Hard Wood (Hard n' Dirty Book 3)

by Tara Crescent

  He chuckles. “I could tell you I’m not, but that seems like something real ax-murderers would say.”

  An image of my to-do list dances in front of me. I have to finish cleaning these tanks. I have to make beer. I have to order glasses and coasters.

  Except he’s still hard. I can see the outline of his cock against his jeans. He’s turned on, and so am I. Yes, this is insane, of course it is, but I’m unbearably tempted.

  You can always work late tonight.

  “Well, I do need to make sure that my counter is installed.”

  His lips twitch. “That’s true,” he says, his voice deep and smooth and sexy. “Contractors can be so unreliable. You probably should keep a very close eye on me.”

  I want to rub my legs together. If I slip my hands down my pants, I know I’ll find myself wet. Soaked.

  “You’re probably right.”

  He’s got me. He knows it, and so do I. “Pick you up at eight? Where do you live?”

  In an unfurnished shack. Vicki was supposed to arrange a cottage for the both of us, but she dropped the ball. When I arrived in town last week, my car packed with my belongings, I found out I had no place to stay. I had to scramble like mad to find something I could afford.

  The cabin I’m staying in is pretty grim. Sandra Flanigan, my landlady, hadn’t even wanted to rent it to me. “No one’s lived in it for almost twenty years,” she’d said when I’d knocked on her door. “It’s spidery and dusty, my dear.”

  It’s also dirt-cheap. I’m paying two hundred bucks a month for it. In summer, I can’t find a hotel room in Madison for under two hundred a night, so my shack is a total steal.

  But I don’t want Dom Wilde to see it. If he does, the expression in his eyes will change from lust to pity, and I don’t want that. “I’ll meet you in your workshop.”

  “Because I could be an ax-murderer? Okay, fair enough.” He picks up the chair as if it weighs nothing, and I ogle his bulging muscles shamelessly. He winks at me. “See you in the morning, kitty cat.”

  I roll my eyes and bite back my stupid grin. “Like I’ve never heard that nickname before,” I say loftily.

  He chuckles again. The warmth of his laughter stays with me all afternoon.

  5

  Dom

  Kitty cat has claws.

  I’m grinning like an idiot as I drive back to my workshop. I’m not afraid to admit when I’m wrong; I definitely underestimated Catherine Milnick. I was convinced I knew exactly who she was. She might talk a good game, but when push came to shove, I was absolutely certain she’d back down.

  She hadn’t caved. Not even a little bit. She’d stood there, her hands folded over her chest, those fantastic tits of hers pushed up, and she’d given back every bit as good as she got. And when she’d said ‘dick pic,’ she’d looked so smugly pleased with her quip that I had to laugh. It was adorable.

  Adorable? What the fuck, Wilde? Next thing you know, you’ll be serving your balls up on a platter.

  I hadn’t intended on asking her to drive with me to Bainbridge. Long, romantic day trips are exactly the sort of thing I avoid like the plague. Put a woman in a car, and suddenly, you’re talking about feelings and emotions and the dreaded ‘where do you see us going?’ questions.

  Not that I can really see Cat doing that. I don’t know her, but she doesn’t seem the slightest bit clingy. No. What she does seem is wound pretty tight. I don’t blame her. It’s stressful starting a business on your own. I’d had orders to keep me busy for six months and a long waiting list of clients, but I was still nervous when I struck out on my own. And mine is a simple business. I don’t have employees—well, I didn’t have employees until Dakota saddled me with Gino—I don’t have permits to deal with, and I don’t really have to be accountable to anyone. A brewpub is a much more complicated undertaking. There are a thousand moving pieces to keep track of.

  I never tie a woman up on the first date, I’d told her. I’d been tempted though. So tempted. I wouldn’t have—that’s neither wise nor is it safe—but all I could think of was stripping her clothes off, spreading her legs, and tasting her sweetness. I’d been uncomfortably hard the entire time I was talking to her. Hell, I’m hard right now, thinking of her.

  I shake my head to dispel the fog of lust. Yes, Cat is unexpectedly intriguing. Yes, I’m interested in her, and if she’s interested in a casual, no-strings-attached affair, I’m happy to oblige.

