Melt Into You (21 page)

He felt Natasha’s hands begin spreading creamy, body-temperature sunscreen over his shoulders and jolted with shock.

His eyes fell closed. His breath caught. All he wanted was a
lot
more of this. All day and all night and tomorrow, too.

“So if you were doing yard work,” Natasha said in a casual, conversational, just-had-my-coffee tone, “and thanks for that, by the way—I guess your ankle must be feeling better today?”

Wordlessly, Damon nodded. Her fingers kneaded over his suddenly tense shoulders. They meandered down to his biceps, then to his forearms. Her hands traveled up to his pectoral muscles. He tightened his fists, determined not to touch her.

Maybe talking would help. It seemed to be helping Natasha remain unaffected by their nearness. Damon cleared his throat.

“My ankle is pretty much cured today,” he said in a helplessly husky voice. “I’ve always been a quick healer.”

More stroking. “You weren’t faking it, were you?”

“Faking my sprained ankle?” He was offended. And way too horny to care. Principles only got in the way of satisfaction.

“Yes. I wouldn’t put it past you, you know.” Natasha swept her hands to his abdominal muscles. Judging by the attention she lavished there, they seemed to be at special risk for sunburn.

“I wasn’t faking it.” Damon wasn’t faking his overeager erection, either. His body leaped to attention at Natasha’s touch, making a mockery of his efforts to resist her ... and making a tent of his casual pants, too. She
had
to have noticed. People in other zip codes would have noticed. “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Never?” Seeming unperturbed by his raging hard-on, Natasha squirted more sunscreen into her upraised palm. She gestured for him to turn around so she could slather his back. “Not once?”

“I’m a lot of things,” Damon said, “but I’m not a liar. I value honesty and trust and ... other things ... like that.”
God
, it was hard to talk when Natasha was doing that. “Honesty is important.”

“Mmm. Okay.” Her purr of assent felt like a reward. Her slow, careful,
thorough
sunscreen application felt like torture. Damon would have sworn he felt her breasts bob pertly against his back as she worked. That couldn’t be, but that didn’t stop him from imagining her nipples slick with sunscreen, picturing them both deciding that Natasha had applied too much sunscreen and the only thing to do was get naked in the shower together, fantasizing that Natasha loved it when Damon soaped up his hands and then slid them leisurely down her sides, spreading foamy, squeaky-clean sexiness all over her, dipping his fingers to the silky blond curls between her thighs, making her gasp and moan the way he wanted to do, bringing them both closer and closer... .

“Oh,” Natasha said perkily. “I’m all out of sunscreen.”

Thank God
, Damon thought. Also,
noooo
! He wanted more.

Standing behind him, Natasha sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to redistribute the sunscreen I already applied, then.”

Unbelievably, she reached her arms around him, then began rubbing her palms over his midsection in an ostensible attempt to “redistribute” the sunscreen. “I want to be thorough!”

Her hands dipped perilously close to his pants waistband. Desperately, Damon hauled in a ragged breath. He felt himself surge into a state of hardness that rivaled the concrete block fence outside. Any second now, his zipper would break.

This was, this was ... there was only one word for it.

“Is this a test?” he demanded suspiciously.

“A test?” Natasha went on diligently applying sunscreen.

She sounded a little out of breath. This time, Damon was damn certain he could feel her breasts rubbing temptingly against his back. She was practically Heimliching him!

“Are you testing me to see if I can be good?” Damon asked curtly. “Because I think I must have passed by now.” He swore, then swiveled around. He wound up face to face with her. “I surrender. I can’t stand it. You have to stop touching me.”

“You ... don’t like it?” Natasha appeared wounded. And a little flushed. And kind of squirmy. “I was only trying to help.” She raised her shiny, well-moisturized hands. “Was I too rough?”

If only
. Damon closed his eyes. “No. I like it rough.”

Her eyes widened. Good. Maybe he’d scare
her
into behaving.

Suddenly reminded of his original mission in coming inside, Damon assumed a more deliberate stance. “What would Pacey think if he were here right now? What would he think if he saw us?”

Natasha didn’t even have the grace to look sorry. Her upward jutting chin and belligerent expression confused him.

“Paul would probably say he’d rather be in Mexico.”

