by Jule McBride
“Sometimes it takes me a full ten minutes to get the girl to say yes,” he yelled. “Usually she tries to find out what she’s agreeing to.”
“Bet you’ve made better time than ten minutes.” He was pretty slick. As he smiled yes, the crowd got hit by something electric and pulsed, pushing her into his arms. Unprepared for the jolt that hit her when his hands settled on her waist, she felt it zip through her, positively electric. All the fabric between her skin and his fingers seemed to vanish. A fireball shattered near her solar plexus, exploding and sending darts of pleasure to all her extremities. For the space of a heartbeat, everything seemed suspended. She could swear those hands were strumming her sides, causing the ripples of vibration, and all at once, she felt really drunk, as if she was staggering, not dancing.
“You can tell me your name,” he yelled.
No way, she thought, urging Hot Hands under the glitter ball to get a better look at him before they went one dance step further. Another sizzling jolt of heat pulsed through her veins, this one higher voltage, leaving her nerves jangling. He had more sculpted facial bones than she’d realized. Knitted eyebrows as dark as his hair made him look totally unnerdy, way more calculating. The splash of blue in his gray eyes was more visible now. Whoa! Another fuse ignited, and a line of fire raced through her veins and ended at her heart, making it stutter.
Not that she could afford any entanglements. In twenty-one days, she’d be out of Blackwater Inlet. Nothing was going to change that, especially not some sexy stranger dragging her toward the steamiest, darkest abyss at the edge of the dance floor and yelling, “Let’s get sweaty, baby.” She wasn’t sure how many songs played before he’d pulled her under the light again, both of them panting hard, but by then, perspiration was coating every inch of her skin, tickling all the crevices.
He yelled, “Do you have a name?”
He was still fishing. When she caught a whiff of Boondocks’ most expensive scotch mixed with testosterone and mint, the grain alcohol of the male cocktail, she knew she’d better avoid this guy the way an alcoholic avoided a drink. He’d said, the girl usually says yes in ten minutes.
“The Girl will do.”
“What will she do?”
“Remains to be seen,” she yelled. “And that’s annoying.”
“Summing people up by their function?”
Her mother, Mom Mad, short for Mommy Madden, did it all the time. She nodded. The man’s hands were on her waist again. She could feel the itch in the fingers, which were trailing where her hips flared. Drums sounded and she danced away, writhing to the beat, but then some yahoo slammed the guy. For that instant, the whole world was reduced to jumbled impressions. His thigh muscles rippling beneath his slacks; her cheek bouncing off a rock hard chest.
She should have known the culprit would be Hunter MacKenzie. He probably thought he was helping her out by pushing her into a man’s arms. Hunter Mac still had a warm spot for her, although they’d only kissed a few times in high school, and his Unwelcome Incident had been one of the first. She’d been a bridesmaid.
The stranger was still trying to steady her. From cheek to toe, they touched all the way down, her breasts cushioned against a chest carved out of granite. She shut her eyes in bliss, feeling all those straining, bulging muscles. It wasn’t overkill, either, like with body builders, just nicely honed. And there was so much tension inside him that when she looked up, into his gray-blue steelies, she felt woozy. Maybe she even tripped. She wasn’t sure. His grip tightened and she suddenly wondered exactly how much she’d had to drink.
“You okay?”
No! She was jittery all over! He did the unique, lean-dippy thing he’d evolved due to his height, not stopping until his eyes found hers like laser beams. Chalk one up to Darwin.
He mouthed, “I’m sorry!”
“It was Hunter MacKenzie’s fault!” she yelled. She was going to kill him for that stupid body-slam.
The guy looked frustrated. “I don’t think I can call you The Girl.”
“Sure you can. You’re The Boy.”
He smiled. “I can keep that straight.”