  But that’s all I have to offer. No matter how much I desire her, I desire the uncomplicated simplicity of my life far more.

  My friend Luke is pacing outside my door when I pull up. “Hey.” I quirk an eyebrow in his direction. He looks awful, tired and cranky. “You’re out of work early. What’s going on?”

  “Ruby.”

  I grimace. Looks like I’m getting an extended preview of the Luke and Ruby show, and if I’m going to have to listen to my buddy gripe about his marital woes all evening long, I’m going to need a beer. Or six. “How about I buy you a drink, and you tell me all about it?”

  In summer, there are a dozen places in town where we can get a drink. Early April, there’s only one. The Bull Horn. Once I unload Zach’s chair, we walk to the bar, Luke maintaining a moody silence all the way. It’s not until he’s got a beer in his hand that he starts talking. “You’re still seeing Joanna Dokidis?”

  If I close my eyes, I see a pink-haired, dark-eyed beauty with curves that go on for miles, her nipples hard and erect under her thin t-shirt. Not Joanna. Cat. “Nope.”

  “Smart.” He gulps down nearly half of his pint in one go. “You always had it right, Dom. I should have listened to you. Should have never got involved with Ruby.”

  I wince inwardly. Did I really tell him not to get involved with his wife? That seems cynical, even by my admittedly low standards. I mean, I’m quite sure I don’t want to get involved with anyone. The idea of being part of a couple makes me break out in hives, but still, I get why other people enjoy it. Luke, for example, tends to work too hard and drink too much, and Ruby keeps him in check. In return, he keeps her from fretting too much about the little stuff. Ruby’s too high-maintenance for me, but she loves him, and he loves her.

  “I don’t remember saying that, but if I did, that was uncalled for.”

  He’s not listening. “Look at you,” he says. “Not a care in the world. You go from one woman to another. Never get involved. Never fall in love. When shit gets tough, you’re out the door.”

  Ouch. Luke might mean it as a compliment, but that’s a really unflattering description. It’s true though. “What’s going on with you and Ruby?”

  He grunts. “Same old shit. I want to go away to Vegas for a week with Roger Wexler, and she’s not happy.”

  “When?”

  “July.”

  I give him an exasperated look. As much as I want to sympathize with Luke, I’m on Ruby’s side in this one. Luke and Ruby run a campground just north of Madison. July is peak tourist season. If Luke takes off, then Ruby has to deal with hundreds of campers on her own.

  Wexler’s a dick with too much money, and he’s always had a thing for Ruby. I wouldn’t put it past him to invite Luke to Vegas just so that he can cause trouble in his marriage. “Do you blame her?”

  His jaw sets in a stubborn line. “I didn’t say anything when she went away last year, did I?”

  “She flew to Montreal for her aunt’s wedding. She was gone one night.”

  He’s not listening again. He’s got his hand in the air for another drink. Michelle, the bartender, catches sight of him, shakes her head, and pours him a refill. “Women,” he says bitterly. “At the start, they’re great. Beautiful, sexy, fascinating. Until you put a ring on their finger. Then they change. It’s the reverse butterfly effect.”

  “The what?”

  “Reverse butterfly,” he says, moroseness mixed with pride. “It’s a term I came up with. Once they hook you, the butterfly turns into a caterpillar.”

  Oh, for fuck’s s
ake. “Please tell me you’ve never mentioned this to anyone. Especially to your wife.”

  “You think I’m stupid?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, which is probably for the best. What a dumbass theory. Besides, Luke doesn’t have a bloody leg to stand on. His t-shirt is stained, his jeans are ripped, and he doesn’t look like he’s shaved in a week.

  Hey, at least Luke’s committed to someone, a voice inside me points out. Sounds like my annoying twin sister. You’ve never come close.

  “Have you tried talking to her?” The moment I say those words, I want to take them back. I don’t get involved in other people’s relationships.

  “There’s no point,” he grumbles. “Unreasonable woman. I don’t want to talk about her.” He takes another long gulp of his beer. “You hear that two women are running the new brewpub?” He shakes his head. “Women making beer. Everything will probably be light and fruity and too sweet.”

  “Don’t be a sexist jerk,” I snap, irritated. “Women have been brewers since the dawn of time.”

