The Love Shack

by Christie Ridgway

  Silence descended again. Then he suddenly opened his mouth. “Shoes,” he said, as if some unseen force had yanked it from him.

  Instead of speaking, she merely firmed her hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s been a fucking week of shoes,” he said, his voice low and rough.

  “Shoes—”

  Before she could finish, he grabbed her close, burying his head at the curve of her shoulder and throat. It was a tight hold, as if he were going down in vast waters and she were the single life preserver.

  Without even thinking about it, her arms came around him in a secure embrace. “Tell me,” she murmured, pressing her cheek to his dark hair. “Tell me about the shoes.”

  Another long silence passed, and then he started speaking again, his voice still low. “A kid will get hit by a car—knocked right out of her shoes. You...you get to a scene and find the injured girl in the bushes, but a pair of pink, glittery sneakers left behind on the crosswalk.”

  She rubbed his back, soothing.

  “Or there’ll be a rollover accident, a minivan and its contents tossed everywhere. People screaming. Children crying. And then there’s the baby, contented as a cow, hanging upside down from the straps of a car seat, chewing on the rubber sole of his daddy’s work boot.” He hauled in a breath. “Then last night... Oh, God, Gator. Last night.”

  She swallowed, trying to calm her unsteady pulse. “What happened last night?”

  His hands clutched at her, as if assuring himself she was real. “House fire. Moving fast. One of the family’s sons was missing. We couldn’t find him.”

  The agony he’d clearly felt then pierced her ribs and headed straight for her heart. She wanted to back away, to break free of him and put her hands over her ears, but self-protection had stopped being an option. “What—” She had to pause and lubricate her throat. “What happened?”

  “It was a big place. Three stories. We were searching room by room and I tripped over a pair of shoes, crashing into and breaking through some louvered closet doors, scattering the ski equipment inside. At the very back of the space was the kid, curled in a ball, his arms over his head. I might have missed him if I hadn’t fallen and disrupted all the gear he’d taken refuge behind. I might have pulled open the doors to check but still not seen him.”

  Relief made her knees weak. “Lucky for him about those shoes,” she murmured.

  “They were his brand-new basketball high-tops. When I told him what happened, he thought his mom would be mad because he wasn’t supposed to leave them out.” Then Teague looked up, his gaze intense and staring straight into hers. “His name is Brett. One of your B-boys, Pol. And being bad was what saved him. When I thought of that...”

  “When you thought of that...?” she prompted, whispering.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I just had to come to you.”

  A hot sting of tears burned her eyes. To hide them, she let her lids close, and so she didn’t see Teague’s lips coming nearer; she only felt them brush her lashes, trace down her cheek.

  It was a gentle, comforting caress. As platonic as every other they’d shared. Then his lips found hers, and she tasted the salt of her tears on their smooth, warm surface. Without thought, she opened her mouth to taste them with her tongue.

  She heard and felt Teague’s sharp, indrawn breath. Heated embarrassment flushed through her, and she attempted retreat. But his hands tightened on her.

  His lips pressed harder. It became a real kiss.

  Polly’s head spun. It was what she’d always wanted, a dream she’d stopped waiting for. Their tongues touched, tangled, and she felt need flush over her from head to toe. Between her thighs, she went wet.

  One of his hands speared the hair at the back of her head. His touch was masculine, masterful, keeping her in place so that he could take control of her mouth. She shivered in hot delight, thrilled by his hard hold.

  His palm covered her shoulder, following the slope of it atop the flannel until his thumb brushed the outside of her breast. He stilled for a moment, and then his hand slowly moved to cup her, his palm seeming to test the slight weight. Polly’s nipple tightened to a painful bead and she clutched at Teague’s shoulders to keep upright.

  He broke the kiss and she saw that his color was up, a flush across his cheekbones. His hands went to the buttons of her boxy top, and she couldn’t breathe as he unfastened them with skillful fingers.

