Rugged (13 page)

“You tell me,” he says, his voice a low rumble in my ear.

“Second door on the left,” I direct, as he carries me down the hall to my bedroom. He kicks the door open and tosses me onto the bed, which thankfully I made up neatly this morning, and then unzips my skirt and slides it off.

I’m lying back on the down comforter in a pair of black lace underwear, staring dreamily up at Flint, who’s doing his best impersonation of a bare-chested god in Levi’s. As I watch him unbutton the fly of those 501s, one slow button at a time, I hear my breath coming in short gasps.

When he finally pushes his jeans down, I realize he’s gone commando all day long. The thought makes my pulse race—that and the sight of his perfect cock jutting toward me. When I sit up and reach for it, he wraps my hand around the shaft, hot and hard and throbbing in my grip. “Is this what you were waiting for?” he asks.

My attempt at ‘yes’ comes out like a whimper. He pushes me back onto the mattress and tears my panties off, grabbing my thighs to pull my pussy toward his mouth. His eyes are practically sparking in the dim light, lust and need mingling in his gaze.

“Too bad you can’t always get what you want,” he says, his breath warm against my skin as he looks up at me. “Not until I’m done, anyway.” His tongue traces a hot line up to my clit, circling softly before moving back down to my opening.

Oh God. “Yes,” I moan, lacing my fingers through his hair, pulling his head closer to me. “Fuck me with your mouth.” He spears into me with his tongue and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming as I roll my hips in time with his thrusts. My back arches as he finds a rhythm, his tongue flickering over my clit and then diving into my cunt over and over again. God, I needed this. Needed him.

Too soon I’m nearing the edge, flooded with pleasure, his moans reverberating against me. “Flint.” I’m breathless. “I’m going to come.”

He stops and pulls away and I gasp, deliciously frustrated by his sudden absence.

“Not yet, you aren’t.” Straightening, he climbs onto the bed, the firm press of his body settling onto mine, and gives me a maddeningly endless kiss.

I moan, writhing against him, hungry for more. When I reach for his cock he lets me take it in my hand, and I stroke its length firmly, pressing the hot head against my slick clit. He groans, and I feel his whole body stiffen, as if he’s waiting for something.

Our eyes lock and we breathe heavily, our bodies on edge, aching for each other. “Say you want this,” he commands, his cock so hard and so ready against me. “That it’s not just—because we were drinking, and it doesn’t mean anything…”

Behind his steely gaze, I see a flash of uncertainty. An uncertainty it is my bound duty to crush. Because all of a sudden, I’m more sober than I’ve ever been, and there’s no doubt in my mind that I’m thinking clearly. I want Flint McKay, and I want him now. Cross my heart, hope to die.

“I want this,” I say, drawing out the confirmation slowly, making sure he knows I mean every word of it. “This is everything. I want
you
. All of you.”

“Then take me.” Flint looks down, eyes blazing as he pushes himself into my pussy, thrusting slowly, filling me up one agonizing inch at a time.

“Fuck,” I gasp, tilting my hips, taking him deeper. I bite my lip as he pumps harder, slowly gaining speed. I throw my arms around his neck, and a second later I’m on top, rocking my hips back and forth, moaning as I guide him even deeper inside of me, so deep I cry out.

“You’re perfect,” he grunts. He thrusts up into me, and I grip his shoulders and close my eyes, feeling the pleasure build. Heat radiates through my core, all the way into my clit. I’m losing my mind. I throw my head back and whimper as I ride him.

“I’m so close. Oh my God,” I pant, and Flint wraps his arms around me, his mouth on my breasts, sucking on my nipples. He grinds faster and I match his pace, harder, faster, more, both of us moaning loudly, completely lost in each other.

The pleasure finally crests, shockwaves of ecstasy slamming into me. With one loud cry, Flint comes with me, and we ride it out together, holding each other tight as our breathing stutters and slows.

When it’s over I lean my head against his shoulder. “That was…” I have no words. “Thank you.”

He takes a deep breath. “Was this a mistake?” he asks.

“Never. But if it was, it was one of my best mistakes,” I say, giggling. He rolls me onto my back and attacks me with kisses, and before I know it, I’m out like a light.

12

“Thanks for the towel,” Flint says. It’s the next morning, and I’m relaxing in my kitchen with a cup of coffee. He let me grab the first shower, and comes out drying his hair. Granted, a group shower would have been mutually agreeable, but that would only lead to more sexy shenanigans. And he does have a flight to catch.

