“I’m not going to kidnap you.” He looked down at me with those dark, intense eyes and the smallest part of me, the craziest smallest part, felt a twinge of disappointment. Because I obviously didn’t want to get kidnapped. No one did, not really. But if I did ever get kidnapped, please Lord let it be by a man who looked like him.
“No, I know,” I stammered. “I just, I shouldn’t be doing this. Jumping into a truck with a strange man.”
“I’m not that strange.?
??
“You’re a stranger to me.”
“Do you want to get to know me better?”
Oh no, the way he asked that, his suggestive low tone. He had such a seductive voice, like it had been smoked and slow-cooked, not rushed, taking its time until it was done just right.
I swallowed. “I guess I’d feel better if I knew anything about you. I don’t know who you are or what you do or—”
“I’m a woodworker. Metal, too.”
“You make things? Out of wood and metal?” I knew I sounded stupid, basically repeating what he said. But I didn’t meet too many people who actually made real things you could touch and hold.
“Furniture and art. I custom design.”
“So you work with your hands?” Oops, my voice got a little breathy on that. I shouldn’t be so close to drooling on this man.
He nodded, slow and sexy, never taking his eyes off of me. My heart pounded in my chest. I bet he did amazing work with his hands. Maybe it would have been better to have simply driven off into the night in my snow-encrusted tiny car without a map. The danger of crashing and burning somehow seemed a lot higher in the heated confines of his truck.
Flustered, I grasped at a question for distraction. “And you live here in Watson?”
He nodded again and stretched out his arm along the back of my seat. It wasn’t an overtly sensual move. We still weren’t touching at all. But I felt so enveloped, so surrounded. I guessed it should have made me more nervous but all I could think was how good it would feel to sink back into his arm, let him encircle me, pull me closer. He must have strong heaters in the seats of his truck. I knew I’d been outside in a raging snowstorm moments ago, but now I was starting to feel all warm and tingly.
“Downtown? Or…?” I tugged at the neck of my parka, flushed.
“A few miles out. I built a cabin.”
“You built a cabin?” Now I didn’t feel stupid repeating what he said. It was worth repeating. Who knew how to build a cabin?
He nodded again and I didn’t know if it was my imagination but it seemed like he was leaning in closer. Or that could have been me slowly closing the gap between us. I couldn’t tell anymore.
“I’m good with my hands,” he said, his voice low and gruff. I think I managed to suppress my soft moan, but it was right there in my throat ready to be released.
“You have nothing to worry about, Violet,” his voice caressed me. “You’re safe with me. I’m not into women like you.”
I should have been offended. I should have gotten huffy and asked something like, “what do you mean women like me?” I guessed that would have happened had I been listening to his words. But I wasn’t. I was watching his lips, seeing the heat intensify in his gaze as he fixated on my mine. I licked them, nervous, and he watched my tongue. The wicked, seductive look in his eyes started a deep throb inside me. I squeezed my legs together. How could this man make me wet when he hadn’t even touched me? We were just sitting in the cab of his pickup truck.
And I was allergic to pickup trucks, had been from a very early age. My mother had raised me right. Scrimping, struggling, living month-to-month as a single mom, she’d taught me about the importance of checking out a man’s wheels. She was right, you could tell a lot about a man from his ride. Don’t get me wrong, my mother wasn’t a snob. She knew good guys came from all kinds of backgrounds. But with my deadbeat dad drifting between low-paying jobs that never seemed to amount to a single child support payment, my mom had learned the hard way that money made a difference, sometimes a big difference in life. From her perspective, in the ocean of men, wouldn’t it be better to hook up with one driving a BMW?
I’d followed her advice. Ever since I’d started dating, I’d only spent time with the type of man who’d take me out to fancy restaurants where he paid the bill. Too bad none of them had ever made my heart pound like this giant man in a battered old pickup truck.
“I’m not into guys like you, either,” I responded, leaning into him. His jacket was simple, black, and he hadn’t zipped it all the way up. I could still see that one button unbuttoned on his shirt underneath. A glimpse of chest peeked out, calling to me.
“Yeah,” he agreed, his breathing slightly ragged. “I’m not your type.” The heater in his car worked wonders. Either that or this parka was magic. I felt all hot and bothered and wanted to unzip. That way he could slip his hands around my waist and pull me onto his lap.
Again with the lap. I tried to pull my gaze away from his lips, so full and so close.
“No, you’re not my type,” I panted as I inched closer still. I could smell him now, the kind of scent every cologne company tried desperately to patent. “Lumberjack leather man mmm” they could call it. Or maybe just “she’ll want to fuck you if you wear this.”
“No, not at all,” he agreed as his hand wound behind my neck. His fingers were so big, so strong and I dipped my head back, sinking into him as his mouth found mine.
