Authors: Poppet
My objection is swallowed when his bulk blocks out the light, nighttime curls her shawl around me again, it's warm, and wet, and running inside my lower lip. I'm still holding a take-out margarita.
Without even looking, it's removed from my grasp and set on the table at the door.
Stuff ladylike.
Snaking arms up, finally touching his nape, I run fingertips into his short hair, surrendering to the endless kiss; breasts grazing hard muscle, fitting snugly over his stomach.
He's not shy; it's hungry, bold, stroking me in more ways than one. Backed against the wall, he leans into me, my heart starts pounding a wild, loud, tribal frenzy. I'm aching inside, drooling at the thought of the kind of night I hope I'm in for.
Closing my eyes, I indulge. Lips against lips, tongue against tongue, body against body, breath mingling with breath. Why does he smell so damn fabulous?
He's warm, and so strong I may as well be in a straitjacket. The hand on my breast moves, bracing him against the wall, as if he's forcing himself off me.
“
Sorry,” he whispers into my mouth.
I'm betraying my need, my lips are trembling with the stuttering of my breath.
“Don't be.”
Fuck dinner, just keep doing that, don't stop now. You taste like spring rain; invigorating.
He props his other hand next to my head, bench-pressing himself away, a cold gap grows between our bodies.
“
It's –” He swallows again.
I put my hands on his chest, feeling his own heart gonging under my palms.
“It's been awhile...”
He clears his throat, standing straight, stepping back, and I keep my hold on his heart, stepping forward with him, not allowing him to disconnect. This is life support. As if I was just raised from the dead, and ready to live life on the razor's edge.
Chapter 4
His hands wrap over mine, claiming them, squeezing them a touch too tight.
“Don't,” he orders.
Releasing me, he scoops up the packet from the sandstone tiles, striding away from me, down a dark passage.
My blood's as thick as molasses. I can't seem to move. My insides are still trying to untangle themselves.
Which is just as well, because he's coming right back this way, with two beers.
“This way,” he says, as he gusts past me.
What's the hurry?
The door next to me flings wide, and he disappears down steps.
Basement? He's taking me to the basement?
The dragon's taking me to the cave.
“
Sarah? You coming?”
“
Yup!” I say back, finally ungluing my shoes from the floor, taking a baby step forward, getting my drink off the table.
Music floats up to greet me. It's Great White. Now I can safely peg his age somewhere between forty and fifty.
Wow! This is impressive.
Black marble steps are highlighted with flames in sconces. They must be gas powered, because he just 'switched' them on.
Making my way down the stairs into his 'den', as my foot connects with the floor, he offers me a Shiner Bock beer.
“
I have Corona too, if you prefer?”
I don't want him to go, “I'm good, I have margarita.”
Smiling up at him, I'm struck with the ambience in here.
He's giving me a quirky grin, “Make yourself comfortable.”
Walking over to a charcoal rug and puffy black leather couches, I sit down, noticing the closed curtains on one end, and the dancing fireplace recessed in the wall.
This
is
cozy. So he's not prone to exaggeration. He says exactly what he means.
Walking behind a matching marble bar running down this side of the 'den', he comes back, offering me a plate and utensils.
“Thanks.” Taking them from him, he's distracted, uncapping his beer and setting his own down.
So we're either leaning to eat on the black coffee table, or it's lap food.
Plonking himself down, he stretches out his legs, relaxing back in his chair, taking a deep pull on his beer. It lowers, and the soft lighting from the flames on the walls turn his skin to cascading gold. It hides his eyes, making them two enigmatic pools.
“
You need more squirrel medicine,” he says.
His expression is serious, his voice smooth, but gruff at the same time.
“What is squirrel medicine?”
“
Food. You don't eat enough.”
My eyebrows raise. I usually have a dominant personality, and it reacts without my permission.
“I don't starve myself, if that's what you're implying.”
His mouth hooks, wrangling that resisting smile from him; he was trying to be serious, and gave himself away.
Lifting his arm, he pops the muscles, “You need more meat on your bones, girl.”
