by D. C. Stone
Her stomach chose that moment to grumble. Between the long drive, the exhausting days, and her lack of appetite, she wasn’t surprised to realize she hadn’t been eating. She crossed to him and looked down at the binder.
A menu for a restaurant named, “Ma and Pa’s” listed off basics and claimed to be the best home cooking in the county. She scanned the items, bypassing cheeseburgers, steak sandwiches, and salads.
“How about a plate of spaghetti and some garlic bread?” His resonant voice seemed much more intimate so close to her in this small room.
She nodded, inching back. “That sounds fine.”
“Want something for dessert?”
Brooke lifted her eyebrows. “You mean to tell me you eat sweets? With that body?” She blushed, realizing her outburst. But there was no way in hell. The man was built like a machine, and there couldn’t be an ounce of body fat on him.
He matched her facial movements. “Sweetheart,” he started, his voice dropping low, smooth as melted chocolate. “I can eat a peach for hours.”
She stared at him, confounded until it, at last, hit her. “Oh!” Her earlier blush was nothing compared to the fire igniting across her cheeks now.
* * * *
Dwayne tried to ignore the sound of the shower, the thoughts of Brooke standing under the hot spray, rivulets of water running down her slick skin, over the crests of her breasts, dipping down into her navel and sliding between the lush triangle of curls between her thighs. The steam escaping from beneath the bathroom door did nothing to quell his fantasy.
After his comment about peaches, Brooke caught his drift and when her face flushed an enticing shade of pink, she turned, referred to the shower, and disappeared into the bathroom. She returned once to claim her bag and a second time, moments later, to ask for one of his shirts.
That had been his downfall. His mind spun with the vision of what she would look like, how much he would like to see her in his clothing. Her asking was nothing more than her forgetting her own clothes for bed when they’d left in haste this morning. That’s at least what he kept trying to tell himself. His body had other ideas in mind. She hadn’t asked for a pair of boxers and so that left a very enticing and erotic vision playing. Thoughts of her in panties and his shirt. Would she wear a bra? Maybe she didn’t wear underwear…
“You’re not fucking helping yourself here, douche. Get your shit together,” he muttered.
Deciding to wait for food until they’d both showered, he left the menu on the small table, sat on the bed, flopped to his back and let his mind erect fantasies. Big mistake. He was hard as a rock, despite being exhausted. Yellow stains dotted the popcorn ceiling and he tried to count them, thought of baseball, and switched to arithmetic—nothing seemed to help.
The door opened behind him. He tilted his head and caught her coming out of the bathroom surrounded in steam, wearing nothing but his white t-shirt. The material fell to mid-thigh and he soaked her in.
Muscular legs kissed with the hint of sun and blessed with the right amount of curves walked in silent steps toward him. She tugged on the cloth and set her bag down, then faced him, her eyes averted. Pink flushed her face from the shower and her hair fell in a heavy, thick array around her shoulders. In her hand she held a brush and, still avoiding him, she went around to the other side of the bed, sat, and began to brush her hair.
“Shower’s ready.”
He couldn’t resist. The blush and her hesitancy were too adorable. “You want to get sweaty enough to take another one?”
Her bright blue eyes snapped to him and she stared, mouth agape. “Dwayne Gonzalez, you are such a damn flirt!”
He grinned, sat up, and rested his weight on one arm. His fingers itched to run the brush through her hair himself. He’d never been one to do shit like that with women, but for some reason the urge was so strong he had to fist the sheet to keep from moving.
“I’m only speaking the truth, or better yet a fantasy that’s been running through my head since you ran away quicker than the Roadrunner.”
She rolled her beautiful eyes heavenward. “I did not run.”
“Did too.”
She huffed, then yanked the brush through her hair with a little too much force. He cringed at the ripping sound.
“Easy,” he said. “Don’t take your sexual frustration out on your hair. I happen to like it.”
She paused before meeting his gaze. “Please. All men like long hair. What is it about the length, anyway?”
