Anthology: Bad Boys Of Summer Part 22

"I don't sleep with my clients," he said flatly.

"But you do...that?" She waved vaguely at the porch, baffled.

"No." He practically growled it. He was staring past her at the gathering ma.s.s of clouds, and his eyes were just as stormy.

"But you did," she protested. "With me."

"You're not like most of my clients." He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "You're not like most women I've met lately."

Oh. Well. "I'm going to take that as a compliment," she told him, covering the final few inches between them with one step and laying her hand on his forearm. His skin was hot, the rough hair dark and bristly. "I don't know what happened last night, but I liked it. I..."

Her heart was in her throat as she looked into his eyes, which had gone dark and hungry. She wanted him so much-not just his body, but him, the man he was and the man he was hiding. And she wanted to tell him that, wanted to say the words aloud, but all she could feel was his heartbeat, drumming in time with her own, and his soft release of breath as he bent his head to kiss her.

And then the sky opened with a magnificent clap of thunder, lightning streaking the sky with blue light. The rain pelted down, stinging her bare arms, and without warning Leo grabbed her and pulled her into the shed.

The door banged shut behind them, and for a moment they stood facing each other, silent and panting, shaking off the rain. Just as Leo reached for her, lightning crackled outside in a crazy flare, and she found herself wrapped in his arms, his mouth hot and urgent on hers.

G.o.d, he tasted so good-dark and strange, all man. The rough stubble on his chin and jaw rasped against her skin, and the st.u.r.dy denim of his jeans brushed her thighs, and she loved it-this was real, this was right now, Leo's solid body the only thing anchoring her to the moment.

He stumbled backward, taking her with him, and dropped onto a wooden crate. Tugging her between his spread thighs, he hooked his fingers into the hem of her shirt and stripped it off.

She shivered, still damp, but hot beneath the skin. So hot-she wanted his mouth on her, everywhere, wet and demanding. "Leo," she murmured, without any idea what she meant to say.

"Right here," he murmured back, and then he unhooked her bra with a sharp click and tossed the delicate sc.r.a.p of silk to the floor.

Bare to him from the waist up, she had never felt more desirable. His eyes swallowed her up, and his hands were possessive when they stroked over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Gorgeous," he said, and then he was tasting her, his tongue just as wet and urgent as she'd imagined.

She groaned as his mouth fastened around one tight, aching nipple, his tongue pushing against its underside as he suckled. It was almost too much-the sensation rippled outward like a stone in a pond, until she felt its echo in her belly and between her legs.

He kept suckling, but his hands were busy. Before she knew it, he was sliding her shorts and panties over her hips, pushing two fingers between her legs. She whimpered as they thrust inside her, filling her, stroking her, coaxing the flame higher, hotter.

But she wanted so much more. Struggling free of his hands, she reached blindly for his jeans. The air in the shed was too close, humid and stale, and the floor was gritty beneath her bare feet. It was dark, too, with the rain drumming on the flimsy roof, but she didn't need to see to unbuckle his belt.

It was his turn to groan when she'd fumbled it open and tugged down his zipper-she reached inside and curled her fingers around his erection. Smooth and hot, gloriously hard, it rose to her touch when she ran her thumb over the velvet head.

When she climbed into his lap, straddling his rigid thighs, she could have sworn he growled.

She reached between them for his c.o.c.k, but he was already there, stroking through her folds, spreading the creamy wetness, his free arm wrapped around her waist.

Now.Please, now. She raised up to take him in, and Leo muttered, "d.a.m.n. Can we? I don't have-"

"I'm on the pill," she bit out, and slid onto his c.o.c.k, taking him deep.

He growled again, thrusting up into her, the whole breathtaking length of him. They set the pace together, hard, fast, deep, her arms around his neck, his hands on her a.s.s.

Nothing mattered, nothing but the feel of him inside her-not the rain or the shed or the conversation they hadn't really gotten around to, not his secrets or her growing suspicion that her "type" might be exactly like Leo. No other man had made her feel what he did, inside and out.

And right now she felt deliciously full and so incredibly alive, every part of her awake to his touch.

