Breathless (18 page)

M
ariel Gibson sat in her usual seat in the corner of the teacher’s lounge. She flipped to the arts and culture section of the football coach’s copy of the newspaper. An announcement caught her attention, and as she leaned in closer to read it, her shoulders pulled tight and a light sweat broke out on her forehead. A competition for artists. One of the judges was Nigel Withers.
Rat bastard
.

She took a surreptitious glance around the lounge. No one watched her, they never did. In a sports-mad high school full of jocks, mousy Mariel never attracted attention.

Without so much as a niggle of guilt, she tore the page out of the super jock’s paper and folded it neatly into quarters, then eighths. She doubted the strutting jockstrap would ever notice the arts and culture page missing. Slipping the square of paper into the front pocket of her denim jumper, she stood and headed into the ladies’ room. A splash of cool water on her neck and wrists calmed her. A competition! Dare she enter?

Nigel Withers. The idea of facing him in such a public forum made her belly roll in dread. She lowered her head to watch the faucet drip into the sink and remembered how he’d sliced her to ribbons. Cut out her heart. Stole the love of her life!

Rat bastard.

She’d suffered for three years because of him. She turned on the cold water again and shoved her wrists under the stream in a bid to regain her sanity. If not her sanity, then at least her good sense.

But still, the chance to prove that she was better than mediocre didn’t come along every day.
Mediocre
. Was there an uglier word? She doubted it. A do nothing, says nothing word that killed her artistic soul. After all, there was only so much
bland
to go around, and she’d had more than her share.

It would have been better if he’d
hated
her work. Then she would have known she’d created some kind of emotional response. But mediocre? Arrgh!

Just to add salt to the wound, the pompous ass had leered at her breasts. “I often tell artists they have a good hand, but you, my dear, could do better with your mouth.”

The pig.

He’d pinched her cheeks to make an O of her lips. Nothing hurt but her pride. She’d slapped his hand away in a reflexive motion and shoved her canvases back into her portfolio.

He wore an expression that said being serviced was his due. After all, he owned one of the city’s most prestigious art galleries. He said, calmly and cooly, that his word could make her career, bring her art the attention she hoped for. And for one brief second she wanted, really wanted to prove to her family that she could make a living with her talent.

Hearing him, wanting what he offered, she had the sickening sense that if she refused him, she would never muster enough courage to show her work to anyone again. Nigel Withers hadn’t hurt her physically, but her creative spirit shriveled.

“You want me to—you hate my paintings and you want me to—” She was near breathless with shock, needing to understand.

“Hate your paintings?” He looked at his well-buffed nails. “No, you misunderstand, your canvases are too mediocre to hate. They’re beige, lifeless.” And then he dived in for the kill. “There isn’t enough talent on those canvases to cause a reaction.”

She ran out, devastated, her movements stiff and awkward.

Three years later, she still suspected he was right. She lifted her head and stared into the mirror. She’d let that rat bastard ruin the last three years of her life. But she refused to let him ruin the rest of it.

The fire of determination filled her eyes and she straightened. She would enter this competition for better or worse, and would learn the truth.

Could she live with a confirmation that she would never be more, be better, than a wannabe? Yes, because at least she could move on with the other areas of her life. She could say she’d given it one more shot and done her best.

She gathered the tattered remnants of her pride and turned the dripping water faucet off tight.

She had to face Nigel Withers again, or she’d be stuck in this stasis forever. The thought was not to be borne.

Two hours later, she sat in her car inside her garage with one foot on the floor and the other still inside the car. Her car keys filled one hand and her briefcase sat on her lap. She’d been sitting there for three full minutes, frozen in excited fear.

She was too rattled to think clearly. Rattled. Exhilarated! Terrified!

A glance in the rearview mirror told her she looked a mess. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks pink, she had a fine sheen across her forehead. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she’d just been having sex. Great sex. Hot sex.

Hah! Like she even remembered the last time she’d had sex when she wasn’t alone. She let her head fall back on the headrest, closed her eyes, and allowed her mind to wander to Danny.