He shrugged and gave in to the urge to reach for a tendril. Her expression grew wary, guarded.
“It’s nice to run your fingers through, always smells good, and gives us something to hold on to when we take you from behind.”
She didn’t speak for several moments, and her voice shook when she did. “Being such the ladies’ man, I’m sure you have no shortage of women who allow you to tug and pull all you want.”
He took in a deep breath and drew his hand away. He got how he looked in her eyes, had heard her small comments over the years. While he tried to pretend the remarks didn’t bother him, they did. Sure, he had been with a few women, but both parties involved were more than willing to play, and more so, almost all understood what he was willing—and not willing—to give.
“Funny you should say that. Because I’m feeling very much like a one-woman type of man right now.” He would knock the misconception she had about him right out of her mind. It was long past due.
She snorted, and the sound was so unladylike, he laughed. She never did anything like that.
“Your pretty words and smooth pick-up lines aren’t going to work,” she said. “You and I both know you don’t mean them, and I’m smarter than that. We’re too close to allow sex to come between us.”
The very fact that she still slammed him, despite her being unaware of it, bruised his ego. Yeah, it might have been petty or even a bit childish, but he put as much space between the two of them as he could. He pushed away from the bed and paced across the floor. He didn’t want to say something he would regret later, and it seemed he was fucking this up. Or better yet, had chosen the wrong time.
Smooth, Detective. You’re a class act.
He wandered to the door, turned, and faced her. “I don’t think I’m saying this properly.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Look, Brooke, maybe we’ll just come back to this another time.”
Frowning, she dropped the brush and stared at him. “What do you mean, come back to this?” She looked genuinely confused, which reinforced his decision to hold in what he felt for a bit longer. Surely, she would have figured it out by now. And if not, in the middle of rescuing her daughter wasn’t a time to profess his feelings—or affection—for her.
He pressed his lips together, crossed the room, and grabbed his bag. “Nothing. I’m going to take a shower.” When he stepped toward the bathroom, he found her in front of him, all five foot six of curvy, sexy-smelling woman.
She placed a hand on his chest and the contact sent a spark between them. He knew she felt it too. Her eyes widened and she looked up at him as she removed her touch.
“What are you saying? Or not saying?” she asked.
He heaved a sigh. “It’s nothing, really.”
“Tell me.”
“Hell, Brooke, you don’t want to hear this,” he ground out. “You make jokes about it when I bring it up, practically accuse me of being a man-whore, and toss it back in my face. This is not the time to discuss it. We’re both exhausted. Just let it be.”
Her head tilted in thought, and her eyebrows scrunched together. Fuck, she’s cute. She blinked, and as if a curtain parted, clarity entered her eyes. She stepped back and stared at him with shock across her features. “You can’t be serious.”
He dropped his bag at his feet and tossed his hands in the air. “Of course, I’m not.” The words came out more sarcastic than intended.
Her frown grew and she shook her head, laughing without
humor. “Oh you’ve got me good. Please, I know you better than that. You cannot shackle yourself to one woman, Dwayne. Good joke, by the way. Because you know, I am not one who takes sex so casually. You and I are so far away from what the other needs, it’s not even funny.” Her lips curled and she glanced away, dragged the brush through her hair again and walked to the bed, for all intents and purposes dismissing him. “Good one, though.”
He clenched his fists by his sides, torn between shaking the utter living shit out of her and throwing a hand through a wall. Never had a woman worked him up so much. He didn’t say a word, couldn’t. She’d said it all, and it sounded as if she had made her mind up about what kind of individual he was. He was exhausted, stressed, and worried as hell about Hailey. He shouldn’t say another damn word, shouldn’t push. He kept repeating that advice in his head but ignored the voice of reason, and his restraint snapped.
“You know me so well, right?” He took two steps across the room, yanked the brush from her hand and tossed it aside. A surprised gasp left her, but he didn’t give her a chance to say anything. “You think I’m joking with you?” He wanted to shut that pretty little minx up, was so damn pissed he couldn’t think straight.
