The Other F-Word (22 page)

He chuckled. “Let me just check the size, naughty girl.” Damien studied the different features printed on the small cards next to each tank.

I sighed. “The guy I talked to said size doesn’t matter.”

Damien sighed, running a hand through is hair. He was holding back a smirk though. “Men have been saying that to women for centuries. What’s crazy is that you girls actually buy it.”

My face flushed and I took a step back from him, trying to keep my smile from faltering. “What is your point, Mr Wolfe?”

Damien circled me, like a predator laying claim to its prey before halting behind me. His mouth close to my ear, he whispered, “Size. Always. Matters. Don’t you know that?”

My mouth went dry. As much as he was turning me on, I had to give it back. “All right, I suppose we’ll just get the largest one, since that’s what I’m used to.”

“I think we need to check other factors too.”

“Like what?”

“Energy usage, capacity, efficiency.”

Efficiency was not a word I’d use when referring to sex, but I went with it.

“Sure, I enjoy all those things as much as the next girl.”

“Great, so we agree then?”

Huh? Are we talking the same language?
“Agree on what?”

“We’ll go with a tankless system,” he said, gesturing to the end of the aisle, where rectangular metal boxes promised to do the same things as the huge round tanks we were looking at.

“That’s not what I meant,” I said, hands on my hips.

He grinned, lifting his brows. “What were you talking about?” he asked with mock innocence. “Because I thought we were having a conversation about hot water heaters.”

Damn.

I followed him to the area. Once I scanned the hefty price tags, I walked right back, but Damien clasped my hand and stopped me.

“These are like three times more than the other ones. I can’t afford this.”

“Let me pay for it.”

“I can’t let you do that,” I stammered.

“I want to. It’ll be a good selling feature for you. Besides, you won’t let me buy you jewellery or a new car, so let me get you something really romantic.”

I shot him a sarcastic glance. “You think this is romantic? Extrapolate.”

He bit his lower lip. “It’s amazing how you make that word sound so sexy.”

“Extrapolate? Is diction your kryptonite, Mr Wolfe?”

“You are my kryptonite, Miss Mason. And stop using words with dick in them, because it’s making mine hard.”

I laughed. “Stop, be serious and tell me how you equate something as mundane as a hot water as a passionate, amorous gesture.”

“It’s the most romantic thing I can buy for you, because every time you’re in that shower—naked, dirty and wet, you’ll be thinking of me, the man who made the temperature just right for you. I want you thinking of me every time you bathe, whether I’m there or not.”

“Yes.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Oh, God, yes,” I panted as if we were in the throes of sex, not checking out utilitarian appliances at a hardware mega-mart.

“Good girl, I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you go pick out the paint?” he suggested, smacking my ass.

I nodded, desperately needing to get away before I attacked him.

He met me in the paint aisle and peered over my shoulder. His delicious scent wafted over me, covering the smell of paint fumes. “You can’t be serious,” he said, gesturing to the chips of emerald green and gold I held.

“Why not?”

“These are not the type of colours that sell a house, especially in Chicago. You don’t want people thinking you’re a Packers fan, do you?”

“What do you suggest then?”

He pointed to the area that held a myriad of chips that all looked like the same colour.

“Beige?”

“Yes, it’s tranquil and comforting.”

“It’s boring.”

“Baby, there’s other ways to spice up a bedroom besides paint.”

I swallowed at the visions that came with that sentence. I stood in front of the beige chips. Like grains of sand on the beach, they all looked exactly the same. I picked out a few chips for comparison. He walked away from me when I handed my boring, sand-coloured choice to the man behind the counter so he could mix the colour.

I found Damien in the middle of the aisle helping an elderly woman by lifting a bucket from the top shelf for her. I stood there, watching as he turned to help another lady who was having a problem with her exhaust fan. The man in the orange smock seemed confused by her question and suggested she call an electrician.

