by Elise Faber
His hand found hers and squeezed again. “That sounds nice.”
“It was.” A wave of sadness washed over her at the memories, but it was a long time ago. She had lots of practice at hiding it away. “The shop was actually her dream,” she said, telling Chance something no one else knew except for Rob, Mags, and Frankie. “Mom was saving up for it, had plans for classes and projects to put up in the windows. Then when my parents passed and I was spending the evenings on my couch, knitting by myself, I got it in my head to give her that, even if she wasn’t here, to give me that, the connection, the dream.” She put her fork in her pasta and swirled it around. “It became my dream, and I’ve loved it from the first moment I opened Tangled, even if I didn’t come up with the idea myself.”
“Mist.” His voice was gentle, and her eyes stung.
Her gaze drifted up to his. “Yeah?”
“I think she’d be really proud.”
The breath froze in her lungs because he sounded genuine, because his eyes told her he was genuine. And suddenly the emotion, the sadness, it wasn’t so deep. It was on the surface, and she was feeling vulnerable.
Which the man seemed to understand.
Because he was already reaching across the table when a tear slid out of the corner of her eye, and without missing a beat, he wiped it away then pointed at her plate. “Eat up, honey,” he said, “and then tell me if you think my entire family is going to get hand-knitted scarves for Christmas this year, courtesy of Soph.”
She laughed, and yes, it sounded a little watery, but it was laughter and enough to snap her out of the sad.
Enough that she said, “Oh yeah,” and relished in his laughter.
Enough that she then changed the subject to lighter topics and enjoyed even more laughter as they ate their pasta and had tiramisu for dessert and lingered over espressos.
Enough so that when he walked her up onto her front porch, she didn’t hesitate to invite him inside.
Not for a nightcap.
For her.
Thankfully, he took her up on that.
8
On Top
Chance
She waited for him to open the car door when he asked her to, didn’t hesitate when he took her hand as they walked up to her porch.
It felt right to wrap those delicate fingers in his.
So fucking right.
Almost as much as everything she’d given him.
You’re pretty awesome, and I’m guessing your job is too.
Acceptance. Humor. And him reconsidering what had made him keep his distance from women all these years. Misty was different from all the other women, seeing him in a way that made him want to take the risk of loving her, of bringing the risk of him into her life, mostly because she thought his job was important and awesome and even though he’d been straight with her about the occasional danger, she hadn’t balked.
At all.
Plus, he’d never had someone lay out their feelings for him quite in that way before. As straight as him, from a woman who felt so deep that she’d shed a tear over bread and drinks and the memory of her parents.
Which made him want to pull her close and never let her go.
Like never.
Even though he told himself that he wouldn’t get in this deep with a woman, now he was thinking that when it was the right woman, a man didn’t have a choice to not get in deep.
To jump in knowing it might bring the best adventure of his life.
Because he’d fallen for her.
Over an auto accident, through a family dinner and a trip to her yarn store. Over pirate’s booty and victory photos. But most especially over Italian food because they’d chatted through dinner, moving on to lighter topics rather than the heavy shit they’d begun their meal with. He now knew she liked to walk on the beach in the early morning but hated all other types of exercise, even though her brother occasionally forced her to go hiking with him and Soph. He knew her favorite color was purple, her favorite food was the fettuccini Alfredo from Tony’s with extra mushrooms, that she couldn’t resist chocolate, and that she preferred beer to wine.
He’d told her more about his job, about his time in the FBI, though he’d kept it lighter with funny stories of agents and their cases after he’d finished with his laying it all out. Then she’d gotten his favorite movie—Die Hard—out of him, along with his favorite meal—his mom’s chicken pot pie and homemade biscuits—favorite beer—anything IPA—and the favorite place he’d visited—Iceland.
Which meant he also got the same answers out of her (The Princess Bride, the aforementioned fettuccini, Corona with lime, and Vermont during the fall).
He liked her.
She was funny.
She was cute as hell.
She was…a lot. So much so, he was reconsidering his plan to coax his way into her house because she meant more than trying to get into her pants and have fun for a night with limited strings attached and both of them scratching an itch.
She was more than fun, fucking, and friends.
He wanted more than that.
Which was…terrifying, and also kind of liberating? That he didn’t have to keep being afraid of something that might happen. Instead, it was happening and it was great and he wasn’t a stupid man, so he could understand this wasn’t an opportunity to pass up.
Even if that meant he wouldn’t get laid tonight.
Slow and steady and…permanent.
Oh fuck, he wanted permanent.
Misty reached into her purse and came up with her keys, unlocking the door and pushing it open before she faced him and leaned back against the jamb. “Do you want to come in?”
His heart still pounding from his realization, he told her softly, “I shouldn’t.”
Her brows lifted and a flash of hurt trailed across her eyes, but she nodded, started to step back, and he found himself telling the truth.
