She shook her head. “I think there’s a law that anything over twenty years old gets torn down.”

“Out with the old—”

“In with the new,” she finished, reaching out to explore the wide, worn planks of the walls.

“This barn is almost a hundred years old.” I touched the walls with reverence. “I’ve made a few pieces with wood like this. I barely have to do anything to it. It’s got such amazing texture and depth before I even touch it.”

“Do you know what you’re going to make before you make it?” she asked, looking up at me.

“Not usually.” I didn’t talk much about my work. I felt too pretentious doing it. But she looked so interested. And so damn appealing in that silly knit hat. “I sometimes have a general idea, but I usually just dive in and follow along, see where the work takes me.”

She nodded, seeming to understand. “Is it like that for you?” I asked. She looked at me blankly. “You know, when you’re working on a show?”

She gave a dry laugh. “Oh please. There’s nothing creative about that creative process. Everything’s mapped out and orchestrated and branded right down to the last second of supposedly unscripted dialogue.”

She hesitated and I saw a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. I guessed she must have realized she just trashed the type of reality TV she was here in Watson to sell. I could take a poke at her, exploit the opening she’d given me. But I didn’t want to.

“Truce,” I offered her, raising my free hand up. The other one I kept wrapped around hers. “I know I’ve hazed you plenty. But I won’t do it any more tonight.”

She smiled and agreed. “Truce.”

“So, you’ve told me what you don’t like about what you do,” I continued. “What is it you would like to be doing?”

“With shows?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Whatever it is. What do you wish you were doing that you’re not?”

“Well,” she hesitated, seeming to think it over before she spoke. Then she took a deep breath and plunged in. “I’m an assistant producer, that’s my title, but I feel like I haven’t made any product. I’ve got nothing to show for what I do all day.”

“You entertain people,” I offered. I didn’t find those kinds of shows entertaining, but it was objectively true. She worked for a popular network that made popular shows.

She shook her head. “I work on shows that bring out the worst in people. We set them up and make them compete with each other. We reward the most outrageous behavior. The ones who act the brattiest, create the most drama? They’re the ones we make stars.”

“But what I want to do,” she continued, “is make something like your rocking chair.”

“My rocking chair?” I couldn’t see the connection.

“I mean, not exactly. But you’ve made something so real. It’s useful and comfortable and looks beautiful. It makes people’s lives better. I want to work on a show that doesn’t make me feel like I need to rinse off muck every day when I get home. Something that makes people feel happy. Makes them feel good. Like your chair.”

“You think my chair does all that?” I took a step closer to her, my heart hammering away in my chest. She looked up at me and nodded. That had to be the nicest thing anyone had ever said about my work.

Her lips felt so soft, so good against mine as I dipped down to capture them, sliding my hands around her. Off, her knit cap tumbled to the floor as I wound my fingers up into her hair. Like golden silk, I wanted to bury myself in it, in her.

“I think you can do anything you want to, Violet,” I murmured.

She pulled me closer, kissing me urgently, sighing deep in her throat as I worked a hand inside her parka, up underneath the back of her shirt along her skin. So smooth and warm, I wanted all of her beneath me, wrapped around me.

Gently, I eased her out of her coat, bringing us down as I did it, down where I spread out the parka on the floorboards and laid her down on top of it. She wound her arms along my shoulders, clasping me around my neck, hungry for my kisses. Her tongue danced with mine, searching, playing, stoking the fire. My hands roamed her body, pressing her back up to me, caressing her curves, her waist.

I didn’t know how long we stayed there kissing. It could have been two minutes, could have been twenty. Then she wrapped her long leg around my thigh and moaned as I thrust against her. My hand found her sex and I ran a finger along the seam of her jeans. I watched her face as I did it, savoring how it made her eyelids flutter shut, her mouth open in pleasure.

I needed more. Working quickly, I reached up and unbuttoned, unzipped her jeans and tugged them down, then the pretty lacy panties, too. She looked gorgeous and sexy and sometime I’d stay and admire the view, but right now I needed the wrapping off.

