Frenched Series Bundle (59 page)

“Whatever.” I slurped again, even louder this time. “So no leads on my burglar?”

“We have a few houses we’re watching. Places where we think they take the stolen stuff. Your cell phone pinged near one of them last night.”

“Really?” My voice rose an octave. “Can you go in and get it back?” I had a brief fantasy of Charlie riding up to the house on a white horse, charging inside with pistol drawn.

Stop it. No thinking about his pistol.

“Not at this point. Walker’s waiting on a warrant.”

“God, it seems like you shouldn’t need one for that, if you know stolen stuff is moving in and out of there.”

Mmm. Moving in and out.

“Yeah. It’s a little more complicated than that. Anyway, we’re getting closer.”

“OK.”
Yes, get closer. But first get naked.
As if God heard my prurient thoughts and wanted to cool me down, a few raindrops splattered from the clouds above onto our table. “Uh oh. Are you ready? Maybe we should go.” I sniffed. “Smells like a storm, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” He picked up his empty cup. “I need to make a stop. I’ll meet you at your house.”

Coco was right—Charlie was handy with a drill. And chivalrous too. He’d stopped at a hardware store and bought one for me, and he wouldn’t accept the check I wrote to pay him back. He got right to work and had the first set of shades up in about twenty minutes. Rain pounded against the glass and the occasional rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance, adding to the tension inside me. Sometimes he’d ask me to hold something in place, or bring him this or that, but mostly I just watched, admiring the easy way he handled the task.

Confession: I also admired his butt in his jeans.

His upper body was nice too—wide shoulders, thick biceps, muscular chest. He’d taken off his sweater to reveal a fitted t-shirt, and I liked how clean and white it was. No yellowed armpits. Standing behind him, I had this urge to lift up the shirt and run my hands over his skin. Was it warm? What if I pressed up close behind him? Moved my palms around to his stomach? I bet his abs were rock solid. Then I could slide my hands down the front of his jeans, make him hard. He’d drop that drill and—

“Erin!”

“What?” Swiftly I raised my gaze from his butt, chagrined to find him staring at me over one shoulder. The power flickered.

“I said your name like five times.”

Heat flushed my chest beneath my sweatshirt. “Sorry. I was—“
Fantasizing about you again.
“Thinking about something.”

He grinned. “I can see that. But if you can tear your eyes away from my ass, I need that other bracket. This drill doesn’t have a battery pack, so I need to get this done in case you lose power. Although I’d be happy to take a break from this activity if you’ve got another one in mind.”

“No. Just finish, please.” Flustered, I rummaged around in the mess on the floor, hunting for the piece he needed. God, had I really been so obvious? I had to shut that down. After handing him the bracket, I backed away, busying myself with collecting the trash. Think about something else. Don’t look at him. When the floor was picked up, I got out the broom and swept up the dust from the drill as the power continued to brown occasionally. I hoped it wouldn’t go out altogether.

“I still have one more shade to put up after this one,” he said. “Why don’t you wait until the entire job is done before you sweep?”

“I don’t mind.” I moved briskly, avoiding his eyes. “I like cleaning up. I like things clean.”

He laughed. “Of course you do.”

I stopped sweeping and looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, don’t get worked up. You’re the one who said it. I just meant that I could
tell
you’re a girl who likes things clean.”

When he said
things
, I had the feeling he wasn’t talking about floors and toilets.
He thinks I’m totally vanilla.
“I meant, I like my house to be clean.”

“And it is,” he said with finality.

Frowning at his back, I ignored him while he finished hanging the second shade and moved on to the third, unloading the dishwasher, hand washing the wine glasses from last night, and putting on a load of laundry. Part of me wanted to demand to know what he’d really meant, but the rest of me counseled restraint. He might have meant nothing. “Do you need my help anymore? If not, I’m going upstairs for a few minutes.”

“Go ahead.” He didn’t even turn around. “I should be done in about twenty.”

Upstairs, I took a quick shower, making sure to lock and double check the door, although if Charlie Dwyer had appeared at the curtain in Achilles armor, I probably wouldn’t have turned him down. Actually, I probably wouldn’t have turned him down even in his jeans and t-shirt, which pissed me off.

