He wiped my face with a blue bandana and didn’t say a word.
“Don’t mind me,” I said on a sniffle, still looking to the side. “I cry a lot.”
Hank didn’t say anything.
“I cry at commercials,” I told him.
Hank still didn’t say anything.
“I cry when I watch Terms of Endearment which I’ve seen, like, a dozen times,” I went on.
Hank stayed quiet.
I took a shuddering breath. “Every time Shirley MacLaine comes out and has that fit at the nurse’s station about getting Debra Winger her medication,” my throat closed at the memory and I swallowed hard, “It gets me.”
“Are you tellin’ me you’re cryin’ because you’re thinkin’ about a movie?” Hank asked.
I shook my head.
“Then why are you crying?”
Finally, I looked at Hank.
Then, don’t ask me why, but I whispered, “Because you’re being so nice to me.”
For a second, before he could hide it, his head jerked a fraction and his face changed. I didn’t get a chance to read it before it went away and his eyes went perfectly blank.
What I could read scared me, in a lot of different ways.
“Has someone not been nice to you?” he asked and I could tell his voice was carefully controlled.
“Let’s just go.”
He watched me for a while, one arm still wrapped around my back. Then, he let me go. I thought he was going to give in, but I was wrong. He leaned over, slid an arm behind my knees and grabbed my shoulders then he lifted me up.
“What are you doing?” I kind of screamed, throwing my arms around him to hold on.
“We’re takin’ a carriage ride,” he said, carrying me while climbing into the carriage.
This was no mean feat as I wasn’t exactly dainty. Uncle Tex toting me around was one thing; Uncle Tex was Paul Bunyon come alive. This was plain crazy.
He settled me in the seat without apparent effort and sat beside me.
The driver rushed to his perch and we took off.
“There’s just no shaking you, is there?” I asked Hank, my tears gone, I was beginning to feel… I didn’t know what I felt.
Hank pulled me into his side. “Nope,” he answered.
I crossed my arms and tried to pretend I wasn’t feeling whatever it was I felt. Whatever it was felt nice and I couldn’t give in to it; I had too much to lose if I did.
Then I looked up at him. “Is my makeup ruined?”
He looked down and smiled. “Yep.”
Shit.
* * * * *
I fixed my makeup the best I could with the bandana and my hand mirror and we rode through Denver.
After awhile, I settled into Hank’s side and relaxed. I couldn’t help it, he was solid and warm. Denver was beautiful as I watched it passing by on the clop and the carriage rocked soothingly. Even the most tense, stressed-out neurotic would have relaxed.
After another while, Hank’s hand came to my chin, he tilted my head up and he kissed me.
It didn’t take awhile for me to kiss him back, I just did, right away.
He was a great kisser and, on close inspection, I realized he had a bottom lip that even rivaled Springsteen’s.
That shot straight through my heart and my soul.
“Boy, am I in trouble,” I whispered, looking at his mouth.
His hand went to the side of my head. “Yep.”
Shit.
* * * * *
I sat in Hank’s 4Runner watching the streets roll by as he drove me to the hotel.
The date was over.
I was trying not to cry again.
It was the best date I’d ever had. It could even be the best date in the history of the world (or at least it had to make the top ten).
I wanted another one just like it. I wanted a dozen of them. I wanted a lifetime of them.
I was only going to get this one.
I should count myself lucky, some women never had a single date like this.
I didn’t feel lucky.
The car stopped and I noticed it was parked in the street.
I glanced around.
We were not at the hotel. We were in a neighborhood. From what I could tell, a nice neighborhood.
I looked at Hank. “Where are we?”
“My place.”
“What?” I shrieked.
He ignored me and got out.
I stayed rooted to my seat.
This is not happening, this is not happening. I chanted in my head.
My door opened.
I looked at Hank again. “Take me back to my hotel.”
He reached in, undid my seatbelt and grabbed my hand, pulling me out of the SUV. “I gotta walk my dog.”
We were several steps up his walk when I halted, yanking on his hand. “You have a dog?”
He stopped too and looked back at me. “Yeah,” he said
I loved dogs.
“What kind of dog?”
“A chocolate lab.”
Shit.
I loved labs.
“I’ll wait in the 4Runner,” I said.
He tugged my hand, pulling me behind him.
“Whisky, I have to get back to the hotel,” I was trying to yank my hand out of his. I was trying but not succeeding.
He ignored me and kept walking to the house. One story, brick, nicely tended yard but you could tell no woman lived there. There were no pots for flowers and there weren’t any festive autumn decorations in sight. I would definitely have put out festive autumn decorations if I lived there.
I was trying not to think about other things I would do if I lived there when Hank stopped at the door and dropped my hand.
“Whisky…”
He unlocked then opened the door.
A chocolate lab bounded toward us.
“Oh my God!” I yelled and crouched low. “What a cute dog!”
And he was cute, adorable.
The lab jumped on Hank and he commanded, “Down.”
Then the lab stopped jumping and head-butted Hank in the thighs, got an ear scratch and then came at me. He knocked me on my ass on the front stoop and started licking my face.
