Hard Compromise (Compromise Me 2)

There’s someone I want you to meet before your sister’s wedding…

He slammed the front door behind him and threw his keys and phone on the narrow table he’d put there for the express purpose of saving himself the pain of searching for the damn things every morning. Too bad he couldn’t resolve other pains quite so easily.

A week spent in a semi-constant state of blue balls surely set some kind of record. One he preferred not to hold, obviously, but it was what it was. The sound of his footfalls changed from hushed thuds on the refinished oak floor to distinct treads on the black-and-white octagonal tile in the kitchen. A rummage through his nearly empty fridge produced a cold beer. He twisted the cap off, took a long swallow, and considered his options.

Avoiding the cause of his torment hadn’t helped—though it had proved easier than expected. A normal week of circulating through their town generally put him in Lauralie’s path at some point, but without the bakery as her control center, her daily routine had become less predictable.

So much for seeing her around.

He flicked his beer cap into the trash and wandered to the large, arched window over the sink to stare at the view—just enough light left in the day to identify the outlines of Channel Islands in the distance, but nothing unique enough to distract him from his thoughts. They wandered to Lauralie whenever he didn’t keep them on a leash, and that was bad enough. But his dreams? Those were impossible to control. His subconscious refused to wear a leash. It treated him to feverish and all too lifelike fantasies.

The longing went beyond a physical ache. He missed her. Not just her body, or the sex. He missed her smart mouth and her hard head. Over the better part of ten years she’d worked her way under his skin, and there was no quick, painless way of getting her out.

Even knowing this, he’d spent the last week fighting relentless urges to engineer things so he would, in fact, see her around. He resisted, in part because arranging a “coincidental” encounter involved resorting to stalker-ish shit like staking out her apartment, but in larger part because the ruse wouldn’t work. They’d both know he had given in, and, frankly, weaseling a confrontation ran afoul of his ethics. If he caved, he’d at least do it in a straightforward way—come to her door, tell her she had five seconds to slam it in his face or prepare for the ride of her life, and then do his level best to fuck an answer out of her.

Did your mother’s visit have anything to do with why I woke up alone on New Year’s Day?

Not necessarily a tough question, but one requiring some honest discussion. Unfortunately, as soon as he showed up on her doorstep, he lost any hope of having one. She’d know she could have him on her terms,

subject to whatever limits she set, which meant this thing between them would never progress. She’d never voluntarily share her troubles or ask for help. So he’d wait her out, even if it killed him, and pray she blinked first…soon.

The beacon from the lighthouse a few miles down the coast cut through the foggy dusk, and the solitary signal seemed to cut through his internal turmoil to another truth he’d been trying to ignore. Denise Peterson hadn’t trekked all the way to Montendio to wish her daughter a happy New Year. She wanted something. Something more than a ride to the train station. And whatever it was, it worried Lauralie. The hunted look on her face when Miranda had mentioned Denise confirmed as much. She didn’t want to confide in him, but that didn’t mean she didn’t need help.

Screw staying strong. He put the half-finished beer on the counter, and retraced his steps to the front door. He’d try the storm-in-and-fuck-an-answer-out-of-her approach. As he snagged his keys from the hall table, someone knocked on his door.

And that’s what you get for ignoring texts—your mother on your doorstep.

“I can’t talk to you now. I’m on my way out,” he said as he opened the door, and then stopped in his tracks.

Lauralie stood there in a slinky black T-shirt of a dress that clung in all the right places and ended high on her bare legs. Her hair tumbled away from her face in wild curls. Her upraised fist hung in the air between them.

The rush of blood to his cock was instantaneous and dangerously mind-numbing. Unfortunately, his words—words she couldn’t know weren’t intended for her—had the opposite effect on her. Flashing blue eyes narrowed at him, but not before he caught a flicker of hurt in their depths. “Fine. Whatever.” She spun on her heel. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here anyw—”

He caught her arm and swung her around. Momentum brought her up against his chest and he trapped her there with an arm around her waist. “Not you, Jailbait. I thought you were…it doesn’t matter.” This counted as her blinking first, he decided, and rewarded himself for his patience by giving her a detailed demonstration of exactly what the fuck she was doing there.

As soon as his lips touched hers, she lunged into him. A moan vibrated from deep in her throat and her fingers speared into his hair.

He hauled her inside, kicked the door shut, and then staggered a little as she started to climb him before he had both feet planted. He got them planted fast, and grabbed her ass to hold her in place while she wrapped her legs around his hips. The feel of her squirming against him ratcheted the pressure in his balls up to a dangerous level. Apparently she felt the pressure, too, because she tore her mouth away long enough to say, “Now,” and then dove back into the kiss.

Hell yes, now. A single step brought him to the handiest surface available—the hall table—and a sweep of his arm sent his phone and keys clattering across the hardwood. Her purse hit the floor next, with a careless thump. He dropped her down on the narrow perch. Her breath whooshed out at the sudden impact. Before he could even think about apologizing, she surged toward him again, reaching for the front of his white, button-down shirt. One frantic tug later, buttons went flying, pinging into walls. Raining along the baseboards.

“Hurry,” she reiterated, and proceeded to bestow hard little bites along his jaw. Her palms rushed down his chest, along his abs, and over the front of his jeans. Then it was his turn to lose his breath, because her quick fingers tore his fly open, shoved his underwear out of her way, and fisted his throbbing shaft. A hard tug dragged his balls over the teeth of his zipper.

“Jesus, Jailbait.” He leaned in and pinned her against the wall, his hands on either side of her head. “This is a perfect example of you not understanding the risk inherent in your situation. I’ve missed you. I’ve wanted you constantly for the last week and you’ve denied us both out of sheer stubbornness. I’m in no shape to be toyed with. Keep it up, and this is going to be brutal. You’ll feel it for the next week, no matter how many times I kiss it better.”

Her chin came up. Temper or excitement—knowing her, a good dose of both—whipped color into her cheeks. “I need brutal. I’ve been in pain for a week and nothing relieves it.”

Nothing? “What did you try?” The words scraped his throat like razors. If she answered with Jessie, or Scott, or any other name, he was going to have to kill an innocent man. When he’d walked away to let her stew in her own juices, he hadn’t factored in the possibility of her turning elsewhere for relief.

“What?” she murmured against his throat, sounding both distracted and confused.

“What’d you try?” He shoved a hand under her dress, and raked the skirt up to her waist. Tunneling under the top, he snagged the front of her bra and dragged it down until her breasts spilled over the cups. Her high, tight nipples poked against the thin dress. A firm tug on one brought her upright like a soldier snapping to attention. “Answer me.”

“Oh, God.” She shook her head as her words dissolved into another moan.

She needed to be able to speak to answer his question, for both their sakes. He forced himself to release her nipple. She slouched against the wall, chest heaving, and parted her legs. The drenched triangle of red silk flashing him might as well have been a red flag, and he a bull.

He shoved the scrap down, grabbed her hips and pulled her to the edge of the table. While she scrambled for handholds along the lip, he hitched her ankles onto his shoulders. When he looked down at her again, round eyes stared back at him.