entirely mutual. But while she’d been willing to run with it, to see where it led. He hadn’t. He’d slapped her down instead. Made her feel needy and desperate and then left her hanging. And she wasn’t about to give him a chance to do it again.

  However much she might want to jump him.

  Maybe she wasn’t the sweet, wholesome, girl-next-door type she suspected he usually dated, but she had her pride. And she’d always been honest about her desires. She did not plan to get mixed up with some uptight, Deputy Do Right who thought he was somehow superior to her.

  So she had planned to ignore him, planned to walk right past him and into the house, to check that Lyle hadn’t gotten frostbite, when he grasped her arm.

  “What was that about?” he said, his face rigid with temper.

  She tugged her arm out of his grasp. “What was what about?” she spat back, her temper—the temper she’d sworn she wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing—getting the better of her.

  “You and Lyle? You said there was nothing between you two. That didn’t look like nothing to me.”

  What the…?

  She was so shocked by the accusation, her mouth dropped open. “I was taking his picture.”