  He lifts an eyebrow at my tone. “What’s gotten into you? Women brewers or not, I’m still going to check their stuff out. They’re opening on Victoria Day. I can’t wait.”

  “Victoria Day? Really?” That’s only six weeks away. The restaurant portion of the brewpub isn’t even painted yet. Cat and her partner are going to have to hustle to get everything done on time.

  That’s none of your business, remember? Your interest in Cat is purely sexual. Like Luke said, when shit gets tough, you head out the door.

  “That’s what Ruby said.”

  I finish my beer, and Michelle bustles over. “You want another drink, Dom?”

  “I’m good, thanks.” Luke’s gulped down three beers in quick succession. He’s in no shape to drive; I’ve got to give him a ride home. “I’ve got an early morning ahead of me.”

  We head out. I grab Luke’s keys from him before he gets any stupid ideas, and drive him home. After dropping him off, I head back to my workshop. It’s a little after four, and my day has been filled with distraction. What with Gino this morning, and now Luke, I’ve barely got any work done today.

  Funny how you’ve left Cat out of that list.

  I should work on the Patterson cabinet. I could start sketching out Zach’s new bondage bed. Instead, I pull a can of beer out from the refrigerator and crack it open. I stare at the chair I built, and I picture Cat sitting down in it, and my imagination starts to run riot.

  “I’m going to tie you up,” I growl into her ear.

  Her voice is a breathy whisper that goes straight to my groin. “Yes, Dom.”

  She’s seen the chair, but she’s about to get up close and personal with all its features. With a wicked grin, I drop its back down. “Take off your clothes, Cat, and lie down. Stomach on the seat, ass in the air.”

  Her dark eyes flicker up to my face. I hold my breath. Say yes, kit cat. You’re wound so tight. Let me take away your stress. Let me take care of you.

  After a split-second of hesitation, she lifts her t-shirt over her head. I swallow as her round, full breasts come into view. Her perky, dusky-rose nipples are already hard and pebbled, and as much as I want to bend her over the wood and leather, I can’t resist. “Come here.”

  Her lips curl into a sly smile. “Really?” she asks innocently. “I thought I was supposed to bend over the chair.” She flutters her eyelashes at me. “I want to make sure I’m obedient.”

  Even in my imagination, she’s filled with spitfire and ass.

  I pull her toward me and wrap my arms around her waist, flicking my tongue over the nipple closest to me. It grows even harder. She inhales sharply. “Dom,” she murmurs, moving closer to me and pushing her boobs in my face. “If you tease me, I’m going to be very annoyed.”

  She thinks this is teasing? Oh, sweet Cat. We’re just getting started.

  I push her breasts together and move my mouth from one nipple to another. Her breathing catches, and she throws her head back, her face etched with desire.

  “Are you wet for me?” I slide my hand down her waistband. She’s soaked, hot to the touch, soft and slick and ready. I grit my teeth and fight the urge to strip off the rest of her clothing and thrust into her.

  Not yet, Wilde. Show some control. You’re not a fucking teenager.

  I unbutton her shorts and push them down her hips, along with her panties. Fuck me. She’s so impossible to resist. “On the chair, Cat.”

  She positions herself on the chair. I strap her wrists in place and brush a strand of hair from her eyes. “You nervous, princess?”

  My imagination is on fire, and my cock is so hard that it’s going to explode. I picture Cat Milnick in front of me, her round ass in the air, and I grit my teeth and fist my dick harder, faster, my half-finished beer forgotten at my side.

  I explode with a groan.

  Cat was fascinated by the chair. I could see it in her eyes, read it in every twitch of her body. I can’t wait to see her again, to see if she’ll let herself explore her desires.

  I can’t wait for tomorrow morning.

  Fuck me. I’m in trouble.

  6

  Cat

  It’s a good thing that nothing I have to do for the rest of the day requires even the slightest bit of concentration.

  Over and over, I replay my conversation with Dom in my head. What on earth possessed me to flirt with him? I’d been cleaning beer tanks all morning. Had to be the chemical fumes. Either that or I plead temporary insanity.