  A good man to have in an emergency, she thought, her head muzzy from lack of oxygen. But then he brushed the flannel sides away from her naked chest, and air refilled her lungs on a gasp. Teague just looked at her, his gaze avid, his own breath harsh as he stared.

  She shivered, and he covered both breasts with his hot palms. Polly moaned as her nipples poked his flesh. Still staring, as if he was fascinated by the look of his big hands on her naked torso, he leaned toward her, licking at the hollow of her throat.

  Polly jerked into the wet contact, and he made a soothing noise as he drew his mouth lower, moving one hand around her ribs and to her back. He pressed there, urging her inches closer, and then his mouth was on her breast.

  She gasped again, closing her eyes as he sucked on the nipple, light but insistent. Her thighs clenched, and she felt another rush of wetness.

  Her hands plunged into his hair. It had never been like this for her before. She felt hot all over, slippery inside, yearning everywhere from the roots of her hair to the tender skin between her toes. Every part of her wanted contact with him, but she was afraid to speak that aloud in case he woke to the fact that he was in the throes of passion with his platonic friend.

  Teague released her flesh and looked up. “Polly,” he murmured. “Polly—”

  She muffled him with her own kiss, desperate, and desperately worried that if he said her name one more time he’d realize that yes, it was Polly, Polly Pal who was in his arms. Her tongue slid into his mouth, and his hands clamped on her hips, then slipped beneath the waistband of her flannel pants to cup her bottom.

  He groaned, the sound a sweet buzz of desire against her tongue. His fingers kneaded the soft flesh that he held and she felt another dizzying rush of heat engulf her. She’d wanted him before; his smiles, his charm, his male competence had called to her from the very beginning—not every man could make expert omelets!—but this was something else altogether. There was no way she’d anticipated the effect of his hands on her in sexual urgency.

  And there was no sense in trying to apply the brakes now.

  After all, she doubted she could ever go back to being his friend, she thought, so she might as well give it all as his lover. Shrugging, she allowed the flannel top to drop. Then, still kissing him, she shoved her thumbs into the elastic waistband of her pants and yanked them down, letting them fall to her ankles.

  She was completely naked to him.

  He jerked his head away from hers, breaking the kiss. She heard the slow suck of his breath as his gaze took in her nude form. Trembling, she didn’t hide from the perusal, knowing she was not voluptuous and not tall and definitely not Tess.

  But she was his for the taking.

  And as if she’d said it aloud, he did.

  One moment she was standing before him; the next they were in a race down the hall. In her dim bedroom, he took her by the shoulders and propelled her backward until her hips hit the end of the high mattress and she fell onto the bed.

  She stared up at him, breathing hard, and felt another shimmer of delight work through her as he reached behind his neck with one hand to toss away his T-shirt. He toed off his shoes and shoved down his jeans and boxers and there he was—there it was—the aggressive jut of male flesh that said he wanted to be here.

  Her stomach jittered in anticipation and she scooted up toward the pillows, but he caught her ankles and hauled her back. The height of the bed was such that if he stepped forward—

  Then he did. Pushing her thighs wide apart, he moved into the space. The thick head of his penis brushed the i
nside of her thigh, and she jerked, the heat of it like a brand. He circled one hand around her thigh, keeping her open for him, and then grasped the thick stalk of his sex.

  He directed it toward her pleated flesh, but instead of thrusting, he nudged her layers apart with short strokes and gentle prods. Her body flowered easily for him, making it clear she was more than ready for him. But he continued toying, playing, tapping at her clitoris and then sliding wetly down to her entrance to tease her with the promise of penetration.

  Her fingers clutched at the bedclothes, and she arched her hips, trying to entice him into her heat. The hand encircling her thigh controlled her, though, and she made a needy sound low in her throat.

  Teague’s gaze lifted from the place where they weren’t quite joined, to her face. His eyes were glittering, his skin seemed to be stretched tightly against his cheekbones. She’d never seen him look so harsh, his handsomeness almost brutal with desire. Another wave of sexual longing ran through her and she shuddered against the cool sheets. “Please,” she said. “Please don’t make me wait another minute.”

