My belly dropped and I felt a convulsion between my legs.
Then I replied, “Okay.”
His eyelids got heavy, his arms got tighter, my arms around him got tighter, his head descended and he kissed me again, this time longer, deeper, sweeter and even more delicious.
This went on for awhile. Long enough for me to get my fingers in his hair. Long enough for Brock to get one of his hands up the back of my tee and the other one clamped tight on my ass. Long enough for my nipples to swell and the area between my legs to get wet. Long enough for me to think the bedroom was way, way, way too far away and to be glad I kept the kitchen floor mopped because that was where I wanted him to take me.
But unfortunately not long enough that we were still making out standing up in the kitchen rather than somewhere either naked or semi-naked and thus at the point of no return when a knock came at the door.
Brock’s head came up on a low, short, frustrated growl and his eyes went over my head toward the front door. I blinked at this unwelcome turn of events and twisted my neck to look in the same direction.
It was closing on ten. Too late for a caller. Unless that caller was Martha who forgot something and Martha was the kind of gal who consistently forgot something no matter where she was, like her wallet, purse, credit card and other such non-trivial items.
Another knock came at the door and I felt Brock’s arms squeeze, this also happened to coincide with his fingers digging pleasantly into my ass. That felt great, so great, I forgot someone was at the door and I looked to him to see him looking at me.
Oh my.
He was still turned on too.
And let’s just say that look on his face was nice.
“Hold that thought and for fuck’s sake, whatever you do, hold that look,” he growled before he let me go, I teetered slightly but managed to stay standing, turn and watch him stalk toward the door.
I walked the few feet to the island and put my hands on it as he unlocked the front door.
Then my eyes dropped.
On the corner of my island was a white, ceramic pedestal cake stand with glass dome.
Sweeping lines. Simple and elegant. It cost a fortune and I didn’t care. I baked cakes. I needed fabulous cake stands. At that moment in my life, I owned seven of them (in my home, at the bakery I had tons more). All of them fantastic, most of them expensive. They rotated to the top spot on my island depending on my mood.
In the one now were six cupcakes with mountainous swirls of frosting, glittering, edible fairy dust and pastel confetti. Two had mint green frosting, two had pale pink, two baby blue.
This meant Brock had a cupcake while I was saying good-bye to Martha, before I made it to the kitchen when he was eating his second one.
I felt my face go soft as I realized I missed that too. He had a great body, the kind of body that no matter what age, but especially at forty-five, you worked on. He didn’t shy away from his food, his beer or his bourbon. He lived his life like he appreciated it. But he still took care of himself. I’d phoned him enough times when he told me he was at the gym or just got back from a run to know this was true.
But he had a weakness for my cupcakes. And my cake cakes. And my cookies. In fact, anything that came out of my oven, he made no bones about liking it, liking it more than anything else that I’d noticed he liked and he didn’t do this by handing me flowery compliments. He did this by consuming them with relish.
And in that moment, I found I loved that.
On that thought, I heard Brock snarl, “You have got to be shitting me,” and my head snapped up.
“Who are you?”
At the sound of the familiar voice asking that question, my hands slid down the counter and curled tight around the edge as my chest compressed so deep it felt like I was being crushed.
Damian.
“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that you are not here. You are never here.
You are never anywhere near this fuckin’ house, Tess’s fuckin’ bakery or Tess. I see you or I hear you are, honest to fuckin’ God, I’ll deal with you and you do not want me to do that.”
Brock was still snarling, it was vicious, biting and I could feel his mood all the way across the living room, through the kitchen and to me. It was filling the house, beyond his pissed off snap of electricity, this was rough and abrasive, scoring at my skin.
“I beg your pardon?” Damian asked.
Oh no. Oh God. Oh no.
Damian was at least three inches shorter than Brock. Damian was probably twenty pounds lighter if not more. Damian was lean in the sense he was lean, not muscled, no bulk. He was fit but there was no power to his frame like there was to Brock’s. In a physical tussle, Brock would take him, easy.
And Damian wouldn’t give one flying fuck. Damian spent most of his time pissing in corners. Damian would not take to a threat well.
Not at all.
I started to move around the island to instigate damage control, my eyes on Brock’s back seeing he had his body between the door and the doorjamb, his big frame blocking Damian from view, his back to me.
Still, he lifted an arm out behind him like he had eyes in the back of his head and could see me starting to approach and he barked, “Tess, do not fuckin’ move.”
I halted at the side of the island.
“If Tess is in there, I’d like to speak to her,” Damian, voice tight, requested.
“Did you not hear me ten fuckin’ seconds ago?” Brock asked.
“Who are you?” Damian demanded to know.
“You didn’t hear me ten fuckin’ seconds ago,” Brock decided.
“All right, I’ll ask politely. Please move aside so I can talk with Tess,” Damian asked.
To that, Brock stated, “In five seconds I’m closing the door. You’re not in your Escalade and on the road sixty seconds after that, I’m on the phone with the cops. No joke, no delay.
Got that?” Then, as he promised, he stepped out of the door, closed it in Damian’s face and locked it.
I stood where I was at the side of the island.
Brock moved to the window and yanked hard on the cord to the blinds to expose the glass.
Then he stood in it, arms crossed, feet planted.
I licked my lips.
Brock didn’t move a muscle.
I put a hand out to the counter and held on.
Brock didn’t twitch.