Speaking of meat and bones... Hiding my smile, I duck my head, stretching to pick up my margarita, and peeling off the lid. That is some impressive muscle. I doubt both my hands could fit around his arm. What the hell is doing with me? He could have anyone.
The music changes, so it's a compilation CD. No one beats Chad at hoarse and lusty singing. No pegging his age then.
“
Tell me about yourself,” he says conversationally, distributing food onto our plates.
Sitting back, first taking a sip, I mull an answer by swirling tart lime and tequila over my tongue.
“I'm a librarian.”
He sits back again, linking outstretched legs; the muscles straining against his jeans. Shut up heart, just shut up.
“How old are you? Married, divorced, single? Kids?”
Okay, no small talk then. Big guns ask big questions.
“Never married, no kids, thirty.”
Chuckling, he puts his beer down, linking his hands on his stomach.
“This is different.”
“
It is?” I ask.
“
Yup. Give a babe the chance to tell you about herself, and you have the next half hour covered.”
“
I should have my squirrel medicine.” Laughing silently, I pick my plate up and start eating, so I can't answer any more questions.
He raises his eyebrows, picking up his beer again, drinking, silently watching me.
Draining it, tilting his head back, giving me a full frontal view of that incredible neck, he puts it down on the table between us, giving me a hard stare.
“
You're hiding something.”
Swallowing the last bite of my first enchilada, I lick my stinging lips, “Everyone's hiding something.”
“It shows, in your eyes.”
He's leaning forward now, elbows on knees, trying to read my soul, inspecting my eyes. Uncomfortable, I pick up my margarita, hiding my eyes behind the disposable cup.
“You are a mystery Sarah Tempest.”
So are you, Mr Guns.
I can't drink forever; but the relaxing temperature in here, the spicy food, and the fairly potent margarita, work their mojo, and I lower the cup, staring straight back.
“
People get on your nerves, don't they?”
How astute.
“Yes, they do,” I say. Where did my voice go? It was hardly a whisper.
Clearing my throat, I put the cup down, flicking my long brown hair back over my shoulder, “Yes, they do.”
“Do you ever go camping?” he says, finally picking up his food and biting half a burger off in one bite. Holy crap! He'll be finished his food in a minute, flat.
“
Yes.”
He chews, watching me. I love the way men are never self-conscious. He raises his eyebrows in silent question.
What does he want me to say?
“
What about you? Married, kids, age, guns or hand to hand combat, bikes or four wheels, blondes or brunettes?”
I'm biting back my laugh, following his greedy example and shoving half an enchilada in my mouth, chewing, staring back.
This is like truth or dare, in a very strange way.
He uncaps the next beer, taking a swig.
His eyes are wet-earth brown in this light, and they feel invasive, as if he can literally read secrets by staring into eyes.
“
Guns
and
hand to hand combat, bikes
and
four wheels, blondes
and
brunettes,” he starts laughing, as am I.
Resting his elbows, he smirks at me, “You'll do.”
“I'll do? Ha!”
“
Yup. We have a date under the desert stars. Just you, me, and a tent.”
Instantly asthmatic, breathing just became difficult. We've just met and he's plotting a future?
“What makes you think I'll go?”
“
Because you can't resist a challenge. That, and you think I'm hot.”
“
Not half full of yourself, are you?”
His eyes narrow marginally, the humor evident, “Deny it.”
“It's okay. Your delusions are safe with me.”
His rumbling laughter ripples over my skin again. This is beginning to feel as if I've known him forever. Shoving the last of my food in my mouth, I pick up the margarita, downing what's left after I swallow.
“There, I've had my medicine.” I show him my empty mouth, lifting my tongue.
Meeting his gaze, he's frozen, his beer halfway to his mouth.
It's a tazer to my chest. This chemistry is supernatural.
His jaw is clenching, I can see the muscles bouncing around.
“Nice mouth. Want something else to fill it?”
“
Wow, that's brazen.”
