The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) (17 page)

Whitney turned to him and winked. “Oh, Matt. My car and I were made for hard riding.”

Matt groaned. “I set myself up for that one, didn’t I?”

Whitney just laughed before hitting the gas pedal with a vengeance. A normal person would have slowed down to take the backwoods hairpin turns with a little more caution. Or at least to reduce the kickup of dust. But she was oblivious to death or danger or dirt, and Matt settled in to the inevitability of misery.

Compared to how he’d felt earlier in the week, dropping Laura off at their empty house, refusing her entreaty to come inside and keep her company, this freezing, dirty misery was a wonderful feeling.

Whitney stepped on the gas again. Although she was trying to be discreet about it, she was keeping a close watch over Matt’s face, which alternated between irritation and sadness. Sadness meant she needed to speed up, because he was starting to think again. Irritation meant she was doing her job well.

She might not have a ton of experience being the supportive girlfriend type, but she wasn’t Matt’s self-appointed rebound girl for nothing. When faced with a distasteful situation that had no easy answer, the only thing to do was think about something else.
Anything
else. And since even she knew whipping off her shirt and putting on a personalized burlesque show might be a touch gauche right now, she’d settled for a kite and a drive. It was the best she’d been able to come up with on short notice.

As she turned the last corner into what looked like a solid wall of trees, Matt indicated that they’d finally arrived at their destination. She parked under a huge evergreen tree and waited for Matt to come around and open her door. He always let out a little huff if she tried to do it herself—and, truth be told, she was getting kind of spoiled. Those little gallant gestures of his—opening the door for her, hanging on her every word when she spoke, the way he always made sure she came first before taking his own pleasure—they added up to something substantial.

“Welcome to Chez Fuller,” he said, taking her hand and helping her out of the car. “The family legacy, hunting lodge, fishing shack—call it what you want. My grandfather built it with his own two hands.”

Whitney took in the sight of the so-called legacy with a laugh. Matt’s grandfather had obviously not been one of those men who could craft an entire city from a pile of leaves and a matchstick. The log cabin looked solid enough—it had walls and a ceiling—but the front door creaked on ominous hinges and there wasn’t a single wooden beam overhead that wasn’t sagging and crowded with wispy cobwebs.

“It’s just the one front room and an upstairs attic. Hilly, Lincoln and I used to all fit up there if we didn’t breathe too much, but the last time I was here a family of eagles had taken up residence in the rafters.”

“Your family must be big on outdoor adventure, huh?”

“What can I say?” Matt spread his arms. “We’re a classy people. Now grab that kite. I want to take it for a spin.”

Whitney obliged, even though there was no way that thing was going to get any air. She’d bought it at a Chinese grocery store the next town over, which had incredible to-go lunches but otherwise contained products that were a mystery to her. She didn’t eat any fruits or vegetables she couldn’t recognize, so assuming she could do anything with a fuzzy melon other than mock it relentlessly was ridiculous. But they’d had a shipment of decorative kites out one day, and she’d picked up a long-tailed dragon painted a vibrant red and sporting fangs bigger than its feet. She thought it would look nice against the bright blue sky of summer.

The dull, overcast spring weather would work too. She had a man to cheer up, after all.

Matt pulled the kite out of its brown paper wrapping with a grimace and shook his head at what he called the poorly designed aerodynamics of it. She should have figured he’d be far too practical a man to simply enjoy the shiny-pretty.

“Just give it one try,” Whitney wheedled. “I saw a fireplace inside the cabin and the kitchen cupboard—singular, by the way—had a giant jar of Ovaltine in it. I’ll make hot chocolate for us when we’re done.”

“That stuff is older than I am. We’ll die.”

“Then we go out with a flourish. Spoilsport.”

The distance from the house to the lake was short. The temperature plunged with each step closer to the shoreline, and when they finally broke through, the wind whipped up off the water a good ten degrees cooler than the forest air.

