Authors: Lauren Gilley
Michael turned to face her, his nose a sharp shadow in the filtering light, his eyes like warm glass discs.
She felt the irrepressible urge to throw her arms around him. She wanted to bury her face in his hot throat, wanted to feel his heart beating against her chest, wanted to feel his hips lifting against her hands, the way they had last night, when she’d found the evidence of his wanting.
The way he stared at her now, the hands that had killed her husband held down at his sides, told her that he wanted the same things.
He took a sharp breath. “Congratulations. You just got a divorce.”
Holly wanted to take his husband-killing hands into hers and pull him to her, have him press her up against the wall, and bend to take her mouth with his own.
But she had to be practical. She had to wait, even though an awful, unknown throbbing had started inside her.
She was breathing hard, her voice a sigh of sound. “What are we going to do with him?”
“Gimme your car keys, and I’ll take care of it.” He stepped in close to her, until she was enveloped in his shadow. She saw the faint gleam of skin, as he held his hand out to her, palm-up for the keys.
“I’ll just stay here, then,” she said, her mouth dry, her pulse skipping like moth’s wings in her ears.
“Finish your shift.” His voice had gone low and rough and completely unregulated. “I’ll come back and take you home.”
“You will?” She was staring at his hand, the calluses and lines as she pressed her keys into his palm.
His fingers closed around hers a moment, squeezing. She felt the rapid beat of blood beneath his skin. The same as her own.
“Michael,” she whispered. She didn’t understand any of this; wasn’t even sure what it was that she wanted so badly.
“Go downstairs, and wait, honey. Just wait.”
Stretched thin with nerves, barely managing to smile and speak and get her orders right, it seemed Michael was gone hours longer than the two that he was missing. Then, coming out of the kitchen, she saw him, like he’d sprouted by magic from his favorite booth. He was leaned back against the padded leather, arms folded loosely across his chest, calm and patient as always.
But when she doubled back, got a Jack from Matt and went to set it on the table, she saw the wicked glimmer in his eyes, the retained intensity of upstairs. Her pulse accelerated, as her hand lingered on the glass and his reached up to press against the back of her wrist, a light stroking that went almost to her elbow and then back, trailing off her fingers onto the warm whiskey tumbler, finally.
He stared at her face, saying nothing, absorbed by the way she took one small breath after another, her heart electrified by his simple touch.
“Where is he?” she asked in a whisper.
“I have a friend who has hogs,” he said, voice even, almost pleasant.
Holly shuddered. “You want something to eat?”
“No. I’ll just wait for you.”
Again, she was struck by the overwhelming urge to fold herself into his lap. She wanted him to comfort her, and kiss her, and do something about the relentless heat beneath her skin.
As if he sensed that, he said, with an expression she found sweet for some reason, “You want to see my place? It’s not much, but the sheets are clean.”
“Yes. Yes, please.”
He nodded, and picked up his drink. “It won’t be long.”
And it wouldn’t. She went back to work, her body pulsing and glowing and trembling inside the too-tight seams of her clothes, suddenly.
He didn’t want to leave his bike behind at the bar, so when her shift ended, he walked her to the Chevelle – his hand lingering on the door before he closed it, his breath pluming in the cold air, his eyes still on fire, the desire in him something she could feel against her skin – and then she followed his slender, menacing figure as he led the way on his Harley. A knight errant all in black, threatening and sinister with the leather, and the growl of the engine, and the way he carried himself like he owned all these dark streets around them. He did, didn’t he? The Lean Dogs owned this city.
He didn’t live far from the heart of town, in an older neighborhood full of tall, crowded trees, the streetlamps dim and flickering, the homes low-slung, well-built, most of the lights out at this ungodly hour. He turned into the driveway of a brick Craftsman home with a wide, concrete porch held up by thick brick columns, the drive sloping down to a parking pad shaded by pines, some errant shine of the moon catching the windows of the closed doors that marked the drive-under garage.
The dark frightened her, the absolute blackness of it, the way it seemed liquid and alive. The house was a dim shape above, same as the neighboring one, but the yards, the trees, the fences: all of it up to the imagination, and in her mind, crawling with threat.
The concrete was carpeted with fallen pine needles, and they crunched beneath her shoes as she climbed out. She shuddered hard against the cold, as it wrapped around her bare legs and cut through her thin leather jacket.
When she shut the door and turned, there was Michael, and his presence made the dark bearable, the cold less penetrating. Wordlessly, he slipped an arm around her waist, urging her against his side as they started up toward the house. Whether he meant it as support or affection, she didn’t care. He was warm, and solid, and strong, and she put her arm around him, too, inside his open jacket, where she could feel the heat of his skin against her hand, through his shirt.
“This is a big house,” she said, fighting the chattering of her teeth as they reached the top of the drive and she got her first good look at the dark lines of roof and porch. “I love this porch,” she said, as they stepped into its shade, and there was the sound of keys rattling as Michael fished them from his pocket.
He snorted. “You don’t have to compliment the house.”
“But I like it,” she protested. “It’s not what I expected.”
He made an inquiring sound, unlocking the deadbolt with one hand while he held onto her with the other.
“I thought you might have a cave up in the mountains somewhere,” she said, biting on a laugh.
“Sounds about right,” he said, pushing the door inward, pulling her in alongside him.
