Possession
Page 48
Rolly’s ass hit the sofa cushions and he sighed like the two parties had been separated for a year. “You know, you could get cable out here.”
“And encourage you to stay longer?”
“You loooooooove me,” the guy called out as Duke went into the bedroom.
“Not really.”
Duke went over to his closet and opened the louvered doors. Not much in there. But it wasn’t like he had any occasions to wear suits.
In the end, he pulled on his newest pair of jeans, a black muscle shirt, and his black leather jacket—in other words, his work uniform.
Pausing in front of the mirror over the simple pine bureau in the corner, he met his own eyes and thought of his newest buddy at work.
The pair of them had gone down by the river and done their thing, and then hit two of the six parks they had to go through. Duke had the unmistakable impression that the quiet bastard was waiting him out, watching, biding time.
Not his problem.
Returning to the main space of the house, he loomed over the sofa, where Rolly had stretched out and was snoring already.
Fuck it. He was going to focus on the positive of having the guy back—it was like a free ADT system. Because if anyone broke in here, Rolly would call.
Surely the idiot would call.
Duke shut things up tight as he left, and while he walked over to his ride, he shook his head at the beater Rolly had been driving around since they’d been at Union. The stoner had gotten it new—from his very proud parents back in the days when they’d thought he’d amount to something.
Those times had passed. The thing was going on a wing and a prayer, the paint on the hood faded, the bumpers uneven from various impacts, one wheel sporting a mismatched rim because there hadn’t been money to get the proper replacement. And yet Rolly was happy enough with it.
Always would be.
Which was sad, and kind of nice, too.
Getting behind the wheel of his truck, Duke refused to let himself think too much about where he was going and why. The emotions were too complex for him to process—and maybe he didn’t like the directions they were pulling him in.
He had started this thing with Cait to get in the way of that singer with the fake-ass, sensitive, Mr. Nice Guy act.
Now, though, that goal seemed very secondary.
And that was terrifying. The woman was supposed to be a lay, nothing more. That was not how things were trending, though—and he had no clue how to handle it all.
Life had already taught him that love was a dangerous fallacy, and women, as with all people, were incredibly fickle. Like he needed to relearn all that?
Yet it was with a singular fixation that he drove into Caldwell, peeling off the Northway when he got to a residential area full of small houses and little neighborhood shops. The address Cait had given him was not one he was familiar with, but then, this was where young families lived—and he’d never been a part of one of those.
Counting the numbers down, he pulled over in front of a white clapboard with clipped bushes, a tended-to lawn and a detached garage out in back. Her SUV, the Lexus, was parked off to the side.
For some reason, he couldn’t get out, and he passed the time staring at her house. There were two windows upstairs, one of which had a light on in it. Downstairs, there was a broad bay to balance the offset front door, and plenty of illumination, including a glowing fixture right over the entrance.
Kind of like a postcard, and yeah, he could have called this. Cait struck him as the sort of person who’d have a tidy home.
He nearly kept going.
Gripping the steering wheel, he thought … this was wrong. Not his larger purpose, no. But this part of it, the part with her.
Cursing, he glared out at the road ahead of him. “Goddamn it.”
Man, this inner conflict bullshit was not part of the plan. This hesitation, this sense that he was doing a nasty on the way to getting back at G.B. should not be his problem.
Collateral damage happened. And she was an adult, capable of making her own decisions—and it wasn’t like he’d coerced her into the sex. Far from it.
“Shit.”
Forcing his hand forward, he turned off the engine and got out because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. The instant he faced the house, however, a surge went through him and clarified things, reminding him that there was another dimension in play in all this.
God, the sex.
He hadn’t expected it to get so out of control. When he’d seen her behind that café, he’d felt the attraction—then at the club, he’d followed through on it. But he’d assumed those hard-core orgasms had been because of the satisfaction to be had in taking something G.B. wanted. At the boathouse last night, however, he’d begun to think there was more to it than that.
And now, as he walked up and pushed the doorbell, he was sure of it.
He wanted to see her na**d this time; take her on something soft like a bed so he didn’t have to worry about bruising her; do her from behind and then with her straddling him.
