A very unladylike sound echoes in my head, one I think may be a snort, but I wouldn’t know since I haven’t made any other sound than squeaking on the odd occasion. Lydia would just die if she knew what I had been up to two nights ago and roll twice in that grave of hers that I am even contemplating any of this. And Mama, well, I hardly recall her anymore, but from what little still lives in my heart, I remember an upright lady with a ribald sense of humor that made my daddy laugh with a booming guffaw that I haven’t heard in years.
Any which way, I doubt either of those two ladies would appreciate the fact that I am doing something this unseemly. Lord, I—
I almost swallow my tongue clean down my throat when one of the crackerjacks occupying the bar stools shifts, revealing a man that is both breathtakingly gorgeous and scary as sin.
He’s big, seriously big in that muscled way you see on those military shows—you know what I mean—and he’s sporting a head of almost-black hair that hangs in a shiny fall to just above his shoulder.
The man is spectacular—that’s the only word I can use to adequately describe him. He’s the one, I suddenly think as my body starts heating and feeling things no good church-going woman should think.
Well, you aren’t the good church-going little woman now, are you, Cleo Ducaine? You’re dressed like a hussy from the big city, and you’re going to settle a bet that you made with blood and wine.
Jesus turned water into wine, didn’t he? I think feverishly, my head doing all sorts of crazy things, when the man turns slightly and his eyes fall on me—eyes that I see are a clear, deep blue, the color of Mama’s engagement ring, the very one I took off just hours ago, before setting out on this quest.
All I can do is stare in abject shock as he looks me over, his eyes sweeping up from my high heels all the way up to my blazing cheeks.
Oh, what he must think of me as I stare, wide eyed and slack jawed, just letting him eat me up with his eyes. I have no place to be thinking anything that runs through my head but, Lord help a girl to salvation, what I think involves his mouth and parts of my body that are starving for touch.
That mouth, full and sensual, smiles, and I see him tilt his head just before I scream at my feet to move. I’m walking, tottering his way in seconds. My only thought is to get to him before some other woman can lay claim to what I want and leave me to claim one of the…
I won’t elaborate since my thoughts are not at all complimentary to these poor men, but I can say they will not do, not at all now that I have seen Lucifer, the fallen angel.
By the time I get to him, my body is jerking to a stop just inches away, and I swear I’m about to swoon like a heroine of old. He smells like dreams—so good I take a loud sniff before I realize what I’m doing and blush even more.
“Well, hello there, Peaches; you sure you’re in the right place?”
No, but help me angels, I am right where I want to be, I think, licking my dry lips with a swallow.
“I’m where I need to be, Mister, trust me.”
I turn to the bar then with resolve and order a beer, needing the courage now that my goal is firmly set. Just do not grimace; and, for hell’s sake, Cleo, at least try to be a little cool. The teensiest bit will do, girl.
“May I have a beer, please?”
I hear Lucifer chuckle. And the barman’s lips twitch as he pushes it my way and takes my ten, shoving the change in the tip jar. I swallow deeply and come up spluttering like a fool when the bubbles hit my nose and make me cough.
“Whoa there, Peaches, take it easy. You don’t look like you can hold milk, never mind beer or hard liquor.”
Which is true, I know, as he slaps my back, trying to dislodge my kidneys.
“I don’t. I don’t usually drink liquor at all unless I’m with my friend Ginger. Which, believe it or not, is how I ended up here.” I laugh nervously, looking up at him, trying not to shiver when the heat of the hand that is now stroking my back seeps into me.
Strangely, that touch settles me more than the beer, and I lean into it a little and smile.
“What’s your name little peach?”
“Cleo. Cleopatra Ducaine.”
“Hmmm, interesting name for a beautiful woman,” he drawls, making me shiver and break out in goose bumps.
I could titter—I know I want to right now as giddiness streaks through me—but I don’t. All I can do is look at him as my body and mind both try to soak him in.
