Chapter 3
THREE
JANE
“Come again?” he asks in a voice hot enough to melt butter.
It was a simple, perfectly appropriate phrase used to ask another person to repeat themselves.
But what do I hear? I hear him ask if he should give me another orgasm, as though he’s already given me the first one, and is now curious if I might want more.
Like a waiter inquiring whether he should refill my wineglass. Yes, please.
Jesus, Janey, get a grip already. Clearing my throat as delicately as possible, I use my index finger to push on the bridge of my glasses before forcing myself to meet his eyes. Those denim-blue, you’ll-do-anything-I-say eyes… Damn it.
“I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a mistake.” And by that, I mean my friend has a death wish because she sent over a stripper instead of a plumber.
A single brow arches as the opposite corner of his mouth ticks up. It should make him look off-balance or crooked. It doesn’t. It makes him panty-meltingly gorgeous. “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t order a Handyman Special?”
“Technically, I didn’t order anything. My friend did. And unless a ‘Handyman Special’”—I use air quotes around the obvious euphemism—“means you’re here to fix my bathroom sink while fully clothed, then that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
I sound deflated even to my own ears, but that would mean that I actually want him to give me whatever is included in his version of a Handyman Special.
And that’s fricking ridiculous because I’m not into strippers.
Not that I have a ton of experience with them, but a group of us went to a male strip club for kicks and giggles a few years ago, and I had way more giggles than kicks.
But this stripper… This sexy Norse god could double for Chris Hemsworth in Thor, with his dirty blond hair brushing the tops of his rounded shoulders, and his half-lidded bedroom eyes that won’t stop undressing me wherever they land.
His skin has the natural bronze hue that surfers are blessed with from spending their days in the sun.
It doesn’t have the glistening shine from oil, but it doesn’t appear dry either, like maybe he has a moisturizing regimen that keeps it supple and oh-so-touchable, which is in direct contrast to the calluses I felt on his fingers and palms when he touched me.
I want desperately to reach out and test my theory.
To run my hands over the swells and valleys of his muscles, this time without the teasing barrier of his shirt, but I manage to keep my hands to myself.
Just barely. Instead, I let my eyes do the touching, taking in all the sexy details, like the tiny points of his nipples straining against the thin material of his tank, and the trim chest hair peeking above the low scoop neck.
Damn, that’s hot. I have a thing for the rustic, manly type. I’ll take blue collar over white any day of the week, and Mr. Handyman here is as blue as they come.
“Let me see if I have this right,” he says, folding his arms across his wide chest and interrupting my mental drool session.
“You’re Jane Wendall, and your friend—Addison Paige—called me to come over here and show you a good time, but she told you that she was sending over an actual handyman to fix your sink? ”
I sigh in frustration, though whether from the situation or my sexual dry spell, I’m not sure. Probably both. “That about sums it up.”
“Wanna know what I think, Ms. Wendall?”
“Jane,” I correct. “And no, probably not.”
“I think you do want me to show you a good time.”
I scoff. “Then you would be wrong, Mister…”
“Chance.”
“Mr. Chance.”
“Just Chance.”
“Fine, Just Chance,” I say, “but you’re still wrong.”
“Am I, though?”
Leaning in, he braces one hand high above my head and hooks the thumb of his other into the front of his coveralls, tugging them down just enough that I catch a glimpse of a goody trail that disappears behind the elastic of his underwear.
And now all I can think about is yanking them off to see what kind of equipment he’s working with.
I wonder what it would feel like to have a man like him driving between my legs, filling me with his big cock. My breasts grow heavy beneath my hoodie and the rougher underside of the cotton abrades my sensitive nipples as they tighten into small buds.
Oh my God. I need to cut down on the porn.
“See something you like, Jane?”
Caught ogling his crotch while letting my body run rampant with the sordid thoughts in my mind, I snap my head up so fast I almost smack it against the wall.
“Nope, not a thing,” I say, my voice pitched high with guilt.
“Not that you’re not, um… What I mean is, if I were in the market for that kind of…
something…then I’m sure I’d like yours. But I’m not. In the market. For, you know…that. So…”
Holy shit, shut up shut up shut up.
“You’re really sexy when you’re flustered, you know that?”
Oh, awesome. A reality check.
There are several words I might use to describe my current appearance—haggard, bedraggled, or even sloppy to name a few—but sexy is definitely not one of them.
On the rare occasions I let Addison play makeover with my face, shove me into a mini-dress, and force me to wear my uncomfortable contacts, I might pass for sexy, but mostly I just look like the girl-next-door who’s trying too hard.
And to think I was starting to get all hot and bothered by Mr. Just Chance. Le sigh. “Look, you can drop the act, okay? I’m sorry you came all the way out for nothing, but now we both know I was Punk’d by my friend, so you can pack up your stuff and head on to your next customer.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” he says, smiling like the fox that’s cornered the hen. “And what makes you think I’m putting on an act? Because I promise you, I’m not. Not anymore.”
I let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Right, okay. You must have a thing for nerdy girls who look like they haven’t showered, then.”
He arches that damn arrogant brow again and gives me a quick once-over, making my skin tingle as though he’d physically trailed his fingers down my naked body. “Funny…” His mention of humor contradicts the serious expression on his handsome face. “You don’t smell like you haven’t showered.”