“Fucking Charlie Dwyer,” I muttered, giving in to my urge to swear. “Fuck you for being hot.”

I had this irksome feeling that he thought of me as some virginal goody-two-shoes who liked her floors swept, her spice rack alphabetized, and her handcuffs pink.

Confession: My spice rack is alphabetized. But I like knowing exactly where everything is. Who wouldn’t? That’s helpful, right?

Still.

He probably went home and laughed at me last night. He cracked open a beer, had a pizza and a threesome, and went to bed thoroughly amused at my pitifully pristine little existence.

I wanted him to know I wasn’t what he thought, but how the hell do you announce to someone that you might have a clean kitchen but you’ve got a dirty mind?

If I was a bombshell like Coco, I’d have said it right out loud. Probably while pinning him to my immaculate floor with my high heel on his chest. If I was Mia, I would have found some coy, adorable way to make it known. Like maybe I’d leave a shopping list on the counter that said
floor polish, laundry detergent, nipple clamps.

But I was me. And I just didn’t do those things.

Why do you care what he thinks anyway?
I asked myself as I dried off. He was hot as hell, and maybe he was slightly less annoying as an adult than he had been as a kid, and perhaps he was easy to talk to and knew how to work a drill, but he was still a cocky smart-ass with a big mouth. After throwing on a pair of white yoga pants and an old gray sweatshirt with the neck cut out, I combed through my wet hair and went back downstairs, determined not to let him get to me one way or another.

As I entered the kitchen, Charlie was backing off the stepladder. “OK. I think you’re good here.” The yellow-and-white chevron patterned shades on all three windows were pulled down. As irritated as I was with him, I had to admit he’d done a beautiful job. With all the windows covered, the kitchen immediately felt warmer. More snug. More intimate, especially with a storm going on.

“I love it. Thank you.” Beaming, I turned in a slow circle and admired the room. “I really appreciate this, Charlie. I owe you one.”

“One what?” He wrapped up the cord and set the drill in its case before pulling on his sweater. When he lifted it over his head, his t-shirt rose, giving me a flash of skin—oh dear. Oh
dear
. Six-pack abs with a little trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

My heart beat a little quicker. “What did you have in mind?” Holy shit. Had I just said that?

“Hmm.” He tugged his sweater into place and paused. “A blow job?”

Come on over here and drop your drawers, Officer.

So much for not letting him get to me.

But no…I couldn’t. “I was thinking more along the lines of a beer, actually.”

“Oh,
that
kind of one. Sure, I’ll take a beer.”

From the fridge, I took two beers, opened them, and tossed the caps in the trash. “Here you go,” I said, handing one to him. “
Sláinte
.”

“
Sláinte
.” He knocked his bottle against mine, and we both took a sip. “You like beer?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I don’t know. You just seem like more of a fruity Cosmo kind of girl.”

“Well, I’m not.” I tipped back my bottle of Uncle Steve’s Irish Stout once more, experiencing a small moment of triumph at the impressed look on his face.

“Good to know.” He took a long pull from the bottle, his eyes on me.

I hopped up on the island, bare feet dangling. “So.”

“So.”Charlie leaned back against the counter across from me. “We have beer in common.”

We smiled at each other, and some of my earlier irritation with him eased. “I guess we do.”

Two beers apiece later, it was clear that it might be the only thing we had in common. Charlie and I had completely opposite opinions about everything from the Second Amendment to Quentin Tarantino to orange juice.

“No. No pulp,” I insisted.

“What are you talking about?” Charlie looked outraged. “Fresh squeezed is the best.”

“No. You shouldn’t have to chew your juice.” I shuddered. “Pulp is disgusting.”

Charlie dropped his head back and laughed. “OK. So you don’t like Pulp Fiction or pulp OJ.”

“Exactly.” I sipped my second beer. “And you do.”

“I do.”

“But you don’t like martinis or monogamy.”

“Monogamy?” He made a vaguely horrified face. “No.”

I sighed. “Well, that’s it, then. We can’t be friends.”

“Nope. I guess we can’t.” He caught my eyes and held them for a few seconds before draining the last of his second bottle. “So tell me,” he said, setting the empty on the counter next to the first. “Is there really a Tad Pitt?”

