Blue Crush (30 page)

“Quit it, Genevieve. I could drop you.”

“Then put me
down.”

He boosts me off like he’s going to hurl me, then catches me and walks toward the parking lot, arms braced beneath my ass. He looks me in the eye, our chests plastered together. “We’re getting your hand checked, then we’re going to talk.”

“My
hand,
caveman. The legs function just fine.” I kick out a foot in demonstration.

He snorts. “Yeah, those work too well.” I suspect a double entendre. “I need to tell you some things before you take off again.”

“Hey, I’ve been around. It’s you who’s been distant.”

He stops beside the passenger door of his Jeep. We’re nose to nose, so close I can see the sweat at his hairline, mud, smooth skin, dark eyes. Only then does he loosen his arms and allow me to slide slowly over every ripple and ridge until I touch ground, his hand supporting my lower back and tucking me close as if he’d rather not let me go. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve been trying to make things right, but it’s taken time and a lot of coordinating.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I guess that’s what we’ll discuss. I step away and wobble, because if Lewis is hot from a distance, up close he’s like an inferno. “What about the guys?” I glance behind, belatedly remembering our drunken comrades in need of a ride. Nessa filled in for someone’s day shift today, otherwise she’d be here.

Lewis opens my door and waits for me to enter. “Zach found them a sober driver.”

Urgent care is closer than the ER, according to Lewis, so that’s where we go. My middle finger is in fact broken right below the knuckle, which makes for an attractive splint. I’ll be perpetually flipping everyone the bird for the next three weeks.

The doctor says the bone is aligned and not a severe break. It should heal well if I keep the splint on, but it’s on my right hand, so of course, I can’t write, or work as a cocktail waitress, not that I intended to return to Blue. Drake made working there less than ideal, but I had no idea how truly dangerous. The splint gives me the perfect excuse to drop the harassment claim and simply quit my job. But I’m done running. Even if I didn’t care whether or not Drake paid for what he did to me, he’ll do it to someone else. He probably already has.

“Why are you driving north?” My eyes follow the casinos sweeping past. My house is in the opposite direction.

“I thought my place would be better for talking without an audience. Is that okay?”

I nod and look out the window, eyes unfocused. I’m scared and excited. Pretty much the two divergent emotions that grip me around Lewis. It’s a heady mix.

We pull around the bend of a long eastbound road to the quintessential ski lodge nestled amongst ancient boulders and forest, beams of sunlight streaming through the trees, shining off the red roof of Lewis’s house. The dull sting in my chest flares, the one that’s kept me company since the night I found him here with Mira and realized she would always be a barrier between us.

Lewis pulls the key from the ignition and we walk up to his small porch. He unlocks the front door and gestures me inside. I had a good view of the interior the night I came by, so there are few surprises. The only part of his house I couldn’t see was the staircase and the second level. Considering that the living room, with an oversized man-couch, and a granite and pine kitchen take up the downstairs, there’s probably a bedroom up there. The house is A-frame and not much else would fit.

Lewis walks past me into the kitchen and drops his backpack on the island. The kitchen is small and the island is more of a peninsula, attached to the wall with the oven, but the materials are top quality, gray-speckled granite with knotty pine cabinets.

He purses his masculine lips, which has me fantasizing about that part of him up close and personal. His head turns slightly to the side. He lets out a slow breath and glances down my body. Heat blooms in my cheeks and my breathing speeds up. “We should shower.”

“Excuse me?” I choke.

He climbs the stairs, disappearing up the stairwell.

“Lewis?”

“Come on. Towels are up here,” he calls.

How will taking a shower help the situation?

The sound of a door opening comes from above, along with a shower turning on. I’m covered in dirt and I guess it
would
be more comfortable to shower before we talk.

Screw it. I toss my purse on the counter and climb up after him.

The upstairs is taken up by the largest bed I’ve ever seen, and a master bath. There’s really no place for me to go except inside his bedroom.

Lewis pulls a plain white T-shirt from a dresser and holds it out. “Will this do? I’d give you boxers, but I’m pretty sure they’ll fall off. The shirt should hit your thighs.” His gaze lingers there and I glare at him.