He pulled her closer as he drove inside, thrusting home again and again. She groaned. The pleasure was coiling tight now, drawing in on itself, but it was going to burst, soon now, so soon...

His lips fastened on her throat, and he licked the damp skin before drawing it between his teeth in a startling, possessive bite. She came in a dazzling starburst, a surprised gasp of pleasure escaping her lips. It went on and on, that widening ripple, sharp and bright and endless.

And Leo followed with a gruff shout, arms tightening around her as he spilled, his body shuddering with release.

She leaned her forehead against his, still panting.

"Bet this isn't what you had in mind for this shed," he said, his voice still rough.

She laughed, and settled against his chest to lay her head on his shoulder. He was like a furnace, hot all over, and his arms around her felt like the only thing holding her up. "Right now," she whispered, "I can't think of a better use for it."

So much for keeping his distance, Leo thought a few hours later, in Mackenzie's bed. She was asleep beside him, sprawled facedown in the tangled sheets, her hair a dark, glossy fan on her bare back.

He lifted a strand of it, rubbing it between his fingers, remembering the way it whispered against his face as she arched over him.

He'd stripped off his T-shirt and wrapped her in it before sprinting through the rain and inside, and once there they'd only blinked at each other in amazement before winding up in her bedroom. He couldn't get enough of the feel of her against him, the little incoherent sounds of pleasure she made when he touched her, the complete lack of inhibition in her response.

Mackenzie had a wild thing inside her. And experiencing it only made him want more.

Despite the fact that he'd gone and done exactly what he'd said he wasn't going to do. Last night had been torture, at least when it came to walking away before taking his pleasure-walking away from her now, after this afternoon, would be impossible.

But he couldn't ignore the knot of uneasiness in his gut. If Mackenzie had met him a few years ago, there was every chance that she not only wouldn't have been interested in him, she would have been appalled. And she would have been right to be. The man he'd been in those days wasn't anyone a woman like Mackenzie would want in her home, even as a carpenter, much less in her bed.

Mackenzie was forthright, responsible, focused. And, yeah, she was kind of a strange dresser, and he really didn't understand the snow globe collection, but the woman, at her core? She was good where it counted, and she was beautiful.

She was also curious. And that was a problem all on its own, at least for him.

She shifted in her sleep, turning over, and then stretched and opened her eyes. "Hi, there," she murmured, blinking. "So...that wasn't all a very lovely dream, huh?"

"Not a dream," he said, sliding down to scoop her up against him, burying his nose in her hair. "Not by a long shot."

"Well, that's good." Her words were m.u.f.fled against his chest. "Because I've never been able to rerun a dream."

He laughed, and she untangled herself to look up at him. G.o.d, her eyes were so gorgeous. It was more than the rich dark brown color, it was what he could see in them-pleasure and drowsiness and surprise.

"Are you hungry?" she said suddenly, sitting up, heedless of the sheet. "Because I'm starving all of a sudden. Apparently, you give me an appet.i.te."

"You give me an appet.i.te, too," he whispered, and leaned forward to circle one soft, flushed nipple with his tongue.

"Someone will find us eventually, I suppose," she murmured, closing her eyes as he teased the nipple to life. "Starved, near death, but incredibly satisfied."

"I guess I could let you eat if you promise to let me bring you back to bed later," he said, pulling himself away from her body with effort. The taste of her skin was the only thing he could focus on at the moment-that, and the awful knowledge that he was digging himself in deeper with every word, every kiss.

He hadn't been this drawn to a woman in years. And he certainly hadn't been this reckless, either.

You have a job to finish, he told himself. As if that were the real reason he wasn't hightailing it out of her house right now, truck tires screeching on the pavement as he gunned down the street.

Maybe it would work out between them, he thought as he pulled on his jeans and followed her into the kitchen, where she stared into the fridge with interest, muttering to herself about the packages of deli meat in the drawer. Maybe she wouldn't care if he admitted to her why he didn't want her taking, and publishing, photos of him.

Maybe pigs would fly. He grimaced, an image of his mother's face flashing before him at the remembered words.

