Ready for Love

by Carolyn Faulkner

  Needless to say, Deck downed his shot.

  It got more interesting the more inebriated everyone became—bad behavior was fessed up to—sleeping with a good friend's boyfriend or fiancé—the boss's wife—leaving evidence of encounters to be found in unusual places.

  And then the fetishes surfaced.

  And Deck's eyes rarely left me. If I thought about it—and I didn't want to any too closely—I would have realized that he was keeping track of all of the things I was confessing to having done.

  And if I'd been paying more attention to him, I would have noticed that he'd barely ever had to refill his glass, which meant that he was nowhere near as experienced as I would have pegged him to be.

  When someone said they'd never been spanked, though, I did notice that he took one of the few shots he'd had.

  But then, I'd already known that about him.

  I thought it was best if I left the game before I got so drunk that I couldn't manage to get home by myself, so I rose, thanked everyone for a most informative time, and grabbed Deck's hand.

  "Where're we going?" he asked, rising docilely at my behest, which surprised the crap out of me.

  "To wherever the food is. I need to eat something carby—bread or rice or something—to absorb all of that alcohol."

  "Are you telling me that you're drunk?" he said from his great height behind me.

  Suddenly, he stopped short, and I lost my hold on him, very nearly crashing into the buffet table that had been set up at the back of the kitchen.

  "I am not drunk," I said, trying to sound a sober as I could, which was never a good thing when one was, actually, drunk. Then I turned around to glare at him.

  "Fine. I'm pretty drunk. That's why I'm going to have some food before I drive home." Before I could reach for a plate, he was tugging me down the table, taking this and that and building me a plate, then handing it to me.

  And there was nothing on it that I would have turned my nose up at, and it came to me in a flash that this man knew entirely too much about me.

  Especially after that game.

  Handing me a plate of food with a fork was downright Pavlovian. I automatically began to eat, whether I wanted to or not.

  As I did so, I watched him look covertly around the room, then he took my hand and brought me out onto the back patio, which was largely deserted because all of the action was inside, where he took a seat on the beautiful old fashioned porch swing, tugging me down next to him.

  I sank down next to him—which was a bit of a challenge because he was taking up two thirds of the seat—giving me no choice but to be in close contact with him the entire time, especially as my arm brushed up and down his as I raised my fork to my mouth, mowing my way through about half of what he'd given me. It would have taken me three days to get through all of it, and I didn't want to make myself sick.

  I hadn't noticed that he'd made a plate for himself that was piled higher than the one he'd given me, and, as he devoured every bit of it, I had to marvel—although not for the first time—at his capacity for food.

  Not that there was an ounce of fat on him. There wasn't. He was just a big man—and he burned as many calories as he took in. I could see the buttons of his dress shirt straining to contain his chest muscles, and his bicep flexed, smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric with every mouthful.

  When I realized I was staring, I searched frantically for somewhere else to look, my eyes landing on the beautiful hydrangeas that were in bloom all around us.

  "I'm not kidding, you know. I'm not drunk." For some unknown reason, I felt it needed repeating.

  "I believe you. I'm not going to let you drive yourself home, but I believe you."

  "Do I sound drunk?"

  "No, but I don't think I've ever seen you inebriated. Better safe than sorry."

  The fact that I wasn't more ticked off by his high handedness was a definite clue that I most was probably a bit polluted.

  "How'd you end up here tonight, anyway? I didn't think parties were your thing."

  He grimaced. "They're not. But Simon's a good friend, and he's my right-hand-man at work, Kelly's really nice—it's a social obligation, you know? Every once in a while, you have to suck it up and go to a party, as much as you might not want to."

  "And you called me because?"

  Deck shrugged. "I thought you'd be a fun addition. I was bored." I didn't miss the sidelong glance he threw me. "You came, didn't you?"

  "Well, when you mentioned the game—I had to come and see what you'd done and not done."

