Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (35 page)

I WANDERED THROUGH my workshop, still bleary-eyed from one too many beers at Shannon’s Christmas dinner last night, and I studied the raw wood ready for transformation. I’d been itching to build something for weeks, and since the office was closed until after New Year’s and Tiel wouldn’t be back until Monday, I had some time on my hands. I just didn’t know where to start. I continued pacing, stopping every couple of minutes to examine a branch or stump.

I sketched a few things, nothing particularly interesting, and eventually went back to my tree ring tile project. I’d been thinking about ripping out the flooring in the bathroom on my side of the house—we didn’t exactly have rooms since I blew out most of the walls when I moved in—and putting down finely planed wood. It was going to be a pain in the ass but it also had the potential to be tremendously cool. With the branches measured out, I started making the hundreds of cuts necessary.

It was tedious work but I enjoyed it. I’d always loved imagining ways to give trees new lives, and went out of my way to find the right ones. It was the one thing I’d learned from my father that wasn’t coated in hate and pain.

It was also splendidly distracting. I could hone in on precise cuts, quieting all thoughts of Tiel and the way her words clung to me long after our call ended yesterday.

I did want this to last, and that was a foreign concept to me. I’d always operated with one hand on the escape hatch, but now I was too busy keeping both hands on Tiel to think about going anywhere.

I didn’t know what it meant for something to
last,
but I wanted to find out.

“Hey,” Riley called, banging his fist on the door to get my attention over the saw. “Punky Brewster’s here.”

Shoving the safety glasses onto my head, I said, “Who?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Go see for yourself.”

I followed him out of the workshop and found Tiel in the middle of my kitchen. She must have taken the first train out of Newark—just like she threatened. Smiling, I shoved my gloves in my back pocket.

Seeing me, she turned, and her eyes widened to saucers. She looked me up and down, drinking in the worn jeans hanging low on my hips and my navy blue tank, and beckoned me closer. “This is a
good
look for you.”

Her hands landed on my chest and moved down over my stomach to grip my belt. A noise rumbled in the back of her throat, and it was decidedly predatory. Plenty of women had admired my body before, but this felt fucking lascivious. Her hand moved lower, cupping me, and I surged into her.

“I have missed you so fucking much,” I hissed. “Do you have any idea how many wet dreams you’ve given me?”

“And on that cheerful note, I’ll be going out for the afternoon,” Riley called. “We might want to start investing in walls and doors around here, Sam.”

Much to my relief, Tiel laughed and continued stroking. She didn’t mind Riley, and she was better when she took my family in small doses. Who could blame her?

“I’ve missed you too,” she said. “Going home is always torture, but doing it without you was the worst. You’re coming with me next time, and you’re going to do filthy things to me in my childhood bedroom.”

“Of course I will.” I backed her toward my bed, slowly stripping off her clothes as we went. The notion of meeting her family lodged in the back of my mind, slowly dissolving into a cozy idea about me taking her there and showing her off, proving once and for all that she was a treasure.

“I’ve been thinking about tasting you right”—her mouth dipped to the hollow at the base of my throat, and she kissed and nipped that tender spot until the back of her legs hit the bed—“here. I’ve been thinking about that since I left.”

“You love me in a perverted and shameless way. It’s almost a problem, Tiel.”

“I really do.” She attacked my belt, tearing it from its loops as if it had insulted her, and my jeans were on the ground in a heartbeat. “Do you love
me
in a perverted and lustful way?”

These were real words, and they were dangerously close to real meaning, too. Suddenly, we weren’t exchanging the same teasing barbs we liked to throw at each other.

I love you because you’re the only person who can consume eight cappuccinos in a single day and still form syllables.

I love you because you’re still under the impression we haven’t seen
21 Jump Street
at least four times.

I love you because you wear red dresses with pink shoes and manage to make it work.

I love you because you refuse to drink coconut water on account of its ‘sploogy’ taste.

I love you because you never stop announcing why you love me.

I love you because you’ve saved me from myself.

I flicked open her bra and filled my hands with her breasts, my thumbs passing over her nipples until they tightened and she leaned into my touch. “Let’s be honest, sweetheart, I’ve loved you since you said an olive tasted like a briny ball sack. You stole my heart, and maybe my balls, that night.”

“I win,” she said. “I’ve loved you since you were knocked out in the elevator.”

Pushing her down to the bed, I pulled off her jeans and grabbed her panties, twisting the simple green fabric in my hands and tearing. She gasped—it was an innocent sound that begged for something dirty—and I held them up for her to see with a pointed nod. Her lips parted, and she knew exactly what I had in mind.

I snatched a condom from the shelf alongside the bed, rolling it down as I edged toward Tiel. She was spread out before me, exactly as I envisioned yesterday, and her body told all the stories. There were no straight lines, no right angles. Just soft, rolling curves. Paths that were as much fun to explore as the destination was to reach.

“I
love you
love you,” she whispered as my eyes caressed her.

