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Authors: Cari Quinn

Heart Signs (4 page)

BOOK: Heart Signs
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“Yeah?” She liked sports and horror. And gave amazing blowjobs. “What’s your favorite?”

“I have six.”

He laughed again, pleased that at least one of his emotional responses seemed to be loosening up. How long had it been since he’d laughed this much? Too long. “Which ones?”

They talked for a while, about books and music and why ’71 Chevelles were one of the best cars ever made. Soon she started taking surreptitious glances at her watch. Just because he’d blown off that afternoon’s work didn’t mean she had. Strangely enough, he didn’t want her to go. Apparently his wounded pride didn’t care if she’d seen him lose his shit.

Hell, she’d seen a lot of the rest of him, hadn’t she? Not even his cock. She’d seen his words, his emotions, his heart spilling out on the page. And she hadn’t laughed. Far from it.

“You never made fun of my billboards,” he said quietly.

“No. Of course not.”

“Because I’m a client?”

“Well, that matters, yeah. But why would I make fun of something so beautiful? I was so jealous of her.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, sure he must’ve misheard. “Why?”

She gave a jerky shrug. “I can’t imagine being loved like that.”

The lump that formed in his throat was both annoying and unexpected. “It wasn’t enough.”

Her fingers tightened around his. “I’m so sorry. That’s why I called. Just to tell you that. I didn’t call because now you might be available and I might be able to talk you into letting me come over for a lunchtime blowjob.”

Now he stared. She’d turned pink during her litany. “Of course you didn’t. You really wanted to hit Bertha and piss me off. The blowjob was just a bonus.”

Laughing weakly, she pressed her free hand against her cheek. “God, I’m blushing.”

“Yes, you are,” he confirmed. “I like it. Makes you look even softer.”

She snorted. “Yeah, that’s me, the queen of all that’s delicate. That’s why I regularly win the belching contests at Loki’s.”

“Loki’s? You like it there?”

“It’s my favorite place. Best wings in town.”

“So why’d you suggest Carmen’s?”

Rory shrugged, not looking at him. “I thought it would be more appropriate.”

“For a man in mourning. Right?”

“Maybe.”

He gripped her chin and turned her face toward him, moving forward to capture her lips. The salty flavor of them revived his interest all over again. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re, uh, welcome.”

He tipped his head to study her. Rory Fowler was a woman he’d happily study all day long. Even the sudden hint of wariness in her expression intrigued him. For once he’d prodded her off-balance instead of the other way around. “You’re late for work, aren’t you?”

“Just a bit.” But she didn’t make a move to leave.

Once she did, he had no idea what would happen next. He’d slotted this misadventure into something that would happen only once, but nothing had gone as planned. He couldn’t pass up a chance to find out more about her, especially if the chance might not come again.

“Open your legs.”

Her gaze swung to his but she didn’t protest. Or ask questions. If she had, he might’ve chickened out. He ran his hand up the seam of her pants, learning how her flesh warmed with the slightest pressure. How she audibly sucked in air even when she wasn’t making those purring moans he found himself anticipating. The way her thighs opened for him as he drew his knuckles over the heat she couldn’t hide.

Her lips quivered apart, a sigh escaping them at his increased force. Was she wet for him? Though he didn’t trust his fingers not to shake, he had to know. He undid her pants and took his own unsteady breath at the sight of her lace-topped white cotton panties. Not built to seduce, just quietly pretty. Covering the heart of her that he ached to uncover, to explore.

He waited for her to say something. Anything. But she only watched him watching her, their equally ragged breathing fighting for dominance. With a flick of his fingers, he slipped beneath the cotton and absorbed the feel of her delicate skin, now way past warm. Past even hot. She burned for him. Skating lower, he brushed her thatch of damp curls. His heartbeat kicked up and that lightheaded sensation overtook him again, stealing his attention from her face for as long as it took him to get control. Then he met her eyes once more before he slid into the steam.

Her gasp exploded in his mind like a lightbulb going brighter before it went out. She closed her eyes and rocked against his hand, encouraging him to continue.

So far so good.

He nudged her cleft—her very wet, very swollen cleft—with his middle finger, delving deeper to circle the knot of nerves. Another gasp reached his ears, but by then he’d turned his face into her neck to drink in her scent. She still smelled like a summer night, wild and untamed. Sweet and sexy and unforgettable.