Dwayne gathered her in his arms, snapped her body against his, and slammed his mouth down. The kiss was bruising, and more than a little possessive. He communicated things he couldn’t say, poured his attraction through the melding of their lips. He bit, sucked, and nibbled his way across her mouth until she gasped. He took advantage of her parted lips and thrust his tongue inside, wrapped it around hers, and massaged the tentative velvet.
With the contact, her taste of warm mint, her being soft and compliant in his arms, he slowed his assault, expanded his kiss. One hand tangled in her hair and he tilted her head back, impelled his exploration deeper. She began to return the kiss and he moaned. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pressed closer.
He squeezed her ass, urged her against his erection, then abruptly pushed her away. Dazed eyes stared up at him. Her lips were red, plump, and moist from his caress.
His chest rose and fell in staccato, but he glared at her. It was either that or kiss her senseless again.
“Next time, sweetheart,” he said, his words cold and cruel, even to his own ears, “don’t judge a book by its cover. This conversation has been highly enlightening.” Unable to stay there a moment longer, he spun around. Grabbing a room key, his leather jacket and wallet from the table, he left.
Chapter Fifteen
Brooke sat on the bed and stared at the door. The very door Dwayne had left through in a rush, but not before she’d seen the hurt and anger. She was long past memorizing the emergency exit procedures outlined behind Plexiglas attached to the wood, and if she had to read the violations for smoking in the room again—waiting for him to come back—she would scream.
Dwayne had been gone for well over an hour, his words and abrupt departure still screaming through her head. He didn’t deny what she said, though, right? Or, was the kiss, the sure way he held her, stating something more? It felt akin to lust, a raw kind of craving, and maybe a furious kind of need. How was she to know what was real and what he wanted? No way he wanted her like that. They had been friends too long, been through too much, for sex to get in the way.
But good Lord, the kiss shocked her to her core. Lingering effects of heat pummeled in her stomach, the ache between her legs still present. How she wished she could be like the many women he bedded, so free, so willing to give him whatever he wanted—without consequences.
Sex to her was not the physical act of two bodies coming together, though. It was making love, a connection to another being, the ability to open completely to someone else. Trust played a part in letting a man between her sheets, and while she trusted Dwayne with her life and the life of her child, she wasn’t sure she could trust him with her heart. Lying with him would give him the one-way ticket to the organ that sped when he touched her, pounded against her breast when he kissed her, and stopped when his gaze came her way.
She glanced at the clock and worried her lip. Ninety minutes. She rose from the bed, pulled on a pair of yoga pants, grabbed for her gray hoodie, the extra key to the room, and headed outside. This wasn’t the time for them to fight, nor was this the time for them to explore these options. He was tired, he’d said so himself. So why wasn’t he sleeping? And more, where in the heck was he?
The rear of the hotel held no streetlights and the darkness gave an eerie impression, one that had the hairs on the back of her neck standing. She was in a strange, unknown area, and the pitch-dark setting did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves. The past few days had been long and exhausting. She missed her daughter’s smile, her laugh, the way her eyes twinkled when she teased. The hollow ache in her chest spread as she stepped inside the front office and glanced around.
She wanted to find her daughter.
A young, prematurely balding man sat behind the tall brown partition, his white shirt stained with only God knew what. His heavy gut strained against the shirt and rolled over the buckle of his jeans.
Memories of the past assaulted her at once.
“Mom, look. He’s got dickey-do syndrome.” Deep chocolate eyes danced with amusement.
Brooke turned to the local pizza shop owner, an older man with thick brown hair. His plump body showed his love for not only baking pizza pies but also eating them. “Dickey-do?”
Sweet laughter, more precious than the finest china, filled the air. “His belly sticks out farther than his dickey-do.”
The rush of the memory caused her eyes to sting. I just want to find my daughter!
“Can I help you?” Dickey-do asked. Processed meat with the wrapper halfway down the stick, reading “Slim Jim,” hung from his mouth.
