Hot Summer Lust (6 page)

The day we buried her was the worst. His
rage had taken a turn. Grief had hardened the edges of it.
He was a big son of a bitch and
I think he would’ve killed me if I’d let him. But even at the age of
fifteen I knew
what I was destined for. I took off that night,
with two black eyes, a mashed-up face and a couple of broken ribs
.
I still have a scar on the bridge of
my nose where he broke it. All I had was t
he clothes on my back and a twenty dollar bill I’d stolen from his wallet.
An
d the guitar my mother gave me for my fifteenth birthday, with money she’d saved by taking on
sewing jobs. She sewed so much her fingers used to bleed.

I never saw him again. I read in the paper he died just over three years ago, right before my very first single came out. The bank took whatever was left of the farm.
I wouldn’t have wanted his money anyway. By then, I didn’t need it. I spent three years living on the streets of Nashville, busking for food money, figuring out my style, my voice, my
sound. I found a room in a boarding house in a low-rent neighborhood. I got a late-night gig in a bar on Thursdays and earned a little more. It was there that Vaughn found me. He was managing another band at the time and
dropped them when I agreed to sign with him. Within a month, we’d landed a deal with a major recording company.

I never looked back.

She’s
the one
kicking up all these memories. With her run-down little house and her angel’s voice.
I can relate to this girl more than she knows. It’s
that
link that bothers me almost more than the killer body, the honey-blond hair, the heart-breaking face. It’s that deeper current of understanding that grabs something in me that won’t let go.

The sky is pure azure.
The sun’s hotter than ever
.
It’s five minutes to ten and I’m almost there. I
’m at the pond now and I can see Elias’s house.

I think about what might
happen later. I remember
what he said, about the swim. The way he practically ordered me, his eyes all dark and intense. Just before he
almost
kissed me
.
You know you want to.
Just thinking about that arrogant near-command brings a flush to my skin as I walk along. The one I’m starting to get used to, whenever I think about Elias Hayes.

I’m wearing jean shorts and a sky-blue tank top over Frannie’s white bikini. The only bathing suit I had was the one from school and there’s no way I was wearing that one. The thing
looks like a full-bodied chastity belt. Frannie’
s bikini is more than a little
skimpy. There’
s not much to it at all, just a few tiny triangles of material put together with stretchy string, but it’ll have to do.
It hardly matters
anyway. We might not even have time for swimming, or he might have changed his mind.

Besides, he’s already seen me.
Naked. M
oaning. Coming.

God.

It’s mortifying but I put it out of my mind.
I’m at his house now.
It’s on a hill: a huge, two-story villa
.
Considering it’s been vacant for a more than a
year, it looks pretty good.
The paint’s still clean-looking.
He’s obviously had a gardener come and cut back the weeds that had begun to obscure the wide wrap-around porch.
The air smells of
hay and fresh-cut, sun-baked grass.
But there’s no sign of a gardener now. There’s no sign of anyone.

I go up to the door. There’s a note taped to it.

Sadie,

Start wherever you want.
Cleaning stuff’s inside.
I’m in the b
arn. I’ll be back later
so be ready for that swim.

E

Bossy, as usual. Then again, he
is
… my boss
.
Just the thought of that, weirdly, makes me aware of the soft warmth of my own body.

The sensitive tips of my breasts.

The light sheen of sweat on my skin from the heat of the day.

The fluttering, intimate
pulse. There.

I open the screen door and step inside.

The house is beautiful. Dusty but still majestic
.
It’s about twice the size of our own house, and much fancier.
Hazy sunlight filters in through big bay windows that look out towards the pond. The wood floors are smooth and there’s a large stone
fireplace. The only piece of furniture is an old grand piano. It’s the kind of piano
that makes you want to sit there and compose something.
I imagine
what the resonant, echoing acoustics in the huge, empty house would sound like.

But I’m not here to sing or compose. I’m here to earn my ticket out of this one-horse town and make my way to big city lights.

I find the cleaning stuff Elias has left for me, in the kitchen.
The kitchen, too, is huge, with granite counters, fancy new appliances and French doors that lead out to a cute outdoor dining area.
So I start there.
I open the French doors to let in what little breeze
there might be. There’s a radio sitting
on the counter so I turn it on. It’s already tuned to my favorite station so I turn it up a little. I tie my hair back into a ponytail, put on the rubber gloves and get to work, wiping the counters, cleaning the fridge, mopping the floors.