But it was very tempting to hope that maybe, just once, he wasn't going to f.u.c.k up his life completely.

Six.

"Hold still, buddy!"

The blond two-year-old in question gave Mackenzie a look of supreme condescension and ducked behind his mother's sofa again.

"I'm so sorry," Ellen Mather said. She was bright red and wringing her hands like the heroine of a Victorian novel. "He usually loves getting his picture taken! I just had no idea..."

At a gleeful giggle from behind the couch, she cringed and spread her hands in surrender.

Mackenzie turned off her camera and motioned toward the kitchen, just down the hallway from the bright, s.p.a.cious living room where she had set up her equipment. Ellen followed her, but not without a glance back in the direction of her mischievous toddler.

"Give him a minute," Mackenzie said, sitting down at the kitchen table. "It could be the novelty. He's used to having Mommy or Daddy behind the camera, but not some strange lady with lights and backdrops and all kinds of funny equipment."

"If you think so," Ellen said doubtfully, hovering at the counter, where she had set out iced tea and m.u.f.fins, both of which Mackenzie had already indulged in.

She stared out the wide bay window at the backyard, which was probably four times the size of her whole property, house included. A wooden play set was already in place on the manicured lawn, although little Jamie Mather probably wouldn't be able to use it for another year or so.

In her mind, it was going to be at least that long before she could convince the toddler to sit for a portrait that wouldn't make his mother cry, pack up her things, and get across the bridge and home, where Leo would be waiting.

Her home, of course. It wasn't as if he'd moved in, although just days after that first unbelievable afternoon it almost felt as if he had. She'd never met someone she'd felt such an immediate connection to, even if so much of him was still a mystery.

Even if he was nothing like the kind of man she'd always thought she wanted.

They were beginning to behave like an old married couple already, she thought, aware that a satisfied little grin was beginning to form. When she came home from appointments with clients, he was there waiting, hammer or hacksaw in hand, sweaty and usually shirtless, ready to kiss her. And then kiss her some more.

And the days when she had no scheduled outside appointments were even better.

Yesterday, for instance. They'd spent most of the morning in bed, for one thing, but then she'd pulled out a kitchen drawer in search of a teaspoon, and the whole thing had fallen on her bare foot. After Leo had done his best to kiss it and make it better, he'd tackled the rotted track and repaired it. That had led to a discussion of the fact that the cabinets needed repainting, which had detoured into a conversation about the color-which had been a kind of faded hospital mint green-and before she knew it, Leo had talked her into an earthy red, which she had to admit looked wonderful against the butcher-block counters.

Especially since he'd taken off for the home center and come back ready to wield a roller.

The shed had taken a backseat, of course, but she didn't care. He was taking as much of an interest in her little cottage as she was, and what was even more surprising was how bold, and how creative, he was. In her mind, kitchens were supposed to be white. Clean, simple. She'd never imagined cabinets the color of a ripe tomato could look so right. So gorgeous, in fact, especially with a deep yellow on the walls. Standing in the tiny kitchen this morning, she'd felt like she'd been plunged into the heart of a ruby.

But then, he'd already questioned her idea for the storage she wanted in the studio, too, and his solution was...well, better. More creative, a little different, and much cooler than what she'd pictured. It was startling, actually, to realize that she was pretty rigid about the way things were "supposed" to be. Leo was affecting her in ways she hadn't antic.i.p.ated, none of them bad.

Even if she was still curious about his past. If he was rigid about anything, it was his tendency to clam up whenever she asked a personal question that dug deeper than his favorite movies or what kind of food he liked.

She dragged herself away from her thoughts when Ellen set a fresh gla.s.s of sweet iced tea, garnished with a very pretty sprig of mint, on the table in front of her and sat down.

"It's too quiet in there," she said, her warm brown eyes troubled. "Maybe I should check on Jamie."

As if she'd said the magic words, tiny feet thudded down the polished wood floor in the hall and a moment later a blond head was looking up at Mackenzie from the safety of his mother's side. The child's round blue eyes were serious.

