B.I.L.F: Beard I'd Like To…

by Frankie Love

  Maybe Dane could be the BILF I haven’t realized I’ve been looking for.

  I shake my head, trying to stop fantasizing about this man I haven’t really even met yet -- a man I’m going to sit and eat with in just a few minutes -- when the oven timer goes off. I pull out my brownies and feel pretty pleased with myself with the way they’ve turned out.

  I’m going to go sit with Dane and his mother and I’m going to be completely normal and engaging and charming. I’m not going to think about his tongue trailing up and down my wet--

  No!

  I pull off my apron and grab my tray of brownies. Walking with confidence next door, I knock three times and put on my best smile. This is a dinner, I remind myself. A nice, friendly dinner. Not the prequel to the romance novel I’m writing.

  The door opens, and I have to raise my gaze by about a foot before I lock eyes with him. Dane. He is frowning down at me as if he’s totally forgotten I was coming over at all, and I brandish my tray of chocolate treats.

  “You ready for me?” I ask, glancing past him into the house.

  His face twists into a smile that makes his dark eyes glint. My core tightens all over again and I feel my fresh panties get wet. Great.

  “Sure am,” he says and steps back to let me in.

  Chapter Three

  Dane

  The food turned out great, and secretly I’m relieved. It would be pretty embarrassing to invite over a beautiful woman -- even though, of course, my mom invited her, not me -- and have her politely eat something charred or oversalted and force smiles all evening.

  But this is fucking delicious if I might say so myself.

  We all sit around the dining table and it could easily be awkward, but it isn’t. Mom and Daphne are giggling through mouths full of food over some silly story Mom told about reuniting with an old school friend in the grocery store and I’m chewing on a stalk of asparagus and staring at the wall hanging right in our line of sight as we eat.

  ‘Live, Laugh, Love!’

  I’ve always hated that some of her furniture exists only to tell me what to do. So, my eyes wander again and then land on the woman across from me. The very place I have been trying not to look since we sat down.

  Daphne is fucking gorgeous; there’s really no denying that. She seems sweet as hell, too, not to mention good-natured and quick-witted, but it’s the undeniable sexiness that I can’t seem to ignore. I wish I could join in their conversation more right now, but all I can concentrate on is not looking at the swell of her breasts under the much more flattering sweater she has changed into. It’s tight and her melons? Let’s just say they look fucking ripe.

  As they talk and gossip, I watch her lips move. Pink and soft as flower petals.

  I imagine how they’d look brushing over the head of my cock.

  When I begin to stiffen -- even further, that is; I’ve been hard since I sat down opposite her -- I try to stop my active imagination. I’m not sure I’ve ever had such vivid daydreams that I couldn’t curtail. There’s something about her.

  The way she moves. Or gestures while she talks. Or pouts a little when she listens.

  When she uncrosses and re-crosses her legs, I can’t help but imagine my hands on her shapely thighs, parting her legs and lowering my head to tease her with flicks of my tongue.

  I clear my throat and look away to contain myself. This time I really will, I angrily promise myself.

  ‘Live, Laugh, Love!’

  I turn back during a pleasant lull in their conversation and decide to cut in.

  “So, Daphne, what was it you said you do?” I ask. There’s some memory fighting for attention in the back of my brain, but other things are trying to push through to the forefront of my consciousness too and I can’t sift through it all.

  Her eyebrows raise a little at my question; maybe she’s surprised I’m talking at all. I imagine my uncomfortable shifting in my seat and lack of contribution to the conversation so far probably looks like I’m pretty uninterested.

  Of course, the opposite is true, but I’m not about to tell her that. Especially not with my mom right here.

  “I’m a writer,” she says, a sweet little hue of pink coloring the tops of her cheeks as she says it. Maybe she doesn’t love talking about herself?

  I lean forward a little, interested, and nod for her to continue.

  “I, uh… well, I write romances,” she finishes, picking up on my wish for more information. She looks me right in the eyes when she says this.