“My pleasure,” I say, handing him a steaming mug. “You like it black, right?” He takes a sip and nods.

“That’s damn good coffee.” He pauses, raises an eyebrow. “Got a little
Twin Peaks
there for a second.”

“Hopefully Laura Palmer isn’t dead when you get home,” I say, laughing. He sits across from me, looking about as relaxed as I feel. His tee shirt is still clinging to the damp contours of his body. Good morning.

“Don’t be ridiculous. That was the Pacific Northwest. I’ll be three thousand miles away.” I get a little quiet. He
will
be a long way away. And I still don’t know what last night meant in the grand scheme of things. We haven’t discussed it. Flint seems to notice my contemplative energy, because he quiets down as well. “I’m sure Mrs. Beauchamp’d be happy if you came back for another visit.” He smiles. “She wouldn’t be the only one.”

“Maybe,” I say, smiling back. That’s a sweet offer on his part, but I think we both know it has to stay an offer. There’s no point in complicating simple things. Nobody’s moving across the country, ditching their family and/or career over a one night stand. Even if it was the best one night stand of at least one of our lives. Cough, cough.

“You said there’s some Uber coming?” He shakes his head. “The Uber thing makes no sense to me.”

“Well, you’re a country boy,” I say. “I’d drive you to the airport, but I’m going to need to get my car back, and I’ll probably need to go into work at some point, see if there’s any damage control to be done.” That might be a lie—if my career is as dead as I think it is, the only thing I’ll be doing at work is packing up my cubicle into a cardboard box. My phone rings in the next room, and I wonder if it’s the Grim Reaper of Career Dreams calling me right now.

“All right,” he says. The front door buzzer sounds. “That must be the car.”

“Well. Have a safe trip. Bye.” I know it’s short and awkward, but I don’t think saying ‘thanks for the great sex’ or ‘sorry I dragged you across the country for nothing’ is very smooth either.

“Oh, you.” Flint grabs me around the waist, sweeps me literally off my feet, and kisses me. It’s brief but undeniably hot, and I’m tempted to go after him when he sets me back down. But then my phone rings again. Damn. I guess the Reaper’s not giving up.

“Take care,” he says, and walks out the door. Hate to see you go. Love to watch you leave.

Actually, no I don’t. But right now, I need to grab that damn phone.

I curse when I see that it’s work calling me. I thought since my career fell apart yesterday, they wouldn’t worry about seeing me back in the office first thing this morning. I pick up. “Hi there,” I say, waiting on the big, screaming ‘you’re fired.’

“Laurel. This is Sabrina Jones, Herman Davis’s assistant. He wants to know when you’re planning to come in to his office today.” I blink, and quickly check the caller ID to make sure I’m not being punked. But no, it’s definitely the office. Sabrina sounds confused. “Didn’t you get the email?”

“What email?” My head is pounding now, and so’s my heart. I sit down on the couch.

“I’m supposed to let him tell you,” Sabrina says, dropping her voice. “But they loved your pitch. They think Flint’s the genuine article. And I mean, not that my opinion matters here, but he’s freaking
hot
. I’d watch the hell out of that show, and I hate everything we do.” She can’t keep the glee out of her voice. I’m not sure I remember how to speak. Loved the pitch. Genuine article. All the not-firing words I could ask for.

“You mean we got the pitch?” A huge smile breaks over my face.

“Yes! Look, let me transfer you. It may take a second.” She puts me on hold. I let out a huge scream. Oh my God! We did it. Flint’s going to save his business, I’m going to save my career, and we’re going to be working together…

All the time.

In a professional capacity.

Oh God.

As if on cue, Flint enters. He sees me and smiles.

“Hey. Forgot my—” He notices my dumbstruck expression, and stops. “What’s going on?” He looks concerned.

I smile weakly. “Congratulations,” I tell him. “You’re going to be a star.”

13

Back in 1775, a certain rider named Paul Revere took a midnight gallop around the Massachusetts countryside, calling out, “The British are coming, the British are coming!” Nowadays, if he were passing around Northampton, he’d more likely shout, “Production is starting!” And he’d be equally terrified.

