Break On Through (8 page)

Cleo tried to hide the selection she had set out on the counter. “I’m making a favorite of yours, Eli. It’s chowder.” Vegetable chowder. But the boys didn’t seem to get that the colorful bits in their bowls were the very same things so many of their peers complained about.

“Chowder’s good,” Eli said, looking up. “You should eat with us.”

“You heard the young man,” Reed said, lifting his gaze to hers. “I should eat with you.”

Cleo told herself to settle down. Vegetable chowder took a lot of chopping and she couldn’t afford to be all quivery with a sharp knife in hand. But it clattered to the countertop when he was suddenly standing behind her. “Can I do something to help?”

It was good manners! A simple question! But neither reminder quelled the jittery reaction of her nerves to his close presence. The bare skin at her nape prickled and her nipples went hard again, pressing against the cups of her bra. “No, no,” she said, not daring to look at him. “Sit down. It won’t be terribly long.”

And if he didn’t move she’d get a fingertip or a fingernail into the food. Her breathing didn’t move easy until he was back in his chair. Time flew after that as she continued making the meal. Obie reappeared and peppered him with questions about home repair. Once her younger son considered someone an expert, he wanted to sponge of all the knowledge that person had to offer.

He’d learned a lot about lawn care from the landscapers.

With the buffer of her boys, the meal proceeded without another hitch. She focused on making sure they kept their napkins in their lap and their rolls off the floor. Reed chatted with the boys but she continued to be so unsettled by his presence that she hardly registered a thing about their conversation.

He helped her with the dishes. A couple of bowls nearly slipped through her fingers but he caught them deftly and didn’t remark on her clumsiness. Then it was time for her to get the boys into bed. It was a school night.

“I’ll be just a few minutes,” she said, ushering them toward their bedroom. “Um…I can make some coffee then.”

“Sure,” he said. “Good night, Eli. Obie.”

Once inside the boys’ room, she wanted to kick herself. Why hadn’t she used bedtime as the excuse to get Reed out of her house? Now she was going to have to make nice instead of nervous once she got the boys to sleep.

They didn’t cooperate by developing an aversion to their pillows. As usual, Eli and Obie went straight to Slumberland after only a couple of pages of the story she was reading them. She hung around in their room for a few more minutes, fiddling with their covers, straightening their shoes in the closet, adjusting a stuffed animal until she couldn’t stand her cowardly self for another second.

When she returned to the kitchen, it was to find it empty.

Her stomach quaked with either relief or disappointment. Had he gone home after all?

But then something took her feet into the living area.

Her loveseat couldn’t contain him. Illuminated by a floor lamp, he was sprawled in one corner, one leg over the far arm, the other planted on the floor. His hands were folded, fingers entwined, and were propped on the flat surface of his belly. Breathing deeply, he was asleep, the dark fan of his lashes creating spikey shadows on his well-defined cheekbones.

Cleo took her own deep breath, enjoying this quiet moment to take in every inch of his long frame and handsome face.

God, he was great-looking.

Beyond that, he was the embodiment of sex. The slumbering power of his rangy body drew her closer. She tiptoed nearer, resisting the urge to run her fingers through his disordered hair. Instead, her gaze ran over the bare skin she could see, his tanned neck and the muscled strength of his arms.

What was hidden from her was even more tantalizing. Was there body art beneath his shirt? Maybe…piercings?

She flushed hot at the thought, a dozen carnal images blooming to life in her brain.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” he suddenly said, eyes still closed.

She jumped, guilt washing over her. “I’m not thinking,” she lied.

“You’re staring.”

Oh, crap. She
was
doing that. “I was deciding whether or not to wake you.”

His eyes flipped open and he straightened on the seat. Cleo took a step back, startled once again by his sudden movement. With both feet on the floor, he stretched out his arms on the back of the loveseat and gave her a leisurely once over. “I don’t think you’re ready for me to spend the night, Cleo.”

“No!” Oh, God. Surely she was going red again. Lowering her voice, she tried pasting on a smile. “I mean, hah hah.”

Reed cocked a brow. “Hah hah?”

She made wild gesture. “As in, very funny.”