  “Apparently, they’re pretty steamy,” Mom laughs. I huff a sigh at her and she raises her palms in mock apology. “I’m going to go get seconds.”

  I move to stand and reach for her plate. “Let me help. You’re on cructhes, Mom.”

  I whisk away all the empty dishes on the table and duck through the low archway to get through the living room to the kitchen.

  When I return, Daphne tells me that my mom went to the bathroom. Her absence means that we’re alone. I don’t mind one bit. I could look at this woman across from me all night.

  I sit down, and pull in a deep breath, then glance at Daphne where I notice she is looking at me almost expectantly.

  “Aren’t you gonna say something?” she asks, a smile on her face.

  I give a shrug. “I just didn’t expect that.”

  “You didn’t?” She takes a small bite and I watch her chew it without breaking eye contact with me. I can tell she wants me to explain myself, so I take a breath and shrug a second time.

  “I pictured romance writers differently, I guess. Lonely women with a ton of cats. Writing about the men they can’t find in real life.”

  I actually bite my tongue when that last part comes out of my mouth because it was pretty fucking rude, but she tilts her head back and laughs.

  “I don’t know any romance writers like that at all.” She leans in conspiratorially and quirks an eyebrow, and I get a hit of her delicate scent. “The romance writers I know, who I meet at conferences and seminars, are smart and savvy people. Lots are married, all are sharp as fuck, and some are even men!” She fake gasps.

  I chew my food and nod. “Fair enough, I didn’t mean anything by that. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s alright. I get the stereotype. But the thing about it for me is that I just, I don’t know, I love love.”

  The sentiment makes me smile.

  “I like that I’m creating something every day that makes people happy. There’s nothing bad about a romance novel,” she continues, and I nod. “I really like the purity of it. Love makes people happy.” She takes another bite and I realize I’ve been staring and not saying a word.

  “Right,” I say, not sure what else to add. I’m still a little embarrassed that I could have really offended her, but she doesn’t seem bothered by my comment.

  “I’m lucky enough to have a job I completely adore, and one that allows me to afford a nice house in a safe neighborhood,” she continues. “Your mom lives on her own. Did you immediately feel the need to buy her a dozen cats?”

  I smirk at this point and I drop my cutlery and raise my palms. “That’s fair.” I’m about to tell her something about how cool I really think it is, that she can just make up stories and live off that, but before I can quite figure out how I’m going to word it, she speaks again.

  “I have no intention of settling down, anyway. I’m not looking for love. I’ll leave the happily ever afters for my characters.” She eats her last bite and grins up as my mom reenters the dining room. “Right now, I’m just looking for more of this amazing food!” she says with a twinkle in her eye, and my mom laughs.

  The sweetness that surrounds Daphne clouds my thought process. I’ve never cared much about what a woman wanted before now. Whether she wanted to settle down or not.

  Why is it bothering me that she doesn’t want that? I barely know her. And I wasn’t even aware it was something I might want.

  I chalk it up to being overwhelmed by lust. I don’t have bad luck with
the ladies, exactly, but it’s pretty rare I find someone so very much my type. I’m sure if I go to bed and take care of myself, my emotions will defog, and I’ll know exactly what it is that I want. Just like I always do.

  Right?

  But deep down I’m not so sure it is just lust. Talking to her about her career, seeing the way her eyes lit up with what was obviously passion, and hearing about how she loves to make people happy? That confidence and competence were almost more of a turn-on than the way she trails her fingertips down her neck to the jut of her collarbone.

  Fuck.

  “So, Dane. It’s your turn. And I won’t promise I’m not gonna make any assumptions once you tell me. What do you do?”

  It takes me a second to even figure out she’s asked me a question. When I do, I chuckle. “I understand,” I say. “I’m a ranger. I work up in the mountains, live in a cabin.” I run my hand over my beard and look up, trying to think of something interesting to say. “That’s pretty much it.”