Danny Glenn. Her carpenter.

He would finish building the deck soon; then he’d move on to a new job somewhere else. For six months, he had been coming to her house, working on various renovations. For six months, she had been running out of batteries once a week. Nice, but not enough to keep the man off her mind.

It was one thing to try to show Nigel Withers that she was an artist with merit, it was quite another to tempt Danny into seeing her as desirable.

Maybe the two were connected. The stereotype of an artistic woman was a free spirit, flamboyant and confident. A sexual being, ready to explore her boundaries.

Mariel the mousy high-school art teacher exploring her sexuality? Oh, please. The jocks at the school would have a field day with that idea.

Still, if she managed to seduce Danny, then she’d feel much more confident about this competition. She could face Nigel Withers without blinking. She’d know that even if she wasn’t the artist she hoped to be, that at least she’d discovered herself as a woman. Maybe she could become a free spirit. Maybe she could be flamboyant and paint her nails black and dye her hair green.

So, she now had two ways to seize control of her life. The first plan was to get with Danny Glenn, to gain the confidence to face the rat bastard, Nigel Withers. Her belly clenched. And if Danny didn’t take the bait? If he laughed at her awkward moves?

In her dreams, she was never awkward. What she needed to do was simple. She needed to think like Jayne. Jayne never shied away from hot, sexy men or hot, sexy behavior.

She closed her eyes and brought an image of Danny into her mind. The man was a perfect specimen. Sun-bleached brown hair, wide shoulders, long, lean legs, and forearms that made her drool.

Some men knew they were gorgeous and played it up, but other men just
were
. He didn’t have a clue how he affected her; he never would unless she showed him. Talk about terror, her heart palpitated to think about showing Danny her wild side when she wasn’t even sure she had one.

The first thing to do was to break with her after-school routine. In her mind, she walked into her bedroom for a change of clothes. But what to wear for a seduction when her closet was full of coverup clothes.

Dig deeper, Mariel. There must be something that screams sex.

Anything?

Full cotton panties. Heavy-duty bras. The mental list continued with long skirts and wait, in the back of her closet, a short, tight skirt that Jayne had bought her. A gift for when they went out clubbing. But Mariel had always had a reason not to go.

The cool air of the garage chilled her as she still sat like a dead stump. Could she do this? She had to. Daydreaming in the garage would get her nowhere. And she wanted Danny. If she didn’t have the nerve to go after him, how could she ever enter this competition and show Withers how wrong he’d been?

If that smarmy blowhard Nigel Withers could make her feel inferior, a rejection from Danny would flat out kill her. The last smidgeon of self-esteem she had would disintegrate.

She’d be a dried up, lonely woman trapped teaching art class in a football-crazed high school forever. In a sea of testosterone-laden jocks, she was an island. A completely deserted island, artistically and sexually.

A silent scream filled her head at the idea.

She forced herself to climb out of the car and walk through the entrance door to the mud room. For a panicked moment, she yearned for her comfortable routine. But no!

She turned into her bedroom, then immediately stripped off her clothes. Step one: In her bra and panties, Mariel dug into her closet. In the back, exactly where she remembered, was the skirt.

She tugged it on. Black, tight, it showed off her butt to perfection. It also showed her panty lines. Off they came, with a shock of cool air against her pussy. She had a pair of slim heeled pumps in her shoe tray. Not stilettoes, but they were pretty just the same. And they were purple! Not mauve or lilac. Purple.

She bent over at the waist to find them. More air hit her slit, reminding her that if this didn’t work, she’d be mortified. But she couldn’t think of failure. She slipped on the pumps and examined the effect in the mirror. They thinned out her ankles and made her legs look long and shapely.

So, halfway there.

Her bra looked dingy in this light, so she slipped it off. Her breasts were full enough to bob lightly when she walked. Her hair was just long enough to brush her nipples, and they rose in response to the light, swishy feel.

She turned to view her backside. Not bad. Her ass was high and full, her waist narrow. Trailing her hand up the back of her thigh, she exposed the plump, round flesh of her right butt cheek.