“I wouldn’t do that, at least not right away,” Damien said. “There could be a more serious electrical problem, but every exhaust fan system is equipped with an outlet where the fan plugs in. I’d suggest you plug something else into it to see if the outlet works. If that’s the case, then you just need to replace the fan, and it’s not an electrical problem. That’ll cost about seventeen bucks versus paying three hundred to an electrician. If it doesn’t work, then you call a pro to go through the wires.”

She smiled gratefully at him, explaining how she’d become so frustrated as no one had been able to help her.

Then I watched as a swarm of women and a few men gathered around him, screaming out questions to him. He had all the answers. That was my man—Christian Grey sensuality with a Bob Vila soul—pure perfection if I ever saw it.

I’d advised my girls that knowing if a guy was worthy of you is not just about the way he treated them. They should watch how he treats others, because that was the true sign of good man. Damien was brimming with consideration.

I sucked in a breath, realising just how hard I was falling for him. I tried not to get jealous when a younger woman rubbed his arm and complimented his shirt after he explained the difference between oil and latex paint.
Get your own Grey-Vila combo—this one is mine.

He extricated himself from the crowd, smiling sheepishly at me. He threw a large box into the cart when he approached. “I’m sorry, it’s easy to get distracted in here.”

“I can see that. You already have a fan club.”

He shrugged. “They just wanted some advice.”

A few of them wanted more than that, but I was just too smitten with him to let it dampen my spirits.

“What’s that?” I pointed to the box.

“Tools, you need them. A man can only use a pink screwdriver for so long.”

The clerk in the orange smock chased after us as we were leaving.

“Excuse me,” he said to Damien. “I wanted you to know we’re hiring managers. You should apply if you’re interested.”

I cupped my hand against my mouth, choking back the giggles.

Damien smiled politely. “Thank you for the offer, but I have a job I’m happy with.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind, we’re always looking for people who know what they’re doing.”

Oh yeah, he knew exactly what he was doing.

* * * *

Damien moved all the furniture out of the room. We draped linen drop cloths on the floor and taped off the baseboards. He went to work replacing my hot water heater while I started painting.

Of course, I need music to get me motivated. Justin Timberlake provided the perfect backdrop. I had successfully coated all the walls once and was working on the last one when
SexyBack
came on. I swayed my hips to it.

The low whistle from the doorway almost made me drop my roller. “Hey,” I said.

Damien leaned against the doorjamb, twirling the screwdriver in his hand, wearing a sexy smirk. “Hi there.”

“You’re all done?”

“Yep, I’ll call a guy later to help me carry out your old one.”

“Now you’re going to call a guy?”

“I’m not an idiot. It’s too heavy and awkward for me to do by myself.”

“I can help you.”

His sly smile took my breath away. “No, you can’t.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” I said, flexing my arms, hoping a muscle would pop out.

He just laughed harder in response. I turned back to resume my work, hiding my annoyance.
Does he think I’m a weakling?

He sauntered over to me and wrapped his arms around me. He kissed my neck and this time I did drop the roller.

“You’re freakishly strong, but there’s no way I’m letting you help.”

“Why?”

“Because in this relationship, I do the heavy lifting.”

“And I do the light stuff, like painting?”

“Yeah, except you’re doing it wrong.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve always painted like this.”

“Then I guess you’ve been doing it wrong all your life. Let me show you.” He picked up the roller, dipping it and running it over the pan to get off the excess paint. He held my waist while applying the paint to the wall. “Painting is a lot like life.”

“I’m going to get a painting lesson and a philosophical primer at the same time?” I smiled. “Get it?” I elbowed him. “Primer?”

“You’re a funny girl. Now pay attention, you start out with an M. Some people do W’s. I’m an M man myself,” he said, painting a letter M onto the wall. “Then you fill it in. See? You get no streaks or splotches that way.”

I had to admit the small patch he’d done looked better than the walls I’d attempted.

“I have to know how this applies to life.”

“Allow me to extrapolate,” he said, drawing out each syllable of the word. Damn…it did sound super sexy. “Let’s do it again.” He placed the roller in my hand, but held it as we drew the M together. “You plan for the highs and account for the lows. That’s the M, but then you fill it in.” He guided my hand, filling in the space with colour. “All the small stuff that you later realise was the most important. The stuff you can miss if you’re not careful, because that’s what makes life so fucking awesome. It fills in all the empty spaces.”