Damon didn’t believe her. She
must
have been testing him to see if he was worth intervening for with Jimmy. But he wasn’t getting very far by asking her. He’d have to try another tactic.

“Your husband can’t be that much of a jerk,” Damon said.

“You don’t know that,” Natasha shot back. She looked at him, still all hot and flushed and breathless and bold. “Maybe I just like men who are bad. Maybe
I
like it rough, too.”

This time, Damon’s eyes widened. If Natasha was going to meet him halfway in the bad behavior department, how was he supposed to resist her? He could have withstood her innocent sexiness. He’d done
that
for years. But this naughty, playful, challenging side of her? Damon hadn’t even known she’d possessed one of those. He hadn’t even considered she might
like
mischief.

She might like
him
, Damon realized, just the way he was.

“But I guess you’ll never know,” Natasha said. “Will you?”

Then she flounced away, leaving Damon alone and covered in SPF 30 and wondering dazedly ... what the hell was going on here?

And what the hell was he supposed to do next?

Chapter 16

Using way more force than the situation demanded, Natasha yanked open the door of her garden shed. She stepped inside, switched on the lights, then slammed shut the door behind her.

Inside, the place was everything Natasha was
not
just then.

It was tidy. It was clean. It was safe. It was ready for anything. The lingering smells of hot metal and solder reached her, underlaid with the still-raw freshness of cut grass from outside. Sunlight streamed over her gemstones and wire, her templates and sketchbook, her bead boxes and gold leaf and the found objects that would eventually find new life in her art.

Outside, Milo bounced a basketball in Carol’s driveway. A hybrid car hummed past. Birds sang. But inside the garden shed, all Natasha could hear was her own unsteady breathing—and, she imagined, her own heartbeat. It felt as if it was still racing after her encounter with Damon in her bathroom.

She touched her chest. Yes, it was.

But what else had she expected? she demanded of herself as she leaned against the closed door in exasperation. She’d let herself
touch
Damon. Ignoring every sensible, self-protective instinct she had, she’d let herself run her hands all over Damon’s brawny, muscular body. She’d touched his chest. His shoulders. His back. His arms. His midsection.

Good God.
His midsection
. Damon, Natasha had learned firsthand today, had abdominal muscles you could bounce a quarter off of. Or, if you felt like it, lick. He had dark, springy chest hair—exactly as much hair as she liked a man to have. He had warm, nice-smelling skin. He had responsive reflexes, an apparent love of closeness, and an unbelievably impressive cock. If he’d thought she hadn’t noticed
that
...

Well, he was crazy. Because Natasha had noticed. She’d noticed, she’d appreciated, she’d wondered how he would feel in her hand if she stroked him a little lower. Probably he would feel
really
good, she’d decided. He would feel hard and velvety and wonderfully thick ... and then she’d forced herself to snap out of her sudden erotic reverie and apply sunscreen to his back.

Because while a girl could pretend that applying sunscreen was an innocent activity, there was no
way
she could pass off unzipping a man’s pants and grabbing his cock—and maybe sliding her lips along its erect length—as a bit of harmless caretaking. Or even an innocuous getting-to-know-you exercise. Or even, as Damon had so gallingly accused, as some kind of test. As if.

On the other hand, Natasha reflected as the experience came hurtling back to her again in all its heat and nearness and confusing intimacy, she
had
purposely rubbed her breasts on Damon’s back like some kind of trashy lap dancer looking for a bigger tip. She hadn’t been able to resist. And she
had
fibbed about running out of sunscreen as an excuse to touch him longer.

Even worse, she
had
felt herself growing increasingly certain, the longer she’d contemplated Damon’s getting-up-early, mowing-the-lawn, reading-to-Milo, getting-along-with-Carol, and petting-Finn Mr. Nice Guy routine, that inviting him to stay with her, even temporarily, may have been a huge mistake.

Speaking of huge ...
wow
. Damon was gifted in every department. From his smile to his charisma to his willingness to help her, Damon was even more affecting than she’d expected. He was considerate and funny and attentive. He was
nice
. No wonder she’d sent so many “sorry I broke your heart” bouquets. Upon closer reflection, Natasha was surprised there hadn’t been more.

Although maybe some of those women hadn’t
liked it rough
... .