  Then there’s tomorrow. I’m going to drive with him all the way to Bainbridge. Ostensibly to pick up my countertop, but we both know that’s a steaming pile of lying poo. I’m attracted to Dom Wilde.

  Gritting my teeth, I fill half my brand-new gleaming brew kettle with water and then add the alkaline cleaner. Brew kettles have to be cleaned each time they’re used, and I’ve done this so many times in the last seven years that I can clean the kettle in my sleep. I wait twenty minutes for the cleaner to do its job and then do a full rinse with water. Then sanitizer.

  Once that’s done, I move on to scrubbing the other smaller pieces of equipment. I don’t skimp with this step. Brewing beer is mostly about sanitation. One wrong strain of bacteria and your IPA turns out skunky and undrinkable. Our fermentation tanks are eight feet tall and six feet wide. If I screw up, that’s a lot of beer to throw out.

  We don’t have the budget for that kind of waste.

  I scrub my equipment, hard and vigorous, as if I can scour his image from my mind.

  It doesn’t work.

  You would think I’d have learned something from dating Will. At the best of times, even when they’re not actively stealing my recipes—the way Will did—guys are distracting. Look at Vicki. Between her job in Toronto and this writer she’s dating, she’s dropping balls all over the place. I can’t afford to do the same thing. Right now, with six weeks to go until opening day, every bit of my focus should be on my brewpub.

  Dom wouldn’t understand the kind of pressure I’m under. I remember his effortless self-confidence, his cocky, untroubled smile. He reminds me a little of Vicki. Vicki’s never failed in her life, and I’m willing to bet that neither has Dominic Wilde. Things come easy to people like him.

  All evening, I debate calling him to cancel, but for some inexplicable reason, I don’t. My common sense has obviously left the building.

  At six, the supplier finally shows up with the right kind of barley. Although I should chew him out, I’m back to my conflict-avoiding self, so I just make sure he hasn’t short-changed us.

  Once he leaves, I start the brewing process. One thing leads to another, and it’s almost ten by the time I turn into Sandra Flanigan’s driveway, drained and tired.

  Her porch light comes on as I get out, and I see her silhouette in the window an instant before she opens her front door. “Cat, how are you?”

  Not in the mood for conversation. That’s not really fair though. I’ve only been staying here
for a few days, but so far, Sandra has been great. She’s nice and friendly, and very worried that I’m staying in her cabin. I paste a smile on her face. “I can’t complain, Sandra.”

  “Are you staying warm enough at night?” She gestures for me to come inside her house. “Is that old wood stove working properly?”

  “It works great.” That’s not a lie. It does work. It’s not Sandra’s fault that I ran out of firewood over the weekend.

  I follow her into the kitchen. “I made some soup,” she tells me. “Have you eaten dinner?”

  “No.” The cabin has two electric outlets. I have a toaster oven plugged into one of them. Dinner was going to be either a grilled cheese sandwich or a frozen pizza. Unless I’ve run out of those.

  “That’s good.” She hands me a thermos with a smile. “Here you go. Black bean soup. Eat it while it’s still hot.”

  I haven’t heard from my parents in years, not in any meaningful way. Every Christmas, we exchange cards, and that’s it. This thermos of soup is the most ‘mom’ thing anyone has done for me in a really long time. “Thank you,” I murmur. “You shouldn’t have. This is really kind of you.”

  She makes a scoffing sound in her throat. “It was nothing,” she says. “My kids always joke that I make too much food, and I’m afraid they’re right. Trust me, you’re doing me a favor by helping me eat some of it.”

  “I didn’t know you had kids.”

  “Two,” she replies. “The only part of my marriage I don’t regret.” Her voice is matter-of-fact and without bitterness. “They live in town. You’ll run into them one of these days.” She yawns, long and loud, and then gives me a sheepish smile. “My all-night partying days are clearly behind me. Goodnight, Cat. Stay warm out there.”

  The soup is delicious. Even better, there’s a bundle of firewood outside my shack. More kindness from Sandra. I light the stove, and warmth fills my cabin. I sit on the ground, leaning against the wall—no furniture, and no time or money to go shopping for any—and eat every last bit of the spicy, flavorful, thick soup. As I stare into the flames, I finally make a decision about tomorrow.