Hard Wood (Hard n' Dirty Book 3)

by Tara Crescent

I shudder to think of what would happen if we fail.

  Here’s what I want to say to Vicki. Is now really a good time to be in a new relationship? Shouldn’t all your attention be on our restaurant?

  Here’s what I say instead. “I’m happy for you.”

  But the words are a lie. I’m gripping my pen so tight that my fingers hurt. I circle our opening date on my planner, over and over again, until the paper tears under the pressure. Everything had better go off without a hitch.

  3

  Dom

  “Hey, boss.” Two weeks after my conversation with Dakota, Gino Barbini walks into my workshop at eight in the morning on Monday, bright and cheerful, holding two cups of coffee in his hands. He gives me one. “As you like it,” he says. “Milk, no sugar.”

  He’s a good kid, Gino. His heart is in the right place. Unfortunately, exactly as I predicted, he’s also a total disaster. In the couple of weeks he’s been working for me, he’s spilled a gallon of varnish, mixed up all my screws, and lost control of the sander, ruining a very expensive piece of wood.

  The coffee’s a nice touch though.

  “What do you want me to do today?” he continues. “More cleaning? You want me to vacuum some of this sawdust up?” He frowns in concern. “You shouldn’t be breathing this stuff, you know.”

  I shudder in horror at the idea of this kid running amok in my workspace. Gino is a force of chaos, wrapped in a two-hundred-pound linebacker body. “You can’t get rid of him,” Dakota had said when I called her to complain. “Dom, I’m serious. I saw Teresa talk to one of those women yesterday, the pink-haired one. The two of them were laughing about something. If I lose her…”

  Her voice had trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish her thought. If my sister loses her head cook, she will make my life a living hell.

  I look around my space, wondering what Gino can do without getting into trouble, and my eyes fall on the sex chair I’ve just finished building for Zach Janssen. Yes. I was planning on delivering the chair myself—Zach and I go back a long way—but if I get Gino to do it, he gets out of my hair the entire day.

  “No cleaning for you today, kid. It’s delivery time. Can you take this chair to Bainbridge?”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Gino eyes the chair curiously. “Hey, this is a weird design.”

  No shit. It’s custom-made to Zach’s very exacting specifications, a gift for his wife Penny. The frame is made of teak. The upholstery is soft, buttery leather. The back drops away entirely, converting it to a spanking bench. Part of the seat can be folded down so that the chair resembles a sawhorse. Penny’s going to love it.

  Gino’s eyes widen as he catches on. I wince inwardly. Fuck me, am I aiding and abetting in the corruption of a minor? “How old are you, Gino?”

  “I’ll be nineteen in May,” he replies. “Why?”

  Phew. “I’m debating the wisdom of sending you to Zach’s place.” Zach likes his toys. His barn has been converted to a lavish BDSM playroom. Whenever Zach’s in town, he throws wild parties there. Gino’s going to get his horizons widened today.

  “That’s okay, boss.” Gino’s eyes are still bulging, but he keeps his tone casual. “I know all about that Fifty Shades of Grey stuff.”

  I give him an amused look. “You do, do you? Has the sex ed curriculum improved dramatically since I was in high school?”

  He snorts. “Nah, my mom likes to read BDSM books.”

  “She won’t appreciate you discussing her reading habits with me.” I catch sight of the L-shaped wooden countertop that’s going to be the Madison Brewpub’s new bar. “Take the bar to the new brewpub in town too, will you? Tell them I’ll swing by and install it tomorrow.” I move to my small office and print out both addresses for Gino. “Zach won’t be around in Bainbridge, but I’ll give him a call and tell him you’re coming, and he’ll unlock the barn door remotely.”

  Gino’s phone beeps halfway through my instructions, and he stops listening. “Gino,” I say sharply. “You got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Drop off the chair, drop off the bar, and then get back here.”

  “No,” I say hastily. “It’ll take you two hours to get to Bainbridge. Once you’re done, take the rest of the day off.”

  “You sure?”

  I think about the hour it took me to get my screws sorted after Gino’s cleaning spree. “Absolutely.”

  He grins. “Sweet.”

