Untamed: Heath & Violet (Beg For It 3)

“You up here to ski?” one of the guys next to me asked.

“You lost?” the other one guessed. “We can help you out.”

“Thanks, guys. I’m fine.” I tried to adopt an authoritative tone as I scrolled through emails trying to find the one with the address of my rental condo. Or the address of the place where I was supposed to pick up the key.

“You need a place to stay?” one of them asked, taking a swig of his beer and leering at me. He had yellow teeth, foul breath and a lecherous glint in his eyes.

“Nope.” I wondered if I was going to have to leave the bar. I didn’t want to head back out into the storm just yet, but I’d do it if I had to.

“Hey.” A man spoke in a big, deep voice. I knew who it was even though I’d never heard him speak before. I turned and my mountain man stood behind me. He had to be 6’5”, a solid wall of brawn.

With only a mild grumble or two, the other guys stood up from their seats. I guess they knew the pecking order. The big guy had said “hey.” It was time for them to leave.

I took a quick sip of my cider as he sat down next to me, hoping the drink would help cool my flush. No such luck. His thigh brushed up against mine, thick and powerful as a tree trunk. He sat there, saying nothing, and took a slow sip of his beer. No teasing smile, no compliments about my model-quality good looks. It was not the kind of calculated flirtation I was used to. This man simply occupied space, yet I felt myself wanting to lean closer into his massive frame. He was built like a solid block of granite, only warm. I could feel the heat radiating off of him. I bet he knew how to keep a woman toasty on a cold January night.

I took another sip of my drink and made myself sit still. No laps.

“You’re not driving out of here tonight in that MINI convertible.” His voice rumbled low and sexy.

“What’s that?” I licked my lips. They just did not grow men like him back in the city. He didn’t even look like he’d fit in an office cubicle. He’d push the partition right over with his manly brawn, then grab the nearest girl—preferably me—and haul her into an office to have his way with her. Over and over. I knew I’d beg for more.

“I said, you’re not driving out of here tonight in that MINI convertible.”

Wait, what was he saying? Was he trying to boss me around? “I just need to get to my condo.”

“It’s not safe.” He shook his head no, done deal, no arguments accepted. Hello, Alpha.

“It’s probably only a mile away,” I huffed.

“Doesn’t matter how far. You’re not getting there in that car.”

OK, the Neanderthal appeal apparently had its limits. I’d taken care of myself for years now. The only child of a busy single mom, I’d been making myself dinner since I could press start on a microwave. I’d lived on my own for the last seven years in L.A. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what I could or could not do.

“What exactly do you suggest?” I tossed my hands up in frustration. “Can I hop on my Uber app and have a car here in two minutes?” He kept looking at me, flat and stubborn. The man probably hadn’t even ever heard of Uber.

“Listen,” I continued. “I just need to get to the condo where I’m staying. But I don’t have GPS and I wasn’t getting a signal on my phone.” I held it up, suddenly aware that my iPhone was in a pink case sparkling with rhinestones. The kitchy, tongue-in-cheek glam worked in L.A. He looked at it skeptically before returning his attention to me.

“You don’t have GPS in your car?”

“No, I didn’t think I’d need it.”

“You need it.”

“Well, I didn’t know that before!”

“Cell phone service isn’t reliable here. You could get lost.”

“Thanks. A little late for that advice.” My feathers ruffled, I sipped my cider. Part of me felt all tingly, the other part bristled right up. The tingle came from the way this big, handsome man seemed so protective and demanding about my safety. The other half shouted, “I can do this myself!” I wasn’t a little kid. He shouldn’t treat me like one.

But I was lost and had barely made it to the bar. He had a point. I just didn’t like admitting it.

He looked at me, seeming reluctant to say what he was about to next. Resigned, shaking his head as if he overcame his better instincts to do it, he said, “I’ll get you where you need to go.”

I swear, he didn’t say it like a sleazy come-on, but that’s exactly how my body wanted to interpret it. All sorts of flirty, outrageous replies popped to mind. I came dangerously close to batting my eyelashes and bantering back, “Oh, I bet you could get me right where I need it.”

But I didn’t. When had I ever batted my eyelashes? I took lunch meetings. I sealed deals. He might make me feel like a Highland lass in need of a rescue, but I wasn’t that, not by a long shot.