Whoa. He was looking at her with frank sexual interest. It was sort of a relief. She did do the physical part of relationships really well. Kissing, anyway. She’d had sex, too. Not tons, but enough. It was okay, just never the fireworks she’d hoped. No big explosions, and she hated the predictable letdown. In a second she’d feel...yes, there it was. A tug of longing that said this guy would be different, followed by a rush of warmth. The feeling was like a sweet promise that always turned out to be The Big Lie. Not that she was inorgasmic or anything, but sex was supposed to be at least as interesting as a vibrator, right?
Tonight, she wasn’t going to unwrap the package. She’d enjoy the pretty paper, bow, and greeting card, but she wasn’t sticking around to watch another late-night rerun of her floundering love life, season umpteen. Lifting his wrist to show him his watch, she decided to tell him his time was up, and make some joke about his ten-minute track record—they’d been dancing way more than ten minutes—but when her finger grazed his wrist, she felt his pulse leap. Heat flared like fire on a match. She guessed all the sweaty dances had worked their mojo. The heady elixir of man-sweat had taken his scotch, testosterone and mint cocktail to a whole new level, too. Give me the garnish! Kick it up a notch!
She was reminded of old advertisements she’d spent hours studying—the Marlboro Man, Old Spice and Irish Spring. He was all of them rolled into one. His hand turned deftly in hers, and as his wrist moved, she figured he had to be double jointed or something, then her mind went blank, the whole bar fuzzy at the edges. His strong hand was in hers, palm to palm, and she simply felt lost. When he twined their fingers, it seemed more intimate, somehow, than if he’d just ripped off all her clothes. The Big Lie talking. She’d been here a million times before.
Old Smashing Pumpkins was playing, making her think she’d better start worrying about pumpkins turning into carriages. Dropping his hand, she danced away, but he seemed confident she’d boomerang back. Just like whatever was passing between them, the beat was raw and thumping, and when he found her, they were dancing in earnest. Jumping. Shaking. Vibrating. Getting down and dirty with some bumps and grinds. She lost him, he found her again, and by then she realized there was no escape.
“Awesome!” she conceded.
“You’ve got the sexiest voice I have ever heard,” he yelled.
El dudes always mentioned her pipes. “I know.”
All he was really saying was that he wanted to get laid. After a few more songs, she finally took pity because he kept fishing for the personals, and she yelled that she and Paulie, the owner of Boondocks, had hung out together in the tenth grade, long before his Unwelcome Incident with Sally. Back then, Ari’s dream had been to work in radio, and since Paulie now kept a DJ setup for ladies’ nights, he insisted she spin songs when she came in.
“You know everybody here.”
“You’re the only guy I haven’t slept with. Small town, you know.”
“So you’re not The Girl. You’re The Girl With a History.”
“Okay. Maybe not everybody,” she conceded.
“Definitely not everybody.”
“How would you know?”
“You haven’t slept with me.”
She’d never been so glad to hear heavy metal. For Ari, it conjured images of old men in leather pants eating bats on stage before they destroyed their own guitars, but this guy could dance to anything. What a workout! She was suddenly glad Paulie didn’t allow anything touchy-feely on his jukebox because this guy might suddenly announce he could freaking waltz.
He was reaching for his tie now, too. A bad sign. It should have meant something red with exclamation points like Wrong Way! Or Stop! Instead, it was just turning yellow and flashing, saying Trouble Up
Ahead. And who didn’t know that already? “You are formal for Paulie’s,” she yelled as those maddening, fluid hands tugged off the tie in a seamless gesture, looped it around her neck and used the ends to pull her to him.
Suddenly, she wished they’d met in work mode when she looked more respectable. Then she kicked herself for wanting to impress him. That was this guy’s appeal, right? He seemed too at ease with himself and living for the moment.
“I don’t usually party like this,” she suddenly screamed, but the words were lost. “I’m trying to be good!” There it was again, her approval seeking. It meant something deep inside her, something over which she had no control, was responding to this guy, and she wanted him to...like her.
“You aren’t going to be good in that outfit, sweetheart.”