She breathed through her nose, ignoring the stench of an unwashed body, bad breath, and old food. “Um, I’m in room one fifty, and the guy I’m with…well, I was wondering if you’ve seen him?”
He nodded and motioned behind her. She looked over her shoulder, following his pointed finger. “He crossed the street, went to Ma and Pa’s Tavern. Didn’t look too happy. Whatcha do?”
She pivoted, already walking toward the door. “What makes you think I did anything?”
His answer reached her as she stepped outside. “Because only a woman puts that kind of look on a man’s face.”
She ignored his comment and crossed the street, not a hard task seeing this town didn’t have a lot of traffic. Despite it being early evening, not a single headlight accompanied the road. Dust kicked up under her feet and spread a thin coat of brown specks across her black Uggs. She bounded up four concrete stairs and stepped inside the black wooden building.
Noise assaulted her. From an old red jukebox in the corner to her left, music screamed out. In the center of the room stood a large rectangular bar. Inside the raised bench were two bartenders, an older couple, one woman, one male. They laughed and carried on with customers sitting around the outside, and despite the ghost town, the place seemed full.
Black lacquered tables dotted the room, patrons intermittently at each. One by one, heads turned her way, gazes sliding along the length of her body. It would not have caught her attention so much had not ninety percent of the bar been male. She shifted, scanning the area quicker, looking for any sign of…
Dwayne.
She breathed a sigh of relief and took a step as he turned. His dark green eyes flashed with surprised before the expression smoothed into a blank mask. He leaned against what looked to be a pinball machine, thick arms crossed over a beefy chest, his black shirt straining. She continued to cross to him, drinking in the sight.
Was she recognizing the sensuality he emitted now? What had changed to allow the line to blur between friendship and lust? Those damn charcoal jeans, faded in all the right spots, molded and wrapped around long, muscular thighs.
He sidestepped as she approached and reached out to wrap his warm hand around hers. Tingl
es spread from their skin-to-skin contact and she gasped. With a quick tug, too fast for her to realize what was happening, he turned their bodies until they faced the pinball machine.
“What are you doing here, Brooke?”
His voice, smooth like melted chocolate, played across her ear. His hard body pressed to hers, hip to hip, chest to back, thigh to thigh, until they molded together. He placed his hands over hers at the controls on the side of the machine, two silver buttons.
She breathed in, out, tried to control her pounding heart. His touch did this.
“I—I was looking for you.”
“You shouldn’t be wandering around someplace you don’t know. Especially in a town you don’t know,” he growled.
She fought against a shiver as the vibrations from his voice rumbled through his chest and her body. It was like being surrounded by him, encased in his warmth. And they were so close she knew from the tightening of his fingers on hers that he didn’t miss her full-body tremble.
“Dwayne, I—”
“Shhhh,” he interrupted.
He lowered his head and brushed his lips against the shell of her ear. He didn’t move away, though. Instead, he turned his attention forward and inched closer as if they weren’t already close enough. “You ever play pinball before?”
* * * *
Christ, she smelled good. Cheap hotel soap simmered from her skin, but deeper lay the undercoat of lilacs, a softer scent of roses, and beneath? A scent he identified as just Brooke.
She inhaled unsteadily. Pressed so close, he was attuned to every movement she made, each sound escaping, and her on a whole other level.
“Not really,” she answered, her voice shaky.
Dwayne lifted a brow, surprised, and swallowed hard. The slight curve of her ass fit perfectly against his hips, the slender material of those godforsaken tight pants playing havoc with his imagination. Only a thin barrier between them. Heat from her soaked through his jeans and shirt. He wanted to wrap around her, bask in her warmth. Earlier, with a combination of being hungry and exhausted, he’d let his cool go, exploded with things he knew were better left unsaid. His actions had been harsh in response to her words. He cared for Brooke, knew she was stressed. He didn’t want to make things harder than they already were. Regret sat like a concrete ball in his stomach and he would give anything to make it up to her.
