Just Once (24 page)

He tries to come closer, but I stop him.

“Cabins first.”

The eyebrow shoots up. “You want me to
work
for it?”

“I want you to
clean
for it.” I can almost see the wheels turning inside that handsome head. Then he smiles and presses his lips to mine, letting his tongue work its magic, making me damp and soft all over until I almost change my mind.

“Fine,” he whispers, then pulls away.

We walk over to cabin nine, keeping an eye out for witnesses. No one’s around to see us step inside and close the door. This cabin housed a family of four and is in general disarray, but nothing out of the ordinary.

“What’s first?” Shane asks, slapping my ass—hard—as he strides into the room.

I stare at his back. “First,” I say firmly, deliberately, “we strip.”

He turns. “What?”

“The beds,” I add.

He gives me a hard look. “That’s what I thought.”

I smirk and enter the first of two bedrooms. I expect Shane to take the second room, but instead he follows, standing on the far side of the king-size bed and tossing the quilt to the floor. I shake out the pillows and tug at the flat sheet while Shane wiggles the fitted sheet free.

We stuff everything into a pillowcase. “Now what?” he asks.

“More stripping.”

He follows me into the second bedroom, and we each tackle a bed, filling a second pillowcase.

“Grab the towels from the bathroom,” I order, “and take everything to the laundry room. Then bring back fresh stuff.”

“Okay.” I wait for him to leave, but he lingers, blocking the door. “Come here first.”

I step forward. “Why?”

His mouth twitches as he fights a smile, then twines his free hand in my hair and holds me still for a kiss I feel straight to my toes. I know from prior experience that this man knows how to use his tongue, but I enjoy being reminded. Finally he pulls away, clears his throat, and goes into the bathroom for the towels.

I grab a garbage can and fill it with the random items left littering the room, and after a minute I hear Shane leave with the laundry. I watch him out the window and take a deep breath.
Jesus
. What was I thinking, going up against that man in an erotic battle? He’ll take me down, every time. Then again, I suppose I want him to.

I toss the garbage bag onto the porch and start dusting the windowsills. I hand Shane a rag when he returns and tell him to dust the baseboards.

“Baseboards?” he echoes with a frown. “Who checks the fucking baseboards?”

“I do.”

He gets down on his knees. “Then I’ll do a very thorough job.”

Dusting is a straightforward chore, just wipe-wipe-wipe, but it’s damn difficult to do with an ass like that pointing in my direction. My dusting strategy is now more of a wipe-wipe-peek, followed by a stern internal reminder that I have work to do. Each cabin changeover takes about two hours, and I’m less than halfway through.

With the dusting done, I pick up the king-size sheets and go into the master bedroom to start making the bed. Shane follows, wordlessly picking up a corner of the fitted sheet and helping me put it on. The flat sheet comes next, and I watch, bemused, as he painstakingly smooths every wrinkle.

“So,” I begin, “you’re very neat.”

He catches me watching, and I swear he blushes. “That a problem?”

“Just an observation.”

“I prefer the term
detail-oriented
.”

“Sorry, did you say
anal retentive?”

He smirks. “If that works for you.”

Now I blush. Fiercely. Note to self: do not say
anal
in front of this man.

“How long have you worked at the ranch?”

“Changing the subject? Very smooth.”

“Thank you.”

We stuff pillows into clean cases.

“I’ve been here eight years.”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“Until I own it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“You want to buy the ranch?”

“Sure. One day. When it’s for sale.”

“Isn’t that…expensive?”

“That’s what savings accounts are for.”

“How long have you been saving?”

“Eight years. Why the third degree?”

“I’m not grilling you, Shane. It’s called conversation. That’s what ‘works’ for me.”

Now he smiles. “Then we’ll talk.”

An hour later cabin nine is sparkling. When properly motivated, Shane is a decent conversationalist, in addition to being an ass-grabbing, French kissing, sexually deviant cabin cleaner. The same deviant whose hand I pry out of my jeans forty-five seconds after we arrive in cabin ten.

“Clean first,” I gasp.

“Screw later,” he affirms, holding up his slick fingers. “Got it.”

I watch him lick off his fingers and nearly expire. “Jesus.”

“You can call me Shane.”

I snicker and turn toward the master bedroom to strip the bed. Shane helps, and when we’re left with a bare mattress he presses it with his hand as though inspecting the springs. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Just trying to decide where I’m going to fuck you.”

For the second time in fifteen minutes I almost melt. I already knew I wasn’t a romantic, and apparently neither is Shane—we’re the perfect match.

I opt not to speak and move into the second room to strip the twin beds. Shane’s behind me, and after a quick ass grab he’s jamming sheets into a pillowcase. If I’m not mistaken he’s breathing just a little bit harder than he was a few minutes ago. So am I, for that matter.

When the beds are bare he turns to stare at me.

“No mattress inspection?” I ask.

“Not big enough.”

I hand him my pillowcase. “Get the towels and take these—”

“To the laundry room. I know.” He steps forward so quickly that I have to scurry backward, stopping when I bump into the dresser. Even with nowhere to go he doesn’t stop coming, and soon he’s hoisted me onto the edge of the hip-high dresser, knocking the alarm clock to the floor. He drops the pillowcases and twines his fingers through mine, pinning my hands to either side of my head as he kisses me up against the mirror. I groan into his mouth. I know we have to stop, but I don’t want to. But I must. But how can I when he grinds his massive erection against me, bumping just the right spot over and over again? The past two hours have been vicious foreplay, and my body is primed and ready. But there’s work to do. But I’m about to come. But—

Shane pulls away before I can reach a conclusion. “A master and two twins, right?” He confirms the sheet order, voice strained.