Still holding her skirt high on her hip, she turned to face front again. Her dark red curls peeped out and she combed her fingers through the hair with light, sensuous tugs. Blood rushed to respond and her belly felt heavy with need.

Her pussy moistened, ready for the vibrations that would give her relief. But not today. She refused to use any more batteries in the pursuit of pleasure. Not until she’d at least taken a shot at Danny Glenn.

Now, what top to wear?

If only she had the nerve to walk out to her kitchen like this. She cupped her breasts, tightening the fall of hair across her nipples. She opened her stance, the skirt still hitched up to expose her pubic hair, while she cupped and squeezed her breasts.

No bra, she decided. She slicked her fingers over her slit, gathered some of the moisture there, then swiped it across her neck. She was brave, she was bold. She was determined.

The skirt was black, the shoes purple. She’d bought them to match a silk camisole she’d worn once. Digging it out of the back of her lingerie drawer, she kept up a steady stream of affirmations. You can do this, you can, you can!

You will!

Dressed and primed, she took a calming breath and left the safety of her room. She crept along the hall toward the kitchen. Her appearance dressed like this would shock Danny, she was sure. But shock and excite him enough to respond?

But how to act? She couldn’t just walk out on the deck and lift her skirt. No. Not even Jayne would behave that blatantly.

No, she’d act the way she did every day. The idea of using her routine while staying bold and brave eased her way along the hall.

Tea, she’d make her usual cup, call Jayne the way she always did. Tell her friend about the competition and about her decision to be bold. Bold and brave.

It was a whole new Mariel who walked toward her kitchen. She only hoped she wasn’t cut off at the knees once she stepped out onto the deck to see Danny.

Just like usual. Just like never before.

D
anny Glenn had wanted Mariel Gibson for months. Not at first glance, but she’d grown on him slowly. First, she’d laid a foundation built on intelligence. Next, she’d framed herself in humor and wit. After that, she’d been sheathed by shy glances and pink blushes that turned him into a house of lust and need.

At least, he figured it was lust. After his divorce, any time he’d wanted a woman this much, he’d burned up and burned out pretty quick. But those women had been different. He’d started out wanting their bodies first. He hadn’t taken time to get to know them the way he’d taken note of Mariel’s personality.

Immediately after his marriage ended, he’d been pretty busy fucking every woman he got his hands on. He’d explored every option available to a fully heterosexual male. It had been fun and easy, but eventually, empty.

And then he’d walked into Mariel Gibson’s house. She’d smiled and drawn him in with the light of achievement in her eyes. Not many single women bought houses on their own. She explained her dreams of renovating the house to suit herself. Her excitement had been contagious, and her desire to include him in her vision had been infectious.

They’d argued over points of design, over structure and form, but in the end, they’d compromised. Or he damn well figured out a way to incorporate what she wanted.

She was challenging and bright and decisive, and he liked her. Every day since then, he looked forward to these next golden moments when she checked on his progress for the day. After the kitchen job, he’d been relieved when she’d called him back for the built-in shelves. Now, it was the deck. But he was more than half done and the end loomed like an ax over his neck.

He’d heard her drive into the garage. But she seemed to be taking an extra long time to show up in the kitchen. She was a creature of habit, so any moment she’d walk into her kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. That done, she would call her friend Jayne. While chatting, she’d flip through her mail.

All the while, she’d be framed by the kitchen window as she glanced outside at him. Sometimes he would catch her eye and hold it, wishing like hell that she’d break with routine and step outside without her mug of tea clasped like a shield in front of her chest.

But she never changed a step. Never. If he was lucky and the sun was shining and she wasn’t too cold or too warm or too shy, she would hang out for a couple of minutes and talk about her day. Small talk, mostly, but he loved that she shared the time with him. He’d hoped for a while that she wanted him to make a move, but she was quick to back away. He’d decided to wait for a time when there could be no mistake.

If he didn’t see a chance soon, he’d call her in a week or two. He doubted she was dating, because she cooked dinner for one every night. No men ever stopped by, and he’d never heard her talk to anyone but Jayne on the phone.

