Danger, Sweetheart (33 page)

“This is a great time to shut up and kiss me.”

To her delight, Blake obliged.

*   *   *

“This is a terrible idea.” Natalie groaned, clinging to him. “We're gonna break our fool necks.”

“Worth it,” Blake managed.

The reading of Blake's list had led to kissing, which led to groping, which led to showering. The attic bathroom had everything they needed, including a double shower. Natalie made Blake drink a large glass of orange juice before she stripped him, then herself, and then nudged him into the shower. As the water hit them they groaned in unison, stretching beneath the warm spray.

At first it was (mostly) business, washing each other's hair, scrubbing each other's backs. Natalie had brought her OGX cherry blossom shampoo and scrubbed the thick lather through Blake's dark blond hair. He rested his hands on her waist and luxuriated under her touch.

“I have never been sexually aroused by shampoo before.”

“You've been missing out.” She coaxed him into tipping his head back to rinse out the lather, then wriggled a bit as his hands slid over her ass and he pulled her closer. She was pleasantly unsurprised by the size of his cock, which was flushed deep pink, firm and fleshy and nudging up to hit his stomach.
Well, he's a big guy, tall, big hands and big feet. Oofta.
She still had shampoo on her hands and reached between his legs, gently running the soap over his balls, fondling them in her soapy palm, then stroking his lovely long length while he shivered against her.

He must have thought her breasts and ass were filthy, because suddenly cherry blossom shampoo was everywhere, so much that his grip kept slipping, which made them laugh as often as they moaned. Then his mouth was on hers and this kiss wasn't at all tentative like their others. He crowded her against the back wall of the shower, hands sliding around her slippery, soapy body as he licked into her mouth and all she could see and smell and feel and taste was Blake, Blake, Blake.

“We've got to get out of here,” she gasped. “We've got to rinse off and get out and finish before I explode.”

“That's my line, darling,” he whispered into her mouth. “But you're quite right. The water will wash away much of your natural lubricant, which is why sex in hot tubs is a terrible idea. Those poor souls are just asking for a case of bacterial vaginosis.”

She groaned, equal parts revolted and amused. “God, so romantic … love when you talk to me about infections. Now talk to me about antibiotics and flu shots.”

“Hush.” He shut off the water, pulled the curtain aside, braced his weight, then reached around and picked her up, holding her against him by the backs of her thighs. Her feet dangled far from the floor and she held very still.
This might be a terrible idea. But it also might lead to more of the sex. More of the sex is good.
She let out a nervous squeak as he carefully stepped out of the shower, then stood on the rug for a moment, both of them still dripping, then carried her to the bed.

“Ahh, careful, hardwood floors! Don't slip, don't slip!”

“I understand. But don't worry; if I go down, you'll likely squirt out from under me like a giant tiddlywink.”

“Oh, definitely not worried now. What a relief.”
What the hell is a tiddlywink? Maybe it's some kind of Vegas-themed sex toy.
Then, as he eased her down on the bed: “Blake, no, we'll get your bed all wet, towels, towels!”

“Fuck towels,” he growled, and in less than half a second she lost all concern for the state of his quilt and blankets as his chest settled against hers, his solid warm weight pressing her into the mattress. When other men had done this she had felt almost claustrophobic. With Blake, she couldn't get close enough.

She put a hand on the back of his neck and brought his mouth down to hers, kissing him with all the frustration and hurt and anger and remorse she had felt over the past month, putting every bit of
I love you I'm so sorry I forgive you and you forgive me
into it, and it must have worked, because he only broke the kiss to whisper to her in his deep, dark voice, words she felt as much as heard.

“Beautiful, you're so beautiful, Natalie, lovely Natalie I love you I love you.…”

She took his hand, kissed his fingers, then drew them between her legs, let him feel how slick and wet she was (despite the shower), and he groaned as she spread her thighs and wriggled helpfully against him.

