Break On Through Page 6

  Just as he meant to retreat, she looked at him through those big brown eyes and licked that kissable mouth. Who the hell could resist?

  He leaned closer. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  Cleo invited him in. She didn’t know why, exactly, other than he had carried their books home and the farmer’s daughter comedy had fallen flat with her boys, which was funnier than the joke by itself.

  It occurred to her she needed to laugh more, and the times she’d laughed most recently, he’d been behind it.

  The guest house’s front door opened directly into a living area and the boys bee-lined for the television sitting on a stand in the corner. She didn’t object, this was their “show” time. Eli had their favorite cartoon going in seconds and they ignored both her and Reed as they continued past.

  She saw him glance at the kids. “They get to watch an hour a day,” she explained. “From five to six.” Did that sound like too much TV?

  Guilt gave her a pinch. “There’s two of them, so really it’s just a half-hour a piece.”

  “You don’t have to explain to me,” Reed said. “Nobody monitored a damn thing I did as a kid and I turned out okay.” His smile was slow wickedness, like a hand sliding between satin and skin. “Right?”

  “Right,” she said faintly, as he followed her into the kitchen. It was good-sized space, with a wooden table where they ate and the kids did their homework. “You can put the books there,” she told him, indicating its surface.

  He did as instructed, then looked around himself, clearly curious. She saw the area through his eyes. It was clean enough, the Mexican paver floors had been mopped just that day. The butcher block countertops were clutter-free, but there was a fingerprint or four on the stainless refrigerator. A short hallway opened to a bathroom and the two bedrooms. The boys’ bunks were neat and there was only a small pile of Legos on the area rug there, waiting for her unsuspecting and innocent bare sole.

  Then Reed’s head turned and she could tell he was looking into her room. A blush heated her face. Though her bed was made, she had her pillows propped against the headboard, not hidden beneath the plain duvet. The lace-edged pillowcases looked…suggestive. Like the cups of a woman’s sexy bra showing above a low-cut tank top.

  Oh, my. She put her palms on her cheeks, trying to cool the burn. What was wrong with her? It was time to get him out of here, she decided.

  Then he swung back to look at her. “Nice digs,” he said, his tone so innocuous that it acted as a balm to her alarm.

  He was just a man, she reminded herself. The first person over eight years old she’d ever had in this house.

  Unsure what to do next, she glanced at the clock. “Would you like some wine? I’m sorry I don’t have any hard liquor or beer…”

  “I can drink wine,” he said. Watching her, he crossed the floor to lean against the table, giving her plenty of space.

  She appreciated that. As she moved from the cabinets to the refrigerator, she forced herself to breathe slowly. One morning a week she volunteered in Eli’s and Obi’s classes, splitting the time between the two rooms. But other than that she hadn’t interacted with anyone besides her children, except for the phone calls from Pete’s parents and the occasional conversation with the contractors working at the big house.

  And Reed, of course, when he used to talk with her in the lonely hours of the morning.

  It was alien to have anyone in this space, including him. That must be why she was feeling so shaky. The wine glass she poured wobbled in her hand as she carried it to him.

  He didn’t make a comment on her tremors as he slipped it from her hold without any skin-to-skin contact. “Thanks,” he said.

  Returning to her own glass, she filled it, then picked it up for a healthy sip. Swallowing, she stole a look at him, feeling helpless. Now what?

  “Do what you usually do at this time of day,” he said, as if she’d spoken aloud. “Don’t worry about entertaining me.”

  Latching on to that idea with relief, she shifted toward the bi-fold doors at one end of the kitchen. They hid the tiny laundry area that was really only space for the washer and dryer with a closet pole installed across the top, convenient for hanging permanent press items and for hand-washables to air dry.

  The doors opened with a loud squeak. Her heart jolted as she took in the enclosure. Oh, God. Not only had she mopped that morning, but she’d taken care of a small load of delicates. All her fancy—though small—stash of pretty underwear hung from the pole on padded hangers—panty and bra sets that even to her familiar eye looked disconcertedly sexy.