He checked the time. Mariel was fifteen minutes behind schedule today. Something was up. He heard the clatter of the kettle before he saw her, but when he looked up to catch her eye, he dropped his hammer.

His throat went dry when he saw the skimpy top she wore. Her lustrous hair covered her nipples. Her breasts moved fluidly under the deep purple silk. No bra. His time had run out. She was dressed for a date. With another guy.

He couldn’t drag his eyes from her. Some other man would run his hands across her chest tonight. Some other man would kiss her neck, her lips, and maybe more.

Right on cue, she picked up her phone and dialed her friend Jayne. But Mariel’s movements were jerky, her voice excited as she began her conversation. He picked up his hammer and gave her a wave through the kitchen window.

She waved back. A brief flash of her hand while her eyes caught on his and held.

Not for long, though, and never for long enough.

Today, something had her so excited she was bouncing on her toes. Which was great, because the movement made her breasts jiggle. She couldn’t be aware of that, though. Couldn’t be aware that every smooth undulation of her heavy flesh was a stroke on his burgeoning cock.

He had it bad for her. So bad.

He moved closer to the window in a shameless need to catch some idea of what had happened to make her look this wired.

“I would need to find a man, Jayne,” she was saying. “A hot body. He’s got to be firm, muscular, but not steroid huge.”

Dressed like that, she’d have a man in record time. Danny had no compunction about eavesdropping. Any red-blooded male would sit up and take notice if a woman like Mariel needed a guy with a hot body. His prick sang hallelujah.

Every day, Mariel and her friend Jayne talked about a lot of stuff. Mostly their conversations revolved around Mariel explaining why she couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t do something. The majority of her excuses were lame. The woman needed to shake things up.

Clearly, today was the day she’d chosen to shake. One look at her flushed cheeks, her bright eyes, and Danny wanted to be the man she needed, for whatever reason.

He would do whatever she needed him to do. He would be whatever she needed him to be. Mariel was hot as a rocket, compact and tight, ready to launch. And God he wanted to catch her!

Today’s talk about needing a body was definitely not the girlfriends’ usual conversation. This was crazy different. Her voice was wired with excitement, her tone vibrant and husky. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was on the brink of doing something wild.

He was more than happy to provide the body she wanted, but he needed more details. So, he held the nail in place and froze with his hammer raised. If she looked outside, she’d think he was lining up the nail head.

While what he wanted was to drop his hammer, walk into the kitchen, and nail
her
, on the counter. Hard. Deep between her thighs. His cock rose to attention, with a gimme, gimme, gimme wail that made his teeth clench.

These last few weeks, he’d learned to work around an erection. But lately, it was next to impossible. His balls were blue by the end of the day, and his hips ached for want of her.

Mariel’s voice went silent while she listened to her friend. Jayne was a hot blonde Danny had seen a couple times. More blatantly sexual than Mariel, but much happier too. Jayne had the look of a woman getting laid and loving it.

He hammered a couple more nails while Mariel moved away from the window. Her kettle whistled. The signal that any minute now she would step outside and hold on to her mug of tea with both hands. Her wide eyes would flick down his body while her sexy hands with the long, slim fingers and the clear polish on her nails held her mug close to her chest. He loved the way Mariel’s breath caught when she talked to him. Her beautiful blue eyes went foggy when she looked at him.

But just as he would gather his wits long enough to think about making a move, she’d skitter away, back into the house, and the chance was lost.

He couldn’t get enough of watching her, wondering about the slope of her breasts, the scent of her skin, the way she’d pant in orgasm. Oh, yeah, he had it bad for her.

If only she would step outside without that mug in her hands. He could brush her fingers when she pointed to something. He was tired of standing close to catch her scent. He wanted to touch the small of her back, lean in close when he pointed out the work he’d done. He wanted to know that if he kissed her, she’d kiss him back. He wanted to feel the sunshine of promise in her eyes when he needed to gather her close and hold on.

