Roxanne Claire - Barefoot by the Sea

Zoe’s smile wavered. “And, oh wow, I think he’s—”

“Enough,” Tessa ordered. “I don’t care if he looks like Channing Tatum’s twin brother.”

“He kinda does,” Zoe said. “Only hotter. Is that even possible?”

They couldn’t help it; they didn’t know what it was like to be in her position. “Guys, I was kidding, okay? I’m not going to walk up to some guy and say—”

“You don’t have to,” Zoe said softly.

Tessa closed her eyes and raised her beer bottle in the air. “Hey, smokin’-hot bad-ass sex god with the long hair and deadly tattoos, can you fill ’er up with some of your potent liquid gold?”

Silence. Dead silence.

Tessa opened her eyes. She felt the presence more than saw it in her peripheral vision. Something smokin’ hot, bad ass, and—

“Liquid Gold? Is that a local brew?”

Oh, man. Sex god was really kind of an understatement.

In Ian’s experience, they didn’t usually keep the best-looking one hidden like this. Normally, females used the real beauties as bait. But this girl hadn’t even gone out of her way to check him out. And that made the sweet-faced beer drinker begging for action even more appealing.

The blonde who’d been staring at him for the last ten minutes wasn’t his type. The one with the wild red curls sported a shiny gold wedding band, and the other one was a little too conservative for his tastes.

But the hottie tucked into the corner was just right, looking at him with wide eyes a shade darker than the amber beer bottle she slowly lowered to the table. She wore barely a hint of makeup, so Ian could see her creamy complexion deepen with a flush as they held eye contact for one heartbeat past casual.

“Beer’s a good choice in a place like this,” he said, rattling the ice in his rocks glass. “The scotch is watered-down piss.”

Surprise flickered in her eyes. Because of the curse word, or had the pisswater been enough to bring out his accent? After all these years, he should know better than to slip and give away his British birth.

“What was that beer called again?” he asked.

“It was…a joke,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear her over the bar ruckus.

“Can I get you something else, then?”

“No, thanks. I’m…fine.”

“You sure are.”

The other three reacted instantly.

“We need to hit the ladies’ room,” one of the women said, sliding out to make room for him. “Coming, Zoe?”

The blonde scooted out, too. “We’ll refresh the drinks.” She turned to the redhead and gave a look with all the subtlety of a baseball bat. “Coming, Lacey?”

“Oh yeah.” She nodded and gave an equally transparent raised eyebrow to the woman in the corner. “Hold the booth for us, Tessa. I’m sure we’ll be a good long while.”

Ian nodded his gratitude. “We’ll guard it with our lives.” He slid right into the vacated seat next to his doe-eyed target, trapping her in the corner and getting a whiff of something flowery and clean. “Tessa. Pretty. Short for something?”

Finally, she slid him a sideways look, long lashes tapering into the kind of distrustful gaze he’d been eliciting for a few years. If the tattoos, gym time, or total disregard for a haircut didn’t scare them, the bike parked out front usually did.

“Just Tessa,” she said as her friends disappeared into the bar, leaving laughter and chatter in their wake.

“Just Tessa,” he repeated. Not to be funny, but because he’d want to remember the name tomorrow morning when he was rooting around the floor of her flat looking for his jeans. Apartment, dickhead, not flat.

“I’m John, by the way.”

She hinted at a smile. “Hello, John Bytheway.”

Cute. “John Brown.”

“That sounds fake.”

Because it is. “So tell me something about yourself, Tessa, other than the fact that you like”—he turned the beer bottle and read the label—“Belgian White Wheat Ale.” Bloody Americans would buy anything they thought was from Europe.

“Blue Moon’s my favorite…” She inched back. “Blue Moon,” she said softly, her whole face lighting up in a way that took her from good-looking to gorgeous in the space of a second. “Maybe that’s what Aunt Pasha meant.”

“Who’s Aunt Pasha?”

Her eyes twinkled with a secret. “A late, great fortune-teller.”

He inched closer, letting his thigh press against hers and earning another sweet blush. “Did she see trouble in her crystal ball?”

“She saw…something.”

“Whatever she saw, I hope it happens tonight.” He gave her a slow once-over, enjoying a spark of electricity crackling between them as he admired her toned arms, freckle-dusted skin, and the alluring slope of small but appealing breasts under a simple white T-shirt. This one wasn’t trying too hard to get attention, and he liked that. It reminded him of—

Don’t go there.

“Are you staying in Mimosa Key?” she asked.

“At the moment.” For the past month, since he had to tear-ass out of Singapore, he’d ridden around the state of Florida, finally finding his way over a bridge to this suitably out-of-the-way island. He’d checked in to the first motel he’d found and headed straight out the door for his numbing agents of choice: cheap scotch and a willing woman. He’d found one, and, with a little luck, was looking at the other. “You?”

“I live at the resort up the road in Barefoot Bay.”

“You live on a resort?”

“I run the gardens.”

That explained the sun-kissed skin and shapely shoulders.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I don’t run anything,” he admitted. “I just run.”

“From what?” She gave him a curious look and he cursed himself again. What was wrong with him tonight? The scotch mustn’t be watered down enough.

Instead of answering, he stretched his hand around the back of the booth, letting his fingers graze her shoulder, getting a quick rise of chill bumps on her arm in response.

