“What are you?” he asked.
“Well, I’m supposed to be a jingle writer, but that’s not working out so well, either.”
“A jingle writer?”
“I write songs for commercials,” she said. “Nothing nearly as difficult as risking limb and life at sea for seven years, I know, but it presents its own challenges.”
“Would I recognize any of your jingles?” he asked.
“Maybe, but nothing recent. The one I just turned in was for Cushy toilet paper.”
He grinned. “Nice. What are you working on now?”
She hesitated, nibbling on her lower lip again. “Diaxsis.”
“Which is . . .?”
She blew out a sigh. “An erectile dysfunction med.”
He laughed. “And you’re having a . . . hard time?”
“Funny,” she said. “It’s all fun and games—unless you have to write the jingle. At the moment, I’m wishing I had a job serving ranch-flavored popcorn on the pier instead. Or anything.”
“I used to want to be a rock star,” he told her.
“Yeah?” she asked. “What stopped you?”
“I’m completely tone-deaf and can’t sing worth shit.”
She laughed, and he smiled at the sweet sound of it.
“Is that why your music’s so loud that the windows rattle?” she asked. “You’re in there pretending to be a rock star?”
“I work to it,” he said. “Or I did. The past few days I’ve been listening to whatever it is you’re listening to.”
She froze. “You can hear me messing around on my keyboard?” she asked, sounding horrified.
He paused. “That’s you? You’re fantastic.”
She immediately shook her head. “No.”
“Actually, yeah.”
“No, I mean you can’t listen.” There was a new edge to her voice, and she took a step back. “I can’t play if I have an audience.”
“Why not?”
“Because I choke,” she said, sounding genuinely upset.
“Okay,” he said quietly, taking in the fact that she was now pale by moonlight. “I’ll pretend not to listen. How’s that?”
“No.” She didn’t relax or smile. “Because I’ll know you’re only pretending not to listen.”
She wasn’t being coy here, or searching for compliments the way women sometimes did. She was truly unable to bear the thought of him hearing her play. “I could wear earplugs,” he said.
She stared at him, then looked away, to the water. “I sound crazy, I know. But I don’t play for audiences anymore. I’m only playing for myself now, while trying to come up with my next jingle.”
“You used to play for an audience?”
“Oh, God, Becca,” she muttered, “just shut up.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I really need a subject change.”
“Is that why you left New Orleans?”
“How is that a subject change?” She dropped her hands and sighed. “I left New Orleans because I needed a break from . . . things. Family, to be honest. It’s hard to explain.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” he said. “Maybe you’re too focused on the past instead of the here and now.”
She stared at him.
He stared back.
“Maybe,” she finally said softly. “You don’t ever do that? Get stuck in the past?”
Sam didn’t like to think about the past at all, much less try to get back to it. “Hell no.”
“So . . . you’re a little broken, too?” she asked hopefully, her eyes locked on his with great interest.
“I’m not broken.”
She sighed. “Of course not, since you have a penis.”
“What does that mean?”
“Guys don’t admit to being broken,” she said.
He laughed, and she stared at him. “Okay,” she said, “you’ve really got to stop doing that, laugh all sexy-like, Mr. Broken Sexy Grumpy Surfer.”
“I’m not broken,” he said again. Much.
“Well, if you were, I should let you know, I’ve heard of this remedy . . .”
“Yeah?”
Again she dragged her teeth over her lower lip. “Maybe it’s not a remedy so much as a . . . temporary fix. Like a Band-Aid,” she said, tipping her face to his.
There was an intimacy that came with the dark night, and with it came an ache. An ache for a woman. This woman. It’d been a while since he’d held someone, gotten lost in someone. The truth was that no one had tempted him in a while.
Becca did. Becca with the dark, warm eyes, the sweet smile, and the pulse racing at the base of her throat. He wanted to put his mouth there. He wanted to put his mouth to every inch of her, and he reached for her hand, slowly pulling her in so they stood toe-to-toe. “What’s the Band-Aid?”
“Seeing as you’re not broken,” she said, “it doesn’t matter.”
