One Taste

by Cari Quinn

  “It kind of pisses me off that you handle me,” she said quietly.

  “Try to enjoy it instead.”

  Tentatively, she flattened her hand over the muscles of his chest and down to his stomach. Testing herself as much as the calm, she crept under his shirt and followed each ridge and dip. His belly quivered when she found the silky line of hair that flowed under his belt, but she didn’t go any farther.

  She met his mouth again. The kiss was darker and richer, but she knew he was holding back. She didn’t know whether to hug him or slug him for his restraint. Why should he be able to hold himself together when she felt as though she was going to fly apart any second?

  He tore his mouth away this time and stepped back. “Okay, my turn.”

  “What, it’s okay for you?”

  “Jesus, I’m trying here, Miranda.” He dug his fingers into her butcher block island. “If you think this is easy for me, then think again.”

  She pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades and sighed. “You make me feel too much.”

  He tried to turn around, but she held him still. It was so much easier to talk to him in the dark, or to his back. Anywhere she couldn’t see those eyes of his. It always made her wonder if he would find her lacking if he looked too deeply.

  “When I said that I had a past, I wasn’t kidding, Nate.”

  “Nothing can be as bad as you think it is.”

  If only he knew. She rested her cheek against his back. “Do you still want to meet at the beach on Sunday?”

  “Is that a not-so-subtle push out the door?”

  “I have to make your website look pretty. And you have to face facts that a distributor isn’t a bad way to go.”

  He turned around. “Pushy chick.”

  “Stubborn delivery guy.”

  “Let me help clean up.”

  She tapped his chin. “I need to burn off some steam because someone wants to wait until our third date.”

  “Hey, I didn’t put a time on it. I’m at least a fifth-date kind of guy.”

  She groaned. If she had to wait that long she’d end up dead in her shower, electrocuted by her vibrator. Maybe she should get a waterproof one.

  She followed him to the door, holding it open. “Sunday?”

  He pushed her into the doorjamb, his mouth strong and hot and mind-bending. Then he was gone and she was left holding herself up. “Wear a bikini!” he called from the hallway.

  Nate checked his cell.

  The text read, I’m near the Ferry Building. Look for the artists tents.

  He scanned the Embarcadero, heading away from the pier. It was midmorning on a Sunday and the entire area was crawling with tourists, pets, locals and just about anyone that could hawk a ware. Spying the white pop-up tents, he followed the herd into the artist colony setup.

  Living in San Francisco meant that the fog and the sun flipped a coin as to which held dominance, and he was happy that the sun had won today. Wind flapped the tent tops like sails and the steady business of the farmers’ market bled into the tables that offered up anything from paintings to jewelry.

  Thanks to Stella’s happy bark and horse-huge body, he spotted Miranda easily. A bikini had been too much to hope for, but he got half a bikini and a punch in the solar plexus. Cutoff shorts and a mile of smoothly tanned leg ended in flip-flops. Her toes were the same green as the triangles that cupped her perfect breasts. Huge sunglasses hid her eyes and two loose braids teased her shoulders.

  When she smiled, he managed to wave. Stella pulled at her leash, dragging Miranda through the crowd. He decided to buy the dog a huge box of treats when Miranda’s chest slammed right into his. He hugged her to him, soaking in the embarrassed laugh, cocoa butter and sunshine.

  “I held up my end of the bargain,” she said with a pout.

  He laughed. “And I told you there was no way in hell I would be wearing a Speedo.”

  She snapped the elastic of his suit. “Good thing I think board shorts are sexy.”

  He slung his arm over her shoulder. “Very good thing.” Bussing her temple, he dragged in her smell one more time. “Do you come here every weekend?”

  “No, but I do make sure I come out at least once a month.” She hooked her arm around his waist and Stella nudged him until he gave her a good scratch. “I like to look around at what the artists are doing. Helps me on a designing end as well. Keeps me fresh.”

