Bucking the Rules (11 page)

His hands were rough, not the gentle, playful lover from the last time they'd joined. Insistent, dominant, demanding. He made her body follow, didn't allow her to give in when her muscles screamed, wouldn't let her give up or beg for another spot.

It was amazing. He knew just when to flip her over, onto her back, and ram back into her. Knew she wouldn't have lasted another second in the first position.

He ripped her shirt up, pushing her bra with it and latched onto her breast with his mouth, pulling on her nipple as hard as he thrust into her wet center. Her hands came around his head, clutching, gripping, doing whatever she could to gain traction on the feelings rushing through her. Physical, emotional, whatever the hell was happening to her body that made her want to scream and cry out and beat at his shoulders and pull him closer to her.

Her legs curled around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him into her, deeper and harder with each thrust. Her head fell back and
thunked
against the table, but she didn't care. And when she came, she screamed and arched until her body couldn't give another inch.

Trace followed her swiftly, his own climax seeming to take as much out of him as hers did from her. But through the sexual haze, the sweetness of her name on his lips cut through and made her want more.

More what—that was the question.

T
race stared up at the underside of the table. “This might be the weirdest place I've ever recovered, sexually.”

After they'd been able to move again, Trace had helped Jo up from the table. But rather than lead them to bed, as he'd assumed, she'd stripped what was left of her clothing and headed into the small kitchen.

When in Rome . . . he'd followed suit. And found her digging through the freezer. Her nipples tightened into sweet pink buds while she practically crawled into the appliance to find what she wanted.

She'd produced a half-eaten carton of Moose Tracks ice cream, found two spoons—one of which was a cooking spoon, that she'd claimed for her own—and ended up lying on her back under the table, eating spoonfuls straight from the carton.

He really needed to stop assuming about Jo. The minute he had her figured out, she changed things up again.

“I could think of weirder spots for things.” Jo licked her spoon, giving extra attention to the spot where the bowl met the stem. Damn it all if his cock didn't start getting jealous of that piece of cool metal. “Behind a Dumpster, for example.”

“You had sex behind a Dumpster?”

“No, that would have been gross.” She smiled. “I just got dumped by the Dumpster. Which, I realize, is more than a little ironic. But hey, the guy clearly wasn't a prince.”

“Asshole.” He dug another bite out. “This is chick ice cream, you know that, right?”

“Chick . . . ice cream.”

“Yeah, all these chunks of stuff in here. Ice cream has like, four flavors: chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and maybe swirl, if you're feeling crazy.”

Jo rolled her eyes and beat his spoon away with her larger one to get another bite. “For a guy who insults the ice cream, you're digging in without much problem.”

“I need my strength. You wear a guy out,” he said innocently. Partially true. But really, he was more interested in watching her face while she ate.

Every moment of pleasure, each drop of ice cream was reflected in her expression. The half-closed eyes, the little moans, the way her tongue darted out to lick a stray drop. He could watch her for hours.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

She froze, spoon halfway to her mouth. “No.”

His brows lowered. That was fast. “Maybe lunch next week. There's a nice spot in—”

“Negative.” She said it so calmly, digging in for another bite.

“Okay, why don't you pick the day?”

“Because I'm not interested.”

Ouch. Damn, direct hit. “Interested in having a meal with me, specifically? Or anyone?” He wasn't sure which was worse.

“In general. The whole dating thing, I'm not up for it.” She shrugged and rolled to face him, her hand resting on the floor beside her breast for support. “I'm not looking for a relationship. I said that outright in the beginning.”

She had.

“And I didn't think you were, either.”

He hadn't been. “Well, a meal's just a meal. It doesn't have to mean anything.” He trailed a finger from the corner of her lips down her jaw, circling over her shoulder. “I like looking at you. Maybe I wanna do it more often.”

“So eat lunch at the bar.” She swatted at his hand when he headed for her breast. “I don't date. Period, end of story.”

“Is it the timing? Or is it the concept of dating altogether?”

She rolled onto her back, and he lost contact with the breast he'd been playing with. “You're chatty tonight.”

“Sorry.” He scooted out like he was getting out from under a car and searched for his pants. “I wasn't aware our arrangement had so many damn rules. From my memory, I thought we covered not banging other people, and me wearing a rubber. Now I can't even ask to see you outside of your apartment?”