“Can I? Please please, I have to be inside you, Natalie, please.…”

“Yes,” she managed, and he leaned over and groped in the end table drawer—she had brought condoms when she'd gone to fetch her shampoo—and his hands were shaking so badly she took the small foil-wrapped packet from him. Not that her hands were steady as stone, but he'd only just gotten his bandages off that morning.

“Okay. I've got it—there.”

“Thank Christ,” he groaned, “all praise to your miraculous hands.” She fumbled a bit and he had to help and, in the end, between the two of them

(“Good God, we're both consenting experienced adults and this is taking
too long,
” which got her laughing so hard she almost fell off the bed.)

they rolled the condom on.

“Now?” he murmured. “Yes? Okay?”

“Yes! Jesus, yes, get in me already.”

“The most beautiful words in the history of language,” he moaned, then shifted against her, and suddenly he was filling her slowly and sweetly. “Oh thank God for that prophylactic or this would have just ended.”

She giggled, then gasped as he moved, wrapped her legs around him, and pulled him as close as was possible. She could feel the big muscles in his back shifting as they moved together, and was astonished to find she was close, so close, though they'd barely begun. Usually it took several minutes and specific stimulation for her to reach orgasm. Then she remembered what he'd said about how they were living a new book, realized she'd wanted him, wanted this, for a month, thought of this and hoped for it, touched herself in her lonely bed and thought about him, and despaired of ever having it, and then she was crying out and clutching him to her and then his eyes rolled back and he leaned forward and groaned into her neck.

They shivered against each other, then lay still and silent, getting their breath back. She inhaled greedily, loving their intermingled scent.

“Natalie Lane of Heartbreak, in Sweetheart. Of Sweetheart.”

She hummed and stroked his hair. They were still wet, and now sticky. She didn't give a ripe shit. “Yours, now,” she replied.

He pulled back and smiled down at her. “Yes,” was the simple reply, and she thought there had never been a word so wonderful.

 

Epilogue

“Blake? C'mon, man, stop sending me to voice mail. Listen, I need your help, no screwing around this time. I decided your insane idea was insane and called the nuclear option because I refuse to live in fear. And get this! Nonna is in on whatever this is! She knows why I'm in Venice, and Mom knows, and they're being
no
help, and if I eat any more gelato I'm gonna puke
everywhere,
so you really gotta call me back and help me figure out what to do. Blake? C'mon! Blake! Look, I know you're getting these because you texted me back that you and this Natalie Lame are getting married and I don't know why you thought that would work
.
Dude, if you don't want to talk to me, just say that, okay? Just be all boring and Blake-ey and be all, “You are in a mess of your own making” and something about the Duke of Lancaster and “you are terrible” and yak-yak-yak. Don't text lies, man, like you'd ever get married, and even if you
did
get married you'd never do it in a city that nearly ran me out of town with tar and feathers. Not cool. Blake? Blake? Blaaaaake!”

 

Romance Trope List

  1. Flashbacks

  2. Flashforwards

  3. Hardscrabble childhood

  4. Emotionally distant hero who just needs the right woman to unlock his heart (Blake)

  5. The rake (Rake)

  6. Tough but tender waitresses, most smarter than their customers

  7. Small-town girl fleeing to Big City to make something of herself

  8. Identical twins who are opposites

  9. Identical twins who pretend they hate each other but love each other

10. Clueless city boy forced to work on farm

11. Farmers forced to work with clueless city boy

12. Grumpy horse who can only be tamed by (reluctant) hero

13. Hero keeping big secret

14. Heroine pretending to be someone else/keeping big secret

15. Heroine's deception makes no sense and seems silly from the beginning

16. Lust at first sight

17. Meet cute

18. Big Mis

19. Lovable farm animal brought into homes with no unpleasantness on either side of the equation

20. Kindly, paternal older man the hero takes to right away

21. Hero bonds with and loves an animal solely meant for consumption

22. Balding men are evil

23. Only after hero nearly dies does heroine realize it's love

24. Stern grandma hiding love for her family under all the stern

25. Over-the-top villain

26. Big cities are bad; small towns are wonderful

27. Hero rich but poor for convenience of plot

28. Inverted “heroine thinks hero is poor, but he's rich” trope: heroine thinks he's rich, finds out he's (kind of) poor (see #29, poor for convenience of plot)