He laughs, taking a swig and thunking the bottle onto the table. “Tequila, Sarah. Why, did you have something else in mind?”
Caught, I'm blushing and laughing.
Standing, he goes behind the bar, coming back with two shot glasses and a dark bottle of Negro. Putting it between us, he shows me the bottle.
Chinaco Negro Extra Anejo Tequila
.
“
This should be sipped. We'll save the savage behavior for later.”
“
We will?”
“
I'm sure you can manage sipping, you did it with your margarita without any help.”
He avoided the question, which I stupidly blurted out. Smooth, very smooth.
He pours us each a glass, “Cheers.”
Clinking, I sip mine. It's salty, and peppery. I'm going to get plastered at this rate. In no time he's finished his meal, taking our plates to the bar. When he returns, he sits closer, on the chair at a right angle to the one I'm on. Relaxing, his knee touches mine, he retrieves his glass, has half of it, and rests his hand on the wide puffy armrest.
“You can tell me.”
“
What?” What is he talking about?
“
The look in your eyes, it's the look of solitude. You don't have a large circle of friends, you pick them carefully, and probably only have a couple of close friends. There's a reason you do it. I want to know that reason.”
“
How the hell would you know?”
“
Look into my eyes, Sarah. I know that look.”
It's automatic, I look into his eyes. They're gentle, and understanding. But just before he blinks, he lets me see it. A stark pain, a hurt so deep, nothing can fix it.
Before my brain catches up with my caution, I'm touching his leg, “I'm sorry.”
He shrugs, “So, what's the story?”
His hand moves, its warmth encasing mine in a hand hug.
“
Don't you have any cards, or something?” I say.
“
Don't change the subject.”
“
Dustin, I don't feel like talking about it. Definitely not on the first day of meeting someone.”
“
So you kiss people you can't trust?”
“
I think I can trust you with my body, but there's no way you're getting more than that today.”
His lips quirk, “Are you coming onto me?”
How does he do that? He manages to turn things around on me constantly.
“
What if I am?”
Take that!
“You're
like a wildflower in the desert – unexpected
.”
I don't know how to answer that, so look at his hand, covering mine, it's sending a heat wave through me.
“How about ecstasy?”
Darting my focus back on his face, his expression is veiled, conveying he's dead serious.
“I don't do drugs.”
“
Yes, you do,” he says, sitting up, his face an inch from mine.
Hot breath laced with chili and tequila slips into my nostrils, right down to my lace underwear.
“No, I don't,” I whisper back, against his smooth sexy mouth.
He hardly moves, a hand catching the back of my head, his tongue in my mouth, his eyes too close to focus. The restrained strength in his arm is as exciting as it is intimidating.
It's magma hot, flowing through me, setting everything aflame, even my eyeballs. Like I've been sitting too close to the fire.
Being moved, I'm reclining back, he's covering me, and we're going down on the black leather. I'm immediately so horny - I can't handle the pressure sinking onto me.
Breaking contact, he looks into my eyes, his irises back to caramel tenderness.
“
You can't say no to ecstasy. This is one drug we all do.”
Barely able to breathe, I'm trying to suck air in through parted lips, but he's tapped my tender underside. It's bittersweet. I feel both emotional, and resistant. Hot and cold. Hard and soft.
My hipbone is digging into his; he's one solid wall of muscle, and it's scary. This is like skydiving. You could end up broken after the adrenaline wears off and you hit the ground.
Bracing himself with a hand next to my head, he smothers me again, his mouth is greedy, his other hand mapping the contours from my jeans to my neck, giving me a harsh ache of hot desire.
Catching his windswept scent; it's wild and untamed. He manages to communicate, through his kiss, that he's not good at waiting, dancing takes too long, he's being blunt.
Pushing back, I dare to skim my hands down his wide back, giddy when it makes him bite my lip.
He's so close I hear him swallow, speaking against my throat when his lips move there, “If you want to back out, speak up now.”
Rebellious, enjoying breaking ladylike rules of engagement, I answer by pressing down on his firm glutes.