His fingers moved in clumsy tandem, faster and faster, suddenly unable to go slow. He wanted her arousal pouring over his palm and he wanted it now.

Sliding lower, deeper, he dipped his thumb inside her tight slit and registered her shudder. Her head bounced once against the wall, rolling sideways as her lips opened on a whimper. Her flush spread from her cheeks to her neck and all the way down to the scalloped edge of the top she wore beneath her suit. She breathed out as he pumped deeper, forcing her cleavage against her jacket. Her nipples had to be hard, berries ripe for the plucking.

“Gotta see them,” he muttered, too low for her even to hear probably.

With his other hand he fumbled open the button, succeeding after the second try. The jacket fell open, revealing the silky royal purple of her top and the rounded peaks of her full breasts. Though he couldn’t see the color of her nipples, their distended shape made him swallow thickly. He wanted to suck on them almost as much as he longed to feel her come around his fingers.

Without thinking, he glided two fingers into her clenching sheath and celebrated her groan with a treat of his own. He latched his lips around one hard tip, drawing the flesh deep into his mouth while he kept up the rhythm between her legs. She writhed under him, around him, her hand lifting to the back of his neck to hold him still.

As if he ever intended to stop.

“Sam.” She drew out his name until it was a sigh, an expelled breath of pure longing. He jerked up his head, his own breathing short, just in time to see pleasure mist her eyes. They focused on his face, pupils widening, her hips arching as he gave one final thrust and her body erupted.

Wetness drenched his fingers, her slick heat coating his palm. How he wanted to taste her, feel it run directly from the source over his lips and into his mouth.

She shook against him, digging her nails into the back of his neck. But her eyes never left his, making her orgasm something they both shared.

Sam sagged against her, equal feelings of victory and gratitude surging through him. He’d both won and lost, because he’d made her climax and he’d loved every damn second—and would relive every nuance over and over again—but his cock once more stretched tight against his jeans. And he knew with certainty she wouldn’t be helping him out with that.

But hell, maybe he’d finally be able to help himself again.

She lowered her lids to half-mast and gave him another one of her patented looks. If he hadn’t already been stiff and aching, she would’ve gotten him there in two seconds flat. “Thank you.”

“I think you have that wrong.” He laid his lips on hers, not closing his eyes. Staring into those misty gray irises had become a whole new preoccupation. “You’re the one who gave me something. So thank
you
.”

She cast a pointed glance toward his groin. “Didn’t have its intended effect.”

“Oh yes it did.” He kissed her once more, lingering until he pulled his hand free of her panties. They both sighed a little. “You’re going back to work.”

“Yeah. But I can…” She gave another glance at his obvious discomfort.

“I’m all right.” Was he ever. She had no idea.

He didn’t have any illusions that close to thirty months of pain, then grief, had been healed in an afternoon. Or more accurately, a couple hours. He’d probably still wake up tomorrow as the same morose mess he’d been, but at least now he’d had something to distract him for a while.

He’d had Rory. Not all of her, but enough to fill his fantasies. She’d given him someone to hold in his mind who wasn’t dead. Who hadn’t rejected him for being who he was. Screwups and all.

“If you, ah, have performance issues, that’s not a problem. I can still do stuff. I can still make you feel good if you’ll let me.”

“You already made me feel good, Fowl ’Er.”

She grinned at the use of the name on her license plate. “How do you figure?”

He couldn’t explain it, not verbally. Maybe not at all. But if he could, he’d write it down. If his words made any sense, perhaps he’d send them to her. Or else they’d join the collection of letters and journal entries hidden in his top dresser drawer.

For once, that thought almost made him grin. He didn’t hide alcohol in his room. No, his stash of choice was a fancy pen and leather-bound journal he’d picked up at a bookstore. And a stack of letters he’d never get to send, but kept just the same.

“Not going to tell me?”

He shook his head. “Can’t.”

“Okay.”

“Not won’t,” he tried to explain. “Just can’t. I suck at words. Speaking them especially.”

“You might suck, but not at words.” She lifted her brows and meaningfully drew her fingertip around the wet spot on her top, coaxing forth the rest of his grin. “Trust me on that. I’d happily read anything you wrote.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Before he could stop himself, he lumbered to his feet and crossed the room to his dresser. He tugged open the drawer, careful to pull just so to avoid the creak, and withdrew the pile of letters wrapped in a rubber band. His life lived in those pages, and here he was handing them over to a stranger.