29. Overly serious and educated older brother

30. Wisecracking “street-smart, not book-smart” younger brother

31. Heroine frequently, and inappropriately, giggles.

32. So many misunderstandings can be resolved if characters take three minutes to just have a conversation.

33. Amnesiac sheriff

34. Hot librarians

35. Bad guys swear a lot

36. Sinister foreshadowing that turns out to not be sinister at all

37. Bodice ripping

38. Hero overestimates alcohol tolerance and has drunken rant/meltdown before horrified audience

39. The seemingly insurmountable problems of the plot are solved with relative ease at the end

40. “You just stood up to me, that was the test”

41. Big romantic epiphany

42. Geezers in love

43. No idea what they're feeling is love until it's identified at the eleventh hour

44. Family members presumed dead are alive

45. Happily ever after

 

Read on for a sneak peek at
MaryJanice Davidson
's next novel

 

 

USA DEAD AHEAD

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2016 by
MaryJanice Davidson

 

I'd never hurt her, I'd never hurt any woman, I've hurt men who have tried to hurt women and never regretted it, not once; black eyes get better and broken noses can be reset.

But this is hard. Literally, this is very very hard. Dear Abby: I'm sharing a room with my (kind of) boss who's super-cute and I haven't masturbated in ninety-six hours and she has lovely soft-strong hands and I might be getting Stockholm Syndrome because I'm looking forward to working with her tomorrow even though I'm terrified of Peeps. How skeevy is it if, while being very very quiet, I—

No point even finishing the question. He knew it was unacceptable levels of skeevy. He sighed and flopped over on his back.
Just don't think about it.
Sure. It would be just that easy, right?
Don't think about it. Don't think about Delaney just a few feet away, warm and fragrant in her bed. Don't wonder what her mouth tastes like, and the spot behind her ear, and her lovely long throat. Definitely don't wonder what it'd be like to gently rub your cheek over her stiffening nipples. What she'd sound like if you slipped a hand between her legs and softly stroked her open. Nope. Don't think about any of it. Easy-peasy. And definitely don't grab yourself. A lot.

Delaney sat up, like Frankenstein in the lab after the lighting hit. Rake almost shrieked.
Oh God, she's a telepath and knows I'm a perv! My lustful thoughts were so loud they woke her up! Let death come quickly!
“What?” he shrilled from the sofa bed. “What is it? Not the face, okay?”

She didn't answer. Just abruptly swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood, and went straight to the biggest window in the room, occasionally squashing a Peep or grinding a chocolate egg into the carpet on her way but not stopping. Not even slowing. She got to the window and stood and looked and said nothing and did nothing.

He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”
Please don't kick me out. You can't help being hot, and I can't help finding you hot, but I'd never act on it. Never unless you made it clear you wanted me in your bed. And maybe not even then because although you're hot I'm a little scared of you.

Nothing.

She was still, so still. He'd never seen her like that, like a statue in the dark. “Delaney?”

She turned to look at him and he felt a chill; her gaze wasn't on him, not really. It was like she couldn't see him, was looking past him, or through him. “I don't…” she began in a low, halting voice unlike any she'd used before.

He pushed his blankets off, relieved that when she clomped toward the window like a cute Frankenstein, his penis, Mr. Roboto, turned back into
Flaccido Domingo,
and went to stand beside her. “Are you okay?”

“I don't know where I am,” she whispered, sounding young and lost. And damned if she didn't
look
young in the barely lit glow by the window.

She reached out as if she was going to touch the glass, then let her hand drift back down. The woman who'd laughed when he barfed and yelled when he bitched and called him on his entitled douchebaggery was afraid to touch a window, or raise her voice, or make eye contact.