I know I’m no beauty. I’m short, a little too busty for my daddy’s comfort, and I tend to the plump side because the clothes I have to buy to fit my bust make me appear shapeless.
I like him saying it though, even if I know it isn’t true with my pale blond hair and dull brown eyes.
“Thank you. Your name?”
“Jericho Evans, proprietor of this little slice of heaven.”
His laugh and sardonic grin make me feel so much more at ease, and I find myself looking back at him with a smile of my own.
“I like it.”
“The bar or the man?”
“Both. This place seems so comfortable, nothing like that ritzy place up on Fourth. Their drinks are ridiculously expensive and taste like dishwater. Well, at least according to Ginger. And the name…I like your name. That story was my mama’s favorite when I was growing up.”
“Ahh, a good girl, huh?”
“Yeah. Most of my life at least,” I mutter, looking away and down into the beer bottle that tempts me to another sip.
“Aw, Peaches, don’t look so sad. Honey, there’s always time to be a little bad.” He chuckles, chucking my chin.
And the nerves are back; because I do want to be bad, just once. And I want to be bad with this man, who is hard and kind and possibly a dream, but I will never know because all I can have is one night before I have to leave my slipper behind and turn back into a pumpkin.
“You think so, Jericho? I can’t say, since after tonight I have to go back to my good little life where my p’s and q’s are scrutinized, and everyone eyeballs me under a microscope—most finding me lacking in some way.”
I don’t pity myself; how can I when I have had a wonderful life? My father gives me everything I need. I have never wanted for anything, and I have a home, car, and job that would make any sane woman happy.
I just wish I could be more than what my family wants me to be.
“Peaches, that must be a lie because I know for sure you are the prettiest thing I have ever seen, and I have yet to be disappointed for a single second since I met you.”
That hand starts stroking again, and this time instead of relaxing me, I feel my sex respond and clench between my legs and my nipples furl to hard points.
“My mission tonight, as Ginger would put it, is to walk in, conquer, and ride off into the sunset.”
“Sounds promising. Care to elaborate?” he drawls, sipping at his beer while never taking those blue eyes from me.
Deep breath in, you can do this.
“I…I have to find a man and take him to bed for one night of sex and unabashed hedonism. Those were the terms. Only, I…I have to confess that I haven’t ever done this before,” I whisper, peeking at him from the corner of my eye.
“Picked a man up in a seedy bar?”
“Yes. Or the sex part either.”
His hand jerks and freezes on my back, and I prepare myself for the rejection of the century as shame burns my cheeks. Oh, why didn’t I just give it up to Kevin Meyers?
“Er, uh, that is just… Are you fucking shitting me?” he rasps, his voice going so deep I feel it all over my skin like a caress.
“Indeed not, Jericho. I have never stepped out long enough to kick up my heels. Do you think I could just proposition a man? Besides, all the men in this town just see me as the Plain Jane girl I’ve always been,” I confess.
Part of me hates myself for the way I am, and yet I don’t know any other way. I’m the town librarian—the perfect job for the good, small town role I let them put me into.
I live in a modest little house with a picture perfect little garden that I hate tending because it’s just not my thing, and yet I do it. I know all the old ladies in the kitting circle; I am one of them.
I haven’t dated anyone but the reverend’s balding son, and even then, he made me split the check—not exactly lust inspiring. Jericho is though. He is everything I want and shouldn’t.
I want him for one night though. Just a few hours to be wild before I go back to my life and pretend that I don’t mind that Daddy has me just about married off to “let’s go Dutch” Marshall.
“There isn’t a damn thing plain about you, Cleo baby, and I should know since I’ve been hard for you the moment that door opened.”
Oh, well.
“Then you would consider this? Taking me to bed before I go on back home and look for a man my father would consider suitable for me?”
His blue eyes narrow on me, and I realize I just made a very big mistake. He’s insulted, and I don’t blame him. I just told him—really nicely—that he’s not suitable at all, when honestly, he’s perfect in every way.
