“Do you feel safe, Bec? With me?”
“Yes. I do.”
He faces me, straddling the log, and pulls me in. I turn, back to his chest, and feel strong arms band around my middle. He kisses my temple, holds me like I’m precious.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I am.
We sit like that for a long time, watching the fire burn through the new log and reduce to small flames that barely throw off heat.
“Time to make our bed, before you catch hypothermia.”
Dax’s deep voice startles me. I was drifting off, I think. I sit away from his chest and he stands, stretching his long body.
“Can I help?” My voice is groggy. I must’ve been asleep.
“Nah, I’ve got it. You just sit there and look pretty.” His smile is tired. I really should help.
A brisk wind cuts through the field and lifts my hair, and I pull the blanket tighter.
Sitting here and looking pretty while he readies our bed doesn’t sound like such a bad idea after all.
Chapter 17
Becca
Thursday, the Wee Hours
“Warm?” Dax’s sleep-heavy voice cuts into my brain.
“Mm-hm,” I hum, snuggling against him. I’m wearing leggings, socks, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He’s in boxers and a T-shirt and throwing off as much heat as a furnace.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I dozed.” I reach an arm out of the sleeping bag, atop two layers of thick blankets, and grab my water bottle. I tuck my arm, bottle included, back into my cocoon quickly. “I thought it was supposed to be warm by now! I’m freezing.”
“It’s not summer yet, Princess. And it’s worth it.”
I sip my water. I offer him some and he accepts, putting the water bottle on his side of the Jeep this time.
“You’re right. It’s worth it,” I admit. “It’s gorgeous out here.”
He wraps an arm around me and I rest my cheek on his chest. The stars are out in full force, perfectly visible over the field.
“What are you going to do when you get back to Ohio?” I ask.
“Work. Kick Barrett out of my house. The usual.”
I let out a soft laugh. “You’re a good friend to let him stay with you.”
“I guess.”
Dax is a good person. Probably a great person. And next to him, in his arms, snuggling deep in a thick sleeping bag, my mind has wandered out of normal territory and right into treacherous territory. I haven’t made a habit of really getting to know the guys in my life. And before you judge me, let me remind you that guys do it all the time. I’m selective. But I know how to scratch an itch. I also know how to get out before one of the two of us has to have a conversation involving the words “We have to talk.”
Yet here I am. I’m the one who turned up at Dax’s door again and again, proving that I can’t keep out of harm’s way. Like a curious mouse lured by cheese in a trap . . .
“What about you?” Dax asks. “What will you do when I go home?”
“Work. Sleep indoors. The usual,” I quip. In truth, I’ve been thinking about this since I opened my eyes however many minutes ago. What will I do when he goes home? Miss him, I imagine.
A puff of air from his nose might be a weak laugh. I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing. I wonder if, in the wee hours, out in the woods, it’s safe to tell him what’s on my mind. Why not?
“Will you date?” I blurt.
He pulls in a deep breath. To buy time? His chest expands and me with it, since my face is resting on his rib cage.
“Never dated much as it was, Princess.”
Which isn’t an answer.
“Will you date?” His voice is quiet. “Pick up a stranger at Grand Lark’s bar and show up on his cabin doorstep?”
I pinch his side in admonishment. “You were my first and likely my last Grand Lark hookup, Dax Vaughn.”
His palm rubs up my arm and down in a rhythm that soon has my eyelids growing heavy. Before I overthink it, I tell him the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
“I don’t think I’ll find another you up in these mountains unless it’s actually you returning for another vacation.” My heart pounds under the weight of that admission. It’s unlikely that we’ll wait for each other—or that we’ll date long distance. The geographical distance isn’t insurmountable, but what about the emotional distance?
“You have to come visit me next,” he says, pretty as you please. “Your name’ll be on the menu and you’ll have to do a quality check to make sure my cook didn’t screw up your quesadilla. You never told me what you charge, by the way.”
Smooth transition.
“I’m not sure what to charge you.”
“Google some chefs for hire. Find what feels fair and bill me. I’ll double it and pay you.”
“Dax, I don’t want you overpay me.” I sit up and rest my forearms on his chest, looking down at him. He brushes my hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear. Such a sweet move. He has a lot of those. That Courtney girl was an idiot for leaving him if he gave her the same sort of royal treatment.
“Want to take me into town tomorrow?” he asks. “We could do lunch. You can show me the sights.”
“I thought you wanted to rough it.”
“I do. But not at the cost of boring you to tears.”
“It’s your vacation. You should do what you came here to do.”
“Did you, and that’s not what I came here for.” His lips twitch. He knows I know he’s kidding. I’m not the least bit offended.
“I work until five tomorrow.”
“Dinner, then.”
“Another date?”
“Starting to sound that way, isn’t it? Are you opposed?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” I say, my tone teasing.
“That’s because I want you to say my favorite word.” He lifts his head off his pillow, laces his hands behind my back, and waits.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“That’s the one.” He kisses me lightly. Light turns to hard. Hard turns to deep.
I slide my hand between our bodies, down, down until I cup his balls. Then I grip his cock in my palm and giving him a slow stroke. He pulls his lips from mine to let out a low, pleasure-filled groan.