  He chuckled. "Could have just asked me."

  I stretched my legs out in front of me, putting my plate on the porch railing. "But where would be the fun in that? How was I to know that you're practically an untouched virgin?"

  "I am not," he defended himself much too vehemently. "I'm just a one-woman man. You know that Jane and I met in high school. Except for a couple years break during college, we dated continuously from our sophomore year. I never cheated on her, and even when we'd decided to take a break during college, I didn't do a lot of sleeping around, I confess. I'm just not that kind of guy." His eyes narrowed as he looked down at me. "But that doesn't mean I'm boring in bed."

  Choosing to ignore that last comment, I held my hands up in the air. "Okay. Fine. Sorry. I didn't mean to insult your surprisingly delicate manhood. My apologies."

  He grumbled, and I knew his feelings were still hurt.

  "I'm pretty tired. How about we bounce, as the young folk say?" he asked, not waiting for me to reply before he stood up and walked back into the house. Simon and Kelly were still around the table we'd left, so we both said our goodbyes and left together.

  I began to head for my car, but Deck had a hold of my hand, and I wasn't going anywhere he didn't want me to. Sighing, and admitting in my head that he was right—I probably shouldn't be driving in this condition—I began to follow dutifully after him to his big Mercedes sedan at first.

  "Wait, wait. I don't want to leave my car here," I whined, tugging a little against his hold. "Let's take my car, instead."

  His guffaw was like a gunshot. "You think I'm going to be able to fold myself into that little thing and still be able to walk when I get out? I don't think so."

  I tried not to be offended, because he was right. Neither my ancient little Corolla nor my Porsche could be called "tall person friendly". When we got together, he usually drove, so it wasn't much of a problem.

  All I could muster in response was a loud, "Humph."

  The hand that had been holding mine slipped casually around my waist as we approached his car and I heard the locks click open as he guided me to the passenger's side, opening the door then turning to take my hand in his again. "How're you feeling? Any better with the food?" he asked solicitously while he handed me into the car, keeping me steady as I did so, being a solid, familiar rock to cling to in stormy seas.

  "But what about my Corolla?" I whined as he shut the door after making sure that I was securely buckled in.

  "You didn't drive your baby here?" he asked when he got into the driver's side.

  "Good Lord, no. She barely ever sees the light of day. Only when it's mild and sunny."

  "Which we don't get much of here on the rocky coast, even in the summer. But you can't do that to her—she needs to be driven. Hard and frequently, to keep her in tune."

  Parts of me clenched automatically at his words, but I did my best to determinedly ignore them as my eyebrow rose. "We are still talking about my car, aren't we?"

  His grin was full of deviltry. "Of course. Cars like that are built to be driven. To be taken out on a deserted highway and let out—given their head, with a firm hand on the rein—uh, steering wheel, of course. They need to be used—"

  Wow. I don't think I'd ever heard him talk like that before—about cars or anything else. He'd never really been this way around me. It was a very thrilling, nervous making experience.

  "All right, all right. Enough with the car tal
k, Click and or clack. Point taken. I need to drive my car more. Would you do me a favor and text Kelly that I'll pick up my car later, please? Considering how badly autocorrect fucks me when I'm sober, I can't imagine what the results would be if I texted while I'm drunk."

  "We'll come back over tomorrow, when you're sober, to get the car. But I don't trust you as far as I could throw you. I know that car—even though it's a beater—is at least as valuable to you as your Porsche is." He put his hand out in front of me, palm up. "Give me your keys, please."

  "What?" I stalled, as if I hadn't heard him.

  Wrong move.

  He turned his entire big body towards me in the seat, leveling a gaze at me that would have been more than enough to scare me straight, but then he began to speak and the excitement I felt down to my toes grew a million times worse. "You know very well what I just asked you. And you know—better than any person on this planet—that I don't hold with bratting."

  There was that hand again.