  She slammed the bi-fold doors on the sight. “Um, laundry all done.”

  On her way back to her wine, she dared a glance at him. He’d taken off his cap and she could see the layers of his dark, shiny hair as he smiled down at his glass.

  He was laughing at her!

  And, strangely, it made her laugh at herself. “Okay, that was embarrassing.”

  Grinning now, he looked up. “I hate to break it to you, but I’ve seen items like that before.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said, shaking her head. But no one else had ever seen hers. She’d been with Pete in the days of Fruit of the Loom, when she’d had little kids and no money of her own. During their long separation, she hadn’t had the time or the courage to step out on him, not knowing how he might accept the news if he found she’d been with another man.

  Post-divorce, after this move to Southern California the only male she’d gotten remotely close to was the one she’d spoken to over the fence.

  Who was now in her kitchen.

  To calm her nerves, she busied herself again by returning to the refrigerator. It took a couple of minutes to make a small plate of cheese and crackers which she placed on the table after encouraging him to take a seat. When he did so, she couldn’t help but wonder why he was still there. Maybe she should tell him he was free to go, she thought, agonizing. Maybe he felt like he was stuck with the hard-up single mom and all he wanted was out, out, out.

  A small pain started throbbing at each temple as she opened the stainless steel door and started yanking things from the fridge’s produce bin.

  “You smell good,” Reed said.

  She jolted, sending a head of cauliflower rolling along the countertop like a tumbleweed. Sure she must have misheard him, she looked over. He sat loose-limbed in the chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands cupping the bowl of the wine glass. She stared at them, noting the lean, artistic fingers. The palms were wide, though, capable, reflecting the same dichotomy she noticed in him from the first.

  The artist and the fighter, rolled into one. Tough, but…deep.

  His expression was relaxed, his tone almost idle as he continued speaking. “I thought for sure you’d smell sugary, like cookies or cake, but it’s something else altogether. Feminine and flowery. Delicate, with just a smidge of sensual to give it a spicy note.”

  Cleo could only stare at him as her mind replayed the words. Feminine. Flowery. Sensual. Baffled by it all, she tore her gaze away and focused back on her vegetables. “Um, thanks.”

  Then, fortunately, came the thunder of the boys’ sneakers rushing into the room. Had an hour gone by already? But a glance at the clock told her the minutes had passed that quickly. Steeling herself for an argument, she turned to her sons. “Shower time. It’s Eli’s turn first today.” The bathroom at the guest house didn’t have a tub, so they’d learned to accomplish everything under the spray. Seven and eight might be young, but they’d handily learned to soap and shampoo on their own, and she was proud of them.

  “Mom—” Obie began, a whine in his voice.

  “You know where you keep screwdrivers, Obie?” Reed broke in. “I see a cabinet latch that needs a man’s touch. You can help me while your brother has the bathroom first.”

  Like that, he diverted the usual evening meltdown over turns. Grateful, Cleo topped off his wine glass and then her own as he and Obie fiddled with the
cabinet door that had listed since the day she’d moved in.

  “I know how to do that,” she said, in token protest as she brought his glass closer to him

  “Now Obie will too,” he said, showing her son how to tighten the screws.

  Her youngest was strutting with accomplishment when it was his turn in the shower. Eli wandered back into the kitchen, dressed in his PJs. Cleo had found that accomplishing the pre-bedtime rituals before dinner worked better for their family. Sitting beside Reed who had returned to his chair at the table, her oldest pulled one of his books from the library stack and happily began reading without a word.

  Cleo didn’t know what to make of this. Both kids had taken the intrusion of a near-stranger into their environment better than she would have expected. Maybe they missed masculine companionship. Pete hadn’t been any kind of father to them, but her ex father-in-law, Don, had often had them “help” in the garage or taken them on trips to the hardware store.

  Impulse took over. “Can you stay for dinner?” she asked Reed.

  His smile made her feel warm all over. “I don’t know,” he said, nudging Eli’s foot with his. “Does she make you eat a lot of icky vegetables?”