The song comes on: the one I’d hea
rd yesterday in the car.
It’s clearly a hit and you can see why.
It’s catchy and soulful, touching that rare sweetspot between raw, talented zeal and commercial perfection.
And that
voice
. That husked
croon that hits me right where
I live.
I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with
a soapy sponge. Strands of
my hair have come loose from my ponytail
. And damn this bikini; I’m practically falling out of my tank top.
My short shorts feel too tight. The bikini bottoms have bunched up and are rubbing against me in a way that feels …
good
. As I scrub I sort of sway into the feeling, arching my back just a little.
I’m sweating with exertion and
getting all worked up over this damn song again. I don’t just feel hot, I feel
hot
. Like all my erogenous zones are on overdrive.
I’m tempted to take off my clothes and work in my bikini but that would be ridiculous. The light, moistening swell of my …
pussy
is starting to throb in gentle pulses as I move.

Oh, God, this is crazy.
The
languid, rhythmic, slippery beat is gaining momentum.

And as I listen more closely to the song, I realize it: the voice sounds
familiar
.
That dark, sexy rasp.

But no. It must just be a coincidence.

As I work and the beginnings of the sensuous rise tease me, I hum along to the tune.

I’m not the only one.

I realize Elias is
standing
there, singing softly along with me, watching me.
I didn’t hear him come in. He’s leaning against the door frame
with his arms folded across his chest, all six-foot-something of sun-burnished, sweat-shiny muscles, smoldering indigo eyes and messily-smoothed black hair.
His masculinity sort of gleams and oozes, enveloping me in its invisible haze.
He’s wearing a pair
of black shorts and work boots. And nothing else.

I freeze but my body is alive with a strong, pulsing heartbeat, not just in my chest but between my legs. I can feel his presence
right there
. Where I’m sodden and swollen. Where the warm sweetness aches.

“Jesus Christ,” he drawls
. “You are
fucking
beautiful
.”

I’m
a little taken aback by it. Not just by
the crass forcefulness of the delivery,
but the sentiment.
He thinks I’m beautiful.
Even though I feel far from it right about now. Which makes me wonder if he’s mocking me again. I can’t quite tell.
I don’t hear a lot of swearing. But I like the way
it sounds when Elias does it
.
It sounds
aggressive
.

God.

I feel like I’m about to combust, or melt into a puddle right here in front of him. I’m still on my hands and knees. My whole body feels supple and hot, simmering with that honeyed heat.
Then I notice it: a
huge, bulky, swollen ridge inside his shorts.

Oh my God. I’m going to die.

I’m going crazy.
My heart’s
racing.
I stand up, somehow, and lean back against the coolness of the marble counter, holding onto it for support.

And I can’t believe what I’m thinking, but I can’t stop myself. He’s just to sexy for words.
He’s so big.
I want to feel him. I want to slide my hand over him. Touch my fingers to his ...

“Wow,” he says, his eyes scanning the kitchen surfaces. “Looks good.” He walks past me, close to me, as he goes to the fridge and opens it. “You want a drink?”

“Sure,” I manage.

He grabs two bottles of Budweiser, opens them and hands me one. I take it.
      
I’ve never drunk a beer before but I don’t tell him this. I take a sip. It’s bitter and cold. I’m so thirsty I drink about a third of it in one
go. Then I drink a little more. Elias smiles a little, sensing my unease, maybe. Misinterpreting it.
“I don’t bite,” he says, then adds, his voice low, “Unless you ask me to.”

The day’s hot and the beer’s cold so
I drink some more. It tastes good and the world’s taken on a sparkly edge.

Bite me.

I don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud.
Eli
as gives me a look so dark, so lusty, it fries every brain cell I possess.

“Darlin’,” he says slowly
. “I don’t think you’re ready for that.
Because as soon as I start bitin’ and licking and tasting you, there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to stop.”

Oh.

He smiles again and says, “Come on,” all blasé, like he didn’t just talk about
tasting
me
.
He flicks his head sideways as a light command to follow him.
“Let’s go for that swim.”
      

“It’s a fucking scorcher,”
he says, as we walk towards the pond.

“Yeah, it’s hot.”

“After we swim, I’ll cook you somethin’ to eat, if you want. You must be hungry.”

“A little,” I say, but it’s the last thing on my mind.

I’m curious. About him.
I don’t know a thing
about him.
Not where he comes from or who he is. The only thing I know about Elias
Hayes
is that something is about to happen. Something that could quite possibly change my life. And I’m sort of craving more information beyond the fact that he possesses the ability to
practically set me on fire with one flick of his dark-jeweled glance.
I’
m
riveted by the way his thick hair falls across his forehead.
The graceful, gilded shape of his broad shoulders and the color of his skin makes me feel like writing a song
about him. And like doing something
with
him to write a song
about
.
“W
hat made you want to move all the way out here?”

His eyes narrow, as though he’s gauging something and
he’s mildly entertained by my ignorance.
“I wanted some privacy,” he finally says. “I needed a place to get away from it all.
Where nobody knows me and I can hear myself think.
”