“Like painting a room with your girlfriend?”

“Just like that.”

“Have I told you how much I fetish you lately?”

“Me too.” Then his hands were roaming under my sweatshirt, and his lips were against my neck. He spun me around pressing my back against the wall while gripping my ass. I heard the thump of the roller being dropped again.

“You’re wet,” he said.

“I sure am.”

“No, baby, I mean you have paint on you. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. It’s hard to think when I’m in the presence of kryptonite.”

He pulled—or rather peeled—me from the wall. I grimaced when I felt the tacky paint on my back.

“I guess we’re going to have to test out my new hot water tank sooner than we thought,” I replied, running to the bathroom.

He came right behind me.

Chapter Nineteen

Peter was late as usual. I checked the folder I’d bought once again, making sure I had the information to go over the finances for Billie’s tuition at our quarterly meeting. I set my shopping bags next to me, surprised by my own purchases. I decided to give Damien a call. I’d never called him on his office phone, but he didn’t answer his cell and I craved the sound of his deep, rich voice.

“Wolfe Industries,” the operator said.

“Damien Wolfe, please.” I repeated the request twice more, because it turned out there were a few transfers required to reach his personal receptionist. I don’t know why it surprised me that it would be difficult to reach him. He was an important and powerful man. He was also the sweet, considerate man who’d helped me paint my bedroom and had changed my hot water heater. He was all of those things.

“Mr Wolfe is not taking calls, however, I’d be happy to take a message,” she said in a cold albeit professional tone that conveyed she was not happy at all.

“Just let him know Emmie Mason called. He has the number.”

Her voice instantly lightened up, as if we were best friends. “Oh hello, Miss Mason. Mr Wolfe said if you should call to patch you through to him straight away. Just one moment, please.”

He answered right away. “Jessie, are you okay? Is something wrong?”

Maybe calling him at the office was a bad idea. “I’m fine. It’s not an emergency. I’m sorry if that’s what you thought.”

He exhaled. “Good. What can I do for you then?”

His anxiety had shocked me so much that I’d almost forgotten why I’d called in the first place. “Oh, I just wanted to tell you I went shopping.”

“And?”

“I bought something I think you’ll like.”

“That’s nice,” he said, in a distracted tone.

I dropped my voice to a husky whisper, “Allow me to extrapolate.”

His low growl followed the word, urging me to continue.

“It’s foxy, fab, feminine and I want you to fantasise about it all day because I’m going to flaunt it for you all night. I think it’s enough to turn a wolf feral. I guarantee the friction between us will make fornication furiously ferocious.”

“That’s a lot of F-words, baby,” he replied, in that deep Damien voice that made me melt like chocolate.

“I love alliteration, don’t you? It makes everything sound so much more—”

“Freaking fantastic. You’re not the only frisky one. For my part, I promise you some flagrant freaky fucking that involves my tongue against your flesh, my fingers fondling you, and a great deal of flirtatious foreplay.”

Wow, I hadn’t expected him to be so good at this—he was better at F-wording than me.

“The one thing I can promise you is…fellatio. The likes of which you’ve never known.”

He inhaled sharply. This conversation was getting out of hand. My legs were crossed so tightly, I knew I’d need a good stretch.

“Fuel my fantasies. Give me a hint,” he said in a half-whispered growl.

“Not yet. It’s for me to know and you…to rip off me later.”

“Fuck…I have to hang up now.”

“Am I not turning you on?”

“You’re torturing me, and you know it. I’m about to go into negotiations on a hotel I want to buy in Mexico. You’ve managed to succeed where so many others have failed.”

“What did I do?”

“Throw me off my game.”

“Sorry,” I said, unable to hide my smirk. I didn’t want him to be off his game by any means, but knowing that I could do that with a mere suggestion made me feel desirable.

“I forgive you as long as you promise I’ll see you and that foul, filthy mouth of yours tonight. The outfit is optional. Five o’clock sharp.”