Run (6 page)

       Or maybe he did.

       Too much, McKenna.

       “I hope omelets are okay.” I should have said no tonight. My system hadn’t recovered enough to entertain most solid foods. I should have stayed away. Built that wall. Kept him out. Because no man wanted to be the well that caught the overflow of feelings waiting to drown me.

       He led me into the kitchen and set the bag on the counter. “Hangover food, huh?”

       I burst out laughing. “Busted. It’s pretty much the only thing that sounded good. I swear I have more culinary skills than glorified scrambled eggs.”

       He smiled and leaned against the counter, all lanky limbs and sexy mouth creases, blue eyes gleaming with amusement and interest. My already frazzled nerves went tight with anxiety as the intimacy of the situation rammed into me full force. I was going to fumble this. Badly.

       My hands shook as I pulled the eggs from the bag. “Pepper and mushrooms okay?” I lined up the rest of the ingredients, a short row of food soldiers. Eggs. Milk. Bell pepper—red, because it was cheery. Mushrooms. On and on, until everything I’d need to make a complete breakfast stood on the counter.

       “McKenna?”

       His shirt was as soft as I’d imagined, rubbing against my arm. I wanted to tear it apart, feel it give, push it up and out of the way. “Yeah?” I hadn’t meant to whisper. My voice just didn’t want to work.

       He slid a hand into my hair, cupping my head and turning it toward his. Warm lips closed over mine, as soft and firm and giving as they’d been the first night. Desire unfurled from its slumber and slid through me, and I turned my body into his, wanting this. Him against me. Him over me. Under me. Everywhere. Silencing the shouts and chasing away the ghosts.

       “Thought I’d get that out of the way,” he murmured, the words buzzing against my lips. “Gonna do that a lot tonight.”

       He eased back, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Like the red.”

       I blinked. “Oh. Um. Thanks.” I waited for my heart to settle and distracted myself by slipping my hand under the hem of his shirt, flirting with the warm skin of his abdomen. “Hungry?” I stroked a finger along the waistband of his jeans, dipping beneath it.

       Rough fingers closed around my wrist, the grip gentle. “Keep doing that, you won’t get to eat.”

       I left my hand where it was.

       “McKenna.”

       Curling my fingers, I scratched over his stomach. “What else are you gonna do to me tonight?”

       His stomach shuddered under my hand. “I’m tryin’ to be a nice guy here. Have a conversation. Not throw you over my shoulder and carry you into the bedroom.” He pulled my hand out from under his shirt.

       Then pressed a kiss to the palm.

       The flimsy first boards of the barricade splintered under the sweetness of the kiss. However we started, if we started, whatever it was between us, there would be tenderness. I stared at his chest. “I don’t understand you.”

       He tipped my chin up. “Open book. Ask away.”

       The words came out before I could stop them. “You do this often? Hook up with random women and then keep them around long enough to have them make you dinner?”

       That sounded horrible. Made him sound like a player. Though maybe he was. Maybe that was his thing.

       He shrugged. “Don’t know about often, but yeah. Done it before. Why settle for one night when the chemistry says there could be more? You extended the invitation, I took it.” He lifted my hand to his mouth again, nipped into my index finger. “You hold the reins here. You want dinner? We’ll keep it at dinner.”

       Something in me dropped at his explanation, my stomach, my heart, I didn’t know. I didn’t know why I wanted to be special. Different. “And if I want more than dinner?” I held my breath, waiting for his answer. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t figure out what I was asking for, because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to take it. Yet.

       He dipped his head and kissed me again. “It’ll have to wait until after we eat.”

       With that, he stepped back and I stared at the food lined up on the counter. Dinner. Dinner as repayment for looking out for me last night. I could keep it at that. “Bowls? Pans?”

       He nudged me out of the way, got down a bowl, placed a small frying pan on the burner. “Silverware’s in there.” He pointed at a drawer next to my left hip.

       “Thanks.” I washed the mushrooms and pepper first, the running water my excuse not to talk. The quiet stretched into minutes, and I fell into the familiar rhythms of cooking, slicing vegetables, beating the eggs, acutely aware of Trevor leaning against the counter and watching me. The pan took forever to heat, and I kept my gaze trained on it. “You grow up around here?”