  He could see that. There was everything from waterscapes to portraits, with enough abstract sculptures in between to keep him interested. He liked how she looked at everything, talked to people and yet didn’t linger at every booth.

  They followed the trees that dotted the walking path to look out at the waterline. Stella was content to sniff and pee at a meandering pace. She didn’t seem fazed by all the people around her. They talked about his family, but she shied away from the subject of her own, as usual.

  After a lunch of chowder and crusty bread, they gathered dinner fixings at the farmers’ market. Linked fingers and small talk was the deal of the day but something still felt missing. He didn’t understand why she wouldn’t talk about her family. Especially when she wanted to know every last detail about his.

  With a panting Stella in tow, they finally made their way to his truck. He didn’t even need to convince Miranda to shove over on the bench seat. She slid in and settled herself next to him in the center, letting Stella shove her big head out the window.

  “How’d you guys get down to the pier?”

  “Walked.”

  “That’s one helluva walk.”

  She looked up at him. “I was feeling lazy. Me and Stella usually go on a five-mile run a few times a week.”

  He eased back, his arm resting behind her along the seat. “You’re better than me.”

  She patted his belly. “You have to do something to keep so fit.”

  “Working the truck keeps most of the fat at bay. The rest I wrestle off with a weight bench.”

  Her fingertips wandered under his t-shirt. “Weight bench, huh?” She slid into his board shorts and he hissed. It didn’t take any more than that to have him cursing the netting of his suit. He was getting too tired to fight the attraction. She nipped his ear a second before she curled her fingers around the base of his dick. “Shit.”

  “Actually, that’s not what’s in my hands.”

  A choked laugh was all he could manage as she stroked him.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so fascinated with a man’s body in my life.” She scraped her teeth over his throat and flicked the tip of her tongue along his Adam’s apple. “You make me want to touch everywhere.”

  He willed himself to take the torture. It was as if she was exploring him and herself at the same time. And damn if it didn’t tie him into knots, but it wasn’t like the other times they’d been together. She was there with him, not just enjoying a warm body that created pleasure.

  She wouldn’t share all of herself, but at least here, they were making progress. At the next red light, he trapped her hand with his, holding her under the suit, showing her that he liked her grip just a little tighter. The hitch in her throat and the grasp of her fingers pushed him closer to the point of no return.

  Turning off the scenic main street, he followed an overgrown road and found a patch of shade. He dragged her onto his lap, his mouth at her neck and then down to the soft triangle of her suit. Her nipple peaked under the thin material, stabbing his tongue until he nosed away the bikini cup.

  With her fingers twisting into his hair, he panted against her tight tip. Diffuse late-day sun warmed the truck, leaving a sheen of sweat along her shoulders. She undulated against his hard-on, pushing his t-shirt over his head. Strangled by the band at his neck, he fought his way out of the shirt.

  Her fingers were busy on his skin, her mouth finding his nipple, and she bit once, laving in apology a moment later. Stella snoozed next to them, unaware that they were a scrap of bathing suit and layer of denim away from a mindle
ss fuck.

  Unsnapping her cutoffs, he lifted her enough to get his fingers into the zipper and under her panties. He wished for a bed and an hour uninterrupted where he could lay her out and taste her.

  She twisted her hips in time to his rhythm, riding his hand. He couldn’t stop himself from dipping inside her heat, groaning when she coated his fingers, his palm—just, God, he wanted all that around him again.

  With his other hand he brought her face to his and kissed her. She arched and bucked against his hand, ripping her lips away from his. Her head dropped back. The need to taste her neck was overwhelming, but he wanted her with him—wanted her eyes and the wild hazel gold just before she went blind.

  Wrapping his wrist with her braid, he cupped the back of her neck. “Miranda.”

  Sleepy eyes opened and she stiffened.

  “No, not this time.” He slid inside her, two fingers deep, circling her clit with his thumb. Determination deepened his voice, but he wouldn’t watch that anxiety fill her again. Whatever it was about them on the edge of delirium that made her shy away, he was going to find a way past it. “Say my name, Miranda.”