He tasted amazing. His lips, so hot and demanding, his fingers at the back of my head, winding in my hair. He kissed me like he’d been dying to do it, like he’d gone days without water and now I was the only thing that could quench his thirst. I felt exactly the same way.
My hands up in his hair, down along his powerful shoulders, I kissed him back like I’d never kissed a man in my life. Moaning, sighing, climbing onto him, shamelessly needing more, I clung to him. I’d never felt anything so good as this man, his hands up my back, his mouth devouring me, my lips, my neck.
“Oh!” I cried out as he licked my throat. My hands pressed flat against his broad, powerful chest, I felt a deep, satisfied growl from deep inside him. I couldn’t stand it. I had to feel his skin. Fumbling, I tugged at the zipper on his jacket. I’d never been more impatient with anything in my life. Reluctantly, we pulled farther apart so we could better fight with each other’s coats.
“What the hell is this parka?” he asked as he tore down the zipper and practically ripped it off of me.
“I don’t know,” I panted, finally getting his coat open so I could sink my mouth down at the top of his Henley shirt. Oh, he felt even better than I’d imagined, his skin so warm and he smelled so good. I licked him and kissed him right at the edge of his clothing, my fingers balling his shirt in my fist along his chest.
He brought his large hands up again to the small of my back and now I could really feel him, the heat from his skin, the strong, sure way he held me. I moaned again and moved against him, wanting more contact, wanting my hips right up against his, my legs spread on either side of his powerful thighs. He brought his hands up underneath my shirt and I just about passed out it felt so fucking good. His hands were rough and calloused, the hands of a man who worked with them all day.
And man he was right—he was good with his hands. The way he stroked me, caressed me, worshipping my curves, circling my waist as I moved against him. I could feel the length of him through his jeans, so hard and impossibly long and huge it made me moan with need. I’d never been with anyone so big.
“Fuck,” he growled, pulling at some buttons at the back of my blouse. It was a silk one, light and delicate, and it fastened with several buttons up at the top. I’d never had a problem with them before. Cool, calm and collected, I’d always been able to simply unfasten them when the occasion arose to take off my top. Now I felt so pissed I had to take my hands off of him for even a second to get those damn buttons undone. But my need to feel his hands and mouth on my skin won out and I did quick work at the back of my neck. I might have popped one or two of those buttons right off. It didn’t matter, what mattered was getting my shirt off as soon as humanly possible.
The second that last button came undone, he pulled it up and over my head. I sank down into him again, his large hands up and around my breasts.
“Uh!” I cried out at the feel of him gripping me, possessing me. He made none of the sexy small talk I was used to from L.A. guys, the compliments on my figure, the exclamations of surprise
and pleasure that my breasts were real. One guy I’d dated had wanted to know about the designer of my bra and we’d had a nice little talk about the quality of the detail in La Perla lingerie.
Heath? He didn’t so much admire the pattern of lace on my sheer demi cup. He dove in, his mouth right between my breasts, working his way up and over, licking, kissing, groaning as his hands claimed and stroked.
Moaning, I arched my back, wanting him to have full access, needing him to devour me whole it felt so fucking good. The hot trail he left across my skin, the way he sucked me, he made me so wet I knew if he reached his hand down he’d find my panties soaking. I really hoped he reached his hand down. I ground my sex against his rock solid shaft, my eyes fluttering closed.
He worked his way around to my back and unclasped my bra. The straps slipped down my arms, and he grabbed the expensive piece of lace and threw it to the side, a worthless annoyance. He looked down at my naked breasts like a starving man at a banquet.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he exhaled as he dove down again, capturing my breast in his mouth, sucking hard on my erect nipple.
“Yes!” I hissed, grabbing his thick hair in my hand, wanting to keep him down at my chest exactly like that. I’d felt a lot of things while men had played with my breasts in the past. Vaguely bored, slightly uncomfortable, mildly aroused. Now, I mashed his face down hoping he’d never stop. When his teeth found my nipple, I screamed.
He chuckled, satisfied with the depth of my reaction, licking his way over to my other aching tip. “That feel good, Violet?” he asked as his tongue danced around my nipple, circling, flicking, teasing.
“Oh!” I panted, pushing my sex against him, feeling closer to orgasm than I’d gotten during sex with some partners. Why was he talking and not sucking? I didn’t want him using that mouth for anything other than—
“Ah!” All thought vanished from my mind as he took my other nipple into his mouth, full and hard and bit down. Mouth open, eyes wide, I gasped with the pain and pleasure, my fingers digging into his shoulders. What was this man doing to me? How had I gone so long in my life without feeling like this? This was what it was all about, all the fuss, all the crazy I’d heard from my friends dragging themselves into work the next day with hickies and bruises and lost contact lenses from a wild night before.