“If I do, I’ll want another one of those kisses,” he murmured, “and then I don’t think it’ll stop with just kissing.” He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “It’ll end up with you naked beneath me and—”
“Good.”
Chance blinked. “What?”
“I want to be naked and beneath you, though I’d prefer to be naked and on top of you because it’s easier for me to come that way, and I like orgasms. If it’s missionary, I really have to work for it. Which is fine, and based on that kiss earlier, I probably wouldn’t have to work too hard for it. It’s just that I like my breasts being touched and my nipples”—a swathe of pink on her cheeks, and seriously, that was the part that made her blush?—“sucked, and that’s…um…easier when I’m on top.” She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, and met his eyes. “Truth is, I’ve had enough orgasms courtesy of my vibrator, so I’d like one courtesy of you.”
Silent.
He was silent for way too long, processing what she’d just said.
Long enough that her tiger’s eyes flickered with pain again. Long enough that he still couldn’t come up with anything to say.
No witty comeback. No explanation that they should take this slow since it was important. No romantic words.
He had…nothing.
The only thing he knew was that he didn’t want the hurt to be present in her eyes or mind or heart, and that he certainly didn’t want it to be courtesy of him. And maybe it simply boiled down to him wanting her more than he’d wanted any other woman.
Wanting more with her.
He grabbed her purse from her hands, dropped it on the floor inside the hall, and nudged her back, slamming the door closed behind him and flicking the lock. Her lips parted, and that was as much encouragement as he needed.
He kissed her.
Her tongue hit his mouth, her fingers drove into his hair, and she jumped, her legs coming around his waist.
Groaning, he walked her back until he found the first horizontal surface—a hall table—and propped her on top of it, breaking the kiss so he coul
d trail his mouth along her jaw, lave her earlobe, nip at her throat, use his nose to nudge the straps down on the sexy dress she was wearing.
Then nudged it further.
Because she’d been pretty damned clear about liking her breasts touched, and he couldn’t fucking wait to get his mouth on her nipples.
He tugged the bodice down, revealing midnight blue lace and gorgeous breasts.
“Chance,” she breathed when he bent enough to suck one hard nipple through the fabric of her bra. Her fingers tightened, and he didn’t delay, just tugged the material to the side, sucked her nipple deep, and soaked in the gloriousness of her arching against him, his name on her tongue again, her legs clenching around him.
He sucked the pink tip until it turned rosy, until she was panting and moaning. Then he kissed his way over to her other breast, repeated the motions with her other nipple. She was shuddering beneath him, her whole body quivering.
“Chance,” she moaned.
“Mmm?”
“Kiss me.” An order.
One he didn’t heed until he’d kissed her breasts for good measure, kissed his way back up her throat. Only then did he take her mouth again.
But he didn’t just take her mouth. He slid his hands over her body, hiked up her skirt, trailed his fingers along her thighs until he reached her pussy. The lace covering it was absolutely drenched through.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned.
“Inside,” she demanded. “Please, Chance. I need you inside.”
He slid a finger beneath the waistband of her panties, sliding the material to the side, and tracing through the wet folds. Drenched. Absolutely fucking drenched.
She reached for the button of his slacks, flicked it open.
But he was already dropping to his knees, his cock hard and aching beneath the zipper she luckily hadn’t been able to tug down. He spread her thighs and leaned in, needing to taste her. Fuck, she smelled incredible, and he could see her pussy, swollen, pink, and glistening.
She tasted better.
Misty gasped and gripped his head tight, holding his mouth to her, hips bucking as she ground herself against him. His tongue worked her, dipping in and dragging up, circling her clit, flicking it rapidly, sucking it when it swelled, and then giving her the barest graze of teeth.
She jerked.
His name on her tongue cracked.
Those fingers held on to his hair to an almost painful degree.
Then she fractured, her head falling back against the wall, her thighs clenching on his shoulders, and she came against his tongue.
Fuck, she was pretty.
Her skin flushed, sweat glistening on her collarbones. He brought her down slowly, and then straightened, licked that salty sheen off her skin, nibbled at her slender throat before finding her lips again. The kiss was lazy and slow, teasing and warm. Until it wasn’t.
Until it was hot and hard, their tongues dueling, their breaths intermingling, their hands frenzied.
She gave him everything in that kiss.
And then she reached down and tugged the zipper of his pants down, reached in and freed him, her delicate fingers wrapping around him and stroking him from base to head. His hips pulsed forward, wanting more, but fine with not getting it.
At least until she shifted on that table and her wet pussy grazed his cock.
“Wait, baby,” he said.
“I’m on birth control,” she whispered, shifting closer. “And clean.”
He’d never had sex without a condom.
But he had been tested recently. “I’m clean, too.”