I had her panties balled in my hand, waiting, holding back on the off-chance she’d say those words again. I just needed to hear it one more time. I wrapped her legs around my waist and thrust into her and that bliss rolled up my spine and straight into each lobe of my brain. It was peace and pleasure, and different than it was only a couple of days ago.

My hips snapped, moving in her urgently, and she threw her head back with a wail that echoed through the firehouse. “Oh, fuck, Sam,” she groaned. “I
need
you.”

“I know, Sunshine, and now you’re going to do as you’re told.”

Smiling, I slipped her panties between her teeth, brought my hand to the small of her back, and drove into her. She was everything
I
needed, and as I angled her hips to hit that deep, soft spot that made her eyes roll back in her head, she trembled around me. It was light and gentle, but quickly robbed me of all senses.

And there was more: words forming in my chest like little waves, rising up then splashing down only to build bigger, stronger, until they were catching me, dragging me under. They deserved voice, and they seeped into me, claiming territory on my bones and vital organs.

“Tiel,” I whispered, my fingers tangled with hers, squeezing. “I
love you
love you, too.”

She hummed, nodding, and wrapped her hands around my neck. We came together, hard and fast, yet it lingered, zapping us with aftershocks and spasms as we rocked into each other. When I gathered the strength to lift my head, I wiped the sweat from her brow and tossed the panties to the ground. I tucked Tiel under the covers and left to deal with the condom, returning with fruit, juice, and nuts.

She snuggled into my side, her head cushioned on my chest, and said, “I meant what I said.”

I had a quip about fucking her in a girly bedroom decorated with unicorns and flowers on my tongue, but I swallowed it when she glanced up at me with big, vulnerable eyes. This wasn’t like my slick comments about her tits or my unending requests for blowjobs. This was just a bit of what it meant to
last.

“So did I, Tiel.”

I’D ALWAYS KNOWN that Sam’s world was a touch different from mine, but this—the swanky Scottsdale resort, unending spa treatments, elaborate cocktail parties and dinners—this proved it.

And the hotel sex was pretty incredible too.

We had one more night in Arizona. I intended to laze by the pool while he attended sessions and participated in panel discussions this afternoon, and January pool lazing was something I could get used to. Tonight was the conference’s closing celebration at Taliesin West, famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright’s home and architecture school, and Sam was delivering the address.

“What are you getting?” he asked while he scanned the menu.

I could also get used to fancy restaurant breakfasts each morning. “Probably something with wheat. Did you want to share?”

“No,” he murmured. “Enjoy your wheat.”

Laughing, I reached for my coffee. He was so freaking cute with his quirks and food allergies and sexy growls. Those growls. They were like the opening chords of ‘Back in Black,’ and they drove me wild, possessing me, every time.

I ordered Belgian waffles and, as usual, Sam engaged in a detailed discussion of his order with the waiter. “Could I get an egg white omelet with steamed spinach and tomatoes? Not sautéed, just steamed. And no butter. Not for the vegetables or the eggs.”

“Yeah, seriously with the butter,” I said. “It makes him sneeze, and you can see how that can get really annoying, right? Just imagine him sitting here, sneezing for ten minutes straight.”

“I’ll tell the chef,” the waiter said. He wasn’t especially effective in concealing the these-people-are-really-fucking-strange look he gave his notepad before leaving our table.

“Thanks for that, sweetheart,” Sam said, smirking.

“Anytime,” I said.

And there it was: our perfect little love bubble. Perfect was easy when it came with delicious food, maid service, poolside margaritas, and hotel sex, and I was enjoying every last second of it. It wouldn’t be this easy when we were back in Boston. Our lives were more complicated when work and family and life were involved—
we
were more complicated—but this was a gorgeous reprieve from it all.

And I did like being spoiled, just a little.

Sam gestured to my tote bag. “What are you reading today?”

I’d worked my way through Keith Richards’ memoir and Arnold Steinhardt’s account of his experience as the first violinist with the Guarneri String Quartet this week. There was one more I wanted to read, and I’d been carrying it around for months, waiting for the right mood.

“It’s part biography of Johnny Cash,” I said, holding up the paperback. “And part his love letters to June Carter Cash. I’ve been waiting to read this one. It’s an intense, messy story. This sort of thing does a number on me. I mean, I cried like a baby when I watched
Immortal Beloved.
That scene—when she realizes? Oh my God.” I pressed my hand to my mouth and shook my head. The tears were already prickling my eyes. “It wrecked me. I think of it every time I play Beethoven.”

Sam frowned and plucked the book from my fingers. He paged through it, stopping occasionally to skim the images of handwritten letters. “Sunshine . . . I don’t want you to be upset. Why don’t you save that one for another day?”

“It’s not that I’m upset,” I said, digging into my waffle. “It’s that they go through some pretty heavy shit and find a way to love each other in the end, and that gives me all the feels.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I thought that was my job.”

“Different feels,” I said, but that eyebrow didn’t budge. “Enough with the faces. Eat your omelet.”