With a shiver, Natasha remembered the feel of Damon beneath her hands again and knew she was lost. It wasn’t just that he was handsome (he was). It wasn’t just that he seemed to have regained all his lost charm and then some (because he had).

It was that Damon made her feel
special
, somehow. He made her feel as though everything bad that had ever happened to her had been a terrible oversight on the part of the universe, and Damon was there specifically to fix it for her with his capable hands, easygoing smile, and inventive intellect.

Because Damon still had all those positive attributes. Natasha could see them. She could feel them. Damon still possessed every ounce of talent he’d ever had. Some of those qualities were aimed directly at
her
right now, but most of them were available to keep building his family’s company into a global chocolatiering mega power. If anything, this new, humbler Damon seemed
more
ready to take Torrance Chocolates to the top. He seemed
more
ready to work hard, sacrifice, and take risks.

Whatever had happened to make Jimmy and Debbie insist on Damon’s current leave of absence, Natasha reflected, it had to be a fluke. It had to be a mistake. She was sure of that.

What she wasn’t as sure of—yet—was that she could really help Damon. Sure, she could give him a place to live. She could feed him cheese-free, gluten-free, all-veggie pizza. She could play
Donkey Kong
and spy on him in his underwear. She could even rile him up with an impromptu erotic massage, challenge him with an outrageous boast, then bolt away like a scared nitwit at the first sign of reciprocity.

Maybe I just like men who are bad
.

Maybe I like it rough, too
.

Well, that might be true. Natasha didn’t know. If she was smart, she wouldn’t try to find out. Instead, she’d focus on trying to help Damon—however she could—and then getting him safely out of her house, out of her life ... and out of her heart.

First, she needed more information, Natasha decided. Giving her worktable a regretful look, she did the one thing she’d promised herself she wouldn’t: She abandoned her plans for herself. Just for the time being, of course. With the need for speed more evident than ever before (lest she rub herself all over Damon even
more
shamelessly next time, leading to events neither one of them would want to control), Natasha jingled her car keys, drew in a fortifying breath, then headed to La Jolla.

Left on his own with Milo and Carol after Natasha’s mysterious “errand” took her away for the afternoon—once she’d given him explicit instructions about what Milo did and did not eat, of course, complete with a detailed tip sheet, a website to visit for more information, a YouTube video playlist of songs by “the Raffi of Food Allergies,” and a handy iPod app—Damon decided to try some further adventures in being responsible.

Maybe, he thought, he could pick up some tips from Natasha’s mother-in-law. Carol seemed to have her life pretty well together, if her successful management of the duplex, thriving social life, and conscientious manner were anything to go by. Or maybe he could glean some insight from Natasha’s son.

What was it that people said? “Out of the mouths of babes”? There was always a chance Milo could help him learn more about Natasha, Damon reasoned. That way, he’d be concentrating on seeing Natasha as a
mother
instead of a potential playmate.

That meant that the next time Natasha came at him with some SPF 30 and a sexy smile, he’d be ready. He’d be tough. He’d be fortified with good intentions and innocent motivations.

He
wouldn’t
be tempted, Damon reasoned, to rip off Natasha’s clothes, kiss her from her collarbones to her ankles, then make passionate love to her wherever they happened to be standing. Like outside the hall closet, where it smelled “springtime fresh” all the time. Or against the rough-sided wall of the outdoor garden shed (which clearly fulfilled some as-yet-unknown, non-gardening function for Natasha), feeling the sunshine and ocean breezes caress their bare skin. Or even in her undoubtedly feminine bedroom (which Damon hadn’t yet glimpsed, out of respect for Pacey and for Natasha), with a soft mattress and hard bodies and an urgency that couldn’t be denied.

He and Natasha would be doing something useful, like making the bed, Damon imagined. Their eyes would lock across the acres of messy sheets. He’d take her in his arms. He’d kiss her, hot and deep and breathless, and she’d get that big-eyed look of wonder he loved so much, and then he’d realize Natasha looked that way because she’d unzipped his pants and grabbed his cock, and the next thing Damon would do was groan, because she was just that incredible at touching him, and somehow Natasha’s clothes would be gone, just like that, and he’d be bending her over the side of the bed, stroking her thighs, making her ready, feeling her tremble and pant and moan in his arms, and suddenly—