I pull up to the Beauchamps’ bed and breakfast, parking my car right in front of a dried-up looking jack o’lantern. Halloween’s come and gone, but Laurel Young is here to stay. I get out and take in a lungful of that bracing Massachusetts air. Hello again, Berkshires. I return to you a champion, bringing the spoils of reality television in my wake. The inn’s door opens, and dear old Mrs. Beauchamp steps out onto the porch. She’s wearing her signature outfit of high-waisted jeans, pearls, and cardigan, and is carrying her ever-ready porcelain coffee pot. She grins and waves a handkerchief at me.

“Laurel, dear! Everything’s all set up. Come in, come in.” She turns and bustles back inside, while I hoist my laptop bag over my shoulder. The rest of the luggage can wait. Production meeting comes first.

Inside, there’re enough crocheted tea cozies and antique wooden rocking horses to make you think you’ve gone back to all the most adorable parts of the eighteenth century. An old whaling harpoon hangs over the door to the inn. There’s even a sweet, life-sized wax figure of a wig-wearing, blue-coated General Washington—that is, until he blinks and shuffles off upstairs. Mrs. Beauchamp’s husband. He’s a little eccentric.

Okay, so it’s kind of weird here. But as soon as I knew I was heading back to Massachusetts for work, I called the inn and requested an extended stay. What can I tell you? Best cranberry scones on the planet. And feather beds so soft it’s like you’re actually sleeping on a cloud. Not that I’ll be getting much sleep once production starts.

I hear the slam of car and van doors outside as the rest of my team arrives. I’m the first one into the den, the home of all our future meetings. I shove a Raggedy Ann doll aside and sit down on a chaise, taking out my laptop and gearing up for notes. While my Mac boots up, I take a moment to luxuriate. This is it. My first production meeting, with me as the producer. Captain of the ship, master of the house, creator of the hottest new do it yourself show on prime time. And there’s nothing here that I can’t handle. Except…

“Laurel.” Flint McKay stands in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered enough that you worry about him squeezing into the room. Even the low, throaty sound of his voice sends a flurry of anxiety through my body, along with an answering heat wave between my thighs.

Right. There’s the part where I slept with our big star. Minor issue.

Flint picks his way around some footstools and sits down opposite me. My heart speeds up, and I cross my legs and try to think about snow, baseball, Mr. Beauchamp. Nothing works. The memories of Flint’s body wrapped around mine are still too strong.

Flint smiles.

“How’ve you been?” he asks. Which makes sense. We haven’t spoken in about a week, since the day I got the call green lighting our show. Since the morning after we slept together. Since the instant he got into the most awkward taxi in the history of anything and left me pacing in my apartment with no idea what to do next.

“I like your new PA,” he says, nodding at the Raggedy Ann that’s smooshed up next to me. Kind of glad she’s here, honestly. A girl can use a comfort object.

“You know what a PA is now?” I say, laughing nervously. See? Totally not awkward conversation we’re having. We sure do talk about PAs all the time.

“Production assistant,” he says proudly, leaning back against the antique wing chair he’s settled in. It creaks a little, more designed for delicate corseted ladies than six-foot something tall muscle men. Wearing flannel, naturally. “Wait. Or was it personal automaton?” He quirks an eyebrow. Hilarious. Yes. Laugh at joke to diffuse tension. Good plan. Ha ha. See, I laugh. Why talk so weird in head voice?

“You’ll fit right in at this meeting,” I say. Both of us go a little quiet at that. Flint’s not totally on board with my brilliant vision yet. He’s agreed to this show mainly to promote (and hopefully save) his chain of hardware stores. If the show tanks, so does his business. He looks uncomfortable, although maybe it’s because of all the lace doilies.

But if Flint looks out of place in Mrs. Beauchamp’s cozy little parlor, he’s a veritable fish out of water—stuffed and mounted over the inn’s mantelpiece—when my production team rolls in a second later.

“Why is there a wooden moose in the hall?” Raj, my assistant producer, asks when he swans into the room. He cracks a piece of very hipster gum, and unwinds his enormous rainbow-colored fuzzy scarf. “Ugh, there are, like, seasons here. How do we survive?” He falls back onto a sofa, all skinny bodied, liquid ease, and pulls out his iPad. Flint watches everyone else file in, looking more and more like a stubbled, caged animal with every minute that passes. He doesn’t say anything, but his right leg starts jiggling.

When my team is all assembled, sitting on little claw-footed footstools and drinking some lovely ginger tea out of dainty cups, I clear my throat and get the party started. And even with Flint sitting on the other side of the room, making me hyper aware of every movement of my body—and of his—I’m excited. This is it. Dream achieved.