       “Born and raised. Parents still live in the north end of the city. You?”

       Ah, shit. Walked right into that. But one thing I’d learned over the last year, you could give massive amounts of yourself without sharing your deepest secrets. I poured half the egg mixture into the pan. “From Washington, originally. My parents still live there, too. Small town near the border with Canada.”

       The problem with holding back, though, was the ache became too much to bear, the need to tell someone,
anyone
, in the hopes they’d understand. That was my cue to leave. That’s when I moved on.

       He took it and ran with it, though. Told me about his parents, still married after thirty years. “Kind of awesome, if you think about it. Long time not to get tired of someone, especially when it’s so easy to get divorced these days.”

       “It is, isn’t it? My parents are still married, too, but it seemed like over half the kids I knew growing up had at least one step parent. Most of the kids in my classes, too.” I flipped one omelet onto a plate and dropped butter in the pan for the next.

       He pulled open the fridge. “I’ve got beer, beer, water, and orange juice.”

       “Water’s fine.” The thought of more alcohol, even as mild as beer, made me queasy.

       A glass of water appeared at my elbow. “Classes. So you must teach junior high or high school.”

       My lips went numb. “I taught high school,” I forced out. “English and creative writing.” The egg in front of me went blurry, and I sucked in air. Blinked. Blinked again. “Now I’m just a waitress.” I glanced over. “Surprised you called me when you did. I didn’t expect to hear from you that early.”

       “Never did see the point in playing around. If I’m interested, you’ll know.”

       The pan skittered as my hand jerked. “Not quite what I meant. I didn’t think you’d be home until later,” I elaborated, when his brows drew together. “When most people get off work.”

       He grinned. “I work for the city. Road crew. Lost my job with a landscaping company a while back and got hired on quick, and it stuck.”

       “Landscaping? Commercial or residential?” I sprinkled cheese into the second omelet and folded the egg over the top. “Shit. I forgot the toast.” A loaf of rosemary bread sat on the counter, waiting to be sliced.

       “Got it.” His touch slid over me, fingers on the nape of my neck, drifting down my arm, and I wanted to lean into it. Wrap it around me and wear it like a cloak. He picked up a serrated knife and cut off a couple of thick slices, dropping them in the toaster. “Residential, though commercial’s steadier work.”

       I flipped the omelet onto a second plate and switched off the burner. “Not enough work?”

       “Something like that.”

       That was something else I missed about Bend. The yard. My tiny yard, full of flowers and bees that annoyed me when I was trying to work in it. “I miss having a yard. My apartment doesn’t even have a balcony, so no pots or boxes for me.” I wouldn’t have been able to afford them anyway, and it wouldn’t have been worth it even if I could. Running meant there was no guarantee I’d wake up in the same place tomorrow.

       Tonight could be my last night here. Every night could be my last night.

       The toaster popped, and I snagged the toast, hissing as the heat singed my fingers.

       “You okay?”

       “Yeah. Just grabbed for it too fast, is all.”

       He took my hand and sucked my fingers into his mouth, one by one, his tongue laving the tender skin. By the time he was done, I’d forgotten all about dinner.

       Then he took his plate and sat at the little table in the corner, all nonchalant.

       I grabbed my plate and sat across from him. “Please tell me there’s more where that came from.”

       One corner of his mouth lifted, bringing out half of the sexy mouth creases. “Plenty more where that came from.” He cut into his omelet and forked up a bite.

       My plate became incredibly interesting while I waited for his verdict on the food. Steam rose as I cut into my own omelet, cheese oozing out.

       “Pretty good.” He was grinning at me. “Do you do other food, too, or just breakfast?”

       “I make an excellent lemon pepper chicken.” The omelet
was
good. But then, anything with melty cheese was good.

       He scooped up another bite. “Make that. Next time.”

       
Next time
.

       My head bobbed up and down as my mind took that and raced off into the sunset. There would be more. More of us, here, in his kitchen. Talking. Touching. Which meant there was more in the bedroom, too. Right?

