Screwdrivered
Page 58
“No, Clark—it’s not what you think. Nothing—”
“Save it, Viv. I don’t need this one spelled out for me,” he spat.
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth at the sound of my name. “No,” I whispered, horrified.
“You’ve got that right.” He spun so quickly I barely saw him go. I heard his angry, hollow footsteps as he hurried through the house and out the back door.
I crumpled onto the antique rug. All I could feel was emptiness, a hollow at the pit of my stomach that I’d hurt Clark so deeply. It didn’t matter that nothing happened with Hank. That he thought it had, that my actions could cause such pain to such a dear, sweet, wonderful man, was sickening.
Tears ran down my face, which his beautiful hands had just held.
The hands that I was lucky to have felt. The hands that any woman would be proud to hold, to feel, to writhe beneath, and to clasp tightly. And I wanted those hands.
What would a heroine do in this situation? Cry and wail and scream?
Maybe. But not crumpled into a ball on the floor. She’d do it while going toe-to-toe with her hero, making him hear, and making him see.
Fighting for her man.
I was on my feet in a flash, flying through the house, grabbing blindly for the back door and stumbling out into the rain. I made it down three steps before I saw him.
Standing by his car. Not getting in. Just standing.
In the rain, the thunder and the lightning, the tumult and the wind. Up to his loafers in the mud. Not getting in.
Holding his keys in a tightly clenched fist. One hand on the top of the car. Letting the rain pour down on him. Soaked. Angry. Not getting in.
“Clark!” I yelled. He turned. I ran across the yard. Soaked. Angry.
“Go back inside,” he warned, his voice raised over the raucous rain.
“No,” I said, and his fist shot out to pound on the roof of his car. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”
“Go. Back. Inside,” he said again, taking one step forward. He tore his glasses from his face, shoving them into his jacket pocket. His eyes were dangerous. His hair was plastered against his face, his tweed and his white button-down rain soaked. Absolutely magnificent.
I took a step forward myself. “Make me.”
I could see the anger boiling off his skin. We both stepped forward at the same time. He opened his mouth, and my hand shot out to cover it before he could tell me to go back inside again.
I knew I only had seconds before he shut me down once more and actually left. So I took a deep breath, and spoke from my heart.
“I f**king love you, you goddamned librarian.”
His eyes narrowed, so I went on.
“And it’s not just because you’re incredibly sweet and kind, or incredibly gorgeous and stunning, or incredibly smart and well read, or incredibly sexy and hot as all f**k, or incredibly impatient and smart-alecky, or incredibly strong and tan, or incredibly thoughtful and chivalrous, or have an incredibly substantial penis. Which I’m banking on, because I’ve seen you in running shorts, and holy shit, Clark.”
His eyes widened, so I went on.
“I love you because you are all those things, but most important, because you’re Clark. You’re him—the one I’ve been dreaming about and lusting after, and wishing and waiting for. So you can leave here tonight if you want to, but I’ll be outside your house tomorrow morning with scones, Clark—and I will be there every morning until you see me again. Until I can be your Vivian once more,” I said, my hand still over his mouth.
“Or you can stay here, tonight and every night, and let me love you.” I leaned in. “And for the record, I am so turned on by your elbow patches, I’m coming out of my skin over here.”
His eyes darkened. Deepened. Still dangerous, but no longer cold.
Then I felt his lips open against my palm, soft and warm, and kiss my skin.
And then I felt his hand close over mine, sliding down my arm to wrap it around his neck, and he wrapped the other one tightly behind my back, clutching me close to him.
And then he told me, “I won’t take less than every night.”
He crushed me to him as he ran with me across the yard, up the steps, and into the house. And then I was pinned against the wall by one very wet, very intense, very hard librarian.
He caged me in, hands on either side of my head, my back arching to keep contact with him as he looked down at me. “Am I to understand from your confession out there that you’ve been dreaming about me?” he asked, his wet hair tickling me as he ran his nose down my neck, pausing at the hollow at the base.