“I have an idea,” I say.
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. His eyes are hooded, saturated with heat.
I move down his body, beneath the sleeping bag, and pull down his boxers. His erection is impressive even at half-mast. I deliver a long, slow lick and take him deep while he rests his hands on my shoulders and his deep groans fill the air. I’m hot and getting hotter under the weight of the bag, but I’m not stopping until he’s done. Or so I think.
He grips my upper arms and pulls me off him.
I surface from the sleeping bag to find his eyes dark with intent. His nostrils flare as he throws open the bag and rolls me to my back. In record time, my leggings are dragged to my ankles and then off completely.
He palms my breasts through my shirt, toying with my nipples as he kisses his way down my torso. At the juncture of my thighs, he stops, yanks aside my panties, and buries his face between my thighs.
Dax locates my clitoris like it has a homing device. He sucks and licks until I’m moaning louder than he was. He sets the pace and I thrust and squirm, matching his rhythm as he ravishes me.
I come. Hard. I attempt to push his head away but he shows no signs of slowing. His hands grip my ass and squeeze and he renews his efforts, wringing one more orgasm from me before he lets up.
Before I can catch my breath, he’s on top of me. I open my legs to accommodate his width and he slides home in one slow, long, wet stroke.
Oh so good.
One more stroke follows, and I toss my head back, soaking in how good he feels. How right he feels.
Another few luscious slides and Dax comes to an abrupt halt—seated deep and pulsating inside me as he
blinks, dazed.
“Fuck.”
“It’s okay. I came earlier.” I weakly stroke his neck. “Go for it.”
“Not that, Princess.” He hovers there, eyes drilling into mine, breathing ragged. “Protection.”
“Fuck.” We’ve never forgotten that essential step before. “I’m, um . . . I’m clean. You’re clean, I assume?”
“Babe.” He tilts his head like I shouldn’t assume otherwise.
“Well, slide out and put one on,” I tell him. Then with a devilish smile I add, “Or come inside me, because I’ve been on birth control since I was fifteen.”
“Becca.” I like the growly, desperate way he says my name.
I rest my hand on his T-shirt-covered chest and tilt my hips toward his greedily. He moves only a centimeter, frozen over me in suspension, like hasn’t decided whether to stay or go.
“Do you trust me?” I’m asking so much more than whether he trusts that I’m on birth control.
His answer is to lower to his elbows and kiss me thoroughly. While our tongues mingle, his hips move lazily, his cock sliding deep. Deeper and pulling out again.
My breaths match his—tight and thin—but he doesn’t pick up the pace, oh no. He continues his rhythmic slides. Thrusting with precision as I tilt to meet him. Soon I’m on the brink of an orgasm so spectacular I wonder if it’ll be like Halley’s comet—once in a lifetime.
“Princess,” he growls.
“Yes. Yes, Dax. Yes.”
“Now.”
On his command, I arch, tightening my channel and clutching his cock. I pulse along with him as he releases a primal growl, his entire body coiled as he comes inside me, until his hips come to a resting stop and our pelvises are flush against each other.
Then. We breathe. Hard and fast at first, then long and slow.
His kisses warm the center of my chest. We’re still connected where it counts. His fingers play in my hair as my hands stroke up his back and down. I reach lower to grab his taut ass where his muscles flinch. I squeeze it again.
“Your body is unfairly perfect,” I mutter, happiness lacing my voice.
“Wrong, gorgeous. You’re the perfect one. Can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than wrapped up in these long legs.” He slides one hand over my thigh and down my calf, lifting my leg and hooking it over his hip. “How long can I rest here before I need to get out? Nothing feels as incredible as your pussy. Could stay here till morning.”
I release a quick exhale of surprise at the word I thought I never liked. When Dax says “pussy,” it’s almost . . . reverent.
“Morning is a long way away,” I joke.
He kisses me again.
We share a smile and an intense eye lock before he pulls out.
I sleep well the rest of the night.
Chapter 18
Becca
Thursday Afternoon
“I can’t say that anyone has taken me out for vegan food before,” Dax says as we walk the sidewalk downtown.
We ate at a small café called Peace, Love, and Dumplings that serves incredible Thai fusion.
“It’s just food,” I say. “Did you like it?”
“No. I loved it.” He shrugs, accepting without any fuss that he ate a meatless meal. “I love food.”
“Anyone can take you out for Tennessee barbecue. Only someone special can take you for Tennessee Thai.”
He captures my hand, lacing his fingers between mine. Our arms brush as we match each other’s leisurely pace down the sunshine-saturated sidewalk.
“Those sweet potato things . . .” he starts.
“Spicy Thai sweet potato peanut rolls,” I answer. They’re my favorite item on the menu. Deep-fried like an egg roll and filled with the unlikely ingredients of mashed sweet potatoes and spicy vegetables, served with a thick, rich peanut butter sauce for dipping.
“Can you re-create them?”
“Maybe. I’ve never tried. The kitchen at Tad’s house is usually filled with their two kids and Lara tossing everything into a Crock-Pot for that evening’s meal.”
“You sound unimpressed.”
“I’m grateful that she feeds me,” I hedge.