Sam ran a finger along her temple, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and took in the quick tremble that racked her body at his touch. “What matters to me is how you got broken,” he said.
She closed her eyes, and his smile faded. “Someone hurt you,” he said.
“No.” She turned away. “It was a long time ago.”
Yeah. Someone had hurt her. He turned her to face him and waited for her to open those soulful eyes. Whatever had happened to her had cut deep, but she wasn’t down for the count.
He could relate to that.
“I don’t talk about it,” she said.
“Instead, you put a Band-Aid on it.”
“Yes.” She hesitated, and then set her hand on his chest, slowly, lightly dragging her fingers from one pec to the other as if testing herself out for a reaction. He hoped she was getting one because the simple touch stirred anything but simple reactions within him.
“It’s been a while,” she murmured, “but I remember this as a proven effective method for healing all.”
He loved that she wasn’t too shy to speak her mind. And frankly, he also loved that she’d made the first move, hesitant as it was. He’d make the second. And the third. Hell, he’d make whatever moves she was receptive to, and hopefully chase away her demons while he was at it. But when she leaned into him, he slid his hands down her arms, capturing her wrists to stop her. ”I need to take care of something first,” he said.
“Oh.” Some of the light died from her. “I get it.”
“No.” He held on to her when she would have pulled away. “This isn’t a rejection, Becca. I want you.” He dipped down a little to look right into her eyes, wanting to make sure she really got him. “I want you bad, but I’m all sweaty from my run. I need a shower, a quick one, I promise. But my shop doesn’t have one, and my house is ten minutes away, so I need you to be patient while I—”
“I’ve got a shower,” she said. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. He groaned and gave in, kissing her.
Fucking perfect.
That was how she tasted. She made a little mewling sound and pressed closer, like she thought maybe he was going to vanish.
Fat chance.
He slanted his head and kissed her the way he liked it, open-mouthed, wet, and deep. He let go of her wrists and things got a whole lot hotter real fast. Their hands bumped into each other as they moved, grappling for purchase, hers running over his chest and arms, his gliding up her sides, inside the bulky sweatshirt she wore.
She moaned into his mouth.
He lost his head a little bit then. Or maybe he’d lost it the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, he didn’t know. She made him so dizzy he couldn’t think straight. “Becca,” he said, and from somewhere, he had no idea where, he found the strength to pull her back.
Their gazes met, and at the heat—and uncertainty—in hers, he kissed her again, soft this time. When she let out a shaky breath and slid her arms around his neck, he held her off again. “Shower first,” he said.
“And then?”
The
hopefulness in her voice went straight through him, and he kissed her again, until she moaned into his mouth, her reaction taking away his ability to think clearly. “And then,” he promised, “whatever you want.”
Chapter 7
It wasn’t often Becca acted recklessly, or with abandon. In fact, it was almost never.
But Sam of the beautiful eyes and sexy voice and surprisingly sharp wit was bringing it out in her. She deserved this, she reminded herself. A night of no strings, a night lost in a man’s arms.
This man’s arms.
She led the way to her front door. She had the very hot and sexy Sam Brody standing at her back, and she was wondering if she was really going to do this.
Could she?
Then Sam leaned in and kissed her neck, and she quivered in arousal.
Oh, God. Yes. Despite her trepidations and unease and the fact that her lady bits might have rusted up and withered from disuse, she was going to do this.
And she was not going to let anything intrude.
She was going to get naked, and she was going to have a good time while she was at it.
Olivia entered the building just then, walking fast, head down. When she looked up, she nearly tripped over her own feet at the sight of Becca and Sam standing there. “Oh,” she said in clear surprise.
Sam nodded at her. “Olivia.”
They knew each other, Becca realized, with an odd pang of something. Jealousy? Nah, that couldn’t be.
Could it?
Olivia nodded back at Sam and started to walk past them, but then she stopped and turned back to Becca. “I know I owe you an apology for the other night.”
“For what?” Becca asked.
Olivia was in another pair of jeans, very cute high-heeled wedges, and a gauzy top that showed off her enviable figure. She was beautiful and aloof, and her expression was hooded as it had been the other night, but she had the good grace to grimace. “Slamming my door on your nose,” she said. “I’m not really a people person.”