“I hope you don’t use him as a guard dog,” I said, trying to scratch his ears as he jumped all over me.
“I think you can kiss whatever makeup you had left good-bye,” Hank noted.
I couldn’t help it, I laughed.
Hank went into the house while I got up and played with the dog and he came back with a lead.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Shamus.”
I clapped at Shamus and he came to me and sat on my feet while Hank put the lead on him. The minute the lead snapped into place, Shamus knew the drill and was aching for it. He headed for the sidewalk, snuffling the ground.
Hank grabbed my hand and we followed the dog.
After half a block, it hit me and I said, “This is not fair.”
“What?” Hank asked.
“Don’t play innocent with me, Hank Nightingale. You know what. The dog.”
Hank dropped my hand and slid his arm along my shoulders.
Then he stopped, Shamus stopped (though Shamus didn’t want to stop and his “come on you guys” glance over the shoulder said it all) and I stopped.
Hank bent, kissed my temple and then his lips went to my ear.
“You try to be difficult and hard but I can tell you’re soft and easy,” he whispered.
I jerked my head back and scowled at him.
“I’m not soft!” I snapped.
“You cry at commercials,” he pointed out.
This, unfortunately, was true. Worse, I’d volunteered this information to him, just like the idiot I was.
“Well, then, I’m not easy,” I went on stubbornly.
“We’ll see.”
Shit.
* * * * *
We walked Shamus on a two block loop.
Then Han
k let us into his house.
I stood at the closed front door, trying to be obvious about wanting to leave (although I didn’t want to leave, I needed to leave) while Hank turned on some lamps.
The front door led to one big front room consisting of a living room to the right, dining area to the left, then a bar and set of cabinets that began a u-shaped kitchen.
It had been redone and looked nice. Gleaming hardwood floors, the kitchen completely refitted with oak cabinets and KitchenAid appliances, deep-seated, cushiony furniture covered in mocha twill and an old-beat up dining room table that looked cool.
It was (somewhat sparsely, but still) decorated in what could only be considered “Colorado”. A couple of old Colorado license plates with skiers stamped into them over the doorway to a hall, some Native American artifacts on the tables that looked carefully chosen, two framed prints of New Belgium Brewery beers (“Fat Tire” and “Skinny Dip”) over his twill couch.
That was kind of it for decoration. It wasn’t like he had an abundance of scented candles and toss pillows, but it was enough to give the place a personality and homey feel. Like he lived there. Like he liked it there. Like he was proud of it and the work he’d done on it.
I thought of it with some nice, sturdy, black iron candle holders with mulberry scented candles and some curtains covering the blinds.
Stop decorating Hank’s house. I told myself and crossed my arms to emphasize my thoughts to myself.
“You want a drink?” Hank asked from the kitchen after he’d taken off Shamus’s lead. Through the floor and overhead cabinets, I could only see his waist and abs.
As with all things Hank, it was a good view.
Shamus sauntered over and sat on my feet again. I uncrossed my arms and scratched his ears.
“I want to go back to the hotel,” I answered.
“You’re spendin’ the night here,” Hank informed me, moving to the end of the counter that delineated the kitchen from the dining area and leaning a hip against it, then he crossed his arms.
My mouth dropped open and I stared.
Then I closed it.
“I’m not spending the night here,” I said.
His eyes looked lazy again.
My heart started beating faster.
“Come here,” Hank said softly.
“No, take me back to the hotel.”
“Come here and I’ll convince you that you don’t want to go back to the hotel.”
Good God.
He didn’t have to convince me, I was already pretty certain I didn’t want to go back to the hotel. But, I had to go back to the hotel, for Hank’s own good if not for mine.
“Whisky, I have to get a good night’s sleep. I have things to do tomorrow.”
I didn’t really, but I needed an excuse.
“What things?”
I kept silent.
Then he went on. “You can come here or I can go over there and get you. Your choice, but I’ll warn you, you should probably come to me.”
I stared at him and he stared back.
My heart wasn’t only beating faster, it was tripping in my chest like a jackhammer.
We kept staring at each other, one beat leading into two, two beats leading into three.
Then his arms uncrossed and he moved forward.
Shamus saw Hank’s advance and deserted me (damn dog).
I backed up and as I was standing at the door, in half a step, my shoulders slammed against it.
I lifted my hands to keep him at arm’s length.
“Whisky…” I started but he avoided my hands by bending double, putting a shoulder to my stomach and lifting me in a fireman’s hold.
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
“Hank!” I shouted at his back, but he’d turned and was walking through the dining area.
“Put me down!” I yelled, pushing against his waist but he kept going, through the kitchen and into a dark room.
“Goddammit! Put me down!” I kept at it when he turned and walked into another dark room.
He stopped, bent, turned on a lamp and then put my feet on the floor. I would have escaped but he was right in front of me and a quick glance around showed that there was a huge bed, made out of what looked like logs, behind me; right behind me.
“Get out of my way,” I demanded. “I’m calling a taxi.”
His arms slid around me.