The extent to which he needed the sex was a warning—
The door opened—and oh, shit, there she was. And for a split second, the impact of her in that loose navy blue dress flushed his brain, his senses overriding his thought processes entirely.
“Hi,” she said roughly.
As her hand went up and fiddled with the collar, she seemed off.
Frowning, he looked behind her, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the house. Maybe that was the problem?
“You okay with this?” he asked. “We can go somewhere public if you’d rather.”
After all, she’d only met him a matter of days ago—
“No. I want you here. As long as you … you know, you’re all right with it?”
In lieu of an answer, he stepped forward, took hold of her, and kissed the breath out of her. He just wanted to have her against him, and only intended for a quick reconnect—but of course, once he got his hands on her, that went right out the window. With her br**sts against his chest, and her mouth under his, his body got hungry.
Starved, was more like it.
Fucking hell, her lips were so soft against his, and the way she yielded to him, her spine arching into him, made him want to lay her out right on the floor and—
Duke pulled away and shut the door so they didn’t give her neighbors a show. And as he paused to stare down at her, the fact that she was breathing hard and looking up at him as if he were already na**d in her eyes?
Just where he wanted her.
“Hi,” he drawled, brushing back some of her blond hair. “Miss me?”
The smile on her face made his sternum ache. “Yes, I did.”
“I smell dinner?”
“Lasagna. Just homemade—I didn’t know whether you would …” As she let that fade, she put her hand on his face, shaking her head. “God, every time I see you…”
“What.”
“I just forget what you look like. Until you’re in front of me.”
“Good or bad.”
For a moment, her expression changed as if she were taken somewhere else in her head. But then she shook things and seemed to refocus. “Good, very good.”
Duke did some touching of his own, running his fingertips down her neck. “Do you think we’ll make it through dinner this time?”
Man, he was amazing, Cait thought as she absorbed the sight and feel of her lover. To think her memories seemed vivid? They so didn’t compare to the real thing.
Wait, he’d asked her a question, hadn’t he.
Something about making it to dinner?
“I don’t know,” she said slowly as erotic flashbacks made her feel dizzy. Still, talking like civilized people for half an hour was probably a good short-term goal. Then they could … “Ah, let me show you around—not that there’s much to show.”
That awkwardness, the discordant, off-kilter stuff that she’d felt at the diner after the boathouse hookup, came back—and made her wonder about having him to her home.
He was, after all, still a stranger, technically.
Too late now, though.
Before she got a chance to lead any kind of tour, Duke glanced over her head with a remote expression. “Nice place. But I like the looks of its owner even more.”
“You haven’t seen anything.” She flushed. “I mean, of my home.”
He shrugged. “This place could be the Taj Mahal and I’d think the same thing.”
She pivoted away so the blush that hit her face wasn’t quite so obvious. At least the sexual connection was still alive and well between them. “So … this is the living room.”
She stopped the narration there or she was liable to point out such exotic features as the couch, the TV, the lamp on the side table … the frickin’ rug.
“And I work in here.”
Moving onward to the porch, she pulled a Vanna White, turning in a circle and feeling like an idiot. But at least she didn’t have to apologize for the shape things were in. She’d spent the last two hours cleaning everything from floor to attic—although that had been more because she was nervous than any sort of mess.
“Great light in here,” he murmured, putting his hands in his pockets and wandering over to the display of pages on the tables.
As he inspected each drawing, Cait crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight back and forth. The sight of this tall, broad man in black clothes standing over her work made her feel like she was in a funhouse, everything going wonky on her. He was not at all like Thom … or G.B. No, he was latent power and raw sex, a bonfire upright in a pair of black combat boots.
She wanted him.
Holy hell, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on him again.
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing without touching.
She walked over, smoothing her loose skirt and feeling her panty hose ride up. She’d worn a bra tonight—because she’d wanted him to take it off her with his teeth—but the reality was, she wished she didn’t have any makeup on, and was in sweats.
Long day. Very long.
She still hadn’t heard from G.B. And the time she’d spent in that church was lingering with her, hanging like a weight around her neck for no valid reason she could think of.
It was really good to see Duke, though. Just his presence reprioritized things, at least for the next couple of hours: There was nothing she could do right now about G.B. or Sissy’s funeral, and that was true whether or not she was alone. And what she and this man were likely to get up to? What a way to pass the night.