Sweat beaded and slid down her cleavage, and when he used an end of the tie to dab at it, she wound up yelling more nonsense about the holidays, her nutso family, the new place in Raleigh and her workload, and of course, next month’s Unwelcome Incident. The Final Incident.
Frowning, he yelled, “You like your work?”
“Love it!”
He looked a little appalled, which was strange. Most men saw dollar signs when she said she liked work, but he only waved a hand as if to say, to each his own. The tie he was using to clean up her neck was pure silk, and suddenly she gasped. The fingers tracing her neck, skin on skin, felt even more silken than the tie.
Bending, he yelled, “I don’t know if I’m staying here.”
Relief flooded her. He wanted her to know he wasn’t up for LTR. Good. But why was he here? Because Ari hadn’t had time to get her hair done, she hadn’t talked to Mrs. Eli who owned the salon, and who would have filled her in on the town’s latest gossip.
“In town for the night?” She couldn’t hear the response, and by the end of the next song, he’d danced her into the darkest, most isolated corner, between the bar and jukebox. The next conversation started with a super long leg pushing between hers, guiding them apart, bringing a sweeping sensation of warmth. Glancing around, she leaned against the jukebox. No one was watching. He was whispering something, but she didn’t know what, just something every bit as dark as it was promising. And it was only a promise. The Big Lie. Already, she was imagining the morning after when she would admit he wasn’t going to be The One. Already, she was telling herself it was the twenty-first century and nobody was looking for The One.
Teeth caught her earlobe in a bite that was a little painful, yes, but oh so pleasurable. A playful tug, then a quick, hot, flicker all the way down her neck, turning into teasing kisses just inside the collar of her blouse. Suddenly, her nipples tightened, aching as her blood raced, and she was imagining kisses in places more intimate. Her breasts, yes. But mostly right where the hard ridge of thigh was creating such steady pressure. Her chest rose, her breasts swelling, as if for his touch, and she gasped as he responded, his arms tightening, wrapping around her chest, stealing her breath. Shuddering, she had no doubt he could unbutton complicated garments with his teeth, and in her mind, she was imagining him doing it. Her blouse was falling to the floor, her bra opening, those hands stroking...
Then he kissed her on the lips. The firm hard pressure felt heavenly. It was just the kind of kiss she craved. The kind that said, I’m the boss, I’m the man, and I’m going to make you come whether you want to or not. He was all tongue now. All creamy, hot, wet flutters pushing her toward the edge of a cliff, making her teeter on a precipice. She fought not to respond, but she had to, just a little, to relieve herself on that blessed ridge of thigh. It was just one stupid kiss not some vista over a canyon! Not some precipice! She was just imagining the stupid, freaking canyon! It was The Big Lie again! She didn’t even know him!
The ministrations of his tongue inside her mouth were pushing her into a smoky space, where everything was like the music, thumping and pulsing. She was tumbling into nothingness, until suddenly, everything came to a halt, and she thought, Don’t stop! Not now!
He left her hanging, wanting it so bad...until she was wondering what else he could do if he could make her feel this way with only one kiss. With a next liquid dart of his tongue came the explosion of butterflies in her belly, and the jitters shook her until she was achy all over, the pang at the apex of her thighs clamoring. Feeling strangely helpless, she curled her hands around his shoulders and squeezed, then she moved her hips again, gasping at the sweet friction.
She knew he could feel the burst of liquid heat through his slacks, her tights and panties the only other barrier. Nobody was spying on this dark, back corner, but it wasn’t the right place to melt onto the warmth of some stranger’s thigh, or to be swept into his embrace.
Some jerk turned on the lights.
It was sort of a relief. But also just as she’d predicted. The Big Lie. The broken promise. The coitus interruptus. This new man, this stranger, this prince had been so promising. Ready to take her by storm and make her believe in fairy tales again. No matter what heights she attained in other areas of life, maybe she’d never stop craving the fantasy of being swept away by sensual pleasure.