“What? No.” I’m starting to get pissy. Sexual frustration plus self-denial of sexy stranger equals an unhappy Janey.
If he doesn’t leave soon, I’m going to make a total ass of myself when I give in to his act and become one of probably hundreds who have built his ego to mammoth proportions.
I’m only human. “I said I look like I haven’t.
If you must know, I showered a few hours ago.
Thankfully, there’s nothing wrong with those pipes. ”
“Let’s see.” Before I can say anything, he dips his head and sniffs me, causing a pack of pterodactyls to kick up in my stomach.
The world goes dark as my eyes drift shut, and I inhale sharply when his nose grazes the side of my neck, making my skin come alive in its wake.
“Yep. Definitely showered. You smell fresh and edible as fuck.”
“I do?” My words are little more than a breathy sigh, my voice sounding foreign even to me.
But that’s okay because I finally figured out that I must have fallen asleep on the couch and this is all a dream.
Things like this, where a handyman (or stripper dressed as a handyman—semantics) seduces his client instead of fixing her sink, don’t happen in real life, and even if they do, they sure as shit never happen to regular girls like me.
“Yeah,” he rumbles next to my ear, the vibrations sinking into the very marrow of my bones and making me weak. “You fucking do.”
I feel myself leaning in more than I’m leaning away now.
He’s so warm and hard and huge, it’s like he has his own gravitational pull, and resisting suddenly seems futile.
The hand that has been anchored in his coveralls comes up to frame my face, and the way his calluses softly scrape my cheek makes me shiver.
I let him turn my head until our mouths are lined up and his breath mingles with mine.
Dear God, I want to kiss him. I want to taste him, to discover if his silver tongue lends itself to more than just lip service. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something so badly in my entire life.
“Jane.” I love the way he says my name, raspy and strained and kind of drawn out, like a plea. Or a question of permission…
I answer him in kind, whispering the final dissolution of my resolve with a single word. “Chance.”
He starts to close the small gap, and I close my eyes in preparation for what will surely be the best kiss of my life…when my cell phone rings.
We yank apart like teens getting walked in on by their parents, and I’m quick to step around him so he can’t see my cheeks flood with the embarrassment I feel at having damn near thrown myself at a stripper who’s been paid to “show me a good time” by my ex-best friend.
“Speak of the devil,” I mutter and send Addison to voicemail before turning my phone on silent and dropping it onto the couch.
I need a full night’s sleep before dealing with her.
She probably thinks her little surprise is over with by now and decided she couldn’t wait for tomorrow to hear all the “juicy details.” Now her parting words to me earlier make perfect sense. Have I mentioned I’m going to kill her?
“I’ll make you a deal,” the deep voice behind me says.
Steeling myself against his charms (aka, his godlike body and off-the-charts sex appeal), I turn around.
Jesus, did he somehow get hotter in the last few seconds?
Chance is like my own personal kryptonite.
If I have any hope of surviving this with my dignity intact, I need to keep plenty of distance between us and kindly dismiss him from my apartment.
No problem. Here I go.
“What kind of deal?”
Damn it!
“The kind where I fix your sink, and you let me dance for you.”
That gets my attention. “Fix my sink?”
He nods. “If you let me dance for you afterward.”
“How do you even know you can fix it?”
“Let’s say I’ve been around the handyman block.”
I snort. “I’ll just bet you have.”
Ignoring my tiny barb, he asks, “Do we have a deal?”
I narrow my eyes and cross my arms, preparing to haggle. I really, really want my sink fixed. “So, you’ll do that, and all I have to do is let you dance for me? As in, from across the room?”
Chance crosses his arms like mine, though he actually appears intimidating whereas I’m lucky if I pass for indifferent. “As in, you sit, and I dance the way I always do. Very up-close and very personal.”
Shit shit shit. There’s no universe in which Chance grinds all over me where we don’t end up screwing like rabbits.
Not if what happened a few minutes ago is anything to go by.
But as much as I’d love to let go and have myself a much-needed fling, a small part of me can’t help but wonder how many clients he hooks up with on a regular basis, and the idea of being another hash mark on his G-string doesn’t sit well with me.
In the end, I decide to go with the lesser of two evils—resisting sex-on-a-very-big-stick versus living with backed up water so gross it could be a middle school science experiment.
“Okay, we have a deal,” I say, holding out my hand for a businesslike shake. “My sink for your dance.”
Chance steps forward and takes my hand, dwarfing it with his massive paw.
But instead of shaking it like I intended, he lifts the front of his tank with his other hand and drags my palm down his bare chest, over his ripped abs, and continues past where his coveralls hang low on his hips.
I snatch my hand away like his package is a hot pan, before it gets a mind of its own and starts groping instead of behaving.
My kryptonite chuckles. “Just thought you might want a sample of what’s to come.”
There he goes again, using the word “come” all innocently, like he isn’t trying to put thoughts of orgasms in my head.
Okay, he probably isn’t doing that in the least. But as he winks at me and ambles toward the bathroom, I have to wonder if maybe that wasn’t his intention after all.
Oh, and I was right. His skin? Incredibly supple and touchable.
I. Am so. Screwed.