“It’s a book I’m working on,” she said, kicking herself back to attention.
“Nice dog.”
“I love Labs—I grew up with one. Are you a dog person?”
“Never had pets.” He continued to go down her storyboarding table, taking his time—and that made her feel a little more comfortable. Maybe they’d have things to talk about after all. “Did you always know you wanted to be an artist?”
Cait shrugged. “I just was one. Kind of like someone who’s good with math or science—I came out this way.”
“These are really good.”
“I teach, too.”
“Where?”
“At Union, actually.” As he glanced over his shoulder, she shrugged. “I didn’t get very far, did I.”
“You went from student to professor.” He turned back to her work. “That’s a hell of a distance.”
There was a strange note in his voice, but before she could follow up, the buzzer went off in the kitchen.
“’Scuse me.”
She could feel his eyes tracking her as she headed for the lasagna, and that itch to get him good and na**d nearly made her derail the whole save-dinner-from-burning thing: After all, there was a couch in her living room with plenty of leg room—and that was a huge step up from boat cushions or linoleum.
Grabbing an oven mitt, she popped open the stove and leaned back so she didn’t melt her eye makeup off.
“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” she whispered as she took the pan out.
“That looks perfect,” he said next to her.
The sound of his voice made her jump, but she recovered quick. “I’m not much of a cook.”
“That would be a lie.”
As she put the lasagna on a mat on the table she’d set, she did a quick survey. Yup, everything was in place—
“Wine. I forgot to offer you wine.”
“I’ll get it. Have a seat.”
“It’s just the bottle over there on the counter.”
She picked the chair in the corner so she could watch him, and yup, that was a good plan. First thing he did was take off his jacket and hang it on the pegs by her back door—those arms. Dear Lord, those arms. And then luckily, he had to turn away to open that Italian red: As he took the old-fashioned uncorker-thingy and screwed it down into the bottle’s head, the bunching and releasing of his biceps and triceps made her thank God for the necessity of manual labor. And his back was just as spectacular, the expanse of his shoulders flaring out wide on top before his torso narrowed in tight at his hips.
“And encourage you to stay longer?”
“You loooooooove me,” the guy called out as Duke went into the bedroom.
“Not really.”
Duke went over to his closet and opened the louvered doors. Not much in there. But it wasn’t like he had any occasions to wear suits.
In the end, he pulled on his newest pair of jeans, a black muscle shirt, and his black leather jacket—in other words, his work uniform.
Pausing in front of the mirror over the simple pine bureau in the corner, he met his own eyes and thought of his newest buddy at work.
The pair of them had gone down by the river and done their thing, and then hit two of the six parks they had to go through. Duke had the unmistakable impression that the quiet bastard was waiting him out, watching, biding time.
Not his problem.
Returning to the main space of the house, he loomed over the sofa, where Rolly had stretched out and was snoring already.
Fuck it. He was going to focus on the positive of having the guy back—it was like a free ADT system. Because if anyone broke in here, Rolly would call.
Surely the idiot would call.
Duke shut things up tight as he left, and while he walked over to his ride, he shook his head at the beater Rolly had been driving around since they’d been at Union. The stoner had gotten it new—from his very proud parents back in the days when they’d thought he’d amount to something.
Those times had passed. The thing was going on a wing and a prayer, the paint on the hood faded, the bumpers uneven from various impacts, one wheel sporting a mismatched rim because there hadn’t been money to get the proper replacement. And yet Rolly was happy enough with it.
Always would be.
Which was sad, and kind of nice, too.
Getting behind the wheel of his truck, Duke refused to let himself think too much about where he was going and why. The emotions were too complex for him to process—and maybe he didn’t like the directions they were pulling him in.
He had started this thing with Cait to get in the way of that singer with the fake-ass, sensitive, Mr. Nice Guy act.
Now, though, that goal seemed very secondary.
And that was terrifying. The woman was supposed to be a lay, nothing more. That was not how things were trending, though—and he had no clue how to handle it all.
Life had already taught him that love was a dangerous fallacy, and women, as with all people, were incredibly fickle. Like he needed to relearn all that?