“Duly noted,” Becca said drily.
Olivia grimaced again. “I know you were trying to be a nice neighbor, and I was a jerk. I’d like to make it up to you. Seriously,” she said at Becca’s look of surprise. “Food fixes all, right? I make the best homemade pizza out there. So dinner, on me.” She slid Sam a glance. “When you’re not busy.”
Becca swiveled her gaze to Sam, wondering how he stacked up against homemade pizza.
He arched a brow at her.
Olivia shocked Becca by laughing. “Another night,” she said, and vanished inside her place.
“You wanted to give me up for pizza,” Sam said.
“Homemade pizza,” Becca corrected, and put her key in the lock, jerking at the feel of his hot mouth on the back of her neck.
“I’m going to make you forget about the pizza,” he whispered against her skin.
She shivered, having underestimated the power of a man’s kiss on her neck. “Are you sure you want to make a promise you might not be able to keep?” she managed.
“I always keep my promises.”
She hoped so. God, she hoped so.
Five minutes later, Becca stood outside her bathroom, hands and forehead on the door, body thrumming with emotions she almost didn’t recognize.
Desire.
Need.
From the other side came the sound of her shower running.
She had a man in her shower.
Good Lord, she had a man in her shower. Picturing Sam in there all hot and naked, using her soap, rubbing his hands over his body, was making her good parts tingle. And she had a lot of good parts, many more than she remembered . . .
She smiled in relief, then shook her head at herself. Why was she fantasizing about the naked man in her shower instead of being in the shower with the naked man?
She chewed on her thumbnail another moment, giving brief thought to being shy, but then quickly discarded that as it hadn’t gotten her anywhere all year.
Open the door, Becca.
She opened the door.
Steam rolled over her as the water beat against the tile floor. Taking a deep breath, she fixed her eyes on the sight before her. The glass door was fogged over but she could see the faint outline of Sam’s body. She had a side view, and it was a good one. He had one hand braced on the wall in front of him, his head hanging low as he let the water pound between his shoulder blades.
Becca’s gaze followed the trail of water down his sleek back, over the perfect, succulent curve of his ass, and down the backs of his legs to his feet.
He was gorgeous.
Sweating now, she had to strip off her bulky sweatshirt. At the movement, he glanced over. Seeing her there, his gaze went fiery and suggestive. Teeming with raw passion, he reached for the soap, running his hands with perfunctory speed and precision over himself.
Becca stared. She started to say something, but then he wrapped his hand around himself. Eyes locked on hers, he held on but didn’t stroke, and she got all hot and bothered from wishing he would. “You didn’t lock the door,” she managed. “So I, um. . .”
He smiled a very dangerous, alluring smile.
She stood there, her entire body vibrating with need, but trying desperately to be cool, like having a man in her shower was no big deal. In truth, it was a big deal. A huge big deal. Her heart was just about racing right out of her chest.
Her terms, she reminded herself. This was on her terms and she was in control. She could stop this at any time.
But she already knew she wasn’t going to want to stop.
Sam lifted his hands and shoved his hair back from his face.
Her body tingled. And though he was the one in the shower, she was the one getting damp. Reaching over to a drawer, she pulled out the sole condom she had. She’d gotten it as a party favor a few years back, and because it was blue, and blueberry-flavored to boot, and an “extra, extra” large, she’d kept it for laughs. It’d been a while since she’d had use for a condom, and she sort of wished it wasn’t blue, but it was better than nothing.
Water and suds continued to sluice down Sam’s body, and, even hotter now, Becca pulled off another item of clothing—her long-sleeved tee.
Sam swiped at the fogged-up glass on the shower, presumably to better see her, and smiled. “You’ve got a lot of layers on.”
She flushed. “I was cold earlier.”
“I’ll keep you warm.”
She utterly believed him. She pushed off her flannel PJ bottoms next, which left her in a thin cotton cami and an equally thin pair of cotton panties.
Given the fire in Sam’s eyes, he approved, but she hesitated, because whatever came off next was going to reveal more of her than had been seen by another human being in a while.