“Well, now, that would depend, Peaches. You willing to do whatever I want while we’re fucking, or you gonna be one of those prudes who’s too uppity to look at my dick?”
Okay. That just put me in my place. I’ll take it; I deserve his scorn, considering I just asked the man to have sex with me without so much as one compliment about him or his life.
I’ve been told twice so far that I’m pretty and not a disappointment. For that alone, I should be kissing his feet and thanking God I walked in here when I did, or there is no telling what I would have had to do at tomorrow’s breakfast meeting.
Quivering, nervous as nervous can be, I bring my eyes up to his and put out my hand.
“Deal.”
Chapter Two
Jericho
This woman, what can I say, I wanted her the minute she stepped through my door. Screw the hooker heels and slut clothes. I’m not one to judge on appearances even though I’m more straight laced about some things than most men are, despite my hair and tattoos.
For instance, one would look at me and assume I’m attracted to rough-talking, fast women. I’m not. I like my girls sweet and clean and smelling like flowers, and I most definitely like the sweet innocence pouring off Cleo Ducaine like a beacon for my depraved soul.
I wasn’t lying when I told her I got hard in a second upon seeing her. It’s true, and I’m still sporting the wood to prove it. I’ve only gotten harder since she opened her mouth and started talking in that bell-like tinkle that only the pure have.
No, I’m not a bit surprised that she’s pure as driven snow, and not because she isn’t hella hot. She is. Nah, the reason I’m not surprised is because I feel for the first time in a long fucking time as if God just landed a gift in my lap, all tied up with a leopard-print bow and big brown eyes.
I knew if I tried hard enough and paid my dues that I’d get what I have always wanted: a sweet little thing that would be mine and only mine from the beginning till I draw that last sweet breath with her taste on my lips.
I’m aiming for that to be her. At least, I’m thinking I can stop chasing fast women as everyone expects me to and settle down with this little gem who has marriage and babies shining in those deep baby browns.
Plus, well, she just issued a challenge, didn’t she? One I will pick up kindly and run with. She doesn’t think I could be suitable? Maybe I ain’t, and maybe I never will be, but for fucking sure by the time I’m done tasting this woman, I’ll be so deep inside her blood she won’t ever be able to shake me.
One night?
To start with, and then we’ll see just what it will take to have the mayor’s sweet little girl panting for all the dirty I can give her.
“Deal, Peaches. Now come along and leave the beer, you should be sober as a judge to remember every lick and suck I have to offer.”
Her eyes go wide as saucers, and I feel my groin ache when the pulse at her throat starts hammering as I take her hand and pull her off the bar stool. I want that plum ass in my hands as I take her like a madman, and then, only when she’s so blissed out with pleasure, I want to sink my teeth into her soft globes and see if she tastes as good as she smells.
Nodding to Josh, I twine our fingers and drag her to the back of the bar where stairs lead up to my apartment and the huge bed that has never cradled another woman.
Before tonight is done, I’ll have her sweat and cum on my sheets—and that’s just to start. Her skin is so pale and yet golden, I can’t explain it, that I crave seeing her spread out against my black sheets—the contrast being so stark I’ll not miss an inch of her beauty.
She’s trembling slightly as I keep her hand in mine and pull her up behind me, taking my time despite the lust hitting me. With one like her, the build-up is necessary because God knows you have only one time to make this experience just the right combination of oh-so right and wrong.
By the time I unlock the door and let us in, she’s vibrating with what I hope is as much excitement as tension, and I’m so ready to see her out of those damn clothes I can taste it.
I keep pulling her till we reach the bedroom that is mine, and now hers if she’ll let me have her.
“This is my room. No one else has ever been I here, and I swear the sheets are clean. If you need a minute to get ready, the bathroom is through there.”
She takes the chance, as I knew she would, and runs for the bathroom, slamming the door a little hard as I let my shoulders relax and turn to pull off my shirt.