When he’d first come to work for her, he hadn’t seen what he saw in her now. She was quiet, cool, aloof. She wore a lot of beige and other bland colors. She spoke softly and listened attentively. But today, with her chest covered in purple silk, her skin glowed. Her shoulders were lovely. He was tired of knobby bones sticking out. A woman’s skeleton belonged under the skin, not poking up through it.

She turned away and continued to chat with Jayne while she made her tea and gathered the makings for salad. He couldn’t hear her now. She’d lowered her voice.

Mariel gave the impression of being a pushover or too gentle for her own good. But six months into the client-contractor relationship, he knew she was no pushover. When they discussed the plans for a renovation, she stated her desire clearly, even if it clashed with his suggestions. She never hesitated to praise him when the plan came together the way she’d envisioned.

She admitted when she was wrong too.

She was bright, assertive when she needed to be, and fascinated him because she hid more than she revealed the longer he knew her.

He’d built the shelves that now housed her flat-screen television, some books, and a shitload of family photos. Every person in the pictures looked uptight and prim. Any shots that included Mariel showed her standing off to the side with her arms crossed.

He figured she held herself in a lot. Like if she ever let loose, she’d go so crazy she’d never come back.

And now, she needed a man with a hard body. If he had anything to say about it, she wouldn’t look any farther than right here.

If he didn’t make his move soon, his chances to engage the serious Mariel Gibson in anything more than a conversation about his invoice would slip away.

He could show up at her door next week with a bunch of flowers, but with her dressed for a date tonight, next week would be too late.

She was still on the phone, her voice soft and urgent. In his peripheral vision, he saw her snug the phone tight between her shoulder and ear. When she moved to stand in front of the open window again, he leaned in to hear.

“No, not a body builder,” she said. “Someone with a more natural-looking body.” Her head lifted as if she knew he was standing five feet away, outside the window listening.

He turned to stare back at her, caught her look, and grinned when her eyes widened. Hot damn. Mariel was like a tentative deer, delicate in feature, graceful in her movement, but strong and lithe. She could bound away at a moment’s notice, never to be seen again.

She spoke into the phone. “With Nigel Withers judging I won’t have a prayer of winning, but I need to do this. I need to try. I can’t believe he would deign to show up at a competition like this. I wonder what he hopes to accomplish?”

Danny had no idea what she was talking about, but her eyes never left him. He’d slipped off his T-shirt an hour ago. With her eyes on him, he ran his hand down his chest and stared right back. A crude impulse caught his mind, but he let it go. If Mariel was the kind of woman to respond to crudity, he’d know it by now. Hell, he’d have been in her bed already.

She was far too skittish and would run like hell if he was blatant about what he wanted. She was cautious. He had to follow her lead.

His chest was slick with fresh perspiration. This was the worst thing about working as a carpenter and the main reason he’d been frustrated all this time. She was a lady, and he didn’t think she’d want down and dirty with a guy who smelled like he’d been hammering nails all day. Tomorrow, he’d watch the clock better and freshen up before she got home.

He grabbed his T-shirt from on top of his lunch cooler and swiped slowly at the damp on his chest hair, never taking his eyes from the woman in the kitchen window. She bit her lip but didn’t look away. Today, she played at being bold, and he wondered, no, hoped, it would last long enough for him to make a move.

He slid his balled-up T-shirt down to his belly.

Mariel dropped the phone.

Danny felt the joy of quiet victory while she cursed softly and grabbed the phone again. “Jayne, are you there? Sorry, I got distracted and dropped the phone.” Silence while she listened. “Yes, he’s here.”

Hell, yes!
Jayne had asked about him. Mariel turned her back to the window. He couldn’t hear what she said next.
Game over.

He lined up the nail head one more time. Damn deck would never be built if he kept this up. His cock throbbed when he landed two perfect blows and the nail disappeared into the cedar.

He’d need shock absorbers on his balls if she kept staring at him while he worked. He set another nail, hammered it home, while the pounding made his mind go to sex all over again.

“Danny?” her soft voice came at him through the open window. The sound slicked around his ears, dipped into his chest, plucked at the top tab of his jeans. The woman could get him off with her voice!