  She gripped his shoulder with one hand and clamped her hand around his wrist with the other. “If you stop, I will kill you.”

  He circled with a lighter touch, holding her on the brink. Tight and warm, she pulsed around his fingers. “I’d give anything to watch you come. But I gotta know it’s me. It’s me.”

  “Nate. It’s you, Nate.” Eyes blind with pleasure, she stayed with him. A mask of pain shimmered behind the desire and he didn’t know why.

  He cupped her cheek, the muscles of his forearm burning with the slow thrusts inside her. “You’re beautiful.” Unable to have even a few inches between them, he caught her mouth, swallowing her moans. Cheek to cheek, he dragged in her scent. Murmuring her name, he held her as she broke. She wrapped herself around him and for the first time he felt as though it meant something more than just a pop of release. Relief and a surge of hope were worth the blue balls.

  She turned into his mouth again and her taste bloomed on his tongue. His stroking gentled until he pulled his hand free, cradling her close. No ghosts, no false starts, just them.

  Not sure what to expect, Miranda slid her hands over her denim-clad hips. The brand new jeans were still stiff, even after three washings. Nate had requested she wear jeans for their date that night and the only ones she had were cutoffs. She’d run to the mall with Ryleigh in tow and an endless stream of questions she couldn’t even begin to answer. She had no idea what to call her relationship with Nate. Could she even call it a relationship?

  Officially dating? Necking until her head felt as if it was going to spin off her shoulders? They’d spent the last three weeks driving each other insane over dinner or lunch. Breakfast still hadn’t been mentioned. If she had to live through one more night of fiendish making out only to have him go home she was going to commit murder.

  He was her worst nightmare and fondest wish all wrapped up in a damn Boy Scout. The fact that he got her more than any other person on the planet scared her witless. If there was one man she could move forward with, Nathan Cross would be it.

  At the knock on her door, she just barely resisted the urge to rip her thumbnail off at the quick. She opened the door and his shoulders had doubled in size sometime between lunch and six o’clock.

  Heavy silver buckles and battered edges made up a leather biker jacket that even Hollywood couldn’t duplicate. He didn’t just wear it because it made him look incredible, he wore it because he loved it. A white thermal shirt stretched across his chest. Was it possible to be jealous of a cotton shirt?

  His hair was especially mussed. So much so that her fingertips tingled with the need to grab and plunder the curls and let her mouth work the wicked quirk of his lips that verged on a smile. But it was his eyes that hit her the hardest. A settled gray that would forever be stamped Happy Place in her mind.

  And of course his denim looked soft and touchable. Ragged strings frayed around heavy black boots that matched his jacket in scuffs and love. When he stepped forward, one knee winked out of a rip. From FedEx guy to bad boy, how the hell was she going to resist him?

  Start at that ripped knee and move on up to that delicious thigh and of course to the—

  She pressed her lips together, flicking that thought off. She wasn’t sure if it was MJ talking or Miranda when it came to what was before her. Her Boy Scout had definitely gotten his patch in leather, chains and brawn. And damn if she didn’t want to climb on.

  Shit.

  Amen.

  “Wow,” his grin widened as he walked in the door and around the back of her. “I was totally correct on the jeans and your ass.”

  Something burned low and bright under her ribs. She should be offended, but somehow that little statement was ten times better than “you’re beautiful”. She turned around, trying to smother the smile that wanted to come out. “Since when did you dress like a biker boy?”

  “Since I am a biker boy.” He held out his hand. “Trust me?”

  Her heart, yup…that burn was her heart under her ribs. Throttle back, Miranda. “Are you insane?”

  “I’ve been riding since I was a teenager. You’re perfectly safe.” He stepped closer, sliding his hand around her waist. “Why else did you think I requested jeans for our date?”