I giggled, which I’m prone to do after two Irish stouts. “I don’t know. I suppose there could be.”

“But not that you’re dating.”

I pressed my lips together and ‘fessed up. “No. Not that I’m dating.”

There was a pause then, during which the air between us took on a crackling new charge. Because of the storm, the lights in my kitchen were burning low.

Either that or Charlie and I were sucking up all the electricity in the room.

“I made him up,” I said, eyes on my lap, “so that I wouldn’t seem so pathetic.”

“Erin. You’re not pathetic. You’re…”

I looked up, waiting for him to go on, but he couldn’t seem to come up with a word. “What? What am I?”

Just then the power went out entirely, and I sucked in my breath.

When it came on a second later, Charlie was looking at me very intently, his arms crossed. “You’re perfect. Just like you always were.”

He thinks I’m perfect and boring.
I made a face and tipped back the rest of my beer, setting the bottle beside me. “Stop it. I’m not perfect. I’m not what you think.”

Charlie tilted his head. “No?”

I licked my lips. “You think I’m a joke. The Teacher’s Pet. The Homecoming Queen. The Goody Two Shoes who likes everything just so, everything neat and clean. Well, I don’t, you know. Like
everything
clean.”

Charlie said nothing at first. But his stillness told me he was intrigued. A lovely little ache blossomed between my legs.

“You like some things dirty. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” I whispered, butterflies rioting in my belly.

“I’m not sure you do.”

“Try me.”

Slowly, he came off the counter. Bracing my hands behind my hips, I opened my knees, and he stepped between them, sliding his hands up the tops of my thighs. He was so tall, I had to tilt my head back to look at him. Up close his chest was even more imposing, and his shoulders seemed to dwarf mine. Gooseflesh rippled down my arms, and my breaths came fast.

By contrast, Charlie seemed completely in control. His breathing was slow and measured, his hands moving over my hips and beneath my sweatshirt. His eyes stayed locked on mine as his palms slid up the sides of my ribcage and back down, spanning my waist. “Such a tiny little thing.”

“Scared you’ll break me?”

“Yes.” In the near dark, his blue eyes looked black.

“Do it.”

In less than a second, Charlie pulled off three moves that had me gasping for air—he yanked me to my feet, turned me around, and kicked my heels apart so my legs were spread and I was bent over the island, arms pinned behind my back. His legs pressed the backs of my thighs, and his hips pushed against my ass.

He was hard.

The power went out completely.

Oh my fucking God.

Panting, I lay my cheek on the cool marble, unsure of what to do next. Between my ears, the message was
this is scary
. Between my legs, it was
this is hot
.

“No, don’t give up. Fight me. Come on. Struggle.” His voice was different now—deeper, quieter even, yet more intimidating.

Adrenaline coursed through my body, my heart pounding with fear, with arousal, with shock. I tried moving my arms—he pulled them tighter, clamped my wrists harder. I tried moving my legs—he pinned my hips against the marble, his erection pushing firmly into my flesh. I flexed my fingers—he laughed softly.

“That’s it. Try everything. Scream if you like.”

I couldn’t scream even if I wanted to. It felt like the darkness had weight, like it was bearing down on my back with a force stronger than gravity. Breathing required all the lung strength I had, and I wasn’t even sure I could keep that up.

“Tell me I’m hurting you.”

He
was
hurting me.

But I liked it.

He yanked my arms mercilessly behind me. “Tell me.”

“You’re hurting me,” I said weakly.

“Tell me to stop.”

“Stop.”
Don’t stop.

“Tell me you don’t want this from me.”

“I don’t—want this—from you.” Each word was its own struggle. I meant the words, and yet I didn’t. I wanted him, but knew I shouldn’t. And was this only a game? Was he just testing me? Or, worse, was he back there laughing at me in the dark? I had no way to tell.

“Good girl. You don’t want this from me, sweet thing.” He backed off slightly and somehow imprisoned both my wrists with one of his hands. The other one snaked around to my belly.

And down the front of my pants.

Oh God oh God oh God.

“You don’t want my hands on your pussy.”

Confession: I almost came right there.

His fingers slipped between my legs.

“You don’t want my tongue on your clit.”