The warmth struck her first. It was cozily warm in here, the air dry and soothing, like he’d left the heat running while he was gone, the floor humming faintly underfoot to prove the point.
“Oh, that’s nice,” she murmured, as they finally broke apart and Michael turned to relock the door.
“I hate winter,” he muttered, as way of explanation, and Holly smiled. So he wasn’t all frigid and cold. She’d been learning that, but the blast of heat proved it further.
There was a small clicking sound and then buttery light filled the space around them, the house rushing to take shape.
They stood in a tiled foyer, the light coming from a pendant chandelier overhead. Two brick columns set off the entryway from the living room beyond, and the furnishings surprised her.
Here in the foyer, a slender table held a ceramic urn with a spray of silk pussy willow fanning against the cream wall. Opposite was a mirror, a coat rack, a brass umbrella stand in the shape of an opening tulip, tiny brass rabbits etched at its base.
The living room was painted a rich gold, the couch a comfy-looking sectional in a dark brown plaid, the carpet tall cream shag, the recliner a leather La-Z-Boy. There was a stone fireplace, its hearth heaped with logs, flanked on both sides by built-in bookcases. That was where the TV was, the only thing modern and shiny about the room – the big flat screen fitted into the proper alcove, bordered top and bottom by shelves stacked with DVD cases.
“I bought the place furnished,” Michael explained without her having to ask. “I didn’t see much sense in changing anything.”
“I understand,” she said, glancing toward him. “That’s how I feel about my loft. Why bother, you know?”
He wouldn’t look at her, took off his jacket and hung it up, reached for hers as she followed suit.
“Well,” she said, “at least it’s warm, and it’s cozy.”
“I’m having another drink,” he said, leaving her to follow as he set off through the living room.
He was nervous now, Holly guessed. Or reconsidering. Something. At least she knew she hadn’t imagined the burn in him before. Otherwise, she might have felt discouraged, might have felt her own heat dimming some.
The kitchen was spotless, but dated: glass-faced white cabinets, green soapstone counters, tiny octagonal floor tiles and white squares for the backsplash. There was a bay window, with a table in it, and beyond, Holly could just make out the shadows of trees. She wondered what the view was like during the day.
Michael reached into an upper cabinet, pulled down two squat blue glasses from what looked like a set of dozens, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He poured more than either of them needed in each cup.
“Were the dishes part of the furnishings?” Holly asked, smiling.
“Yep.” He turned, and pressed one of the glasses into her hands.
She knew, the second her fingers touched his, but was confirmed when she glanced up and met his gaze: he was throbbing too. He was full of that same pulsing energy, just like her. It shone wildly in his eyes, caught in the sharp corners of his mouth, vibrated through his skin where their hands still touched.
Holly took a deep, shaky breath. “What is this?”
Holding eye contact, he threw down his whiskey in one swallow, his voice just a little hoarse afterward. “It’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”
Her chest squeezed. She was too afraid to hope he was right, but she wanted him to be. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He plucked the glass from her hand – she didn’t want it anyway. Then he caught her by the face, his palms gentle against her cheeks, but his grip firm, and drew her into him, angling her chin so when he bowed his head, his mouth could slant sideways over hers.
She moaned against his lips at the first touch. She wanted to anchor herself, have some point to hold onto, and she clutched at his shirt, greedy handfuls of the soft cotton.
Michael pulled her even closer, until she was resting against the length of his body, one hand moving to cup the back of her head, the other finding her waist, holding her to him. There was fear, that instant flash of it that came with being touched by large, male hands. But his tongue was hot as it passed between her lips, and full of the sharp taste of whiskey.
He kissed her and kissed her, lavishing attention to her mouth that had never been paid to it. It was intimate and wet and left all her joints soft. She let herself sag against him, lost in the strange comfort of his mouth stroking hers. It eased her in a small way, but it made the throbbing more acute, concentrating it between her thighs and in her breasts, bringing a desperate heat to her skin.
She could feel his chest beneath her knuckles, through his shirt, the solid wall of lean muscle there. He was like steel. She opened her hands, pressed them to the flat pads of his pectorals, liking the unyielding firmness of them, flicking her tongue against his as he invaded her mouth.
He responded to the shy flexing, his hand moving from her waist to her back, sliding down, around the curve of her bottom, clutching at her through her thin sink shorts.
She gasped, their lips breaking apart. She didn’t want to be afraid. She wasn’t, she didn’t think; she was shocked. Amazed at the sensation of his hand on her ass, and the way she wanted more, wanted to shift against him, searching for friction.
How many cocks had she had inside her? She shouldn’t be this sensitive and excited.
But it was different. This time, she wanted this man, and that made all of this so important, and so achingly scary.
“You killed him,” she whispered, stretching up onto her toes, pressing her breasts into his chest, trying to read his expression through heavy-lidded eyes. “Oh my God, you killed him. Michael, you killed him, and he’s gone, and he’ll never…” She couldn’t even say it. It was too exquisite.
“I did.” He kissed her, the sound of their lips coming apart afterward bringing up a wet warmth between her legs. “He’s gone.”
She leaned forward, initiating the next kiss, inexpertly stroking his lips with hers.
He made a sound, a low growling deep in his throat, that she echoed with a soft, feminine growl of her own.