  Cleo tried to hide the selection she had set out on the counter. “I’m making a favorite of yours, Eli. It’s chowder.” Vegetable chowder. But the boys didn’t seem to get that the colorful bits in their bowls were the very same things so many of their peers complained about.

  “Chowder’s good,” Eli said, looking up. “You should eat with us.”

  “You heard the young man,” Reed said, lifting his gaze to hers. “I should eat with you.”

  Cleo told herself to settle down. Vegetable chowder took a lot of chopping and she couldn’t afford to be all quivery with a sharp knife in hand. But it clattered to the countertop when he was suddenly standing behind her. “Can I do something to help?”

  It was good manners! A simple question! But neither reminder quelled the jittery reaction of her nerves to his close presence. The bare skin at her nape prickled and her nipples went hard again, pressing against the cups of her bra. “No, no,” she said, not daring to look at him. “Sit down. It won’t be terribly long.”

  And if he didn’t move she’d get a fingertip or a fingernail into the food. Her breathing didn’t move easy until he was back in his chair. Time flew after that as she continued making the meal. Obie reappeared and peppered him with questions about home repair. Once her younger son considered someone an expert, he wanted to sponge of all the knowledge that person had to offer.

  He’d learned a lot about lawn care from the landscapers.

  With the buffer of her boys, the meal proceeded without another hitch. She focused on making sure they kept their napkins in their lap and their rolls off the floor. Reed chatted with the boys but she continued to be so unsettled by his presence that she hardly registered a thing about their conversation.

  He helped her with the dishes. A couple of bowls nearly slipped through her fingers but he caught them deftly and didn’t remark on her clumsiness. Then it was time for her to get the boys into bed. It was a school night.

  “I’ll be just a few minutes,” she said, ushering them toward their bedroom. “Um…I can make some coffee then.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Good night, Eli. Obie.”

  Once inside the boys’ room, she wanted to kick herself. Why hadn’t she used bedtime as the excuse to get Reed out of her house? Now she was going to have to make nice instead of nervous once she got the boys to sleep.

  They didn’t cooperate by developing an aversion to their pillows. As usual, Eli and Obie went straight to Slumberland after only a couple of pages of the story she was reading them. She hung around in their room for a few more minutes, fiddling with their covers, straightening their shoes in the closet, adjusting a stuffed animal until she couldn’t stand her cowardly self for another second.

  When she returned to the kitchen, it was to find it empty.

  Her stomach quaked with either relief or disappointment. Had he gone home after all?

  But then something took her feet into the living area.

  Her loveseat couldn’t contain him. Illuminated by a floor lamp, he was sprawled in one corner, one leg over the far arm, the other planted on the floor. His hands were folded, fingers entwined, and were propped on the flat surface of his belly. Breathing deeply, he was asleep, the dark fan of his lashes creating spikey shadows on his well-defined cheekbones.

  Cleo took her own deep breath, enjoying this quiet moment to take in every inch of his long frame and handsome face.

  God, he was great-looking.

  Beyond that, he was the embodiment of sex. The slumbering power of his rangy body drew her closer. She tiptoed nearer, resisting the urge to run her fingers through his disordered hair. Instead, her gaze ran over the bare skin she could see, his tanned neck and the muscled strength of his arms.

  What was hidden from her was even more tantalizing. Was there body art beneath his shirt? Maybe…piercings?

  She flushed hot at the thought, a dozen carnal images blooming to life in her brain.

  “I can hear you thinking from here,” he suddenly said, eyes still closed.

  She jumped, guilt washing over her. “I’m not thinking,” she lied.

  “You’re staring.”

  Oh, crap. She was doing that. “I was deciding whether or not to wake you.”

  His eyes flipped open and he straightened on the seat. Cleo took a step back, startled once again by his sudden movement. With both feet on the floor, he stretched out his arms on the back of the loveseat and gave her a leisurely once over. “I don’t think you’re ready for me to spend the night, Cleo.”

  “No!” Oh, God. Surely she was going red again. Lowering her voice, she tried pasting on a smile. “I mean, hah hah.”