       Eating the rest of my dinner was hard. I wanted to reach across the table, fist my hand in his shirt and drag his mouth to mine. Feel those lips and those teeth and that tongue, driving me insane with want.

       As soon as the last bite was gone, I set down my fork, drained my glass of water, and stood. Trevor leaned back, his gaze locked with mine. I bent down and did exactly what I’d imagined earlier, fisting my hand in his shirt and bringing his mouth to where it belonged. Against mine.

       It was slow. A bare hint of a kiss at first, lips rubbing together in a show of coming attractions. A tease. He broke the connection and scraped his chair back, nudging me away to stand in front of me.

       He held my hips as his gaze searched mine, all serious and intense. They flitted down to my mouth and back. He moved his hands again, around to the small of my back, urging me forward. Closer. Pressing there in another show of possession. He inched closer. Closer. Cheek to cheek.

       Hot breath in my ear, his stubble rough on my skin. “Hope you don’t have any other plans tonight.” Feather touches as he worked his way toward my mouth. “Because I have plans for you.”

Chapter Seven

       It didn’t start in the bedroom.

       He didn’t take my hand and lead me down the hall, into a room laden with shadows and memories of that first time.

       It started there. In the kitchen. With his hands pressing me to him, his lips drifting over my cheek, finding mine. Taking them.

       Quiet, quiet kisses, slow and tentative, like I was still standing at the bottom of the steps, wondering if I should walk up and knock on the door or turn around and go home. He could use those lips to steal my secrets, pull them from me. In a way, he’d already begun. That kind offer of a burger, a hard body to lean on when the whiskey tipped me over, loosened my tongue enough to pass on something I would have otherwise kept hidden.

       Opening my mouth under his was the most natural thing in the world. The way they fit together, adjusting and anticipating, his tongue drawing mine into an ageless battle. Not giving up his dominance, just passing it on for a time. Giving me the upper hand, taking it away, all the while bringing on such a keen
need
for more that I didn’t realize I was whimpering and my fingers were digging into his shoulders until I tried to wrap my legs around him and couldn’t, because we were standing in the middle of the kitchen.

       He drew back, enough his breath ghosted over my lips. “Well? Any plans?”

       My lungs stopped working. I shook my head.

       His mouth claimed mine,
claimed
it, the force of it all the more potent for the straightforward way he did it. It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t brutal. It built, brick mortar brick, solid and heavy, something made to last. I’d had primal, vicious lust before. I’d had sweetness. I’d had giggles and sighs.

       I’d never had this before.

       His tongue moved, curling, gliding, taking the kiss to that fine edge of lusty sloppiness and balancing there. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I wanted his skin under me. I wanted to feel it heat, degree by degree. They curled into his shirt instead. Handfuls of soft, worn cotton, threatening to tear at the slightest provocation.

       A brush of a finger on the skin of my lower back, bared where my tank rode up. I shivered. He did it again. A third pass. On the fourth, his hand snuck up under the fabric, fingers flexing as I sucked on his tongue.

       Now he broke the kiss. Now he led me down the hall, walking backward, his eyes never leaving my face, his hands roaming between my waist and my hips and my ass. The dying light of day didn’t stretch into the room, blocked by the blinds. The last time I was here, we’d left the light off. Found each other by groping around, following dips and bends and moans.

       Not tonight.

       Trevor let go long enough to turn on the lamp sitting on his bedside table. “I remember something about a tattoo on your back.” He grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head. My hands itched to touch him. Trace the lines of his abs, pinch his nipples between my fingers, find the soft spots that collected the scent of him and hoarded it.

       He caught my hands before they connected with his chest. “Show me,” he whispered.

       I tried not to shake as I grasped the hem of my tank and drew it up and off, twisting my arms behind my back and flicking open the hooks of my bra. A few steps skipped in the seduction chain. His mouth hadn’t explored my neck. My ears, my jaw, I hadn’t felt the rasp of his stubble under my lips. More than a few. A canyon, almost, of missed steps and pieces of information. Trevor moved with the surety of someone who knew me better than myself, who would coax the fears and secrets from me little by little. It scared the shit out of me.