She didn't say anything.

“Right. Here's the thing, Jo. I like sex as much as the next guy. Hell, I love it. I think it's one of the best ways to pass some time. But I also like you. I think you're someone worth knowing. And if you're telling me my time in your bed means we can't even have a decent conversation while grabbing a freaking hamburger, then this probably isn't for me. I thought I was signing up for a lover, not a fuck buddy.”

Jo bit her lip, her eyes closing a moment. “I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. Don't . . . don't do that. Don't just get dressed and leave.” She held out a hand. “Stay. Please?”

He paused, shirt in hand. She looked so confused. Like she wasn't sure whether she was sticking to her guns, or about to back down. Did he want to find out which?

Hell, yeah.

He dropped the shirt but left the jeans on. Scooting back under the table, he waited for her to talk.

“I've never been interested in domestic bliss. My mom's found it too many times to count. But for the sake of keeping track, she ended up married seven times. Oh, sorry.” She snorted. “Five times.”

“Which one of you can't count?”

“Regina math,” she muttered. “Every time my mom found a new guy, we moved. Sometimes they married her, sometimes they didn't. But it was the same shit, different school year. Over and over again, I was the new kid in a city I'd never been to before. I saw what love does to a woman. I'm not interested. I like what I have here.”

His heart hurt for the little girl, the new kid, year after year. “I'm not exactly looking to yank you out of here. I live here, too.”

“Which almost makes it worse.” She ran a hand over her forehead, as if trying to clear her thoughts. “I can't just ignore you when we're done, or move away. I have a business here. You have family. So eventually, when this thing is done, we'll still run into each other. Repeatedly.”

The “when” in her statement rankled him. Sure, not all relationships lasted, but why did she assume from the get-go theirs wouldn't?

The rough, simple reminder that she was in it for the sex alone hit him hard. Sex was fantastic. But he liked a little companionship when he could get it. He'd had enough of meaningless one-night stands and women whose names he couldn't remember a few months later.

“I haven't worked out in my mind yet how dating is supposed to work when you know you aren't leaving soon. All my relationships before this have had built-in expiration dates. Even if things were going well, I ended up moving. So I stopped having them. And now that I'm not moving, I'm not sure what a relationship looks like, or if I even honestly want one.”

“I've done the anonymous lay before, Jo. I'm not a twenty-one-year-old guy looking to get some in the back of my horse trailer between competitions. I'm not trying to sneak in a blow job before I hit the road and never see What's Her Face again.”

“What's Her Face?” Jo laughed. “Must have been memorable.”

“Clearly.” He closed his eyes and waited for inspiration. None came. So, he tried the truth. Looking straight into her eyes, he said, “I want you. More than that, I like you. And so when I say I want you, I mean all of you. Not just what I can get in the dark.”

She sighed. “This isn't a ploy to get me to put on an apron and stand barefoot in the kitchen, is it?”

“That depends.”

She eyed him warily. “On?”

He grinned. “What's under the apron?”

She snorted, then rolled into him and fit herself against his side. “I like you, too.”

“Then have dinner with me. It's just a meal, served sometime after lunch but before you go to sleep. You ate ice cream with me. Just bump it up a little to something more substantial and we've got ourselves a compromise.”

“Dinner,” she muttered, lips brushing against his neck. “The man wants dinner. I can bring up leftovers from—”

“Nope. That's cheating.”

She groaned, a low sound deep in her throat, and bit him on the shoulder hard enough to sting. “You win.”

“I pick the restaurant,” he said quickly. Knowing her, she'd choose something with a drive-thru and insist on eating in the freaking car. “I won't take you too far, but I think we can do better than the diner down the street.”

She shrugged. “Fine. Let me know when you want to go.”

“Don't have to wait for a night off?”

She smiled and dragged herself over him, her warm body pressing into his in all the right areas. “Sweetie, that's the beauty of owning your own business. It can always be my night off.”

Trace left an hour later, his body loose and relaxed as he climbed into the cab of his truck. Anticipation already filled him for the next time he'd see her. But he'd have to wait on that. They both would. He'd already been gone enough nights lately.