  Her skin was throbbing everywhere, her inner muscles were rhythmically clenching with her body’s need to be filled, her clitoris was so sensitive that when he gave it another delicate tap, she lurched, driven a giant step closer to orgasm.

  “I won’t,” he said, and his hand pushed her thigh even wider.

  Exposing her. Exposing everything.

  He stared down, seemingly mesmerized, and then he penetrated, a slow, thick parting of her flesh. Moaning, Polly closed her eyes at the exquisite sensation. She was so ready for him that there was only the tiniest, sweetest pinch of discomfort as he continued inside. Oh, yes. He was hot and smooth and—

  He wasn’t wearing a condom.

  Her lashes flew up and she opened her mouth to warn him, but then he rooted deep, and she gasped at the goodness of it. He held himself motionless inside her, and she could feel her muscles clenching around him, her body trying to incite movement. She moaned with impatience.

  “Shh,” he murmured, and caressed her hip. “Let yourself get used to me.”

  Pleasure was breaking in little waves across her body. Condom, she thought sluggishly, her mind trying to bring the word to her mouth. She was on the Pill so she wouldn’t get pregnant, but—

  “God, Pol.” Teague suddenly jolted, his body almost leaving hers so she had to clamp her knees against his flanks to keep him close. “No, no. Listen, I’m not wearing protection.”

  His urgent voice cleared her own mind a little.

  “Do we really need it?” she asked. “Because...because I’m thinking not.”

  He stilled, staring at her face. “Polly...”

  She met his gaze. “I’m thinking not,” she repeated. Teague was well aware she was on birth control. Just last month, on their way to a weekend of wine-tasting with friends, she’d had to ask him to turn around to retrieve her forgotten little packet of pills. As for STDs, they were close enough to know that wasn’t an issue, either.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “Yes.” They might not have a future, but they had so much trust between them she knew they could do this without barriers.

  At that thought, her inner muscles squeezed him. He groaned and then began to move, thrusting into her with deep intent. She wiggled and he tightened his hold on her hips, keeping her still as he continued to pump inside. Desire threatened to swamp her again, as the feeling of being at his mercy was delicious, all she’d ever wanted. She gave herself up to it, sinking into the mattress and opening her mind and body to his forceful thrusts.

  Then he started pulling her into each one, and a wave of heat broke over her skin. She moaned, her eyes closing at the inexplicable goodness of this man’s touch. Nothing had ever been like this for her. It was possible she might just be a female body to him, a way to work out the stress he’d been feeling, but she had no regrets with orgasm just inches away. Aware it was ready to pounce on her, she half opened her eyes.

  To find Teague gazing down at her. His fingers were hot brands on her hips as their eyes met and he plunged into her again. Oh, he was well aware this was her, Polly thought, panicking a little. But his next thrust shattered her concern. It was so good she lifted into it despite his firm hold, writhing while he held himself deep.

  As he pulled back, she cried out, but then he was driving deep again. Her body gathered around him, gathered in on itself, her muscles tense everywhere, and then Teague slid one thumb to her clitoris, circling once, twice, until bliss shot free and she fractured, joyful sensation raining down like hot, happy tears.

  Groaning, Teague thrust once more before he came in great shudders of his big body.

  Lying boneless on the bed, Polly kept her eyes closed as he withdrew and climbed onto the mattress. He pulled her up to him so that he was propped on the pillows and she was against his shoulder. His big palm gently stroked her shoulder.

  Okay, Polly thought, bracing herself. Here came the regrets. Here came the moment when he would make excuses, throw on his pants, leave and perhaps never be heard from again.

  “Well, Gator,” he said softly. “What now?”

  He wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t making excuses. Instead, he was putting the ball in her court.

  Polly’s heart raced. She could lay it on the line. Tell her final secrets. Confess her love and see where that might lead. Her mouth opened. And words came out in the bright, chirpy voice she used for selling indoor recess on rainy days. “You ever hear of friends with benefits?”

  It was all she’d never wanted.