  Soap and the oranges scent of him kicked up into a sudden panic. He was kryptonite, candy and any other manner of bad, yet oh-so-pretty thing she could think of. “Nate—”

  “Oh no, don’t poker up on me, Miranda.” His fingers threaded into her hair, toying with the ends. “You left it down for me?”

  She frowned because she had. Because the way he played with her hair was becoming an addiction. “I left it down because I wanted to.”

  She circled him this time to go to the door, but he snagged her hand. “I don’t care who you did it for, I’m just glad you did.”

  He pulled her away from the door and buried his hand into her hair, drawing her up on tiptoe. His lips were soft and easy, patient and nonintrusive. Just a simple touch stirred her up until she was cross-eyed with want. Why did they have to keep playing this game?

  Ultimately, Stella saved her from dragging him into her bedroom. A happy bark and a bounding gallop was the only warning before her mutt plowed between them. Obsidian eyes peeked from her flopping hair as she whined pitifully.

  “Hey, girl, jealous?”

  Stella gave another sharp bark. He laughed and let Miranda go, dipping down to scratch her dog’s ears, making her eyes roll back in adoration and ecstasy.

  I hear ya, girl.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

  He stood up again. “If you really don’t want to take the bike out, I’ll figure something else out, but the view I have in mind is amazing. Well worth the trip.” He took her hands again, shaking them a little before pressing them between his larger ones. His warm ones. “Take a chance, Miranda. You might like it.”

  Oh she knew she’d like it, that was the problem. She’d always had a taste for danger, whether it was jumping out of a plane with only two parachuting lessons under her belt or wiping out her father’s Jaguar off the Monterey coast on her seventeenth birthday, trying to see how fast it would go.

  She’d always loved adrenaline. It took leaving home to figure out she’d done all those crazy things to feel something in her big empty life. Her mother was too worried about finding a younger man to make headlines. Jason Lyons was too worried about the next big party or score to pay attention to his daughters. So she’d followed in their footsteps.

  Parties weren’t enough. She had to be more innovative, more daring. She needed to bring the party to the edge of a cliff on a windy day to outdo her parents. Reminding herself that she didn’t need adrenaline to live was tough when the feeling was so addictive. Balance was key, work and her company were important to her.

  “There is far too much thinking going on in t
hat gorgeous head of yours. Come out with me. I want to feel you pressed against my back. I want to show you my favorite spot just outside the city.”

  He brushed his thumb along her jaw, making her close her eyes in reaction. God, he made her nuts. He took advantage of her closed eyes, settling his mouth on hers again. One brush of that fascinating mouth and then another. She could feel herself swaying toward him—toward the dark side.

  She pulled away. “Do you have some freaky mojo or something?” She slapped her palm against the warm cotton that begged her to dig into those muscles and toss him on her floor.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile. “The only mojo we have is chemistry. No one understands it when it happens, but if you’re smart you go chasing after it.”

  She shook her head at the sureness in his tone. “What happens if you chase it off a cliff?”

  He reached out and hauled her back into him. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He brushed his nose against hers, minty breath puffing against her mouth. “I don’t know what happened in your past—” He growled impatiently. “Stop tensing up, dammit.” His eyes darkened into a stormy gray that she was beginning to identify with frustration. “All I care about is here and now.” He slid his hand down to the curve of her ass, pressing them even tighter together. “Can’t you feel how right this is?”

  Surprised when the sureness of his tone did in fact calm her down, she narrowed her eyes. “Sneaky.”

  “Determined.”

  “Stubborn,” she shot back.

  “Irish,” he said with a shrug. He tugged on her hair. “You too? Red hair and all.”

  “Little bit of everything,” she said evasively and slipped out of his grasp. She definitely didn’t want to talk to him about family history. She went to her closet and grabbed her very new, very not broken-in leather jacket and shrugged it on. “I’m curious, so do with me as you will.”

  “Don’t make that kind of open-ended statement. I know how to do lots of things on my bike.”

  She swallowed. A flash of him straddling hundreds of pounds of metal and leather had her twitchy. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”