“The harsh light of reality,” she whispered hoarsely. Dammit, her short-lived attractions to men were legendary, but this had been the most promising first kiss coupled with the fastest letdown. She realized she’d probably ruined her voice tonight, too. She couldn’t afford to do that, she really couldn’t.
He whispered, “Shut your eyes. It will help you reenter the fantasy.”
So, he was a mind reader, too. Possessed by her usual demons, she followed the recommendation. Picking right up where he left off, his mouth claimed hers, his tongue plunging, her mind catapulting over high bars and landing in a hazy state of brownout bliss. She opened her eyes and realized he was probably the only person left in Boondocks who looked even better in harsh light.
He said, “I don’t think you should drive.”
She wasn’t proud of it, but she wanted to stay here forever. Exhaling on a shudder, she brushed the dark hairs near the throat of the shirt. Not too silky, not too wiry, but just right. Exactly how a man’s chest hairs ought to feel.
“I’m going to give you a ride.”
Her riding him. That’s what she was thinking about it. Uh-oh. But she couldn’t drive herself home. Eli Jones had been sworn in last year as sheriff, and while he’d never jail Ari for a minor infraction like being tipsy inside Boondocks, driving under the influence was another matter. Glancing at the stranger’s open shirt, she added indecent exposure to her list of crimes. Since Eli’s Unwelcome Incident, he hadn’t so much as sniffed at her—not in a boyfriend way—but he’d happily see her safely home in his cop car if she called him. Especially since she was on such good terms with the Mrs. Eli, who did hair for all the Madden women.
She could call Urgent Care, for that matter. Doc Dickerson would send the ambulance. He always credited his attraction to medicine to Ari, saying he’d found his true calling the day they’d played doctor in the sandbox when they were five, and their mothers were trading casserole recipes.
“I don’t even know you.”
“You can get to know me on the way.”
He made it sound so reasonable.
Paulie yelled, “Pack it in, homeboys.”
Not-a-homeboy started kissing down her neck again. The wet pad of his tongue conjured everything a female was supposed to feel when her sex drive took over, and nothing existed except the hot, handsome man making her climb to an explosive release. He wasn’t saying any dirty words, and he didn’t have to. The slow pressure of his mouth said it all. Obviously, he’d clocked as many practice hours as she when it came to first base.
“Let’s go home.”
He looked so persuasive. “Are you a lawyer or something?”
“I deal with electricity.”
Despite how he’d mad
e her body tingle all over, or maybe because of it, she giggled. “I could have told you that.”
He smiled. “I work with currents, surges, hubs, switches.”
No power failure here. He was hard enough that she could feel his shape and size and heat. He was a big man all over, every inch.
“I get it,” she whispered, her voice raspy. He’d found the switch labeled common sense and flipped it off ages ago.
His voice was as husky as hers. “The lights in here are too bright.”
“Too bright for what?”
“You know. And don’t start analyzing. Those shrinks left an hour ago.”
“Okay, Mr. Electricity,” she said. “But the last thing I need right now is another boyfriend, so you’d better man-up and take me straight home.”
Chapter Two
“My house looks...different.”
Her warm, almond-brown eyes were squinting against the harsh overhead light of Bruno’s kitchen, making her look like Bambi in the headlights. She wasn’t really mad, she was just trying to sound that way.
“That’s because it’s mine.”
She was propped against a French door that led to the back porch, next to a column of stacked boxes. He hadn’t been able to find her jacket, so she was wearing his coat, which had been a gift. Bruno had thought Burberry only made trench coats, but this Burberry was of camel’s hair, the exact color of some of the blonder streaks in her strawberry hair. He decided the hint of dark roots was kind of sexy. Actually, everything about her was. Usually black nails went in the too-trashy column, but something sweet in her personality undercut the aggregate effect, probably because Bruno had seen The Other Her. The boring Alter Ego.
He eyed where his shoulder seams hit her upper arms.
“Sh...” she whispered, then giggled.