  * * *

  IN HIS SISTER’S BACKYARD, Gage sat on the edge of a large cement planter, partly screened by the fronds of a thriving queen palm. He tipped back his bottle of beer and took a long swallow, then let his gaze roam about. Just a week after the engagement party, his sister was in gonzo hostess mode again, throwing a shower for the bridal couple. This crowd appeared to be a smaller subset of the other, but again there was a table piled high with presents.

  He kept his gaze on the gifts when his twin came to lean beside him. “Where the hell are you going to put all the loot?” he asked Griffin. “I thought you said Jane’s place is tiny, and she’s already got you crowded in there.”

  “We’re on the hunt for new digs. Have a line on something not far from the cove, as a matter of fact.”

  Gage didn’t respond, but he heartily approved of the idea. If his bro and Jane settled near Skye, he wouldn’t think twice about insisting they keep an eye on her once he was gone. Without turning his head, he sought her out now himself, and smiled when he caught sight of her laughing with Tess. Her hair was caught up in an artful bun-looking thing, with wavy pieces left to lie against the back of her neck and along one cheek. There was something about the carefree style that made him want to pull out the pins and then take her to bed.

  He’d been doing a lot of that since she’d put her hand in his on the deck at Captain Crow’s a few days before. Skye continued to be an enthusiastic partner between the sheets, her fears, it seemed, mostly forgotten. Satisfaction made his smile deepen.

  She didn’t question his avoidance of complete darkness, but since she’d been beside him, he’d managed to make do with only the bathroom light burning through the half-opened door. He’d found sleep easier, too, and had better rest when he did nod off.

  Living in the moment with Skye, at the cove, was turning out to be the best damn idea of a decade. Nothing was going to mess that up, not if he could help it.

  Griffin cleared his throat. “You know, we never finished that conversation we started at the engagement party.”

  “What conversation?” Gage asked absently. He was counting the buttons on Skye’s little mermaid-green sundress. They ran from neckline to knee and were the shape of tiny starfish. Likely a bitch to unfasten. Was there a hidden zipper or something?

  “The one where you come clean about your last assignment and why the hell you
went MIA.”

  His mind jerked to attention. Shit. Instead of letting his brother see his alarm, Gage took another long sip of his beer. Then he set it on the ledge beside him and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I hate to break it to you,” Griffin said, “but your body language is a dead giveaway.”

  Gage cursed his brother’s skills of observation. Damn reporters. “Let’s talk about something else. This is supposed to be a happy time...and all about you and Jane.”

  “Jane and I are great. And we are happy. But it’s you who has me worried.”

  “Look,” Gage said, wincing at the defensive edge to his voice. “I didn’t bug you when you were holed up in No. 9, acting weird as shit. Skye wrote me about the parties. Rex said you were cliff-jumping again—the higher the better.”

  “I admit I had—have—issues. I’m working on them.”

  “Let me work on mine in my own way, all right?” And his way was the Skye-way, soaking up summer and the scent of her skin at every opportunity.

  His brother’s sigh sounded like acquiescence.

  Gage risked a glance at him. His twin was staring, and their eyes met. People often asked him if it was creepy, to see his own face on another man, but when he looked at his brother he only saw their dissimilarities. Griffin “presented” in a different manner, he thought. While he’d been born only a few minutes earlier, he had the gravitas of the older brother. Gage had been the one to disregard consequences.

  That thought gave him a guilty start and he redirected his attention, stealing another glance at Skye. Was he acting irresponsibly there? But the smile on her face and the relative wealth of skin she felt comfortable showing now said no. This afternoon, he’d been a fingernail away from convincing her to put on a bathing suit and go out with him for a swim.

  “What are you looking at?” Griffin said, sounding suspicious.

  “Nothing.” He grabbed up his bottle of beer. “I’m just recalling I have a best-man duty to fulfill. What are we going to do about a bachelor party? I could throw a classic, you know, martinis, poker and trash talk at No. 9. Or could you fit in a quick guys’ getaway to Vegas?”