  Reed cocked a brow. “Hah hah?”

  She made wild gesture. “As in, very funny.”

  “You don’t think I want to go to bed with you?”

  What was she supposed to say to that? Was this how men talked now? Did they just come right out with bold truths? “I don’t know what you want,” she muttered.

  “Tonight,” he said, rising from the cushions, “I’ll settle for a kiss.”

  “Oh. Well.” Her gaze darted away from his face searching for something else to land upon. “I’m sort of unpracticed.” Gah! Where was a “No, thank you,” when you needed one?

  “That’s all right,” he said, moving forward. “Afterward, we can critique each other.”

  One more step, and his body was aligned with hers, his body heat at her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Everything was quivering and quaking again, especially her will to deny him this. Licking her lips, she looked up. With the light behind him, his face was in shadow, his eyes dark pools. His hand sifted in her hair at the side of her head.

  Cleo’s knees went soft at the touch and she grabbed onto his shoulders to remain upright. Then his mouth descended.

  The first touch of lips-to-lips was dry, hot, an almost rough brush of super-sensitive tissues. Her fingers dug into heavy bone as he played with her again, another stroke that wasn’t a kiss, just…foreplay of a kiss.

  The bastard.

  Because every cell in her was yearning for a heavier touch, and he had to know it. His thumb caressed her cheek, as if to soothe her, but it only made her want more. Made her want to suck, bite, have.

  Please, she screamed inside her head. Kiss me!

  And then his head dipped lower, tilting to come to her at a different angle. She felt the contact with his mouth, the wet dab of his tongue on her lower lip, and she gasped at the goodness of it.

  He surged inside.

  She made a noise at the back of her throat and stepped into him. His free hand slid around to the small of her back. His fingers found bare flesh beneath her shirt, and it flashed hot as he pressed her closer to the thick bulge at his groin.

  Her blood sped up, need rushing through her bo
dy, a burning, pulsing line of fire. His mouth worked, greedy on hers, and she took all that she could, sucking on his tongue and clenching her fingers in the cotton of his shirt.

  Then, on his own low noise, he lifted his head. His breathing came in hard pants as he stared down at her. “Show me to the door.”

  What? She couldn’t move. If he let her go, she’d slither down to the ground and stay there, a puddle of sexuality too long ignored. With only that kiss, her panties were damp and her clit was pressing against the silky fabric, already swollen.

  “Show me to the door,” Reed said again, and this time he walked backward, taking her with him.

  Determined not to betray her unsophistication—her rampant, urgent neediness—Cleo steeled her spine and ordered her legs to be steady. Somehow they made it to the entry.

  There, Reed hesitated, a ghost of a smile on his face and cockiness written in every line of his body. “So…how’d I do?” he asked.

  Stepping away, she shrugged, then ran a hand through her hair to fluff her bangs. Gather some dignity! she ordered herself. “I’ve had better.”

  His laugh was low, soft. “Bad Cleo,” he whispered, turning the knob. “I’m the fiction writer.”

  Chapter Five

  Reed’s eyes squeezed shut as her palm measured his cock, gave it a little squeeze. He groaned, hot water sluicing down his back as she pressed her breasts to his chest, hard nipples against his skin giving away her excitement. Her mouth touched his throat and he thought of their first kiss in her living room, the shock it had given to his system—and hers. She’d tried being nonchalant about it then, and he hadn’t blamed her. When you spotted a raging fire racing your way, anyone would obey instinct and run first.

  He’d even considered letting her go. Giving up on gaining her trust. But Reed was Rock Royalty, son of one of the Velvet Lemons, meaning his DNA was handed down from a man who didn’t deny himself anything he wanted—and Reed’s hunger for Cleo Anderson was the definition of want.

  She chased droplets down his chest with her tongue, and his own nipples hardened into stiff nail heads. Teasing him, she thumbed both on her way down to her knees. He’d known she’d be like this, eager to please and be pleased. That first night, as his tongue had plundered her mouth, his hand had found the bare skin at the small of her back. She’d gone still, electrified by naked flesh to naked flesh.