“You don’t think I want to go to bed with you?”

What was she supposed to say to
that
? Was this how men talked now? Did they just come right out with bold truths? “I don’t know what you want,” she muttered.

“Tonight,” he said, rising from the cushions, “I’ll settle for a kiss.”

“Oh. Well.” Her gaze darted away from his face searching for something else to land upon. “I’m sort of unpracticed.”
Gah!
Where was a “No, thank you,” when you needed one?

“That’s all right,” he said, moving forward. “Afterward, we can critique each other.”

One more step, and his body was aligned with hers, his body heat at her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Everything was quivering and quaking again, especially her will to deny him this. Licking her lips, she looked up. With the light behind him, his face was in shadow, his eyes dark pools. His hand sifted in her hair at the side of her head.

Cleo’s knees went soft at the touch and she grabbed onto his shoulders to remain upright. Then his mouth descended.

The first touch of lips-to-lips was dry, hot, an almost rough brush of super-sensitive tissues. Her fingers dug into heavy bone as he played with her again, another stroke that wasn’t a kiss, just…foreplay of a kiss.

The bastard.

Because every cell in her was yearning for a heavier touch, and he had to know it. His thumb caressed her cheek, as if to soothe her, but it only made her want more. Made her want to suck, bite,
have
.

Please, she screamed inside her head.
Kiss me!

And then his head dipped lower, tilting to come to her at a different angle. She felt the contact with his mouth, the wet dab of his tongue on her lower lip, and she gasped at the goodness of it.

He surged inside.

She made a noise at the back of her throat and stepped into him. His free hand slid around to the small of her back. His fingers found bare flesh beneath her shirt, and it flashed hot as he pressed her closer to the thick bulge at his groin.

Her blood sped up, need rushing through her body, a burning, pulsing line of fire. His mouth worked, greedy on hers, and she took all that she could, sucking on his tongue and clenching her fingers in the cotton of his shirt.

Then, on his own low noise, he lifted his head. His breathing came in hard pants as he stared down at her. “Show me to the door.”

What? She couldn’t move. If he let her go, she’d slither down to the ground and stay there, a puddle of sexuality too long ignored. With only that kiss, her panties were damp and her clit was pressing against the silky fabric, already swollen.

“Show me to the door,” Reed said again, and this time he walked backward, taking her with him.

Determined not to betray her unsophistication—her rampant,
urgent
neediness—Cleo steeled her spine and ordered her legs to be steady. Somehow they made it to the entry.

There, Reed hesitated, a ghost of a smile on his face and cockiness written in every line of his body. “So…how’d I do?” he asked.

Stepping away, she shrugged, then ran a hand through her hair to fluff her bangs. Gather some dignity! she ordered herself. “I’ve had better.”

His laugh was low, soft. “Bad Cleo,” he whispered, turning the knob. “
I’m
the fiction writer.”

Chapter Five

Reed’s eyes squeezed shut as her palm measured his cock, gave it a little squeeze. He groaned, hot water sluicing down his back as she pressed her breasts to his chest, hard nipples against his skin giving away her excitement. Her mouth touched his throat and he thought of their first kiss in her living room, the shock it had given to his system—and hers. She’d tried being nonchalant about it then, and he hadn’t blamed her. When you spotted a raging fire racing your way, anyone would obey instinct and run first.

He’d even considered letting her go. Giving up on gaining her trust. But Reed was Rock Royalty, son of one of the Velvet Lemons, meaning his DNA was handed down from a man who didn’t deny himself anything he wanted—and Reed’s hunger for Cleo Anderson was the definition of want.

She chased droplets down his chest with her tongue, and his own nipples hardened into stiff nail heads. Teasing him, she thumbed both on her way down to her knees. He’d known she’d be like this, eager to please and be pleased. That first night, as his tongue had plundered her mouth, his hand had found the bare skin at the small of her back. She’d gone still, electrified by naked flesh to naked flesh.

Her response had nearly had him coming in his jeans.

