What a Bachelor Needs (Bachelor Auction Book 4) (10 page)

“I can try.”

She tried not to feel guilty. He
had
asked for more work.

“Fire’s on,” he said. “I cheated and bought an old cot from the thrift store and used three sides of it to make your fire guard. It cost you ten bucks. Where’s the poppet?”

“Claire’s staying overnight with my parents. They didn’t want me driving to get her. Having just slid most of my way home, I see their point.”

“So you have the night off. How are you going to spend it?”

“Asleep.”

He slid her a teasing glance. “Before that.”

“Staying in.”

“Want to do something with me?”

“Does it involve being sixteen again?”

“No. No pretending required, although I’m not ruling out kisses. We could go for a meal.”

“If we can find somewhere that’s open.”

“The thought was there.”

And the food was here and there was plenty of it. She didn’t even have to cook it.

“How about an afternoon picnic?” she offered. “I know this vast expanse of wooden floor. It’s very atmospheric.”

“It’s not that vast. Guess what else I found at the thrift store this morning?”

“Elvis?”

“A floor rug. I thought of you and bought it.”

“Does it come with a receipt?”

“Housewarming present.” He reached for a roll of thin white tape and began winding it around a join. “It’s rolled up in front of the fireplace. I was going to roll it out before I left.”

She didn’t know what to do with generosity like this. The gifts Boyd had bought her had only ever been apologies for his own excesses. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing until you see it. You might hate it.”

It seemed unlikely, given she hadn’t hated anything he’d said or done yet.

“Will you stay for that meal? I’d tell you I’m about to cook up a storm but I’d be lying. The food’s from the bar. It was a slow day so we had a lot of leftovers. All I have to do is microwave it and plate up.”

“I’m in. When?”

“You didn’t stop for lunch, did you?”

“Not yet. But I’ll be out of here and your water will be back on in ten minutes.”

She could work with that. “There’s going to be wine involved,” she warned him. “At least, on my part there is.” More wine than food, given that she’d just eaten. And she probably needed to get out of her work clothes and into some regular clothes. Regular pretty clothes, because she was going on a picnic with Jett Casey at her house and she was reading far too much into it.

She left him to it, returned to the kitchen and uncapped the wine with far less finesse than usual. This wasn’t a proper date – this was Jett being Jett.
Come for a meal, come for a drink. Come and have some fun.

Fun
being a Jett Casey motto.

Picking up her glass of white wine, she padded to the front room and stepped in. Her socks didn’t stick to the floor and the room smelled a thousand times better than it had. A fire crackled in the grate, lending warmth and color, and he’d stacked wood for the evening in an old iron wash tub that had previously lived in her garage.

The fire guard was bigger than she expected, and prettier. Old, natural wood, unstained, with a tiny heart shape burned into the center of every slender bar.
How
much had he paid for a cot that looked like this? Ten dollars? He was either the best bargain hunter on the planet or he was lying about how much it had cost him, in order to protect her meager finances.

She ran her fingers along the top rail and found it smooth and worn and perfect to the touch.

She sipped her wine and looked towards the faint sound at the doorway, and found Jett leaning against it, watching her.

“Do you like it?” he said.

“It’s beautiful. Did you really only pay ten dollars for it?”

“Cross my heart.”

She still couldn’t tell if he was lying. Boyd had lied about practically everything.

Jett wasn’t him.

Still.

She looked to the roll of carpet, all wrapped up tightly and labeled. It wasn’t a small rug, by any means. Nor was it second-hand. “This is new.”

“It’s unused, yes, but it still came from the thrift store. They got a few rolls in from somewhere.”

“Are you lying to me? Because, if you are…please don’t. I hate being lied to, manipulated, or taken for a fool. I’ve been there. Didn’t like it.”

His eyes narrowed. “I got it from the thrift store – unused and discount priced – and I want to make a deal with you when it comes to honesty and expectations. I will never lie to you. In return, you will never compare me to Boyd Prescott. Ever. I am not him.”

He hadn’t moved from the doorway. Nor had he raised his voice, but Mardie didn’t need to be Einstein to know she’d offended him.

“Jett, I’m—

“Training camp 101,” he interrupted. “Put your needs and wants on the table. Identify them.
Tell
people what those goals are and, more often than not, people can and will help you reach them. No confusion. Want to try it?”

“I—yes?” A man who knew what he wanted and how to voice it? One who left enough space for her needs as well? She should probably bottle him. “Yes. We can do that.”

He smiled and sunshine broke out, never mind the storm surrounding them.

“Want to see the rug?” Action man was in action again, crouching down and reaching for his pocket knife. “This one’s supposed to be ivory, but whether it’s the same pattern as the blue one in the store is anyone’s guess. It’s a mystery rug.”

The plastic came off. Mardie helped him roll it out to reveal a textured carpet made of wool and what looked like silk, in varying shades of white-on-white for added depth. The pattern involved flowers and fans and looked vaguely oriental and utterly feminine.

Mardie ran her palm across it and it was just as soft and luxurious to the touch as it looked.

Claire was going to love it.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful.” It fit her vision for this room exactly, never mind that practicality would probably have had her hesitating over the color and the undoubted expense. “It’s just what the room needs. When will the floor be finished so that I can start moving furniture in?”