The shirt is simple and clean, but with nothing else on, it won’t cover much. I had planned on going home after the race and didn’t bring a change of clothes. “We did come here to talk, right?”

He sets the T-shirt on the bed. “Yeah, after we clean up. The mud’s starting to itch.”

Good point. I look down and realize I’ve tracked dirt on his clean carpet. I slip off my shoes and take the towel he hands me.

I hold up my splint. His eyebrows rise in question, and I realize it looks like I’m giving him the finger. My lips quirk. “What about this? Do you have a tub in your bathroom so I can drape my arm over?”

“No tub. But we could wrap it … and I could help you.”

Oh I can just imagine how he’d help me. “No.” That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. I may be naïve, but I’m no amateur.

“It’s not a big deal, Gen. I’ve seen you naked.” He does a terrible job of hiding the mischievous grin that twitches the corners of his mouth.

“You are insane if you think I’m getting naked with you.” That is a recipe for sex. I don’t have that much self-control. Okay, I have none around him.

His grin fades. “This could work, Gen, if you give it a chance and understand how serious I am about you.”

I shake my head. “Mira—”

“I’m working on things with Mira. It’s going to be different.”

“You’ve kept me on the outside and I can’t take that. I need a real boyfriend.”

“You’re right and—” He scratches his arm and dried mud flakes to the floor. “Look, let’s take a shower, then talk. It’ll be better. You can even leave your underwear on if you want.”

Nothing about this moment is romantic. I’m not sure taking a shower together is the safest thing to do, but he’s right, we’ve already seen each other naked. And I’ve already tossed safe out the window. “Fine.”

The master bath is surprisingly large for a small upstairs, the shower taking up an entire wall with a built-in seat. Lewis reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head, his bare chest mesmerizing me for a moment before I wrench my eyes away and unzip my sweatshirt. I grab the edge of my shirt to lift it, when Lewis tugs down his shorts—and goes completely naked.

“Um?”

He glances up. “You can stay in your panties. I’m getting clean … What? I trust you not to grope me.” He grins.

My mouth drops open, eyes narrowing to slits. So that’s how he wants to play this?

I pull off my top, not elegantly as my damn splint is a bulky bitch, and shimmy out of my yoga capris until I’m only in my panties and sports bra. Lewis does a good job keeping his eyes averted, until I ask for help.

“Can you unhook my bra?” It’s a massive industrial type with a four-prong hook in the back and not at all sexy, but there are boobs underneath. I’m not shying from the challenge he just threw down.

His eyes dip for a fraction of a second, before he schools his features and twirls his finger for me to spin around. The gesture is casual, but the hand that unhooks the clasp shakes and his thumb trails my spine for a moment before lifting. When I turn, he’s looking away adjusting the shower nozzles.

I smirk. He can pretend all he wants, but erections don’t lie.

I slide my panties off and add them to the pile of filthy clothes on his clean slate floor. For some reason, I have the urge to test him, which makes no sense, given I’m the one who wants to keep things platonic, at least until we’ve figured things out. But there’s something about Lewis struggling to keep his hands off me that appeals after all the times I’ve attacked him.

He gestures for me to climb in, his gaze not straying below my face, though there’s a tension around his eyes that didn’t exist before. I lower my head under the water, keeping my splinted hand high and out of the stream. Totally forgot to bag it, but it doesn’t matter. Lewis guides me to the side, his front to my back, and does all the work, sudsing my hair with shampoo and massaging my scalp.

My head drops back to his chest and I close my eyes, because, Jesus, his hands feel good. The next thing I know, I’m closer than I thought, and my ass brushes his erection.

His hands still.

I glance back and find his eyes closed. When they open, they’re black and hooded. He starts scrubbing my scalp less gently, more urgently. He rinses out the shampoo and repeats the steps with conditioner, then does the same with his hair.

The mud runs down the drain, but the body paint on our faces, necks, and legs is waterproof.

Lewis grabs a green bar of soap and lathers up, watching me the entire time. My gaze follows his wide hands as he runs the soap over his chest, beneath his arms, over the ridges of his stomach, past his huge erection, and down muscled legs. He ducks under the showerhead, letting the water sluice over his wide back and shoulders, then raises his eyebrows as if to say, your turn.