"Pitcher?" he said dubiously.

"Picture," she agreed, restraining a laugh of relief.

Ellen sighed and stood up to take the child's hand. "There's a cookie in this for you, buddy," she said in a stage whisper.

Catching the toddler's amazed smile, Mackenzie said, "Keep saying that. The Christmas card will be priceless."

She grinned at him as she picked up her camera. If the kid cooperated, she was one step closer to home-and Leo.

Leo set down a dripping paintbrush and reached for his bottle of water. He'd discovered that morning that Mackenzie's tiny kitchen pantry was a mess-the shelves uneven and some partly rotted, the shelf paper peeling and stained.

Somehow, between running to the home center to buy lumber and paint, and cutting and installing the new shelves, he'd never gotten around to working on the shed today.

Of course, the longer he took finishing the shed job, the longer they would be together. Neither of them had mentioned the future, that big gray area that existed just beyond the moment he showed her the completed studio. Part of him didn't doubt for a moment that Mackenzie considered this weird rhythm they'd fallen into the beginning of a relationship, but a bigger part of him-the smart part, he reminded himself-believed that if he confided all the things she wanted to know about him, she would say good-bye without a second glance.

He sank onto the stool at the counter, guzzling the cold water and wiping his brow with the back of one hand. Installing air-conditioning would be high on his list of priorities if the house were his.

But it wasn't. And every day, as she unpacked yet another cardboard box and continued the process of making the cottage her home, he doubted just a little bit more that it would ever be a place she'd want to share with him permanently.

Mackenzie was smart, and funny, and warm, and deliciously s.e.xy, but she also viewed the world out of her own unique lens. In Mackenzie's world-a world which wasn't at all unlike that of lots of women like her-things had a place, a time, a proper function. She'd raised her eyebrows in disbelief when he suggested that the miniature hall closet could double as a bookcase if he took down the door and installed shelves. He'd convinced her it would take better advantage of the s.p.a.ce, in the end, but it had taken a good fifteen minutes of discussion.

It was a stupid little thing, nothing earthshaking, but every time he found himself looking at that quirky collection of snow globes, his heart sank a little further. That was the life she was looking for, when it came down to it. Perfect, encapsulated, pretty. Everything, and everybody, in its place. What was more, she was willing and able to work for it, honestly and as hard as she had to.

He was willing to bet his left arm that she'd never envisioned an ex-rocker and recovering alcoholic in her picture-postcard fantasies of her life.

The water bottle drained, he stood up and tossed it in the recycling bin beside the back door, stretching. The pantry looked good. Bright white, clean. Mackenzie would love it, he hoped. And if she didn't...Well, he could paint it again, build different shelves.

And that would give him another day of not working on the studio, which meant another day before he had to face the future. Denial, he thought wryly, was working just fine for him at the moment.

He looked up at the sound of her car in the driveway and a moment later she was pushing open the screen door, hands full of white plastic bags.

"Hey there, Mr. Carpenter," she said, giving him a teasing smile. Her hair was twisted up behind her head with some kind of clip, and her loose white blouse was untucked and wrinkled. "You look like you could use a good meal."

"I certainly wouldn't say no."

"Well, you're in luck." She set down the bags on the table, rustling plastic as she removed the take-out containers. "After toddler-wrestling most of the afternoon, I didn't feel up to cooking, so I stopped at The Lobster Pot and got dinner." She looked stricken suddenly, and faced him with wide eyes. "Tell me you're not allergic to seafood."

He laughed, taking a Styrofoam container from her and opening the lid to peek inside. Crab cakes. Awesome. "Not at all. You better tell me more about this toddler-wrestling, though. Sounds dangerous, and possibly sticky."

She was rummaging in a drawer for silverware, and turned around to make a face at him. "My afternoon was spent with a photo-shy two-year-old. I'm thinking of charging his mother double."

"Hey, you were two once," he said, sitting down next to her after he'd made room at the table. The air was thick with the aroma of fresh seafood and garlic, spices, the tang of Caesar dressing on two leafy green salads. "I bet you weren't always a model of good behavior."