“Good.” And then she shifted forward again, taking him inside. He would have had to be dead to resist her, and for the record, he wasn’t dead in the least. He felt alive for the first time since his partner and his best friend had died on that mission, since he’d worried himself into a terrible spiral after his dad had nearly died. Since he’d decided the only way to live was to keep himself separate and safe.
Suddenly, he understood why Soph, who’d been through so much, had risked everything to be with Rob, why his mom had never stopped his dad from returning to work, despite the danger.
Because he felt alive with Misty in a way he’d never dreamed was possible.
And it changed everything.
His hips shot forward, burying himself deep, hands going to her waist, angling her so she could better take him in.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “That’s so fucking good.”
And it was.
It was better than good. He’d never felt anything better in his entire life. She was hot and tight, wet and holding him to her, meeting him stroke for stroke, hips bucking, fingers sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders, nails digging in.
He swept her up into his arms, took a step to the left, and pinned her against the wall, thrusting deep and hard, bending his head to suck her nipples again, hands gripping her ass. Too tight. Probably, too fucking tight, but he couldn’t find the strength to loosen it, not when she was so fucking perfect around him, not when she was moaning and moving against him, not when…she was exploding, coming on his cock, pussy clenching, moisture drenching him, the convulsions sending him over the edge on a rough groan.
She stilled and went limp, arms and legs tight against him.
They were both breathing heavily, his pants were around his thighs, her dress was bunched around her waist.
He summoned enough energy to pull out, yank up his pants so he didn’t trip, and then brought Misty close, cuddling her against his chest. She blinked up at him, her eyes satisfied and drowsy, her lips swollen from their kisses. Beautiful. So fucking beautiful.
More so by the way she rested her head against his chest and sighed, her soft words laced with humor reaching his ears. “I guess wall sex is almost as good as me being on top.”
He glanced down. “Almost?”
A nod. A smile that was wicked tempered by sweet. A glance that stole his breath.
Because this woman was so different from any other he’d met.
Because he fucking liked her.
Especially, when her hand came to his jaw.
“Unless you want to carry me to my bedroom and prove me wrong?”
“Is that a challenge or a request?” he asked, turning and starting down the hall. There were only three doors in this cottage. It wouldn’t be hard to find the bedroom.
First door, bathroom.
Second door, closet.
“Either,” Misty said, her fingers working on the buttons of his shirt. “Both.”
Third door, bedroom.
He moved inside, dropped her on the bed, and followed her down, bringing his mouth very close to hers.
“Accepted,” he said against her lips.
“The challenge or the request?”
A nip of that bottom lip. “Either.” A beat. “Both.”
She grinned.
And he just had to kiss that smile off her mouth…then he had to kiss her other places because of the challenge.
And the request.
9
Complications
Misty
She rolled over, deliciously sore, and expected to encounter a warm male next to her in bed.
They’d had sex three times.
She’d gotten her quota of orgasms courtesy of something other than her hand or her vibrators. It had been glorious…but now her hand was encountering cool sheets.
Frowning, she sat up, saw the pillow next to her was dented, the blankets had been tucked up and over her, and the other side of the bed was empty.
Huh.
Maybe he was in the bathroom?
She waited a few minutes, listening for the pipes, the sound of footsteps, water rushing in her gorgeous pedestal sink.
But her house was silent.
And she felt her brows draw together further.
Then he must have gone out for coffee and cinnamon rolls and was going to bring her back some much needed sustenance. That was what the
man from the date last night would do, the sweet, thoughtful man who’d held her hand, taken her to her favorite restaurant, the escape room, and kissed her like she mattered then made love to her until they’d both collapsed into sleep.
So, she would snuggle down in her blankets, her awesome mattress, and wait for him to get back.
Letting her eyes slide closed, she burrowed in, allowed herself to go drowsy, and then settled in to wait.
Then settled in some more.
Then some more.
Then…she reached for her phone, checked the time, and realized it was nearly ten, nearly time for her to open the shop, something she normally didn’t have to do on Sundays, but something she had to do today because she had a private class to teach, and that meant she had to hurry up and get ready. Which meant she couldn’t snuggle under the covers and wait for Chance.
Maybe he’d had a break in one of the cases he was talking about last night and had needed to get to work. Maybe that work had been early, and he hadn’t wanted to wake her.
Maybe…he’d left her a note.
Yes, he definitely would have left her a note.
She tossed back the covers, glanced toward one nightstand and then the other. No note.
Right.
Maybe it was in the kitchen. If it was her leaving a note, she would put it by the coffee pot, or in the bathroom, or…she began listing all the different locations in her mind where he might have left a note explaining that he had a breakthrough on a case that involved some mysterious private investigator stuff that he couldn’t talk about or else he’d have to kill her.
She continued mentally listing locations through brushing her teeth and slapping on a quick face of makeup.
(And not finding a note in the bathroom).
She did more listing as she rifled through her closet and yanked on a knitted sweater (she had to model her own wares), jeans, and comfortable boots.
