The Lumberfox (Geekrotica) (2 page)

It was the fire that broke her.

Or possibly the
crème brulee.

“Okay, but I'm calling my mom first, and you're going to talk to her and give her your driver’s license number.”

It was a foolish gambit. Her mom was so desperate for grandchildren that she would've gladly sent Tara out into a snowstorm with a serial killer, provided he was fertile and had good manners and strong teeth. As expected, her mom was ecstatic and proclaimed Ryon “a nice boy” before verbally shooing her daughter out into the snow. Tara was soon mounded in his Mountain Fresh clothes and following him up an ice-slick incline to a tall building glittering with lights, her laptop bag firmly tucked under her coat.

And inside it was a paper bag that couldn't be heard in the snowstorm, even if it started buzzing again. Because if he did kill her and her mom had to clean out her car and might possibly find a vibrator, even Tara's ghost would die of mortification.

*
* *

The lobby shone like a star, and an old bellman with an unlit cigar clamped firmly in his teeth was waiting to open the door just as they slipped under the awning.

“Welcome home, Mr. Brubaker.”

“Thanks, Carl.”

“You're lucky you made it back. I got lots of lonely dogs to feed tonight.”

Ryon inclined his head to Tara. “I've got a stray to feed, too. It's scary out there.”

Carl beamed. “Pretty girl like that shows up, maybe we could use more snowstorms like this. Been wondering when you'd bring somebody home.”

Ryon smiled back and clapped the old man on the shoulder. “Stay frosty, Carl.”

“Stay warm, Mr. Brubaker.”

The man tipped his hat to Tara, and she would've blushed if he hadn't seemed so genuinely pleased to see her. Ryon led her to the elevator, pushed the button for the fourteenth floor, and waited for her to enter first. His building was nicer than hers, with lots of wood and glass and brass, and the mirrored elevator walls revealed a wet, red-cheeked raccoon huddled in a guy's borrowed clothes who looked a lot like Tara did after pulling an all-nighter working on a glitchy website.

“Ah, shit.”

Tara rubbed at the black smears around her eyes, but Ryon's face appeared over hers, his hand on her shoulder.

“You know you just walked through a snowstorm, right?”

“Well, yeah. That's no excuse for looking like Rocket Raccoon.”

“Just don't shoot me with your laser pistols, and we should be fine.”

Tara spun to face him. “Holy shit. You're a geek?”

He shrugged and pulled up his sleeve as far as the winter layers would allow, showing an R2D2 tattoo, among others. “Can't really hide it once you get me undressed. I told you I brew beer for a living, right? And you saw the curly mustache?”

“Yeah, I'm just used to... um... less lumberfoxy geeks.”

Ryon laughed, showing straight white teeth. “Did you just say lumberfoxy?”

Tara blushed a little. “Yeah, it's a term me and my friend Megan came up with for...” She twirled her pointer finger at him. “All this stuff you've got going on.”

“Lumberfoxy.” He said it like he was tasting a new food for the first time, and Tara couldn't stop staring at his lips. He licked them like he'd just had a good meal and grinned wolfishly. The elevator opened with a ding, and she stepped toward the hall.

But his arm shot across the doorway as he hit the emergency stop button. The door slid closed.

“You ever been kissed by a lumberfox before?” he asked.

She shook her head no and leaned back against the elevator wall.

“Do you want to?”

It was turning into a day with a lot of firsts, and Tara wanted to keep the streak going, so instead of saying something smart or clever or making a joke out of it, she nodded yes.

* * *

Ryon was on her in a heartbeat, his hand cradling her head so it wouldn't slam against the mirror. Her fingers fisted in his coat as his warm lips brushed hers tentatively, nibbling for a moment before pressing hard with a moan. His mustache and beard were softer than she had anticipated, and up close, he smelled glorious and tasted better, like cloves and butterscotch. Her head felt like the snowstorm outside, twirling brightness and confusion, but her insides were a puddle, hot and slick and sure. His tongue broke past her lips to dip into her mouth, and his hand cupped her jaw, holding her in place, the elevator's brass handrail pressing into her butt.