Except she wasn’t. She was the first person who didn’t seem strange to him in so long. The first person he wanted to get to know better. She might as well learn what she was dealing with. If she dealt with him at all.

He came back over to her, unsurprised to see the curious tilt of her lips. “Read at your own risk,” he said, holding them out to her.

As usual she didn’t hesitate. “Thanks. I’ll get them back to you soon.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The sight of his letters in her steady grip unnerved him so he made a show of looking at his watch. “I’m not rushing you out, but it’s almost four.”

“Yeah. I’m about to get my ass handed to me.” She scrambled to her feet and turned toward the door. Then she looked back with a shy smile. “Best lunch I’ve ever not had.”

He wanted to smile and almost managed it. But she held his faded papers in her hands so tightly, possessing a part of him he hadn’t realized he hadn’t been ready to share. After all the silly billboards he’d done, apparently he still had thoughts that weren’t suitable for public consumption.

She’s not the public. She’s Rory.

Why that comforted him, he didn’t know. But the smile finally came once she shut the door behind her.

“Me too,” he murmured.

Chapter Four

Dani,

In the beginning, I figured we’d find our way back to each other. After how we’d met, how could a stupid misunderstanding cost us everything? But careless words wound as often as careful ones heal. By the time I realized that, it was too late. For us and for you.

~ Sam

R
ory sat
down on her sofa and gulped a mouthful of wine. It wasn’t fancy stuff, just a liquor store special, but she didn’t have anything stronger. She only drank now and then, usually when she shared a pitcher with the guys at Loki’s during games, but she’d never needed something to take the edge off her nerves more.

She hadn’t had sex with him. That knowledge had soothed her throughout the long afternoon at work, though it had been only two hours. Especially when she’d faced down her eagle-eyed aunt upon returning. She was surprised Pam hadn’t sniffed her clothing for traces of cologne.

Shit, if she had, Rory would’ve been screwed.

Everything about the guy didn’t match her expectations. He had such a powerful body. He could’ve bench pressed classic cars instead of worked on them for all she knew. The muscles in his arms, in his strong thighs, didn’t make someone think of a guy who composed…well, what he composed. Here she’d imagined a guy with floppy curls and mopey eyes and Sam was bald. His eyes weren’t sad so much as painfully direct. Both attributes suited him down to the ground.

She wanted to find out what else suited him. Some of it was curiosity, some of it intuition. Some just a basic, primal attraction.

For a good-time girl, she’d taken a definite detour into gloomsday central. Sam’s apartment might as well have been covered with a shroud. For good reason. He’d dealt with so much and still kept swinging. Even so, he clearly wasn’t in the place for casual sex. Or any kind of sex.

So why had she knelt down and opened his jeans and proceeded to give him a blowjob that obviously hadn’t been enough to distract him from a little tangled hair?

It hadn’t been about the hair. Three people had been in that apartment and she’d been too daft to realize it. She couldn’t sex him out of his grief. And that respite she’d wanted to offer him, that shelter in a storm so to speak, meant squat when the storm lived inside his head.

He hadn’t asked for her number. Though she’d played it casual, she’d really hoped he would. So of course he hadn’t.

Sighing, she picked up the stack of letters next to her knee. At least she assumed they were letters, since each had its own envelope. The corners were yellowed as if he’d had them buried in a drawer for years. She assumed they were letters he’d written his wife, maybe since her death. Could just be cheap paper.

Could be she was seriously stalling.

She pulled up her legs, making sure her perennially cold feet were sheltered under her fleece throw. Then she snatched the first envelope, opened the flap and—

The phone rang.

Could it be? No. If he’d intended to call, he would’ve asked for her number. It was probably her mother, wondering if she’d make it to Sunday dinner this week. Or else it might be her friend Shana. She’d been fighting with her boyfriend non-stop for the past few weeks. Yeah, love definitely rocked.

“Crap.” Rory stared at her cordless phone and willed it to stop ringing. It didn’t. Too bad she didn’t have an answering machine.

She leaned over the arm of the couch to grab it off the end table. “Hello?”

“From that tone, you must’ve read some of them already.”

The deep, unmistakable voice had her slumping back down.
Whoa.
How had he gotten her number? Why did she feel so dizzy all of a sudden? “Sam?”

“Did anyone else give you something to read today?”