He pressed a wet lingering kiss there, nuzzling at my skin. I moaned, the feeling of him divine, and he chuckled. “That wasn’t quite the answer I was looking for.” He nuzzled at me again, now drifting just below my ear, nibbling at the sensitive spot. “Were you dreaming of this?”
“Yes,” I managed, twisting to keep his mouth on me.
“And this?” he asked, thrusting himself against me, letting me feel all of him. Exactly where I needed him.
“Yes. God, yes,” I groaned.
And then my librarian kissed me. Those sweet lips met mine, crashing in and invading my brain with his lips and his tongue. I parted mine instantly, groaning at the feel of his mouth on mine. We kissed crazily, exploring and teasing, swirling and moaning as he expertly licked at my lips, sweet and perfectly matched.
Meeting my eyes once more, he lifted one corner of his mouth. “Mmm, Vivian.”
I sighed at the sound of my name, lifting my shoulders in delight. Which tightened the wet white T-shirt across my chest. You could see everything, and I grinned sheepishly at Clark, a whaddyagonnadoaboutit look on my face. He grinned too, but his was infinitely sexier.
“This is the most ridiculous outfit I’ve ever seen, Vivian,” he said, in the most proper voice I’d heard all night.
I followed his glance. My socks had fallen down around my ankles, covered in mud. The wet T-shirt was stretched to the point of ridiculous, falling off my shoulder.
“Take it off,” he commanded, and I jerked my head up at the change in tone. His eyes burned into mine. I raised an eyebrow. He inclined his head slightly. “Now.”
Nighttime Clark had arrived. Aw yeah!
Shivering with need, I lifted it over my head, my eyes on his. When I’d pulled it clear, his eyes roamed. I leaned down, peeling off the socks, then stood as slowly as I could manage. His jaw was clenched, tight and tense, as lust took over his expression.
“You too,” I chided, hands on my hips, unabashedly thrusting my br**sts toward him.
“Save it, Viv. I don’t need this one spelled out for me,” he spat.
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth at the sound of my name. “No,” I whispered, horrified.
“You’ve got that right.” He spun so quickly I barely saw him go. I heard his angry, hollow footsteps as he hurried through the house and out the back door.
I crumpled onto the antique rug. All I could feel was emptiness, a hollow at the pit of my stomach that I’d hurt Clark so deeply. It didn’t matter that nothing happened with Hank. That he thought it had, that my actions could cause such pain to such a dear, sweet, wonderful man, was sickening.
Tears ran down my face, which his beautiful hands had just held.
The hands that I was lucky to have felt. The hands that any woman would be proud to hold, to feel, to writhe beneath, and to clasp tightly. And I wanted those hands.
What would a heroine do in this situation? Cry and wail and scream?
Maybe. But not crumpled into a ball on the floor. She’d do it while going toe-to-toe with her hero, making him hear, and making him see.
Fighting for her man.
I was on my feet in a flash, flying through the house, grabbing blindly for the back door and stumbling out into the rain. I made it down three steps before I saw him.
Standing by his car. Not getting in. Just standing.
In the rain, the thunder and the lightning, the tumult and the wind. Up to his loafers in the mud. Not getting in.
Holding his keys in a tightly clenched fist. One hand on the top of the car. Letting the rain pour down on him. Soaked. Angry. Not getting in.
“Clark!” I yelled. He turned. I ran across the yard. Soaked. Angry.
“Go back inside,” he warned, his voice raised over the raucous rain.
“No,” I said, and his fist shot out to pound on the roof of his car. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”
“Go. Back. Inside,” he said again, taking one step forward. He tore his glasses from his face, shoving them into his jacket pocket. His eyes were dangerous. His hair was plastered against his face, his tweed and his white button-down rain soaked. Absolutely magnificent.
I took a step forward myself. “Make me.”