Whitney’s face stung cold and chapped, her lips dry. But still she smiled and broke into a laugh when she reached the edge of the lake. The sandy shore was littered with debris and branches, the water a murky brown of slime and grabby tendrils of lakeweed. Definitely a little rustic for her taste, but watching Matt struggle to untangle the kite, freezing his ass off in a thin jacket, filled her with a sense of comfortable happiness she refused to define.

“So, how did you say this was supposed to work? I run fast?”

“
Can
you run fast?” she asked, tilting her head sideways. Matt had the lean build of a runner, firm in all the right places, his ass a muscular and delicious handhold. But she’d always taken him for a long-distance sort of guy—endurance over fancy acrobatics—rather than a sprinter. Long-distance guys always made the best lovers.

“I’m fast enough,” he said gruffly. “Faster than you.”

“If I’m your measure of athletic prowess, then you’ve got problems,” Whitney said with a laugh. She found a fairly dry spot on a fallen log and sat. Only a little moisture seeped up through her jeans, and it was hopefully too cold for bugs.

Matt proved surprisingly adept at flying a kite—the result, she was sure, of hours of playing card games with children and watching patterns of cloud animals march through the sky. He’d gotten the string unwound and was testing the kite by tossing it into the breeze when he turned to her.

“Why are we doing this again?”

“I like to watch you work with your hands. It’s sexy.”

He stopped, staring at her with the fixed intensity he always got when she dared to talk dirty to him. A mixture of suspicion and rampant sexual interest, that look curled through her belly with a slow, steady burn.

“What? You have the most dexterous fingers of any man I’ve ever met. When you do that thing—that one where you pin me down, spread me wide open and massage my clit with your thumb—I always think what a shame it is you never thought about becoming a surgeon.”

“You use that time to think about my choice of careers? That’s one of my best moves.”

Her own sudden burst of laughter caught her off guard. “It’s a very brief thought, I promise. Want to know what else I think about?”

“No. I want to get this over with.” He jiggled the kite. “It’s cold, Whitney, and this contraption is a piece of crap.”

“How’s this, Galahad?” She uncrossed her legs and watched him struggle with the flimsy material. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t make today about sex, but
damn
. With that dimple peeping out and the slow, careful way he licked his lips, it was a wonder she’d waited this long. “Every second you keep that kite in the air is a second I will spend with my mouth wrapped around your cock. We can pretend we’re in a
real
cabin, all cozy and warm and rolling around on a bearskin rug.”

He paused, head tilted. “I’ve always thought bearskin rugs were a little creepy. Especially if they keep the head on.”

“Afraid of a little bite?” she asked, her voice low.

Matt’s dimple deepened, and it was all Whitney could do not to launch herself across the beach and take him right then and there. He was being coy on purpose.

Men didn’t normally do that—at least not with her. They took what she offered and reveled in it, like dogs and their favorite rubber chew toys—always a little fearful that if they let down their guard, she might take away their privileges.

Not Matt. She had a feeling she was the dog and he was the treat. He had the power here—he set the pace of an arrangement that was verging fearfully into courtship territory. Today was clear proof of that, and even though danger flashed a warning red right in front of her, she was powerless to stop it.

She could feel the danger as he sat on the log next to her and worked at the knots of the string, slowly and leisurely, a man who didn’t have a care in the world. She leaned in and kissed him just below his ear, a spot she knew was sensitive and normally had him growling and throwing her to the bed.

“It’s not going to work,” he said pleasantly, though she noticed his hands stilled as her teeth nipped his lobe. “I’ve been issued a challenge, and I intend to meet it. Did you bring a stopwatch?”

“I can count.” She moved a little lower, her lips against his neck. He smelled of the outdoors and Irish Spring—by all accounts the most basic of scents a man could possess. But as he did in the case of all things commonplace, Matt made them his own. Comfortable and tantalizing and somehow the best smell in the entire world.

“There! I got it.” Matt sprang to his feet, ignoring her.

“You tell me when to start.” She slipped her hands into her armpits. The day grew colder as the sun dipped farther into the trees. There better be firewood inside the cabin. Gathering sticks would take up valuable sex time.