“My boss gave me my horoscope,” she mumbled. Which she suspected was mainly because it warned her against “taking unnecessary chances”. Pam never missed an opportunity to drive her point home. This one had been clear. Since Sam Miller was a client of JDS, Rory’s paws were not to touch him.

A smile lifted her lips. But what about her mouth?

“Did it mention a car accident?”

“No, it mentioned unnecessary chances and saving for a rainy day.”

“Huh. Guess those things aren’t so bogus. If I wasn’t going to fix your car gratis, you might get higher insurance rates.”

“You don’t have to fix it. My car’s riddled with dings and dents. A few extra scratches are just more decoration.”

“What kind of car enthusiast are you? There aren’t even any leaves on the floormats in Bertha.”

She let out a laugh. Funny how much more talkative he seemed this evening than he had this morning. They’d definitely become more…familiar with each other. “Your car really has a name?”

“First and middle,” he confirmed. “Bertha Marie. Since Bertha is so hideous, thought she needed a taste of normal.”

“I thought only women named their cars.”

The long pause made her think she’d gone too far. Then he chuckled drily. “I’m pretty sure you saw that I wasn’t a woman.”

And shazam, right back at her. She found herself grinning. “Pretty sure you’re right.”

Another pause, longer than the first. “So did you read them yet?”

She laid her hand on the pile and released a breath. They weren’t really vibrating. That was just her nerves. Not that she knew what she was so afraid of. “No. I’d just opened the first envelope. You sealed them all?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you planned to send them?”

“No. I knew I wouldn’t send them. I didn’t want to keep opening them and rereading. Tweaking every word like I do with the billboards. You probably can’t tell.” He cleared his throat. “They take me hours to write. It’s a fine line between saying too much and not saying enough, even if you’re the only one who’s reading them.”

“You also have word count restrictions with the billboards.”

“True.”

She ran the edge of her short, unpainted thumbnail along the envelope. “And I know I keep saying it, but believe me, people read them.
I
read them. I always make a special point of driving by your billboard during your months, though I pretend it’s just because it fit into my route that day. This month I got distracted with work stuff and fell out of my normal routine.”

And I’ve been feeling soft and vulnerable lately and didn’t want to read any more about how much you loved her
.
It shamed me, but I was jealous
.
Still am.

“You probably just wanted to make sure they went up okay. But there’s never been a mistake. I always make sure to check once before I avoid the area for the month.”

“But your wife enjoyed them, right? That’s why you did them.”

Why hadn’t she asked him that before when he’d said no one read them? It was like she had a mental block when it came to Dani. As sad as she was about her passing and as connected as she’d felt to Sam—for no sensible reason really—she couldn’t seem to put them together in the same frame in her head. It was as if his love was separate from his wife somehow.

A likely side effect of fooling around with a sort of taken man, she supposed. Hard to imagine him with anyone else, at least while she was imagining
her
with him. Something she needed to stop doing right away.

“Sam?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Again, he cleared his throat. “You’ll figure it out soon enough from the letters, but Dani and I weren’t together when she passed.”

Rory reared back as if he’d reached through the phone and sucker-punched her. That no one was around to witness her utter dorkdom didn’t lessen her mortification. “How?”

“Very easy. She kicked me out of our house. So I ended up in the fine accommodations you saw today.”

“But why? You loved her so much. I read every one of those billboards. Some of them I read over and over. How could she kick you out? Did she think love like that grows on trees? Because it doesn’t. Or if it does my yard’s fucking empty.”

“Rory.” His low voice sent shivers up her spine. “Don’t waste your breath defending me. It was my fault.”

“It couldn’t be.”

“It was. Trust me. I was there. You weren’t.”

She grabbed the throw pillow at her side and tugged it closer, needing something to hold on to. “I know that.”

Of course
she knew that. She’d never been in a situation where someone could screw up a love as precious as theirs had seemed from her vantage point. She’d never been in love, period. Not once.

There had been near misses along the way. Crushes that never came to fruition. Hot affairs that dwindled to nothing rather than blossomed into more. But love itself had been elusive. Until lately she hadn’t even realized she wanted in on the party for two that it felt like everyone else had RSVP’d to.

Forget RSVP’d. She’d never even been invited.

If anyone was to blame for that, it was probably Sam and his damn billboards. They’d always hit her straight in the gut and damned if she knew why. Was she so repressed that it took a stranger’s words to remind her of everything she was missing?

“Read the letters. Start at the bottom and work your way up.”