“No taxi,” he said, one hand gliding up my back and into my hair to cup the back of my head and keep it steady. “No hotel,” he went on, the other arm wrapping itself completely around me so his hand was gripping me at the side of my waist, my body pressed the length of his. “Tonight you sleep in my bed with me.”
I looked up at him. In his arms I was quickly losing the will to fight.
“Please,” I whispered, the last desperate attempt.
His head bent and, with his lips against mine, he said, “Remember that word, you’re gonna be using it a lot tonight.”
My stomach fluttered, I felt it and I liked it.
Those were my last coherent thoughts.
He kissed me, his tongue sliding into my mouth. I went dizzy and my brain scrambled. I kissed him back; I wanted to fight it but I didn’t. I probably could have if I wasn’t weak. But I was. I’d been weak with Billy and now I was weak with Hank.
My arms went around his neck, my hand slid into his hair. He had great hair; thick and soft and just enough wave.
“You have great hair,” I whispered into his ear as his lips trailed along my cheek to my ear.
“You’re a nut,” he whispered back, sounding like that was a good thing. Then his mouth touched me behind my ear and I shivered.
“I’m not a nut,” I went on quietly and turned my head to press my lips to his neck, just above his turtleneck, then I touched my tongue there.
His hand left my waist, went into my shirt and slid up the skin of my side. I was sensitive there, even ticklish, and I squirmed against him.
“You gonna talk through this?” he asked, lifting his head to look down at me.
“Maybe,” I answered.
He shook his head and he kissed me again.
I had kinda thought the last kiss was serious as it had a serious effect on me. But I was wrong. This kiss was serious. If I thought I was dizzy before, I didn’t know the meaning of dizzy.
The kiss was hot and hard and before it was done, I had my hands up his sweater, roaming the skin of his back and shoulders.
He kissed me again, likely to keep me quiet, and I lost any control I had (though there wasn’t much to lose).
Then again, so did he.
We were all over each other; hands inside each other’s clothes, tongues inside each other’s mouths. He pulled away and unwrapped the scarf from around my throat and tossed it aside. Before he could come back, I lifted his turtleneck from the waist and pulled it over his head. He shoved me back on the bed but followed me there, his body covering one side of me, his hand going up my shirt, trailing up my belly to cup my breast. He kissed me again and I felt him yank the cup of my bra roughly down and then his hand was skin against skin on my breast.
I arched into it and his hand went away but his finger didn’t. It circled lazily around my nipple, his mouth still on mine.
“Let me take my shirt off,” I muttered.
“I’m not done,” he said, still circling with his finger and it was driving me mad, but in a good way.
I pressed into him. “Whisky, let me take my shirt off,” I said.
His head lifted and he looked down at me, still circling.
It felt good.
“Why Whisky?” he asked.
“What?”
“Why Whisky?”
I tried to scoot away so I could get my clothes off and, I don’t know, maybe attack him, when his thumb joined his finger and he did a roll.
My body stilled and I felt a spasm between my legs.
“Holy cow,” I breathed.
“Why Whisky?” he repeated, going
back to circling.
“Your eyes…” I said, “They’re the color of whisky.”
He smiled.
I felt a spasm between my legs again.
Then his mouth was on mine.
I was dizzy when he finally moved and pulled my shirt off.
I would have thanked him but he covered my body with his and used his hands and mouth on me, all over me, so I was robbed of speech. Before I knew it, my bra was gone, he reached down to pull off my shoes, then he yanked down my jeans. Then, without warning, his hands spread my legs and his mouth was on me over my panties.
It was nice. It was better than nice, it was amazing.
Then he whisked away my panties and his mouth was on me.
That was even better, way better.
In fact, so much better, I felt it coming and I knew it was going to be good.
“Hank,” I said and it sounded like a moan.
Then his mouth was gone and he came back over me. I stared at him, lifted my hands to his shoulders and pressed down. I wasn’t done so he certainly wasn’t done. To my surprise, he resisted and buried his face in my neck, touching his tongue there.
“I was close,” I whispered.
“I know,” he answered, still resisting the pressure of my hands.
I blinked at the ceiling.
“Why?” I asked.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
And he wasn’t.
He took me from nearly there to nearly there to nearly there and I tried to get him nearly there but only got so far as getting his belt unbuckled and the top button of his jeans undone. He did pull away to yank off his boots and socks but that was it.
He had his hand between my legs and I had my hand in the back of his jeans and I was nearly there again, panting against his mouth when his fingers went away and slid up my belly.
My eyes flew open.
“Whisky!” I snapped, bucking and trying to push him to his back to get some leverage on the situation.
I was so turned on, I’d never been that turned on before, my body was humming with it.
He was smiling.
“Don’t smile at me, you rat. Finish what you start.”
He gave me a light kiss.
“Ask nice.”
I growled.
Then I attacked.
It got out of hand then. There was a bit of wrestling and unfortunately Hank was stronger. I ended up on my back, wrists over my head held by one of his hands, his other hand between my legs again and his mouth at my neck. I was close again and I knew he knew it.
Rock Chick Redemption Page 8