  She points her fork at me, having loaded her plate up with seconds. At least I know she really does like my cooking. “That’s not fair,” she says.

  “Oh?”

  “You’re obviously already the total stereotypical mountain man. The beard. The gruff, candid way of speaking. You don’t spend much time around people, I bet. There are no assumptions I can make about you because everything is written right there on your face.”

  Instinctively my hands go to rub at my beard. She laughs.

  “Exactly!” she says. “They don’t have razors up there or what?”

  I laugh again and shake my head, digging into my own second helping. “It’s not a place for someone who depends on amenities.”

  “You mean, civilized everyday items?” she presses. I catch a glance at her clean, neat fingernails. The haircut that so perfectly frames her face. The fashionable belt around her waist, giving her the perfect hourglass figure. She isn’t a woman who’d do so great in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

  “I’m not a fan of extraneous, pointless things, things just for show.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. Not in an irritated way, but a thoughtful one. I like that she thinks before she speaks. Heaven knows I could do with learning that skill. It must be the writer in her.

  My mom looks at me for a long time, but I don’t meet her gaze, and she then turns to stare at Daphne, a small smile on her lips. When she looks back at me I brace for whatever horribly awkward thing she is about to say.

  “I’m going to get some sleep, hun,” she says, standing up and patting my shoulder as she reaches for her crutches. “I’ll just get the dishes when I get them.”

  “Don’t be silly, Helen. First of all, you are on crutches, and secondly, you both made such a beautiful meal. I’ll clean up,” Daphne says, glancing at her plate. “Once I’m done eating everything in the house.”

  Mom laughs and shakes her head. “I’m too tired to fight. It’s been so lovely having you over, dear. You come by anytime, alright?”

  They exchange more politeness and I take my opportunity to take in our guest a little more while she isn’t looking at me.

  I can’t find a flaw.

  Physically, of course. She is bright and full of life and it shines from her, accentuating her natural beauty. Apart from that, she isn’t quite perfect. Not for me, anyway.

  Our lives are too different; our priorities are too different.

  I try to convince myself that it’s ridiculous to care when I don’t know her, but I do. Just a little, and just secretly.

  “You guys go ahead and have the brownies,” my mom says and moves to leave us alone together. “Goodnight.”

  I help her to her bedroom, and as I walk her there the only thing she says is, “Be nice.”

  Minutes later I’m back in the dining room with Daphne. Standing, I rest my hands on the back of my chair, unable to tear my eyes away from the woman in front of me.

  “Do you think wine goes with brownies?” I ask Daphne.

  She smiles. “Absolutely, I do.”

  Chapter Four

  Daphne

  The cork pops from the bottle and I smile, more relaxed than I’ve been in ages. Dane turns to me under the low glow of the overhead kitchen light and furrows his brow. Somehow, on him, the bemusement is sexy.

  “What?”

  I shake my head a little. “Nothing,” I tell him, and it’s a half-truth. There is a lot on my mind, but nothing I’m quite ready to articulate to him.

  “Follow me,” he says, eyeing me for a couple of extra seconds as he passes me, wine in hand, to the back door. In response to my quizzical look, he rolls a single shoulder and jerks his head towards the stairs. “Don’t wanna wake Mom. Let’s drink this outside.”

  Outside? I obey him and follow him to the door. Together we step out into the crisp evening air. The sun has already ducked behind the houses in the distance and there’s a soft, low light that surrounds us and makes everything ethereal, fantastical. It’s a heightened reality here, with Dane. Almost fictional.

  He sits on one of the comfy chairs on the back porch and leans back, looking thoughtfully into the evening sky. I lower myself into the chair beside him and try not to stare.

  Try not to think that this is just like a scene I would write in one of my novels, just before a moment with some serious heat.

  I cross my legs and turn to him sideways, holding my glass of wine and trying not to blush.

  Damn my overactive imagination. Yeah, I turned it into a lucrative career, but it’s still a curse sometimes. Like when it’s hard to look a man in the eye without imagining that facial hair lightly brushing over where I’m most sensitive…

  “It’s good weather to sit out here,” he comments, and I nod, grateful for the conversation instead of the images in my mind.