“You don’t cook for them?” His question contains a shimmer of surprise.
“I don’t want to be in the way.” My answer contains a dash of chagrin. Lately Dax has reminded me that I’m valuable, and I’ve been noticing the ways I try to make myself smaller. To get out of the way of people who are leading “real” lives. “I’m interloping hard-core.”
“That’s what family’s for, Princess. They step up and help out when someone they love needs them. It’s what I did for my mom. It’s what I did for Barrett.”
My heart squeezes. What a simple, awesome way of looking at life.
“Who does that for you?” I ask. “Who helps you out when you need it?”
“Don’t need it.” He lifts those big shoulders into a shrug. Shoulders everyone around him leans on.
“Everyone needs someone,” I say quietly.
He squeezes my fingers as we walk.
We pass a gaudy T-shirt store, a movie theater, and an antique shop.
“Oh, I love that.” I stop in front of the window and admire a tall grandfather clock. I can’t stop staring at the intricate woodwork. It’s beautiful—my dad would love it. I wish I could afford to buy it for him for his upcoming birthday.
“Princess.”
“Yeah?” I face Dax, but he’s not transfixed by the clock. He’s pointing at a faded poster taped to a telephone pole. “This you?”
I run a hand over the weather-beaten, faded hot-pink paper. The title reads one night in tuscany. My name is beneath a photo of a country landscape, but the staples have rusted and the orange streaks make it hard to tell what it was.
“A few months ago, I danced at the cancer ward in the hospital.” I pull up a torn bit of paper and flatten it, piecing together the name of the hospital with the address. “I wanted to perform and I wanted to make people happy. I figure people undergoing chemo need a reason to smile. I made the flyers for locals who have relatives going through treatment.”
He’s standing next to me, eyes on the flyer. I glance up at him and he meets my gaze a second later, eyes narrowed in consideration.
“Cute. Sweet. And you care about other people.”
“I just wanted to dance.”
“Yeah, sure,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t buy my excuse. “You’ll have to show me sometime. What you can do.”
I take his hand and pull him with me. I wait until we pass a few loitering teens to lean close and say, “Was that a request for a striptease?”
“It wasn’t. But I could put in a request for that as well.”
I laugh.
“I’m serious,” he tells me, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “I want to see what you did for the hospital. Will you show me?”
“Here?” I look left, then right. People are walking in and out of shops. Couples linger on the edge of the street and sidewalk.
“Why not? Street performers are a thing,” he answers. “Do you have the song on your phone?”
“Yes, but—”
“Perfect.” He drops my hand and walks to the group of teens, has a brief conversation that involves him pulling out his wallet, and returns with a ball cap. The teen holding the money has a bad case of hat hair and a grin on his face.
Dax tosses the hat on the ground and plunks a five-dollar bill into it, along with the change from his pocket to keep the bill from blowing away.
“I’m your first paying customer. Let’s see whatcha got, Princess.” He backs away, leans on the telephone pole, and crosses his arms over his chest.
My heart is fluttering, but not from fear. From excitement. I love to perform. Shakily I pull out my phone and cue up the song, do a few stretches as the music starts, and then I dance.
Dax
Eyes closed, Becca moves her body to the beat. I’m transfixed. On the periphery I no
tice a crowd gathering, but I can’t take my eyes off her as she dances. I have no idea what kind of dancing this is, whether there are bits of ballet thrown in with interpretive dance, or if this is something new—a combo of the two.
Whatever it is, I’m rapt. And not just me. Even the kid I paid for his hat is at the edge of the circle of people around Becca, his crooked smile suggesting a dirty fantasy is brewing inside his mussed head.
One of the first details I noticed about Becca was the way she moves. She’s in complete control of her body. And she’s not the least bit afraid to use her body to communicate. What’s she’s thinking. What she’s feeling.
That’s when it hits me. She’s shared a million tiny secrets over the course of the last week, and she’s said them all with her body. When we make love, when she cooks, when she snuggles against me and we watch TV.
She’s incredible.
At once the instrumental music shifts and the beat picks up and, yeah, I’m not ashamed to say that I recognize the pop princess my pop princess is now shaking her ass to.
The crowd knows their Taylor Swift. They’re clapping, cheering, and dancing along with the moves Becca shows them.
She drops her head back and laughs—a sound of pure joy—when a little girl steps into the middle of the circle and starts dancing too.
Becca meets my eyes over the crowd as she lifts her arms, drops her hips, and swivels. I uncross my arms and clap, as mesmerized as the rest of them. We’re all eating out of the palm of her hand.
Or maybe I have been since the beginning.
She finishes with a flourish, doing a dramatic bow as the song fades to an end. More clapping accompanies more cash in the hat.
Becca scoops up the money, puts the hat on the head of the boy I bought it from—who gives her a sheepish smile—and stuffs the bills into her pocket. She delivers a hug and allows a photo with the little girl who danced with her before waving farewell to her new fans.
At her side, I put an arm around her and pull all that warmth against me. She’s a little out of breath. Lately there’s nothing I’ve been enjoying more than the sound of her catching her breath.
Man Candy: A Real Love Novel Page 12
