Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

His mild blush turns fire engine red. So naturally smelling blood in the water, I go for the kill. “How many unsuspecting women have you maimed? How many stuck their hands down your pants and drew back a stump?”

“Shut up, Jones.”

“Or what?” Incredibly immature of me, but also––incredibly satisfying.

His eyes spark with challenge. “Or I’ll make you.”

Something in his tone quells my laughter. I look into determined brown eyes and ignore all the warning signs. “Very cute, counselor. No one’s managed it yet, but I’d like to see you try.”

His lids drop, heavy with what looks like…lust.

Burning brightly, his gaze falls on my lips and my smile falters. Oh crap. Too late. I realize much too late how I played this all wrong, how badly I’ve misjudged him. My wide-eyed gaze meets his. That’s all it takes for him to make his move, for his lips to crash into mine.

At first the kiss is hard, as if he miscalculated in his excitement. Just as quickly he pulls back and softens his touch, brushing his lips back and forth on mine, testing me. In the meantime, I’m frozen. Partly in disbelief, partly because I’m afraid I’ll wake up to find I’m dreaming.

One large hand cradles my face and I’m completely swept away by the tenderness of his touch. Gentle. Reverent. Magic. He slants his mouth and fits it onto mine. And it fits. It fits perfectly, as if he’s tailored just for me. His tongue sweeps the seam of my lips and God help me with a dazed sigh I open for him. He tastes sweet, the ice cream we shared minutes ago still on his tongue, on his pouty bottom lip. He’s ruined rocky road ice cream for me. You can bet that every bite I eat from now on won’t taste nearly as good.

He feels right. Everything about him does. The taste of his lips, the weight and warmth of his body, the smell and feel of his skin. Two pieces of a puzzle locking into place. My hands skate over the tense muscles of his glorious back. Under my fingertips, I can feel the energy coiling tightly within him pulsing, his bare grasp on it. And in the back of my dirty as dirt mind my inside voice keeps telepathically willing him to let go, cut it loose, unleash whatever it is that’s holding him back.

Do it. Do it. Do it, the devil inside my head chants.

He shifts his hips and the head of his erection hits me right where I need to be hit––and hit hard. Instinctually, my body bows into him, desperate for more, longing for everything.

A moment later I feel a cool rush of air as he rips his lips off mine and vaults up onto his feet. I watch him walk away, rubbing his face, his gait awkward as he adjusts the log that’s jutting out between his legs.

“Can’t,” I hear him mumble.

This blows.

Chapter Sixteen

“Her name is Cheyenne. She’s a twenty-two year old model from St. Petersburg––Russia that is, not Florida––and her name is Cheyenne. How much you wanna bet she doesn’t have a drop of Native American blood in her veins?”

We’re both crammed in the Bloomingdales dressing room. Camilla is busy examining the navy dress she has on, pushing her gigantic boobs around as if she could knead them into getting smaller while I sit in the corner doling out orders. Straightening and smoothing the lower part of the dress, eyes still trained on the image in the mirror, she says, “How’s that? How do my boobs look? Be honest.”

“Like you’re hiding two pot belly pigs in your bra.”

She tears her gaze away from the floor length mirror and levels me with a glare I’ve seen her use on her rambunctious third graders. Her lips twitching in repressed mirth, she says, “You know what I’d like to hide? My fist in your eye socket.”

I take a big bite of the Swedish fish I bought at Dylan’s Candy Bar. “Get in line. And you said to be honest.” Pointing my headless Swedish fish at a cream colored dress with dolman sleeves, I say, “Try that one on.” With her skin tone, cream always looks amazing on her.

“I don’t have a single thing that fits me anymore.” She huffs. “If I can’t find something today, you’ll be seeing me in a Hefty bag next.” She strips down to her underwear again. Her body is stunning, big belly and all. Left and right she turns. She turns again, checking herself out in the mirror. Huffing, her lush mouth creeps into a frown.

“Stop showing off,” I snap. “Your mother called me about a baby shower.”

Camilla’s attention whips back to me. There’s violence in her eyes. “I’m only going to say this one more time. I do NOT want a baby shower. I’m fat. I’m mostly in a bad mood. And nothing fits me. My husband keeps buying shit we don’t need. We have so much shit I’m not even unpacking half of it; I’m sending it directly to the Red Cross and some other children’s charities. Which is only making more work for me and Mercedes. So help me God, if someone organizes a surprise baby shower, I will commit bloody murder.”