“But—”

He muttered something, ostensibly goodbye, and yet again she got the dial tone. Twice in one day. She should probably be annoyed he had a habit of hanging up without giving her a clue he was done with the conversation.

Maybe she’d work on that tomorrow. Tonight she was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that he hadn’t been in the world’s happiest marriage.

There had been little signs, if she’d known to look for them. Lines that sounded almost bitter instead of loving. But she’d written them off, figuring all relationships had peaks and valleys. He cared enough to drop more than a grand on a billboard to profess his affection four times a year. What did a few spats matter?

But Sam hadn’t been talking about a spat. Dani had kicked him out of the house. How long ago? Months? Years? She glanced at the letters then at her mostly empty wineglass and decided she needed reinforcements before she tackled the stack.

She shivered. Another thing she needed was a heavier throw.

Ten minutes later she’d again cuddled up on the couch, full wineglass in one hand and Sam’s letters in the other. She covered up in her fuzziest blanket and set the phone by her hip, just in case he decided to call back.

Nothing left to do but read.

She started at the bottom as he’d instructed. Tugging out the white sheet of lined paper, she shoved down the rock of apprehension in her throat. This wasn’t her life. Whatever she read wouldn’t hurt anything but her misconceptions about a situation she’d never really been privy to. Her overactive imagination had overlooked far too many blanks.

Time to fill them in.

She shook her head at his small, narrow handwriting. It was straight up and down, the kind that made her think the writer must’ve gotten a cramp by the time they’d finished.

D
ear Dani
,

I
don’t know
why I’m writing this. You know I’m not a writer. I also don’t like talking too much. Especially about all that girl stuff like being upset and getting in touch with my emotions. For a long time, I didn’t think I even had emotions to get in touch with. After Kayleigh, I didn’t want them. They complicated my life so I shut them out. While doing so, I probably shut you out too.

K
ayleigh
. Who was that? Rory bit her thumbnail and considered. An ex maybe? She hoped she’d find out through the letters but the likelihood wasn’t high. This wasn’t a page-turning novel, after all. He was writing to his wife. She already knew what had happened.

S
leeping alone
for the first time last night was not fun. Okay, I hear you now, telling me that “not fun” is not an example of accessing my emotions. I need to be honest here, if nowhere else. Because I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I want you to. You’ll get defensive about how I feel and while you’re entitled to your opinions, I don’t think we can meet in the middle. Anything I ever did or said was because I loved you and wanted to protect you. But I wasn’t honest. How could I tell you I didn’t want you—us—to try to have another baby?

R
ory huffed
out a breath and lifted her glass to her lips. Sipped. Took another breath. Sipped again. The refreshing white wine slid smoothly down her throat but she barely tasted it.

She dropped the paper to her lap and pressed her hand to her forehead. He’d lost a wife. And a baby. Dear God. How was he still sane?

And she’d tried to blow him as if they’d met at a bar, as if casual sex fit anywhere on their menu.

If she’d believed she lacked a sensitivity gene before, this proved it. In spades.

But he hadn’t shoved her away. He’d even responded at first. Not only that but he’d given her an unexpected, wonderful, incredible orgasm that had seemed to rock him every bit as it had her. Thank God he hadn’t been able to hear the endless singsong in her head while he’d had his hand and his mouth on—and
in
—her body.

Sam’s touching me. Sam’s using his fingers inside me, Sam’s mouth is on my breast. Now his lips are on my nipple and it feels fan-flipping-tastic.

Then just
Sam. Sam. Sam.

It wasn’t the most amazing climax she’d ever had, probably not even close, but it had affected her more than any other. He’d touched something inside her with every stroke of his fingers. And those dark eyes directed on hers as if he was soaking up her reaction…
that
was the most amazing experience ever.

One she knew she would never forget.

For her sex had always been about a borrowed connection. Wires patched together to make a unit long enough to transmit a message. That shared goal, those stolen moments when nothing else mattered but pleasure. When they ended, so did the link. The electricity faded.

That wouldn’t be the case here. She would bet on it. She’d hear his laughter, those heady snatches of it, and treasure his rare smiles, even the heaviness in his eyes. His grief was as beautiful as it was disturbing and she felt honored to have witnessed any part of it. Those billboards had given her a window into a life,
two
lives, but now she was discovering the glass was muddy. The pinhole view she’d been given hadn’t been real.

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