I counted to ten. Then to twenty.
Brock leaned to the side, yanked the cord and the blinds dropped with a crash.
Then he turned and prowled through the living room towards me, one hand to his back pocket. He had his phone out by the time he stopped a foot away.
I held my breath when I saw his face up close.
“Honey –” I whispered then stopped speaking when his hand came up abruptly.
I tensed as it came to me but, whisper-soft and unbelievably sweet, his fingertips skimmed my cheek on their way to glide into my hair where his hand curled around the back of my head and he pulled me closer.
I went because I didn’t have a choice and because I wanted to. When I got near, I put my hands to his abs.
“Mood’s broke, sweetness,” he muttered. “And I need to make some calls. If you’re tired, go get ready for bed or, if not, give your girl a call. I’ll be in in a minute and we’ll get some shuteye. Yeah?”
“Is he gone?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I swallowed.
His hand gave me a squeeze and I watched his eyes flare.
Then he asked, “He won’t stay gone, will he?”
I shook my head.
His mouth got tight.
Then he said gently, “Give me a minute to make some calls, baby.”
I nodded. His hand gave me another squeeze then sifted through my hair until it was gone.
Then I moved to my bedroom.
Okay, it was safe to say I wasn’t tittering with excitement nine months ago when my abusive ex-husband who raped me contacted me for the first time in over four years, shattering the illusion I’d built that I was safe in a life that no longer contained him. And it was also safe to say I deliberated at length going to lunch with him.
But I loved his Dad.
Donald Heller was a good man, he adored me openly and it cut to the quick when, to erase Damian from my life, I had to break ties with anything that had anything to do with Damian, including his Dad. Donald tried to keep up a relationship with me but I did not encourage this and he finally quit trying. News that he was unwell broke my heart, gave me guilt and, just as Damian knew it would, spurred me to show at lunch.
It was a mistake that I would pay for quite a bit, it would turn out. And this settled in my soul the troubling fact that I’d allowed myself to be played, again, by Damian.
I left him the day after he raped me. My dog and I lived with Martha for the year and a half it took finally to get a divorce then I moved to my own apartment. And for that year and a half, Damian stopped at nothing to “win me back”.
I couldn’t take another year and a half.
Unfortunately, this current scenario wasn’t conducive to me finding that perfect nightgown to wear the first time I slept the night with Brock Lucas. We had slept together, twice, both times me falling asleep with him on my couch while watching a movie. No, strike that, three times adding last night.
But, except for last night, he’d always been gone before I woke and we had never slept together in a bed.
This was a momentous occasion which I should mentally and, arguably more importantly, fashionably prepare for but at that moment, I didn’t have it in me.
I sorted through my nightgown drawer with trembling hands and luckily my inherent girl power kicked in and my fingers honed in on my cotton candy purplish pink, embroidered eyelet nightie with its empire waist, spaghetti straps and teensy weensy ruffle at hem and bodice. Cute, girlie, comfortable therefore it seemed a casual choice like it was any other night but it bared lots of skin, showed serious leg and a hint of cleavage all of which stated plainly I was making an effort for my man.
Freaking perfect.
I grabbed it and my glasses, took them to the bathroom and did my nighttime gig, contacts out, face washed, teeth brushed and flossed then I changed clothes, slid my glasses on and walked out.
I heard Brock’s rumble when I did.
And this was what it said, “No shit, Calhoun.”
I pressed my lips together at that name, scurried into the bedroom, dropped my clothes in the hamper then scurried out.
I knew he wanted to protect me but I was forty-three years old. I was in a situation. This situation was unlike the last. Now people knew. People who cared about me. People who had my back and people willing to take my front and act as a shield.
But it was high time I got my head out of the sand.
Somehow, I’d managed to be a survivor. But I was thinking that was pure luck and it only had to happen because I’d left my head in the sand too long with a husband who was no good for me from the start and I knew it, I just didn’t do a thing about it.
I needed to get my shit together.
So I stopped in the kitchen doorway and leaned against it, doing this with my eyes on a Brock Lucas who had his fist to his waist and his eyes on me.
Then he did something beautiful.
He trusted in me and the strength I was building inside enough to keep talking.
“You call the DA and you tell him to tell that asshole’s attorneys that if he doesn’t desist in harassing Tess, his boatload of legal problems will become a shitload. He already forged her fucking signature on bank documents. And we already got taped testimony and phone records that show for six months he’s been dicking with her. So, when the DA talks to his legal team, he needs to use the words stalking, harassment, assault and sexual assault.”
I felt my chest rise with my indrawn breath and I knew Brock saw it but he kept trusting me and thus talking.
“Statute of limitations is not out on that. No way in fuck that Tessa O’Hara who runs a bakery and sprinkles fuckin’ confetti on her cakes will take the stand, describe her nightmare and he won’t go down, I don’t give a fuck if we have no physical evidence. She’ll have any jury eating out of her hand. His lawyers will know that. Now, I smell that guy’s fuckin’
cologne, Calhoun, she’s pressing charges. This ends for her tonight. Make the fuckin’ call.”
"Wild Man" отзывы
Отзывы читателей о книге "Wild Man". Читайте комментарии и мнения людей о произведении.
Понравилась книга? Поделитесь впечатлениями - оставьте Ваш отзыв и расскажите о книге "Wild Man" друзьям в соцсетях.