Yet it was with a singular fixation that he drove into Caldwell, peeling off the Northway when he got to a residential area full of small houses and little neighborhood shops. The address Cait had given him was not one he was familiar with, but then, this was where young families lived—and he’d never been a part of one of those.
Counting the numbers down, he pulled over in front of a white clapboard with clipped bushes, a tended-to lawn and a detached garage out in back. Her SUV, the Lexus, was parked off to the side.
For some reason, he couldn’t get out, and he passed the time staring at her house. There were two windows upstairs, one of which had a light on in it. Downstairs, there was a broad bay to balance the offset front door, and plenty of illumination, including a glowing fixture right over the entrance.
Kind of like a postcard, and yeah, he could have called this. Cait struck him as the sort of person who’d have a tidy home.
He nearly kept going.
Gripping the steering wheel, he thought … this was wrong. Not his larger purpose, no. But this part of it, the part with her.
Cursing, he glared out at the road ahead of him. “Goddamn it.”
Man, this inner conflict bullshit was not part of the plan. This hesitation, this sense that he was doing a nasty on the way to getting back at G.B. should not be his problem.
Collateral damage happened. And she was an adult, capable of making her own decisions—and it wasn’t like he’d coerced her into the sex. Far from it.
“Shit.”
Forcing his hand forward, he turned off the engine and got out because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. The instant he faced the house, however, a surge went through him and clarified things, reminding him that there was another dimension in play in all this.
God, the sex.
He hadn’t expected it to get so out of control. When he’d seen her behind that café, he’d felt the attraction—then at the club, he’d followed through on it. But he’d assumed those hard-core orgasms had been because of the satisfaction to be had in taking something G.B. wanted. At the boathouse last night, however, he’d begun to think there was more to it than that.
And now, as he walked up and pushed the doorbell, he was sure of it.
He wanted to see her na**d this time; take her on something soft like a bed so he didn’t have to worry about bruising her; do her from behind and then with her straddling him.
The extent to which he needed the sex was a warning—
The door opened—and oh, shit, there she was. And for a split second, the impact of her in that loose navy blue dress flushed his brain, his senses overriding his thought processes entirely.
“Hi,” she said roughly.
As her hand went up and fiddled with the collar, she seemed off.
Frowning, he looked behind her, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the house. Maybe that was the problem?
“You okay with this?” he asked. “We can go somewhere public if you’d rather.”
After all, she’d only met him a matter of days ago—
“No. I want you here. As long as you … you know, you’re all right with it?”
In lieu of an answer, he stepped forward, took hold of her, and kissed the breath out of her. He just wanted to have her against him, and only intended for a quick reconnect—but of course, once he got his hands on her, that went right out the window. With her br**sts against his chest, and her mouth under his, his body got hungry.
Starved, was more like it.
Fucking hell, her lips were so soft against his, and the way she yielded to him, her spine arching into him, made him want to lay her out right on the floor and—
Duke pulled away and shut the door so they didn’t give her neighbors a show. And as he paused to stare down at her, the fact that she was breathing hard and looking up at him as if he were already na**d in her eyes?
Just where he wanted her.
“Hi,” he drawled, brushing back some of her blond hair. “Miss me?”
The smile on her face made his sternum ache. “Yes, I did.”
“I smell dinner?”
“Lasagna. Just homemade—I didn’t know whether you would …” As she let that fade, she put her hand on his face, shaking her head. “God, every time I see you…”
“What.”
“I just forget what you look like. Until you’re in front of me.”
“Good or bad.”
For a moment, her expression changed as if she were taken somewhere else in her head. But then she shook things and seemed to refocus. “Good, very good.”
Duke did some touching of his own, running his fingertips down her neck. “Do you think we’ll make it through dinner this time?”
Man, he was amazing, Cait thought as she absorbed the sight and feel of her lover. To think her memories seemed vivid? They so didn’t compare to the real thing.
Wait, he’d asked her a question, hadn’t he.
Something about making it to dinner?
“I don’t know,” she said slowly as erotic flashbacks made her feel dizzy. Still, talking like civilized people for half an hour was probably a good short-term goal. Then they could … “Ah, let me show you around—not that there’s much to show.”