  “Yeah, it’s lovely out.” I take a couple of large sips of wine and feel the warmth in my throat and then in my stomach, and I’m compelled to keep it going. “Are you here for long helping your mom?”

  He takes a second to drink from his own glass before answering. I watch his lips brush the rim. “A few weeks,” he says. “I’ll make sure she’s healing up, and then I’ll go back to work.”

  “The mountains need you,” I joke. He chuckles. He doesn’t disagree, though, which I find pretty cute.

  Just a couple weeks, huh? I have been toying with the idea a little. A fling, a couple of days of hot sex should be enough to kick my writer’s block in the ass. If I could just ride Dane for a few hours, I’d be warmed up enough to get back in the saddle and finish my book.

  I write about people having sex all day, every day. Isn’t it about time I have some fun myself too?

  I haven’t said anything in a little while, I realize, and I’ve just been sitting on my chair staring at Dane’s lips. But he doesn’t look uncomfortable. The opposite, actually. It kind of seems like he’s staring right back at mine, a heavy-lidded look of hunger on his handsome face.

  “These chairs aren’t that comfortable. Are you comfortable?” he asks suddenly, and I blink over at him.

  “What?”

  His lips twist into a grin and he nods over to his left. There is a cozy-looking outdoor sofa nearby on the porch. He grabs the bottle and refills both of our glasses before leading the way. He sits on the soft cushions and pats the seat next to him, almost absently, as if it doesn’t even occur to him that I won’t follow and sit beside him. So close to him.

  And, well, he’s not wrong, because I get up and move over. He’s right, it is much comfier here, but we both know he wasn’t really concerned about that.

  With a glass of wine in my system, I feel much bolder, and I twist my lips into a smile as we look into each other’s eyes. The heat in the air is palpable; the mutual desire almost measurable. If I could capture this moment in words and put it on paper, I’d be a millionaire.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks me, his fingers twitching as they rest on his knees, and I know h
e’s wishing they were running over my legs instead. I swallow before I answer.

  “Your beard.”

  His face falls into a confused frown again and I can’t help but laugh. “My beard?”

  “Yeah. I love it. It’s so sexy. The way it frames your face; it looks so rugged. So natural. It looks so… you.”

  He chuckles again, his eyebrows still a little furrowed. “You’re…”

  “Mm?” I encourage, leaning in closer and running my hands through my long hair as I wait. “What am I?”

  “Perplexing,” he says, setting down his glass of wine and staring into my eyes. His are so beautiful. He is really breathtaking. Here, under the soft porch light -- and maybe in the haze from the wine -- he looks like a man from the cover of one of my novels. Impossibly handsome. Achingly sexy.

  But he’s real and he’s right here with me. I can feel the heat of his skin, smell his aftershave, see the twinkle of thoughts too naughty to share with me in his dark eyes.

  Caught up in the moment, I reach up and run my fingers over his beard. He smirks and lets me, and I blush a little, resting my fingers on his coarse but soft chin. He bends his head over and brushes his lips over my knuckles, so gently it could almost have been accidental.

  “Sorry,” I breathe. Why did I do that? Just reach up and touch his face like that?

  “That’s OK,” he says, quietly. “You can touch any part of me you feel like touching, Daphne.”

  His words take an extra second to truly permeate my brain and by that time, heat pools fast in my core. Just as I fight to think of something smart, sassy -- something worthy of a romance heroine -- to say back, Dane leans forward and brushes those soft, sexy lips against mine.

  And I part them to let him in.

  His tongue tastes sharp and sweet like the wine we are sharing, and as his lips press more firmly against mine I flick my tongue out to meet his.

  Soon we’re running our hands over each other and gripping at fabric and skin while we kiss hard and deep and fast. It’s the hottest kiss I’ve ever imagined, let alone had.