Now she ran her small, straight nose down the length of his cock. Just like that, he was ready to blow, and when she gripped his balls, the sizzling coils of agonizing sensation throughout his body drew back, centering there in the palm of her hand, a hot ball of passion that then shot up his shaft. His tip was swollen, angry and frustrated with the delay, and when she reached out her tongue for one simple swipe across it—

Semen exploded from him, ropes of it that splashed the shower wall. Reed pulled the rest of the climax from himself in short jerks, as the fantasy Cleo dissolved in shower steam. When the orgasm finally abated, he squeezed his cockhead a final time then dropped his hand. His tense shoulders relaxed, his jaw unclenched.

He hung his head, letting the water douse his hair. His imagination was hella good, but none of these soapy interludes had driven the desire for the real woman out of him. He’d been keeping his distance from her, allowing the promise of what might be to simmer before approaching her again, but the wait was wreaking havoc with his concentration.

He was behind on work and he’d never been so goddamn squeaky clean.

Exiting the enclosure, he dropped one towel over his head and used another to dry off his body. It was way past noon, and time for another round in the desk chair, he told himself. Jesse had discovered it was a trapped pigeon that had left the feathers on his bed and the boy needed to find the poor, panicked creature and set it free.

The School was full of victims and villains.

Half an hour later, he still hadn’t opened the computer file. Maybe he should change his writing venue. Work at a coffee place. The mall.

But the idea of creating around that many people gave him the willies.

Go to your laptop
, he ordered himself.
Reclaim your space.

In the building that was a fence away from Cleo. Her naked image rose like a genie from the bottle of his imagination and blood snaked south, causing him to begin to harden again.

Jesus Christ.
Another shower and his dick would be rubbed raw. “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog” would be impossible for his pruned fingertips to type.

Then a happy thought intruded. Maybe he had mail.

His step was light as he exited the front door. With luck, a circular from Trader Joe’s or a catalog from his favorite store that offered leather desk accessories and expensive fountain pens would require his immediate attention.

As he pushed open the gate, it was to find Eli Anderson standing on the other side, his face red, his expression worried. The hair edging his face was damp. He bit his bottom lip with his permanent front teeth that looked too big for his childish face.

“Do you need something?” Reed asked.

The kid’s gaze darted around him. Reed glanced over his shoulder, but didn’t see anything remarkable. When he looked back at the boy, he noted that there was a scratch on his arm and a tear in the fabric of his T-shirt. A leaf was stuck on his shoulder.

Reed dropped to a crouch, so they were face-to-face. “Eli, are you hurt?”

“I might have lost Obie,” he confessed.

Standing, Reed scanned the sidewalk. There was no one in sight, not a towhead little boy, not a beautiful blonde. It was about the end of the school day, he supposed, taking in the angle of the sun. “Where’s your mom?”

Eli hitched the straps of his backpack higher on his narrow shoulders. “We talked her into letting us walk home by ourselves.”

“Was there another incident?” Reed took a second gander of the area. It seemed quiet.

“Kind of,” Eli confessed. “But really, it started at school.”

“What started at school?” He remembered the kid said he might have lost his brother and anxiety started to ripple in his belly. “Where do you think Obie might be?”

“There,” Eli said, pointing toward the big treehouse in Reed’s yard.

He swung around. It appeared as deserted as the street. “The gate—”

“There’s a hole in the hedge,” Eli said, glancing down the length of thick leaves. “But I couldn’t fit through.”

Without waiting for more information, Reed jogged toward the treehouse. “Obie!” he called. “Hey, Obie!”

When there was no response, he paused at the base of the tree. Eli had followed behind him. “Do you really think he’s up there?”

When the boy nodded, Reed put his hand and one foot on the child-sized ladder. Though sturdy, it was steep and not built on an adult-scale. “I better go,” Eli said, stepping up. “Maybe he’ll talk to me.”

As Reed watched him scramble up, he considered fetching Cleo. Then Eli pushed open the treehouse door, glanced in, glanced back at Reed. “He’s here.”

Relieved, he ran his hand through his hair. “Great.”

Eli continued into the small structure, then stuck his head out the door. “He says he isn’t leaving.”

Reed frowned, puzzled. “Until when?”

It seemed that the question was repeated.