I could see the anger boiling off his skin. We both stepped forward at the same time. He opened his mouth, and my hand shot out to cover it before he could tell me to go back inside again.
I knew I only had seconds before he shut me down once more and actually left. So I took a deep breath, and spoke from my heart.
“I f**king love you, you goddamned librarian.”
His eyes narrowed, so I went on.
“And it’s not just because you’re incredibly sweet and kind, or incredibly gorgeous and stunning, or incredibly smart and well read, or incredibly sexy and hot as all f**k, or incredibly impatient and smart-alecky, or incredibly strong and tan, or incredibly thoughtful and chivalrous, or have an incredibly substantial penis. Which I’m banking on, because I’ve seen you in running shorts, and holy shit, Clark.”
His eyes widened, so I went on.
“I love you because you are all those things, but most important, because you’re Clark. You’re him—the one I’ve been dreaming about and lusting after, and wishing and waiting for. So you can leave here tonight if you want to, but I’ll be outside your house tomorrow morning with scones, Clark—and I will be there every morning until you see me again. Until I can be your Vivian once more,” I said, my hand still over his mouth.
“Or you can stay here, tonight and every night, and let me love you.” I leaned in. “And for the record, I am so turned on by your elbow patches, I’m coming out of my skin over here.”
His eyes darkened. Deepened. Still dangerous, but no longer cold.
Then I felt his lips open against my palm, soft and warm, and kiss my skin.
And then I felt his hand close over mine, sliding down my arm to wrap it around his neck, and he wrapped the other one tightly behind my back, clutching me close to him.
And then he told me, “I won’t take less than every night.”
He crushed me to him as he ran with me across the yard, up the steps, and into the house. And then I was pinned against the wall by one very wet, very intense, very hard librarian.
He caged me in, hands on either side of my head, my back arching to keep contact with him as he looked down at me. “Am I to understand from your confession out there that you’ve been dreaming about me?” he asked, his wet hair tickling me as he ran his nose down my neck, pausing at the hollow at the base.
He pressed a wet lingering kiss there, nuzzling at my skin. I moaned, the feeling of him divine, and he chuckled. “That wasn’t quite the answer I was looking for.” He nuzzled at me again, now drifting just below my ear, nibbling at the sensitive spot. “Were you dreaming of this?”
“Yes,” I managed, twisting to keep his mouth on me.
“And this?” he asked, thrusting himself against me, letting me feel all of him. Exactly where I needed him.
“Yes. God, yes,” I groaned.
And then my librarian kissed me. Those sweet lips met mine, crashing in and invading my brain with his lips and his tongue. I parted mine instantly, groaning at the feel of his mouth on mine. We kissed crazily, exploring and teasing, swirling and moaning as he expertly licked at my lips, sweet and perfectly matched.
Meeting my eyes once more, he lifted one corner of his mouth. “Mmm, Vivian.”
I sighed at the sound of my name, lifting my shoulders in delight. Which tightened the wet white T-shirt across my chest. You could see everything, and I grinned sheepishly at Clark, a whaddyagonnadoaboutit look on my face. He grinned too, but his was infinitely sexier.
“This is the most ridiculous outfit I’ve ever seen, Vivian,” he said, in the most proper voice I’d heard all night.
I followed his glance. My socks had fallen down around my ankles, covered in mud. The wet T-shirt was stretched to the point of ridiculous, falling off my shoulder.
“Take it off,” he commanded, and I jerked my head up at the change in tone. His eyes burned into mine. I raised an eyebrow. He inclined his head slightly. “Now.”
Nighttime Clark had arrived. Aw yeah!
Shivering with need, I lifted it over my head, my eyes on his. When I’d pulled it clear, his eyes roamed. I leaned down, peeling off the socks, then stood as slowly as I could manage. His jaw was clenched, tight and tense, as lust took over his expression.
“You too,” I chided, hands on my hips, unabashedly thrusting my br**sts toward him.