“You’re pretty,” he said, happy to note that this time his standard but woefully uncreative line was actually accurate. She was very pretty, in a simple, sweet, genuine way. Another thing that reminded him of—

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Because I’m still fucked up. “Because you’re so pretty I forgot what you asked.”

She looked skyward and fought a smile.

“What do you want to know, pretty Tessa?” Not that he’d tell her anything, ever.

“Why do you have a lethal insect tattooed on your neck?”

He angled his head to let her get a real good look, remembering the unspeakably dark night when he’d gotten the ink in some hellhole off Balestier Road.

“Do you have a death wish or something?” she prompted.

“Something.” He slugged the rest of his scotch. “What about you?”

“Me?” She laughed softly, with a wry and ironic shake of her head. “Well, I don’t wish for death.”

He stole a look at her, lost for a second in the honesty in her eyes. Damn it, sometimes the small talk wasn’t enough. Maybe this meaningless chatter was a necessary evil before getting a woman on her back, but for one brief instant, Ian ached for…more.

More information, more revelation, more than a quick screw to kill the pain for a very short while.

But John Brown couldn’t have more. And Ian Browning best not forget that.

“Then what do you wish for?” he asked, the question proof that his mouth was ignoring the warnings in his head. Talk about sex, dumbshit. Not wishes.

“You want the truth?” She dropped her head back, her hair brushing his arm.

The truth was the last thing he wanted, or at least the last thing he was willing to give back. “Sure.”

“The fact is, I’m wishing for a man.”

Now we’re talking. At least she had some common sense about what was going down here. He threaded his finger into her silky locks, gently turning her face toward his. “Looks like you found one.”

“But I want something specific.” In her eyes, he could see the flecks of gold—and a hell of a lot more. Goodness. Understanding. Truth. All things he could never reciprocate.

“Whatever floats your boat, Just Tessa. I can do slow and sweet or hard and fast.” Her eyes flashed a little. “You can tie me up or take me down.”

Another flash, this one more than surprised. Maybe she wasn’t quite that adventurous.

“I’m yours for the night,” he finished, coming closer.

He let his lips brush hers, tasting a hint of the ale and something warm and hopeful. Too bad, but he wasn’t her hope, not by a long shot.

By the time she figured that out, he’d be long gone.

Tessa closed her eyes and opened her mouth, certain the silken flick of this alluring stranger’s tongue would shock some sense into her. His scotch-flavored kiss shocked a whole lot of things, but sense wasn’t one of them.

Unless sense resided way, way low in her belly and whipped through her with a snap, crackle, and pop of arousal.

“Wanna get out of here?” he murmured.

She backed up to respond, maybe slow this train down, but he came with her, refusing to let their lips separate. Sense was derailed again.

“Or will your friends have me arrested?” he asked into the next kiss.

“Hard to say.” The way they’d been talking, the girls were likely to shove Tessa into his car and say “Call us in the morning” instead of rescuing her from doing something really impulsive and stupid and…and…

His tongue trailed the roof of her mouth, sending an avalanche of chills down her spine.

Amazing.

He finally drew away, still so close that she couldn’t focus on anything but the silvery blue of his eyes, the irises rimmed in a smoky charcoal, all fringed with thick black lashes that brushed together as he squinted at her. “I’d prefer they didn’t have me arrested.”

“I’d prefer not to take off with an ax murderer.”

He twirled her hair around one finger, thumbing the nape of her neck with a maddeningly light touch. “I’m not an ax murderer.” Though deep and rumbly, his voice had a strange flatness to it when he said that. “I’m a guy passing through town and you just admitted you’re looking for a man.”

She had, hadn’t she?

“Not exactly a man…” She said vaguely, her brain finally engaging into something close to functional since the moment he’d approached the table and decomposed her gray matter.

“Then what exactly?”

“More like the essence of a man.”

He lifted a brow and fought an amused smile. “What the hell is essence?”

Liquid gold. She tried to scoot back, but she hit the wall and he didn’t give an inch.

“Can you do complicated?” she asked.

“No.” Still holding her head with fingers tunneled into her hair, he took her chin in his other hand and turned her face away from him, leaning so close his lips grazed her ear. “You want me to tell you what I can do?”

She quivered at the warmth of his breath and the heat of his tone. She managed the slightest nod because, yes, please, every nerve in her body tingled in anticipation of what he could do.

“I can kiss you until you can’t even remember your name…or mine.”

John Brown. She couldn’t forget that.

“And…” He dragged a fingertip under her chin and down her throat, a single stroke of fire, stopping right at the dip between her collarbones. With his thumb, he flicked at the neckline of her T-shirt. “I can strip you out of this top without ever taking my tongue out of your mouth.”

That was…a good trick. Yep. She’d like to see that.

“And I could…” His finger dropped a few inches, settling on her breastbone. “I could lick a tattoo right across this sweet, sweet skin.” He flicked her earlobe in case she hadn’t figured out just how talented a tongue he had.

“And I could…” He took a quick pass right over her nipple with one fingertip, making her suck in a surprised breath as she budded like an acorn, her breasts already aching and heavy with need. “Suck on these tasty rosebuds until you melted like chocolate in the sun.”

“Mmmm.” She closed her eyes. “I like chocolate.” And rosebuds. And this. She really liked this.

“Then we’ll get some for you. You can eat it off my…body.”

Silently, she closed her eyes and dug for composure, coming up with nothing but a helpless shudder.

He blew more warm breath into her ear. “Want to know what else I can do?”