  I dial Zach’s number once Gino takes off. “Dom, I was just thinking about you.”

  “No, you weren’t,” I quip. “You were thinking about your chair and wondering when it would be ready.”

  He laughs. “Guilty as charged. When will it be ready?”

  “Already done. My new delivery guy, Gino Barbini, is on his way to drop it off. Can you unlock the barn door for him?”

  “Sure. You have a new delivery guy?”

  “Don’t ask.” I run my hand over my face and tip the now-lukewarm coffee down my throat. “I blame Dakota.”

  Dakota and Zach dated a couple of times in high school. The two of them were like oil and water. “Enough said,” Zach says now. “Hey, I’m having a party this weekend. Very last-minute. You should come.”

  When Zach says he’s having a party, he’s not talking drinks, food, dancing, and conversation. No, these are pretty intense BDSM parties. There’ll be spanking, and there’ll be sex.

  I’m not a prude. I don’t judge what happens between consenting adults. I’m pretty pro-kink myself. I just don’t take it as seriously as some of Zach’s guests. There’s a very particular mood I need to be in to attend one of these parties, and I’m not feeling it. “Nah, I’m not as hardcore as your crowd.”

  “No, no,” he protests. “This will be more your speed. Nothing intense. Nothing public. Everything in private rooms. It’s just a mixer for like-minded people. I’ll text you the details, okay?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Zach didn’t become a billionaire by accident. He knows when to push and when to leave enough alone. “I bought one of your dining tables at an auction last week,” he says. “I had to compete quite hard for it.”

  I shake my head with a smile. “The twenty-seater? Zach, we’re buddies. If you want me to make you something, I’ll make you something. You don’t need to attend an auction.”

  “It was for a good cause. Plus, I got to beat Daniel Frew, and that’s worth more than money. But if you’re offering to build me something, I need another piece of furniture for my barn. A bondage bed.”

  I start to laugh. “Of course you do. When do you want it?”

  Alone in my workshop, I turn up the volume on the radio and resume work on the set of custom cabinets I’m making for Jan Patterson’s new kitchen. I lose track of time. Three, maybe four hours pass. The radio’s hyped-up morning show hosts finish their shift, and a slower, mellower mid-morning crew takes over, playing classic rock. I’m humming along to Led Zeppelin’s Kashmir when the door bursts open, and a woman marches in, indignation oozing out of every pore in her body.

  I look up automatically when the door opens. Then I stop what I’m doing and look at the woman again. She’s petite. Shoulder-length blonde hair, tinged with pink. Her eyes are dark and stormy, her nose is as cute as a button, and her lips are full and lush.

  She stalks toward me, her breasts bouncing under her thin t-shirt in a mesmerizing, distracting way. I have to force myself not to stare. I can see the dark outline of her nipples underneath the white cotton, and fuck me, that’s hot. She’s not classically beautiful, but my cock is extremely intrigued.

  “Hi.” I turn off the power sander, take off my safety glasses, and lower the volume on the radio. “Can I help you?”

  She folds her hands over her chest, pushing out those glorious tits. “Yes,” she snaps. “You can certainly help me. You can explain what the hell a sex chair is doing in my brewpub.” Her eyes flash fire. “Is this some kind of a joke? Because it’s really not funny at all.”

  It ta
kes me a second to catch up. “You work at the brewpub?” Fuck. Gino Barbini, Chaos Lord, strikes again. He had two pieces of furniture to deliver, and somehow, he’s managed to mix them up. If he dropped off Zach’s sex chair in the brewpub, then the countertop is probably already in Bainbridge.

  I could call Gino and chew him out, or I could laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. I choose the latter. My lips twitching, I survey the indignant woman. “Come on. You don’t think it’s a little bit funny?” I wipe my hand on my jeans and stick it out to her. “I’m Dominic Wilde. It sounds like my delivery driver, Gino, screwed up.”

  She shakes it reluctantly, her hand tiny in mine. “Cat Milnick. Where’s my bar?”

  Hello, kitty. “Is that short for something?”

  Her eyes spit fire at me. “Catherine. Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Wilde.”