I looked down at the bar, at my cider, my nails. Anywhere but at him. I breathed, in and out, and forced myself to not say any of the crazy thoughts racing through my head. Because just then, where I felt like I needed to go was nowhere near a rented condo all by myself. My pulse pounded with need to go anywhere he was going so long as it was just him and me alone.

“You’ll be safe with me,” he added, deep and husky.

I bit my lip, knowing I was anything but.

CHAPTER 2

Heath

An appletini. She walked into the bar, sashaying along on 4-inch heels, her hair like a golden splash of sunlight. And she ordered an appletini plus some tuna tartare.

Man, it had been a while since I’d seen a girl like her. It had to have been the last time I was in New York. That’s where her type ruled the roost, partying and clubbing all night long. We got tourists up here, sure, leaf peepers and skiers, folks making their way up from Boston or New York with money to burn. But they didn’t look like her. They usually came to Vermont head-to-toe in Patagonia, North Face and LL Bean, sporting brand new gear they’d been dying to try out with big shiny new boots and Gore-Tex gloves good in 60-degree-below weather.

This woman had no gear. She wore heels, for God’s sake, stacked ones, and a parka so big it looked like a parody of a parka. If a casting agent didn’t know shit about Vermont but tried to dress someone for Vermont, he’d put them in that. It was a parka for the Iditarod in Alaska, sledding across the frozen tundra for days on end. She’d looked like a giant Oompa Loompa.

Until she took it off. She’d sat down on a stool and unzipped and damn if it didn’t make me take a deep swallow of my beer. She looked good. Really good. Slender and curvy and soft and she sat just close enough where I could catch a light waft of her scent, tantalizing and sweet like summer honey.

Damn. She hit me hard. It must have been all the time I’d been spending alone. I led a solitary life. I had a cabin and a workshop out on a few acres of land. Quiet, remote, just wilderness, time and freedom. I spent my days the way I wanted, far away from prying eyes or pressure. The handful of locals I now counted as my friends were straight-shooting and plain spoken. They helped you when you needed it, stayed out of your way when you didn’t. To me, Watson, Vermont was paradise.

But even a loner like me sometimes emerged from isolation. Tonight I’d come down to shoot the shit with Dave. He was a good guy. We’d gotten to know each other over at the locally-owned ski slope, Mad Mountain. It didn’t make artificial snow, didn’t allow snowboarders, and kept the trails narrow, winding and filled with boulders. It was everything I loved about this town rolled into a wicked good time. Cranky, independent, and barely breaking even year after year, Mad Mountain was how I’d discovered tiny Watson, Vermont back when I was still in college. I’d made the town my home for four years now, and I planned on keeping on doing the same. As long as nothing rocked the boat.

And usually nothing did. We were off the grid in Watson. Every now and then the town brewery came up with a new ale. The local youth hockey team had some winning seasons, some losing. Each year brought a couple of bad storms, rain swelling the river over it

s banks or snow caving in a roof. But mostly it was a whole lot of nothing happening, day after day. Just how I liked it.

But now what would a city party girl like the one trying to order an appletini be doing in a town like this? Seemed like oil and water to me. She was exactly the type I steered clear of. The type of woman I’d seen far too much of growing up. The type you never could trust.

Which was why it made abso-fucking-lutely no sense that from the second she unzipped that giant parka I was hard as a fucking rock. Giant, massive wood pressing into the seam of my jeans. It had to be like a chemical malfunction. When you went too long, your system went haywire. You started having fierce, raging, raw attraction to exactly the wrong type of woman.

Each time this pink and blonde piece of cotton candy stole a glance at me—and she was stealing some glances—my cock surged in response. Yes! This one, take this one! Drag her off and bury yourself in her! You know she’d love it. Look at the way she’s looking at you, her lips parted, her eyes slightly glazed. She likes what she sees. Seize the day!

But that’s why you needed to think with your big head, not your little head. The little head made bad decisions. My father had torn up our whole family thinking with his dick. I was as red-blooded and hard bodied as a man got, 25 and ready to go at the drop of a fucking hat, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to be an asshole about it. I’d seen too many people make too many messes that way.

Me, I kept it simple. I worked, making custom furniture and art out of wood and metal. I slept and ate and stayed fit. No drama, no bullshit, no headaches.