  I pursed my lips, considering my options—of which I had none. Then, just when I had a feeling he was at the end of his patience with me, I reached into my purse and gave him my keys, which he then shoved into his pocket while I pouted in my seat.

  Then, his voice much softer than it had been, he admonished quietly, "Don't pout."

  I turned my head so he could see the glare I was giving him, and that was when my alcohol marinated mind decided to not only notice, but fixate on just how long his legs were, and I began to giggle.

  "What's so funny?" he asked, clicking his seatbelt into place and starting the engine to purring.

  "I don't know how, but sometimes, I forget how much of a Jolly Green Giant you are."

  "Now there's a dated reference," he smiled, pulling out into the street.

  "How much do you want to bet that there's not a person in that house who would get it?"

  "I'll take that bet."

  "You only got it because you're old."

  He leaned away from me and scowled at me. "You're old, too!"

  "You're older than I am."

  "By two and a half months!"

  "And don't you ever forget it! I will always be younger than you are, and I will always be around to remind you of that fact—loudly and frequently."

  He was quiet after that, and I wondered if I had made him angry, the idea of which made me tear up, but the moment we pulled into the driveway and the garage door began to rise automatically, he turned to cup my cheek gently. "Don't move—"

  "Hey!" I interrupted. "This isn't my place!"

  "No, I brought you home with me so I can keep an eye on you. I think you're drunker than you realize. You can stay in my guest bedroom."

  I guess I couldn't complain too much that the man wanted to take care of me—and it wasn't as if I hadn't stayed in that room before.

  Then he frowned down at me. "Are you all right?"

  I felt myself being gathered against him, into a warm hug. "You look like you're about to cry."

  "I'm fine," I said quickly, trying to lean out of his arms, but that was pretty much impossible to accomplish.

  "You sure?" he asked, holding me tightly, giving me a concerned look.

  "Yes, I'm fine, thanks."

  He let me go, and I tried to pretend that I'd had no reaction whatsoever to what he'd done, but the truth was ill-concealed, and I had to settle for being glad that he'd missed it.

  "You stay right where you are. I'll be around to open the door for you and help you out. How's your tummy?"

  I somehow managed to reply sassily, "Fine, thank you, Daddy."

  But he just chuckled. "Yet another thing that you should be grateful I'm not to you."

  He opened the car door and reached both hands in to me. I wanted to refuse to use them, but I knew that, if I did, I'd end up in a wretched lump at his feet, and he'd enjoy that entirely too much for me to allow him that satisfaction.

  He was right—I was drunker than I thought I was.

  So, I put my hands in his and let him help me up.

  "Why don't you take off those shoes—they're very cute, but I don't want you to fall off them."

  He didn't give me the chance to do what he'd suggested. Instead, he went down on one knee in front of me, saying, "Put your hand on my shoulder if you feel wobbly at all." And seconds later, he stood, feminine sandals dangling incongruously from one long, thick, masculine finger while he tucked my hand into his elbow and led me into his house, where I had a sudden attack of dizziness.

  And as soon as I stumbled in the slightest, putting my hand to my forehead, I found myself in his arms instead.

  And it felt much, much too wonderful.

  He took care of me like a child from there, making sure my purse ended up in the room with me, producing an enormous t-shirt for me to sleep in and then turning around while I slipped out of my dress and into it, handing me a hangar on which to put it and seeing that it ended up in the closet.

  "Okay for me to turn around?" he asked, closing the closet door, having kept his back to me the entire time.

  "Yes," I said, looking down, feeling terribly shy and vulnerable standing there before him in just his t-shirt and my panties.

  And the fact that, when he'd turned to face me, he halted mid-stride at the sight of me didn't help my nerves at all. I could feel his eyes claiming—almost inspecting—every part of me, from the now somewhat messier bun on top of my head to the toes that were buried in the luxurious carpet beneath them. And setting every inch of me on fire because of it.

  "Turn around," he commanded softly, and I did so unthinkingly, trustingly presenting him with my back.