I give myself a mental shake, because, oh my God—this was a bad idea. Why did I think I could watch something like that without going into hormone overload? This is Lewis, the guy who took my frigid ass and set it on fire.

I step away, my good hand pressing the tile for grounding.

He suds up his palms. “Close your eyes.” I do as he says and smooth, efficient fingers close over my cheekbones, my neck, my shoulders.

My back goes sluggish.

“Rinse your face and I’ll get the rest.”

Oh, God,
the rest.

Holding my wounded arm out of the water, I stand under the shower nozzle. “That’s good for now. I’ll wash again later.” I’m not sure how much more I can stand without plastering myself to him. My plan to get him to crack has backfired.

“You’ve got paint on your arms and legs. It’ll only take a second.” He holds up the bar.

Lewis’s self-control has proven stubbornly resilient. A part of me wants to test it further to see who cracks first, only I’m afraid that will be me. We need to talk, but suddenly this, the physical tension, seems important. Who says we can’t connect in other ways and get to the talking later? There’s no logic in this—I should avoid anything physical at all costs until we’ve hashed things out—but then, I’m not thinking with my brain.

I nod and he starts down my arms, then up my neck. His fingers linger on my collarbone, his eyes catching mine. His wide palms glide over my breasts to the ribs beneath. My lips press together, stifling a moan.

Lewis doesn’t seem to notice. He’s concentrating like he’s painting a masterpiece, or keeping himself contained.

Thank God, I’m not the only one.

Lewis lathers more soap and runs his fingers down my legs, his body bent and on one knee. His palms run up my calves—lips taking a moment to gently brush the bandage at my knee—fingers moving over the backs of my thighs to my ass.

My eyelids close and I roll my head against the tile, struggling to hold it together. It takes me a second to realize his hands have stopped on my ass. When I look down, his face is level with the apex of my legs. He’s breathing heavily, his fingers gripping my skin.

“Gen?”

“Yes,” I sigh in answer to his silent question.

He leans forward and presses his nose right between my thighs.

I gasp at the same time he groans, his eyes meeting mine. The look on his face is another silent question—
is this okay?

I cup the back of his head, totally on board with whatever he wants to do.

He pulls my leg up and rests it on his shoulder and I brace my hand against the wall. His lips brush the spot that’s hyperaware of every move he makes, responding with an answering throb.

I can’t believe this is me, here, doing this. I avoided oral sex and now I crave Lewis’s mouth on me.

His wet tongue darts out and licks. I moan and flatten my good hand on his other shoulder, his tongue doing some kind of acrobatics that defy logic and have me shaking. He reaches up, cups my breast, and runs the pad of his thumb over my nipple. I buck, my hips grinding against his mouth. I’m moaning, grasping his hair, and so close to orgasm, mini flutters erupt.

His finger enters me and I explode, shaking and crying out with release. Lewis groans and rubs the spot his tongue tortured until the last of the orgasm fades, his mouth trailing up my body.

He eases the arm with the broken finger around his neck and lifts my thighs, pressing me into the wall, kissing me deeply. I reach down and circle him with my good hand, pulling him to my entrance.

His body tenses. “Fuck, wait—I don’t have …”

“I’m on the Pill. But you’ve been tested?”

He doesn’t wait for me to move my hand, he’s inside me, kissing my face, my neck. “Yes.”

After a second, he breaks from the wall with our bodies still connected and carries me to the bed, ignoring the running shower. We fall on the mattress and I gasp at the penetration from this angle.

Lewis pauses as if wanting to make sure I’m okay, and I move my hips, urging him to get a move on.

He sets a steady rhythm, touching my hip, my waist and breasts—everywhere he can reach—like he can’t get enough. I flatten my hand to his chest and run it up the ridges of his shoulder, over his muscular neck to cup the side of his face. He drops his head and kisses me, and all I can think is, this is real love. This is what I’ve been missing.

His rhythm grows frantic. The muscles of his arms tense and he breaks our kiss, his face tightening. He groans, his body shaking with release.

Lewis presses his cheek to my temple, his lips grazing my hairline. His breathing slows and he pulls me close, rolling onto his side so we’re facing each other, my head tucked beneath his.