That awkwardness, the discordant, off-kilter stuff that she’d felt at the diner after the boathouse hookup, came back—and made her wonder about having him to her home.
He was, after all, still a stranger, technically.
Too late now, though.
Before she got a chance to lead any kind of tour, Duke glanced over her head with a remote expression. “Nice place. But I like the looks of its owner even more.”
“You haven’t seen anything.” She flushed. “I mean, of my home.”
He shrugged. “This place could be the Taj Mahal and I’d think the same thing.”
She pivoted away so the blush that hit her face wasn’t quite so obvious. At least the sexual connection was still alive and well between them. “So … this is the living room.”
She stopped the narration there or she was liable to point out such exotic features as the couch, the TV, the lamp on the side table … the frickin’ rug.
“And I work in here.”
Moving onward to the porch, she pulled a Vanna White, turning in a circle and feeling like an idiot. But at least she didn’t have to apologize for the shape things were in. She’d spent the last two hours cleaning everything from floor to attic—although that had been more because she was nervous than any sort of mess.
“Great light in here,” he murmured, putting his hands in his pockets and wandering over to the display of pages on the tables.
As he inspected each drawing, Cait crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight back and forth. The sight of this tall, broad man in black clothes standing over her work made her feel like she was in a funhouse, everything going wonky on her. He was not at all like Thom … or G.B. No, he was latent power and raw sex, a bonfire upright in a pair of black combat boots.
She wanted him.
Holy hell, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on him again.
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing without touching.
She walked over, smoothing her loose skirt and feeling her panty hose ride up. She’d worn a bra tonight—because she’d wanted him to take it off her with his teeth—but the reality was, she wished she didn’t have any makeup on, and was in sweats.
Long day. Very long.
She still hadn’t heard from G.B. And the time she’d spent in that church was lingering with her, hanging like a weight around her neck for no valid reason she could think of.
It was really good to see Duke, though. Just his presence reprioritized things, at least for the next couple of hours: There was nothing she could do right now about G.B. or Sissy’s funeral, and that was true whether or not she was alone. And what she and this man were likely to get up to? What a way to pass the night.
“It’s a book I’m working on,” she said, kicking herself back to attention.
“Nice dog.”
“I love Labs—I grew up with one. Are you a dog person?”
“Never had pets.” He continued to go down her storyboarding table, taking his time—and that made her feel a little more comfortable. Maybe they’d have things to talk about after all. “Did you always know you wanted to be an artist?”
Cait shrugged. “I just was one. Kind of like someone who’s good with math or science—I came out this way.”
“These are really good.”
“I teach, too.”
“Where?”
“At Union, actually.” As he glanced over his shoulder, she shrugged. “I didn’t get very far, did I.”
“You went from student to professor.” He turned back to her work. “That’s a hell of a distance.”
There was a strange note in his voice, but before she could follow up, the buzzer went off in the kitchen.
“’Scuse me.”
She could feel his eyes tracking her as she headed for the lasagna, and that itch to get him good and na**d nearly made her derail the whole save-dinner-from-burning thing: After all, there was a couch in her living room with plenty of leg room—and that was a huge step up from boat cushions or linoleum.
Grabbing an oven mitt, she popped open the stove and leaned back so she didn’t melt her eye makeup off.
“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” she whispered as she took the pan out.
“That looks perfect,” he said next to her.
The sound of his voice made her jump, but she recovered quick. “I’m not much of a cook.”
“That would be a lie.”
As she put the lasagna on a mat on the table she’d set, she did a quick survey. Yup, everything was in place—
“Wine. I forgot to offer you wine.”
“I’ll get it. Have a seat.”
“It’s just the bottle over there on the counter.”
She picked the chair in the corner so she could watch him, and yup, that was a good plan. First thing he did was take off his jacket and hang it on the pegs by her back door—those arms. Dear Lord, those arms. And then luckily, he had to turn away to open that Italian red: As he took the old-fashioned uncorker-thingy and screwed it down into the bottle’s head, the bunching and releasing of his biceps and triceps made her thank God for the necessity of manual labor. And his back was just as spectacular, the expanse of his shoulders flaring out wide on top before his torso narrowed in tight at his hips.