Man she was pretty. I could see her pussy glistening in the moonlight filtering through a big hole in the roof. So slick and wet for me. I brought a finger to her sex, reverent, worshipping her.

“You’re so gorgeous,” I breathed, loving the way she parted her legs for me, the way she craved my touch. I leaned down, closer, kissing her inner thigh, giving her sensitive skin a light lick. There was something I wanted to do, needed to do, had been thinking about doing over and over since I’d first seen her in that bar.

“Violet.” My whispered word against her inner thigh made her shiver in the moonlight. “I want to taste you.”

“Yes, oh, Heath,” she moaned, turning her head to the side.

Gently, slowly, I lowered my head. Just one, slow lick to start. She tasted like heaven, so hot and sweet. I’d never done heroin, but I bet it felt something like that, addictive, potent, making you forget about everything else. Spreading her with my fingers, I licked and sucked, coaxed on by her responses, her urgent mews and whines, the way she grabbed my hair and panted.

There, right there, I licked her swollen clit and she gasped, then I licked it again, sucking it and she tensed right up. I could make her come, instantly, I realized. Dizzy as that made me, I slowed down, savored her more, letting her enjoy a slower ride right up to the top.

“Heath, oh! Please!” she started calling out, tossing her head, fisting her hand in my hair. “I can’t… I can’t take it! Please!”

I gave her a long, slow lick. My woman needed to come. I played with her clit a little more, pushing her thighs apart with my hands, wanting her wide open for me. “Are you going to come for me, Violet?” I asked her, low and wicked.

She panted and cried out. “Yes, yes!”

“That’s good, baby. I want you to come.” I dove back in, taking her sensitive bud into my mouth and sucking hard, biting light, taking her right up to the edge and then over as she shuddered and bucked and screamed. Licking and loving her, I drank her in, mercilessly sucking and savoring every last drop of her sweet, slick pleasure.

“Oh, that was so good,” she groaned, sounding dazed and amazed. I wanted to hear that from her again and again.

She still had on her shirt, but through it I could see her hard nipples, stiff and aroused against the fabric. Or stiff and cold? I looked over at the wide open door,

the windows with no glass, the roof torn clean off in one section. She was probably freezing.

“You must be cold.” I wrapped her parka over her.

“I’m all right,” she insisted. But she was from L.A. She had to be freezing.

“Here.” I handed her her hat and helped her up, kept her steady as she pulled up her jeans. And there, I heard it, her teeth started chattering.

“You’re freezing!” I exclaimed, helping her zip up her coat.

“Heath.” She smiled, looking up at me. “Yes, I am now. But you have to know, I was not freezing cold just a minute ago.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that, taking pride in my work. But I should make sure she stayed warm. It wasn’t windy out, but it had to be low twenties.

Back in the sleigh I bundled her up, piling blankets around the two of us. This time, I took the reigns in one hand and wrapped my arm around her to pull her close.

We rode together in silence. At first, it felt good. Then it didn’t.

What the fuck were we doing? What was I doing? What did she think of all this? What did I think of it?

We returned the sleigh and hopped into my truck. And after all that silence, we finally both spoke at the same time.

“Let me have your number,” I said.

Exactly as she said, “This can’t happen.”

We sat in silence again for another minute. Until I said, “No, it can’t.”

And she said, “Give me your phone.”

I glanced at it, sitting between us in the cup holder. She picked it up and entered in her phone number.

She set it down again. “You have my number. But you shouldn’t call me.”

“It would be a bad idea to call you,” I agreed, pulling up in front of her condo.

“No, don’t call me. Don’t even walk me to my front door,” she said as she climbed on top of me, barely waiting for me to put the truck in park before she stuck her tongue down my throat.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she panted as she kissed my throat, my jaw, my ear.

Tags: Callie Harper Beg For It Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net