It irked him again, remembering how hard he'd had to argue to get her to agree to one single date. Jesus, the woman was stubborn. But that was probably part of her charm.

Maybe forever wasn't in the cards for them. But hell, who could say until they both laid their hands down on the table?

 

Dinner. A real restaurant. Something nice, but nothing to sweat over. Trace used the powers of Google to search out restaurants in the nearby area—which were slim to none—and extended the search a little farther out.

Something tugged on his pant leg. He smiled. Seth's crawling had taken on a new ninja status if he'd managed to get into the office without being heard. “Just a minute, buddy. I'm trying to find a nice spot for some dinner.”

“I know, I know. Hold on.” He clicked one more link, jotted down the possibility. “Gimme a second.”

“Seth. What the . . .” He looked down and stared into the biggest bug eyes he'd ever seen. “Aw, hell. Seriously?”

The dog picked up a stuffed frog and stared at him with four long, neon green legs dangling from his mouth. Then, with a mouth full of frog, he whimper-whined.

“Don't do that.”

More whining, louder now. The tip of one ear flipped up a little, as if in silent plea, before folding back over.

Trace sighed and scratched the top of the pathetic dog's head. “You're a sad case, you know that? Have some pride.”

Pride was a nonissue for the dog, apparently, as he tried to jump into Trace's lap for more attention. His too-short legs wouldn't allow it, though, and so the whining started all over again. Muffled through the stuffing, of course.

“You're a little shit.” He reached down for the frog, thinking if he played fetch, he could toss the toy out of the room and shut the door behind him. But the dog evaded him, not letting go of the toy.

Next plan. Trace scraped the chair back from Peyton's desk and yelled, “Bea!”

Bea's head popped in. “Have you seen Milton? Emma's going to slaughter me if I lose sight of him again.”

“Who the hell is Milton?”

She stared at him as if he'd just asked who the president was. “My dog.”

“You named your dog Milton?”

She sniffed. “It's distinguished. He's a gentleman.”

Trace looked down and grimaced. “Your distinguished gentleman just pissed on Peyton's office rug.”

“Oh, my God.” Bea ran around the corner of the desk and stared at him. The dog, not Trace. “Milton! Why? We were outside five seconds ago! Why!”

The dog bounced happily, frog legs flopping around his jowls, pleased to show off his puddle.

Bea picked him up and thrust him at Trace. “Hold that. I have to clean this up before Peyton or Emma sees it.”

Trace held the dog at arm's length. Those bug eyes really did freak him out a little. “You know, you keep that up and Emma's going to feed you to the barn cats.”

The dog stared back, unimpressed.

“They're bigger than you are, and mean as spit.”

He cocked his head to one side, considering the insult.

“Or she might just make you sleep in the barn.”

At that, the dog seemed to realize perhaps piddling on the floor wasn't the best choice. He began his whine again, that nails-on-a-chalkboard noise making Trace want to rip his eardrums out. “Stop.”

The sound grew louder.

“Hell.” Trace brought the dog to his chest, holding him the way he used to hold Seth when he burped him. The dog quieted down immediately and snuffled into his neck. His wet nose made Trace tilt his head away. “Jesus, don't do that.”

“Oh, look, he likes you. He's bonding with his uncle Trace.” Bea hustled back in with a wad of paper towels and some carpet cleaner.

Amazed, Trace watched Bea clean the spot. “I didn't realize you even knew what carpet cleaner looked like.”

“I spend most of my day in the house with Emma. Trust me, I've seen carpet cleaner.” She scrubbed furiously, a woman possessed.

“Why are you even over here? You have your own apartment now. You could leave him there.”

“No, I can't. He has separation anxiety.”

“He has what?” Trace looked at the dog again. For something that weighed fifteen pounds, max, he came with a lot of problems.

“Abandonment issues. I mean, he hasn't had a great life, Trace.” She looked up and cooed at Milton. “No, you haven't. But now you have a nice life, don't you?”

“So you're over here because . . .”

“My place doesn't have Internet yet. I had a Skype date with a friend back home.” She sat back on her heels and evaluated the spot. “If either of those two see this, he's doomed. He already christened one of Peyton's boots the other day.”