  She’s wound up so fucking tight. I wonder what she’d look like after she makes love. Strands of her pink hair spread out on a pillow, her full lips curled in a smile, her body soft and sated.

  My cock hardens even further, and I mutter a curse under my breath. This is insane. I’m not a teenager. I enjoy women, but I’ve never pictured someone in my bed so readily. I haven’t been this painfully turned on in a long time.

  “Call me Dom, please.”

  “Fine. Dom.” There’s a defiant edge in her voice. “Where’s my bar, Dom?”

  Knowing Gino, it could be anywhere in Ontario. “My best guess? Bainbridge.”

  “Bainbridge?” She snatches her hand back, and her voice rises in pitch. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s hours away from here.”

  I’m not seeing the problem. “Relax,” I say, trying to pacify her. “I’ll call Gino, and he’ll get your bar back.”

  “The same Gino who dropped off that chair in my pub. Or whatever it is.” She sounds incredulous. “Smack dab in the middle of the restaurant, where anyone walking by on the street can see it.”

  Every time she mentions the chair, she moves her weight from one leg to the other. She’s turned on. Her nipples are pebbled, and her cheeks are pink, and she can’t meet my eyes.

  I bite back my grin. The truth is, I have a pretty good read on the woman standing in front of me. She might dye her hair pink, but that’s the extent of her rebellion. As fascinated as she is by my chair, she’ll never act on her curiosity. Like Teresa Barbini, she’ll fantasize about BDSM from the safety of her e-reader.

  A devilish urge comes over me. “Whatever it is?” I chuckle. “You had it right the first time, Catherine Milnick. It’s a sex chair. If you’re interested, I’d be more than happy to show you how it works.”

  4

  Cat

  I don’t yell; I never yell. I avoid confrontation like the plague, yet somehow, for some reason, I’m snarling at Dominic Wilde, and I’m not sorry. Not even a little.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve had the morning from hell. It was cold when I woke up, and my little shack has no insulation to speak of. I was freezing and really didn’t want to get out of bed.

  Then I came into work and discovered that my supplier had delivered the wrong kind of barley. Worse, when I called them, they had the nerve to imply I should just make do with what they sent me. I should have chewed them out, but I’d bitten my tongue and politely insisted they correct their mistake.

  I was still cold and couldn’t seem to stop shivering. Though I’m broke, I decided to warm up by eating a hot breakfast and drinking multiple cups of coffee. I headed to a nearby diner that serves breakfast all day.

  When I returned, I’d moved to the back, and I’d started cleaning the tanks. That took a few hours. When I was finally done, I was starving again, and ready for a break. I moved to the front to grab my jacket.

  And then I found the chair.

  At first, I’d been confused. Puzzled. Then I looked a little closer, and it dawned on me that I wasn’t looking at an ordinary piece of furniture. A normal chair didn’t need straps on the arms and legs. Didn’t need conveniently placed eye hooks. It wasn’t until the back fell away that I put two and two together.

  There had been a business card tucked in the seat. Dominic Wilde. Carpenter. The same guy who was supposed to be making our bar.

  A bar. Not a sex chair.

  That had been the absolutely last straw. I marched out of the brewpub, determined to give this idiot small-town carpenter a piece of my mind. With each step, my irritation grew. Seriously, how hard is it for people to do their jobs?

  Dominic Wilde’s workshop is only a five-minute walk from the brewpub. I walked in, angry words on the tip of my tongue.

  Then he turned, and whoa. This guy might be a small-town carpenter with a block of wood between his ears, but the rest of the package? Oh. My. God.

  Dominic Wilde is hot. Tall and muscled. Shirtless. He’s got six-pack abs that wouldn’t look out of place on a magazine cover. A smattering of dark hair is sprinkled on his chest. Not too much, not too little. Just right.

  His jeans ride low on his hips. My gaze follows his happy trail, and my mouth goes dry. Holy eye candy. Will, my last boyfriend, had been lean, skinny and pale. This guy, on the other hand, exudes masculinity and raw sex appeal.

  His words hang in the air. I’d be more than happy to show you how it works.