  Deck took a step or two towards me and I could feel the heat of him behind me. I wondered if he was going to touch me—trying to prepare myself mentally for if he did, although I wasn't at all sure that there was a way to do that. But then he took my bun apart, combing his fingers through my hair to prevent snarls.

  "Your hair is beautiful," he breathed, the scents of tequila and cigar reaching my nose.

  "Th-thank you."

  He reached out and I again tensed, expecting him to hug me or make some kind of sexual move, but instead, he found the corner of the bed sheets and pulled them up. "Let's get you tucked in."

  Without looking at him, I got between the sheets, which he then laid over me before darting into the bathroom to get me a glass of water, which he put on the nightstand. "If you wake in the middle of the night, hydrate as much as you can."

  Then he stood there, looking down at me—so big and undeniably male that I found myself breathing very rapidly—not from nerves but from pure, animal desire, although I still managed to keep my eyes from his. I was very sure that if I looked at him, it would be all over.

  But I could see that his hands were knotted into fists near his thighs.

  And I knew he wanted me, too.

  Then, somewhat abruptly, he said, "Sleep well," leaning down to give me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and then leaving me there, alone, with all those new, exciting, enticing thoughts of him—in a way I'd never considered him before.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning—Saturday, thankfully—I slept in later than I usually did by far. Normally, I'm an early riser, but for some reason, the tequila hit me harder than it ever had before, and I slept till almost nine thirty.

  Once I'd decided to awaken, though, I had to face the reality that the only thing I could really wear outside that bedroom was the dress I was wearing last night, so I made the bed and straightened the room up as much as I could, then donned the dress and sandals, grabbed my purse and headed out of the room, on a mission to get out of there having had as little interaction with Deck as I could, having already brought up Uber on my phone to get me to Simon and Kelly's place to pick up my car.

  Unfortunately, I walked right by him as I came out the door.

  "Morning, Sleeping Beauty."

  I didn't have a brush in the tiny purse I'd brought with me last night, and draggin
g my own fingers through my hair had only served to remind me that he had done so, too, and I'd left off doing that in favor of leaving.

  So I knew he was lying—what with my bed head, bloodshot eyes, and pallor.

  "Yeah, right."

  He was blocking my path, and I went to move around him, but what he said next stopped me short. "I wasn't kidding. You look beautiful. You always look beautiful to me."

  The ring of absolute truth in those quiet statements took my breath away, making me feel weak in the knees, to boot. I just stood there, not really knowing what to do, for a very long beat, until he moved closer to me, his warmth surrounding me, a curled finger appearing under my chin, raising it so that I had no choice but to look him in the eye.

  Before I knew it, I was being enfolded against him by a hug that stilled the quivering I hadn't even known I was doing, and my entire world stopped as his lips hovered just above mine, my head tucked against his shoulder.

  "I can't believe it's taken me this long to do this, but I'm going to kiss you. Last chance to say you don't want me to," he whispered, searching my eyes for signs of refusal.

  But I wasn't giving off any. Just the opposite. My body was screaming that it was going to completely rebel if he didn't commence to kissing me in five, four—

  Lips, wonderfully tentative at first, as if he couldn't believe I wasn't stopping him, then claiming mine with more confidence the longer I didn't object, but still keeping it very soft and gentle, exploratory, giving us time to learn what each other tasted like before moving on. Savoring the moment and even moving away a bit, which was when I heard his groaned, "Damn," before his mouth found mine again, less gently this time but no less carefully, teeth nibbling, tongue probing, teasing, trying to entice me to join the fun.

  My sudden attack of shyness wasn't abating, though, and my advances were much slower than his, although every one of them was rewarded by a noticeable response from him. When I razed his lower lip between the edges of my teeth, he gasped, and my confidence soared. My tongue darted—tentatively—out to touch the tip of his, and I felt every muscle in his body harden.