Tara's traitorous hands ripped off his hat. Her fingers ran through his hair and down his chest, and slipped inside his coat and around to his back, and he murmured approval into her mouth and changed his angle, licking her lips before opening her wide again. She pressed her hips against his, more layers between them than there were mattresses on a princess's bed. Kissing Ryon was delicious and maddening, and she wanted to drive him down to the ground and line up every atom of her skin with his. She was slick above and below, burning hot in the snow-wet coat and more alive than she'd ever felt. Kissing him made her feel brave and brazen and open. Kissing him made her want to do more than kiss him.

Maybe Georgia snowstorms weren't so bad, after all.

She was just getting up her nerve to dig her fingers under his shirt when someone banged on the elevator and shouted, “Seriously?”

Ryon drew back with a tortured groan, and she leaned against the mirror, panting. But he didn't make a move for the door—just looked at her like she was a steak dripping with butter. Shyness overcame her, as usual, and she felt her cheeks go hot.

“So, Mr. Lumberfox. Etymology revs your engine, huh?”

“No, but smart girls who know what etymology is do.”

He reached for her face again, and she panicked.

“Just call me the Yoda of the Urban Dictionary.”

He stopped, cocked his head. “Why do you keep doing that?”

She picked his hat up off the floor and held it out to him, feeling sheepish.

“Do what?”

“Make a joke out of a charged moment.”

“I...”

Someone banged on the other side of the door. “I need to go get my laundry, assholes. I can hear you in there.”

Still unsure how to answer him, Tara reached past Ryon to press the button that would open the elevator doors. They slid open on a rumple-haired dude in a robe holding an empty laundry basket.

“Sorry, Mac,” Ryon said. “Technical difficulties.”

“Go make out in your own apartment, Brubaker,” the guy grumbled, but he was smiling.

Ryon winked at her and led her down the hall to number 1408, which was indistinguishable from every other door on the hall. They were wide-spaced, and the honey-colored wood floors gleamed. Tara began to feel like a girl spirited away to another world, like some mixed-up Disney princess who'd gotten lost in the snowstorm and been saved by a handsome prince and whisked away to the Beast's urban castle. She felt a little sorry for Han as the bag bumped against her thigh under her coat. With kisses like Ryon's, maybe she wouldn't need batteries to rev her engine.

Keys jangled, and Ryon held the door open for her.

“It's a little messy, but...”

Tara stepped inside and smiled. “A lot better than a blizzard.”

And maybe it was a little messy, but mostly with books and bottles and boxes of more bottles, all of them clean and empty. The kitchen table looked like an old-fashioned chemistry set, a row of empty dark brown bottles lined up with SERENITY BROWN BREW labels facing forward. Not a stank-ass sock in sight. Ryon went straight to a sleek marble fireplace and flicked the switch. A fire flared to life, and Tara unwound her scarves and made two stacks of cold-weather clothes, her own and the borrowed ones Ryon had insisted she wear for their walk in the snow. Soon she was down to a bunny-soft sweater, jeans, and boots, and on second thought, she stripped off her footwear, too. The leather boots were soaked, and so were her socks. Slipping her laptop bag under her coat, she plopped down in front of the fire and stretched out her fingers, closing her eyes at the bliss of licking flames.

Tara spaced out while Ryon moved around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers and pressing buttons. The sharp bite of onion reached her as a knife chopped with a woodpecker's intensity. She'd been in the car for so long, and then tense and slogging through the snow that Tara felt tied in knots.