  I inhale sharply, and my cheeks heat. Under my t-shirt, I can feel my nipples harden. Crap. I was scrubbing tanks. I was so irritated that I walked over here without realizing that my t-shirt was half-wet. I’m practically flashing the guy. “Did you just proposition me?”

  He smiles at me, slow and lazy, and answers my question with one of his own. “Are you interested?”

  He’s expecting me to back away. I can see it in every relaxed line of his body. The easy smile playing about his lips, the slight air of condescension as he gives me the once-over. He thinks he has me pegged, and he’s expecting me to scurry away like a scared little rabbit.

  Guess what, Dom? I’m not going to back down.

  “Is this what modern dating is like?” I return his once-over, taking in the muscled strength of his arms, the way the hair on his broad chest gleams in the sunlight, those tightly defined abs that I want to lick. Then my gaze drops lower, lingering at his crotch. There’s a bulge there. An extremely impressive bulge, one that makes my insides tingle. “Forget buying me dinner, shouldn’t you at least send me a dick pic first?”

  His eyebrows rise, and despite my best efforts to keep a poker face, I can’t stop my smug smile. His lips twitch. “I wasn’t raised by wolves, Cat. I never send a woman a picture of my crotch on the first meeting.” He reaches for a gray t-shirt and slips it over his head. “Why don’t we head to your brewpub?” he suggests. “And when we’re there, we can resume these negotiations.”

  By the time the two of us are back in the brewpub—Dominic gave me a ride in his pickup truck—my courage has drained away, and I’m sheepishly aware that I’ve been screaming at the guy like a harpy. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I murmur. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Retreating to safety?” His eyes glitter with wicked intensity, and the corner of his lips tilt up, as if he’s amused by me. “That’s understandable. Stuff like this is probably outside your normal experience.”

  Hang on. He just called me a prude, and that rankles. I don’t know why the opinion of a perfect stranger matters to me, but it does. Back in his workshop, Dom Wilde’s eyes had rested on my breasts, and for a second, there had been a hint of interest. Unlike Vicki, my priority isn’t guys, but when his eyes had turned heated, I’d been flattered.

  I lift my chin in the air. “I’m not afraid of your chair or anything else.”

  If anything, I’m fascinated by it. I wonder how it would feel to be seated in it, my ankles tied to its legs, my arms strapped tight. Would it be terrifying, or would it be a turn-on, or would it be both?

  Once Dominic Wilde had me at his mercy, what would he do? Would he unzip his jeans and push his cock into my mou
th? Would he drop to his knees and stick his tongue in my pussy? He looks so laid-back right now. So relaxed. If I’m bound in the chair, would he change? Would he be demanding and strict?

  Get a hold of yourself, Cat. He’s a total stranger.

  “If you say so.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re just saying that to humor me.”

  He stares at me for a long second, and my nipples perk up again. “Okay,” he concedes. “I am humoring you. So tell me, Cat. Do you want me to show you how the chair works?”

  This is insane. There are a million things I need to do. Flirting with a hot guy is not on my to-do list for the day. But I can’t seem to stop myself. I’m like a moth, drawn to a flame, one that’s guaranteed to burn me. “Yes.”

  He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches out between us, long enough for me to get uncomfortable. Maybe he expected me to be coy and bashful. Maybe he’s judging me for flirting with him, which would be disappointing as hell. No matter how gorgeous Dominic might be, men with sexist double-standards are a complete turn-off. I’ve had more than enough of them in the brewing industry. I like confidence, but I have no love for alpha-holes.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  I jerk back to the present. “Huh?”

  “I never tie a woman up on the first date,” he says blandly, his eyes dancing with merriment. “I could call Gino and have him drive to Bainbridge to pick up your bar, but, as you’ve implied, I’d be foolish to trust him. It would make more sense for me to go myself.” A cocky grin spreads across his face. “But of course, I could screw it up too. The safest thing would be for you to come with me.”

  “To Bainbridge?”

  His eyes hold mine. “The chair was supposed to be delivered to my friend Zach’s dungeon. Aren’t you even a little curious, Cat?”

  “You want me to get into a truck with you, drive three hours to the middle of the wilderness, to see a BDSM dungeon? What if you’re an ax-murderer?”