The pants, they can come after, when she’s too into things to take exception to the fact that everything is oversized in proportion to my six foot three frame, including my dick.
That gives me pause, and I feel my first case of nerves at what I’m about to do. This is an honor. Something little Cleo sees as a nuisance at best, while for me being her first is both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because it’s something only I will ever know from her body, and a curse because if I fuck this up for her, she will forever remember me as the guy who ploughed her.
I need her to want more after this, so that means control. Considering I haven’t stuck my dick in a woman for going on six months now, I’m running really low on that commodity.
Crap, I really should have paid more attention to that lovey crap Nick and Lenny pull all the time. At least then I wouldn’t feel so out of my depth.
***
Cleo
Heaven save me, I’m about as relaxed as a hooker at a church fête, and I see it when I scamper into the bathroom and get a look at the big eyes and pale skin that look back at me.
I’m not so much nervous about performance—duh, like he would expect a vixen, knowing how green I really am—but rather with the thought of being unclothed in front of a man who probably bench presses cars for a light workout.
Honestly, about the only reason my butt looks at all decent is because I have to climb the library ladders daily to fetch reference books for the high school kids who don’t have computers at home.
There are a lot of those around this town, thanks to the plant closing down two years ago, so I get a lot of exercise on my butt but nothing whatsoever on my stomach and arms, something that is a problem since I am a stress eater.
I ate a whole burger earlier just listening to Ginger cackle as she dressed me, and I am feeling it now.
Stop it. It’s a done deal. Just make sure your lady parts are clean and go out there. Worst-case scenario, he’ll take one look and decline.
Yeah? If he declines, I have to find someone else, or face the Committee tomorrow like a disgraced woman! Did you see the creeps down in that bar, Cleo? No!
Talking to myself is probably considered unhealthy, but at the rate I’m going—and now that I think of it, never asking Jericho his status—I may become a lot unhealthier than I’m bargaining for.
I stop that thought immediately and sneer at
it for what it is: my floundering for an excuse to wimp out and run. I won’t though, and not just because I’m terrified, but because that would mean I don’t get to touch that man, and that is just not acceptable.
Odds are I’ll be looking at Marshall for the rest of my miserable life, so I may as well have a dreamy image to picture in my head if it comes to that.
The thought has my body cooling drastically, but I close my eyes and picture Jericho Evans and, just like that, I feel the tingle and swoop of my desire coming back to life.
It’s heady, this feeling, I think as I look into my wide eyes, to feel so much when, in reality, I do not even know that man.
That may well be, Peaches, but you will in a few short minutes.
Already? I’m thinking of myself as he does already? Instead of seeing a pale, blonde ghost in the mirror, the person staring back at me seems pretty—almost—as I take in the flush that now heats my cheeks and the sparkle in my eyes.
“You can do this, mouse. You can do this.”
“Peaches? You okay in there?”
His voice makes me leap and titter, but I get myself under control as fast as I can and give myself one last look before doing a pit check and going for the door.
It’s now or never, I guess. I pull the door open with a breath and squaring of my shoulders. He’s sitting on the bed, his shirt off, just his jeans and the band of his boxers to greet me. I blush as I stagger forward and almost trip all over myself.
“I’m a little nervous,” I whisper, as I come to stand in front of him, and he steadies me with big hands at my hips.
“That’s normal, baby, at least I was the first time too,” he mutters, bending to remove my shoes.
At this height, we’re almost at eye level, and it reminds me that he is so much bigger than I am. I’d be afraid if not for the tattoos that distract me when I look down to avoid looking right at him.
There is a cross on his left arm, dog tags that I can’t read thanks to the muted light on the other and two dates on his right pec that make me think he’s lost someone dear to him.
“Shh, it’s okay. You just let me do everything and I won’t let you down,” he murmurs, making me conscious of the fine trembling in my limbs.
THE WATCHERS: 6 Military Romance Bundle Page 16