“Probably not until next week. I’ll put a coat of poly on in the morning, but it’ll take another few days for it to dry in this weather. The next coat can probably go on early next week.”

“I can do that,” she said.

“I can come back,” he countered, but she shook her head.

“One week. That was the deal.”

He frowned.

“Besides, Ella told me not to sweat you on the little stuff. Told me to dream big. How would you feel about getting rid of the red cupboards in the kitchen and knocking the wall out from between kitchen and dining room? Make it one big open space.”

“I’d feel enthusiastic.”

Enthusiasm was addictive. “Note that I don’t want you to start knocking walls down right this minute. There’s wine on the table for you or beer in the fridge.”

He smiled again and she curled her fingers into the soft pile of the carpet in a concerted effort not to reach for
him
.

She stood, feeling awkward, what with nothing whatsoever standing between her and Jett. Not the past, no Claire to see to. Nothing but the rest of the day coiling out in front of them.

She didn’t want to make a mess of it, but she did want to know something. “Jett, should I be treating this afternoon meal like a date?”

“Yes. You should definitely be doing that.” He had a way of looking at her that made her feel so warm and willing.

“And when you date, do you usually go really fast or really slow?”

“I’m not slow to hook up when I’m interested in someone. And I swear that this isn’t just the honesty kitchen effect, although come to think of it, yes, yes it is. The point is, I will never force my attentions where they’re not wanted. We can go as fast or as slow as you want. Your call.”

“Oh, good,” she said, and kissed him.

*

Jett had a
lively imagination, one of the best, but he had never imagined his Wednesday afternoon going anything like this.

He was lost in the taste of her three seconds after her mouth hit his. Perfectly willing to help her take his shirt off moments after that. Whatever the hell Mardie wanted from him, she could have.

Her lips to the pulse point beneath his jaw, not a problem. Hands on his chest? Yes, and anywhere else she cared to put them.

“I don’t need more time, when it comes to you,” she said with a pretty little hitch in her voice that turned him inside out. “You’ve been my go-to fantasy since I was fifteen.”

Well, there was food for thought. Her hands were at the waistband of his jeans, her fingers enticingly close to where he wanted them to be. He took her hand and dragged it across his length even as her mouth met his again for a deep and dirty kiss. “How do I measure up?”

She dragged her hand down his erection, firm and bold, just how he liked it. “Better than expected.”

She undid his zipper next, carefully, given the delicate obstruction. He relieved her of her shirt.

And then he hitched her skirt high, cupped her buttocks and lifted her up against him. Still a lightweight and perfect in his arms as she wrapped her legs around him, buried her fingers in his hair and tugged his head back so that she could attack his mouth again.

He liked a little edge to go with his lovemaking, a little speed where appropriate.

He loved it.

Over against the windowsill now, with Mardie’s back to it for leverage and her butt on the little ledge, as he wrapped his hands around her thighs. She freed his erection and ran her thumb along the underside, her nail running delicately over the rim of his head.

“Do that again,” he demanded, chasing the pleasure she gave to him, again and again, and he who was supposed to be an athlete could hardly speak for want of breath. He wanted to sheath himself inside her, needed it with a ferocity that was new to him, and he slid his thumb beneath her panties and into her slick warmth, finding her nub and playing it fast and firm.

Her panties came off, and then her skirt, and she was as hasty as he was and utterly starved for touch. No matter what he did, she had a gasp for him, a tremor, a kiss.

Too fast. Too hard maybe. But if he weren’t holding back, then neither was Mardie. Not when she lined him up, and he inched inside, and he tried to slow things down a little. Tried not to snap up into her with no care for her comfort.

There were things they should be talking about, like protection. Things he should be doing, like asking Mardie if she wanted this. Things that he always made sure of. Only this time, as those final inches slid in and she encompassed him fully, he was sure of only one thing.

When it came to Mardie, he wanted more of everything.

“This okay?” he whispered, stroking her hair from her face and trying to be gentle, when every instinct screamed at him to move his hips. “Can you deal with this?”

“Don’t you dare go slow.” Her mouth found his again and he sank into the sweetness. “Don’t you hold back on me because you think I might break.”

He pulled back carefully, and then drove hard and she clung but she didn’t break. This was how he liked his sex, the long slow slide of withdrawal and then back in hard and fast. He closed his eyes and relished the softness of skin and the tangle of limbs. He dragged his thumb across her bottom lip, dipping in and getting it wet and then slid it down her body, not stopping to linger until her found her clit and circled it. “How about this?”

“Yes.” As she gripped the sill with both hands, wrapped her legs around him and gave him more room to work. “Do that.”

“And this?” A more insistent pace, now, until it threatened to get the better of him, so he pulled out and made do with less heat and less grip as he dragged her tiny nub along his hardness. Still friction and contact but geared more towards her pleasure than his. “Do you like this?”

“Yes.” And it was messy and slick and she took exactly what she wanted by way of friction and nearly drove him over the edge. Come all over her stomach or get back inside her, it was a close call, but more than anything he wanted in, and she didn’t object. If anything, she melted at the renewed intrusion.

He could pull out again, he could and he would. Right after—

She cried out and stilled, tightening around him like a silken vice.

Right after—

Her inner muscles started milking him.

Just before—

He lost it.

*