When Ryon curled her fingers around a stemless wine glass, she woke up enough to murmur her thanks and drink. It was a heady red, and she mostly forgot her empty stomach as she sipped it. Ryon draped a soft blanket around her shoulders and sat down beside her on the plush rug, likewise stretching out his fingers to enjoy the fire. He was in well-fit jeans and a button-up with the sleeves rolled back to show his tattoos. The sailor-style Artoo
she'd seen before was mirrored on the other arm by Iron Man surrounded by roses. She could've stared for hours, tracing his ink.

“Dinner will be ready in an hour. Chicken and veggies. Can you wait that long?”

She sipped her wine, swirled it in the glass. It was going straight to her head.

“If I don't get drunk and pass out before then.”

“To be honest, you look way too wound up to sleep. May I?”

He scooted behind her and slid her blanket down, his hands stroking her shoulders briefly before his fingers began to knead the tense lines of her neck and back. Thumbs pressing in made her gasp and sigh in relief. She began to melt, as if he'd finally teased out a knot and was unraveling her like a sweater with just his fingers and warmth. Without meaning to, she let out a little moan and let her head fall forward.

The press of warm lips on the nape of her neck shocked her delightfully, and a shiver ran up her spine.

“Is this okay?”

The words caught in her throat. Did he even have to ask? No one else ever had, before. But he was waiting now, fingers stilled and his breath on the tender skin of her neck.

“Yes,” she whispered. Then, louder, resisting the impulse to say something silly, “Yes.”

Gently he took the mostly empty wine glass from her hand, leaning to place it far away, next to his empty one. Tara smiled to herself and stared into the fire, curious to see what he would do next. Ryon moved behind her, just close enough to feel the warmth of his bulk but not close enough to satisfy her wish to touch him. The brush of his beard over her nape made her quiver, and his lips nibbled up and down the exposed skin. He pulled away, and before she could complain, he tugged the pencil out of her bun, and dark hair cascaded down her shoulders. Firm fingers dug into her scalp, massaging the places where her bun had pulled for hours. The combination of sensations was dizzying, and she tipped her head back to give him better access.

“I love your hair,” he said.

She couldn't stop herself from blurting, “I'm sure it looks like
go se
after the blizzard.”

His fingers pulled through the dark mass, tugging a little.

“No. Not crappy in the least. I like the wildness. Looks like you just had amazing sex.”

“That was not the way I got rammed today.”

His fingers stilled, and he turned her head so that they looked eye to eye. Somehow, he managed to be both stern and playful at the same time.

“Let's make a deal, Tara. Every time you try to break the tension with a joke, you have to take off a piece of clothing.”

She flushed like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar. But the punishment was more cookies. “Why?”

“Because we've got nothing better to do. We're trapped here until the blizzard stops and the snow melts. Might as well enjoy ourselves, right? Unless you're in a relationship...”

She shook her head.

“Or diseased or not into guys or not into guys like me.”

It took an effort to look him in the eye and speak, the tension thick enough to spread like butter. No one had ever been this straightforward and unapologetic with her sexually, and it was maddeningly attractive. No deception, no wheedling, no lies. Just the understanding that he'd like to get her naked and wanted her thoughts on the matter.

“Nope. I'm healthy and...” He smirked as she sought the right words. She almost said, “Already wet” but chickened out and muttered, “Not opposed.”

“Good. I'm game if you are.”

Tara bit back a smirk. “Okay, but you know you're setting me up to fail, right? I mean, losing at Strip Joker is going to be as much fun as losing at Strip Poker.”

Ryon's eyes glinted wickedly. “That's one. Give me your sweater.”

She was only half-shocked when he gripped the edge of her sweater and lifted it gently over her head. Her arms rose obligingly, and she was glad she'd worn both a tightly-fitted V-neck and a lacy tank under the itchy cashmere. That was one more layer to let him tease away. One more chance to bite her lip instead of saying something silly.

If she wanted to.

The sweater popped off her head, her hair crackling as goose bumps rose on her bare arms. Ryon tossed her sweater onto the pile of her clothes by the door and ran his hands up and down her arms.

“Cold?”