Chapter Four #2
He knew what it was like to feel like an idiot.
He knew what it was like to live in a shroud of shame and rejection.
She hungered for validation. Just like him.
Here, among her life’s work thus far, was beauty.
Not the flowers surrounding them, but the truth he felt in her that she locked away from others, festering within her like a blight, silencing her.
“Tell me what you want,” he croaked, unable to disengage, relishing her restrained touch brimming with tension to let her guard down and pour herself into the moment.
“Wanna talk about music or flowers? Okay. Want me to bed you proper? I’d be obliged.
” Her breath hitched at his blunt remark, and yet, she didn’t push him away. “Want me to leave? I’ll leave.”
“I thought you had a proposition for me,” she hedged as he walked her backward toward the wall, his body growing hot with restrained need like a pressure cooker, her touch still tentative as he caressed up and down her jumpsuit, holding her snug to his burgeoning lust.
“Yeah.” He nodded, pressing her into the wall—
“Not here—plants—” She whined against his lips. “Door—there.”
“Hold onto me—”
He hoisted her up and carried her by her thighs and rear around his hips, palmed her in his hands. God, he felt himself crumbling like a sandcastle hit by a wave for her.
“Gotta—” He kissed wildly, her mouth, her neck, as he veered down the aisle between the rows of planters instead, palming open the door into the decontamination zone, the ventilation fan roaring, keeping a grip on her as she flipped off the red lights as they went.
“Get my girl outta—” Steadied her as he fumbled her to the floor and let the door snap shut. “This space-age lingerie—”
A laugh blessedly bubbled up her throat as he unzipped it and wrenched it down her arms, pulling the sleeves inside out as he dropped to his knees and yanked it down.
She zipped open his suit, too, as he shoved back to standing, stoking hope that he was going to get to hold on a little longer to this enigma of a woman.
He’d plucked this wallflower out of the crowd for some reason he couldn’t understand, until she’d played and sang with that whiskey soprano voice that danced on his eardrums and played fiddle on his heartstrings, and Jack and Bo were going to be irritated if he didn’t follow through making her their centerpiece.
“Flower Girl,” he murmured against her, felt her fingers sift along his nape.
“Trouble,” she breathed, as if holding on.
“That’s all I am, baby, is trouble—” He kissed a path across her cheek to her neck.
“I find that h-hard to believe,” she gasped between kisses.
“My whole life. I ain’t any good for you.” Kiss.
“This feels … pretty good,” she breathed.
“For now.” Kiss. “But that’s—” Kiss. “All I am. A good time. Not worth keepin’.”
Her fingers tightened on him at that, as if to keep him there, and fuck, but he was losing himself in her scent and her touch.
“You should make me leave.”
“As long as you don’t have a record, I’m—” Kiss. “Okay—” Kiss. “With this—”
Fuck. He wrenched up. His neck burned, having placed himself right in the hot seat. He scoured his jaw, swallowing hard.
But this angel was finally kissing him of her own volition and, damnation, how could he say no when she was capitulating?
His skin was on fire. Her weight against him felt so damn good, grounding. And her fingers were touching him with a desire to hold, not desire to merely fuck, and hell, but it felt damn good, and he was lost again and sank back into her.
Somehow, caps and boots were stripped. Somehow, they crashed through her back door, her in his arms, creeping lilacs fragrant and playing on his senses that he’d been meant for her tonight.
Somehow, he was fumbling upstairs as she gave ragged directions to her room, this reluctant goddess with the voice of an angel straddling his waist as he gripped her rear, lips against lips because he was a greedy bastard and she tasted so good…
They collapsed on her bed.
Springs creaked. An old metal frame. Simple, patchwork quilt.
He was dragging up that skirt. Sweet lace panties, powder blue against her naturally tan skin met his eyes, trimmed bikini line he wanted to explore with his tongue.
He traced a thumb over the lace. Over her mound. Eying her reaction as she twitched and hitched her breath, her fingers clenching down hard on his shoulders.
“Tell me you want me—” he gruffed. “Can’t do anything more—till you give me that right—”
She nodded frantically, and he dove forward, relishing her gasp as he shamelessly nipped and kissed her through the fabric right on that hot button that with just the right amount of pressure would flow like an open tap for him and, Jeezus, she smelled so sweet and tangy, he inhaled deeply.
Hooking her panties on his thumbs on either hip, he dragged the lace off her legs and tossed it somewhere as she fought with his belt buckle, tugged at his buttons on his plaid, whining when, distracted, she couldn’t undo them fast enough.
He helped her out. Shucked the plaid off his shoulders.
Stripped off his undershirt. Ripped loose his wallet and plucked free a foil square, tearing it with his teeth.
God, he was so hard. He had to be with her, and hissed when she unzipped his denim and pushed them down his rear.
Commando, he sprang free and hastened to roll the rubber on.
“You with me, beautiful?” His voice, rough.
Cradling her nape in his palm, he commanded her attention, until she nodded, clenching his shoulders, folding her legs around his waist and opening herself to him.