“And towels,” I breathe. “Four sets. Plus a bath mat.”

His dark eyes rake me from top to bottom. If possible I grow even wetter.

“Take off your pants,” he orders.

“We have to work—”

“Work with them off.”

He backs toward the door.

“Someone might—”

“Pants off, Kate. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Shane leaves, slamming the door behind him. I have never been into domination before, but try telling that to my lady parts. Can I really take off my pants? What if someone comes in? What if—

I put an end to the internal argument by kicking off my sneakers and shimmying out of my jeans, then putting my sneakers back on so I’m left wearing my tank top, pink boy-cut underwear, socks, and shoes. I look ridiculous. And if I weren’t so turned on, I’d feel ridiculous. But the thought of one less barrier between me and Shane’s cock—tongue, fingers, anything—is all it takes to assure me that I have made the right decision.

When Shane comes back I’m on my hands and knees dusting the baseboard, ass deliberately pointed in his direction. I’m hoping the execution looks sexier than the preparation: to avoid any awkward encounters I’d been crouched beneath the window, one eye peeking over the ledge to keep an eye out for Shane. When he was ten feet away I’d made a mad dash to the opposite side of the room, snatched up a rag, and fallen to my knees, hoping desperately to appear sexily absorbed in my work.

The door opens and closes, and then there’s silence. After an agonizing minute I risk a look over my shoulder. Shane is standing in place, eyes locked on my ass, stack of clean linens still in his hands. Beneath that I can see a distinct bulge at the front of his pants. My panties get a little wetter.

“Kate,” he growls.

I turn back to my task. “Dust the windowsills,” I order.

I hear a thud as he drops the linens on the couch, then his pacing footsteps as he decides whether to get to work or get to
work
. In the end, however, he picks up a rag and starts dusting windowsills.

When I finish the baseboards I stand up and glance down at my knees, which now bear a distinct rug pattern. I look up to see Shane watching me. He drops the rag, and I hold up a hand, heart pounding. “It’s not fair that I’m halfway undressed and you’re not,” I say sternly. “Take off your clothes.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“But you’re much prettier.”

“Even so, do as I say.”

Shane laughs and pulls his shirt over his head. My mouth waters as I watch the muscles in his abdomen stretch taut, his broad chest rippling.
Rippling
. Like on the cover of a romance novel. The man is sex personified. He bends over to unlace his boots, then pushes down his pants and steps out so he’s left in black boxer briefs.

I bite my lip.

“Take off your shirt,” he says.

“That’s enough for now.” My voice is thin and unconvincing.

“You do it or I will.”

I hesitate long enough that he closes the distance between us and tugs my shirt over my head in one determined movement. Now I’m left in my bra, panties, socks, and sneakers. He looks me up and down. I resist the urge to cover myself.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

“Stop saying that.”

“Why?”

“Bec—”

“Why?”

How do I tell him I don’t want him to make this harder than it is? That this thing, whatever it is, is finite, and as much as I love having him in my body, I don’t want him in my head. His unexpected sweetness, the honesty with which he delivers a compliment—these things are working their way inside me, into a place that promises to scar when I leave all this behind at the end of the summer.

Shane slides his hands up my sides, fingers slipping under my bra, finding my tight nipples and pinching them lightly. I remember the rough treatment of our first night and tense up.

He seems to read my mind. “You liked it,” he reminds me, fingers tugging gently, insistently.

“I don’t know how I feel about it,” I correct him.

He releases my nipples and swipes back and forth over them with his thumb. There’s an echoing twinge between my legs.

“Okay,” Shane says, taking away his hands. “Let me know when you decide.”

I back up a step. My heart is pounding, and I feel dizzy. No one has ever made me feel this turned on before. No one has ever appeared this turned on by me, when I haven’t even done anything.

“Let’s make the beds,” I say.

Shane picks up the sheets. “After you.”

We make the twin beds first, and I return the alarm clock to the top of the dresser. When the room is finished I step back to admire our work. “Looks good,” I say.

Next we tackle the master bedroom. I take the far side of the bed and wait for Shane to unfold the fitted sheet. For a moment nothing happens, and when I glance at him I see he’s got a strange look on his face. “What is it?” I ask.

“I’m remembering the day with the bat,” he replies.

“Which day?”

“The first one. How you stood between me and the bat like your life depended on it.”

“His did.”

He sets the linens on the bed and comes around to my side. “You’re right,” he says. “It did.”

“I knew it.”

“You put your hands on my chest.”

“You pushed me onto the bed.”

“I had to.”

“You did not—”

“If you’d come any closer you’d have felt my hard-on.”

All the air leaves my lungs.

“I had to get that fucking bat out so I could get back to my trailer, take my dick in my hand, and jerk off, thinking about you dancing on tabletops.”

I lick my lips. I can’t breathe. I can barely stand.

“The next day I saw you get the butterfly net and sneak up to the cabin…I couldn’t stay away.”

“You scared the crap out of me.”

“You were scared for the wrong reasons, Kate. I didn’t give a fuck about the bat. I wanted to bend you over the sofa and drive into you so hard you’d forget your own name.”