“No counting super slow.” He lifted the kite. “Okay. Go.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, the kite was out of his hand and into the air. For a moment, Whitney was sure it was going to take a nosedive right for the water, but he pulled at the last second, and it rippled against the wind, shooting straight up to the top of the tree line.

She began counting out loud, purposefully inserting “Mississippi” between each beat. He ignored her, unwinding the string so that the kite moved higher into the sky. There were a few moments when she thought the kite might snag on a tree, forever lost to the chipmunks and evergreens, but he always seemed to pull up at exactly the right moment.

At six hundred and five seconds, she stopped counting and called out, “Okay. Now you’re showing off.”

He turned, grinning. “No.
This
is showing off.” Wrapping the handle of the kite deftly around the branch of a tree a few times, he effectively made the kite a permanent fixture in the sky. “Do you want to keep counting?”

“You cheat!” Whitney squealed as he came up behind her, wrapping his hands just under her breasts and burrowing his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply, seemingly content for the moment to smell her hair.

She’d always wanted that—a man who smelled her hair. It was a simple gesture but an intimate one, one that signified a subconscious need that was out of his control. But when he remained there, embracing her, not pulling her toward the cabin where she could make good on the kite’s promise, she stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice muffled.

“It’s cold. Let’s go inside. You can build me that fire.”

He remained in place a moment longer before grabbing her hand and leading her back on the path. His hand was strong and sure; her legs wobbled.

They almost gave way entirely when he leaned in close and whispered into her ear, “With what I have planned, a fire is the last thing we’ll need to stay warm.”

* * *

Whitney always made good on her debts.

She sent faithful student loan payments on her massive medical school debt every month. She repaid people who helped her move with generous purchases of pizza and beer. And when she lost a bet, she paid in full.

“But I never concede to cheaters,” she explained from their twined position on the dirty cabin floor. “Not even cute ones.”

“You’re just a sore loser,” Matt teased. He spoke directly to her breasts, taking his time kissing each one. The slow, lazy circles of his tongue were agony. She wanted him to suck, pinch, play. Instead, he gazed worshipfully at where the mounds of flesh swelled before his eyes, his breath warm as he lightly flicked a tongue over the protrusion of her nipple.

“Less talking. More sucking.” She arched into him and fisted his hair, forcing his mouth closer. When he finally clasped her nipple lightly between his teeth and suckled, she let out a cry that probably frightened all the wildlife within a mile radius. An explosion of pleasure swept through her, throbbing as it forced its way to her achingly empty core.

Always, it came to this. Always, she felt the void of Matt much more painfully than she thought possible.

With her hand still gripping his hair, she yanked him back. “You know what? No. I don’t owe you a single lick.”

His dazed expression sharpened. “Of course you don’t. I was just kidding with the kite back there. We can stop.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. This man could not be any more adorable if he was wrapped in bacon. “Oh, we’re not stopping until I’ve had at least three orgasms. But after your little stunt outside, I think I’m placing a strict fellatio embargo on today’s activities.”

“Mmm,” he agreed, his lids heavy as he appraised her. “I think I can handle that.” He licked his lips and allowed his gaze to travel southward, not stopping until he reached the juncture of her jeans-clad thighs. Moisture steeped her panties as his meaning became clear. He’d do it too. Dive between her legs and not come up until she could no longer think.

“You’ll be handling it all right.” She rolled and rose to unsteady knees. So far, the only clothes they’d managed to lose were her shirt and bra, which suited her current purposes just fine. She needed the denim barrier below if she intended to remain firm. “Across the room. Five paces.”

His lips quirked in a question, but he did as she commanded, counting them off like a dueler of old. When he got to the end, he swiveled on one foot and made a gesture toward a fake gun. “Okay. What now?”

“Take it out.”

His eyes flared for a moment, desire lighting his face. “You’re serious?”

“Unbutton. Unzip. Oh, and take off your shirt nice and slow first.”

Matt must have realized her delicious, wicked intentions, because a smile worked slow and satisfied across his face. Without another word, he began at the top button of his shirt, taking his time with each one.