Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) (4 page)

She
broke from him, caressing the length of his warm, sun-bronzed arm until she
reached his hand, then slid her fingers through his and ushered him around the
screen to her bed. Before she could drop onto it, he caught her by the
waistband of her pants and eased them down over her bottom, drawing her panties
down with them. She attacked the fly of his jeans, and as soon as he had her
pants removed, he dispensed with his own.

They
tumbled onto the soft, down-filled duvet covering her bed. Her head sank into
the pillows as he rose above her, his warmth blanketing her. He kissed her
cheeks, her chin, her throat. He wedged one leg between hers and pressed his
thigh against her crotch. He stroked her waist, her belly, her breasts. He was
so big, his skin sun-darkened, his hair sun-bleached. A thin trail of tawny
hair tapered from his belly downward, expanding into a nest of curls that
framed his erection, displaying it as if it were a gift. She ran her index
finger from its base to its tip and he groaned.

Bowing,
he nuzzled the skin between her breasts, then kissed each one, licked, sucked,
made her sigh as the tension inside her increased. Even though she’d been with
Jimmy forever, she’d always kept a stash of condoms in her night table for
those occasions when they’d broken up. She’d never used them, but she’d left
them in the bedside drawer, just in case someone came along to take Jimmy’s
place.

This
man hadn’t taken Jimmy’s place. He claimed his own place. What she was
experiencing right now had nothing to do with breaking up with Jimmy. It was an
encounter all its own, detached from Monica’s past and her future, a suspended
reality, a moment out of time.

She
rolled away from him and rummaged in the drawer until she found the box of
condoms. Her trembling fingers struggled to tear off the cellophane, and he
took the box from her, deftly opened it, and pulled out a rubber. In an
instant, he was suited up. He eased onto his back, pulled her on top of him,
and whispered, “Ride me.”

The
only two words they’d spoken since they’d entered her apartment. Demanding
words.
Wild
words.

She
straddled him, his hands cupping her hips, his thumbs reaching to rub her. She
was wet, needy, hurting. Shifting forward, she poised herself above him. He
guided himself inside.

She
came almost at once, her body throbbing as he arched into her. She moaned,
shocked by how quickly she’d succumbed and how immeasurably good she felt. He
moved his hands back to her hips, giving her his rhythm, helping her to keep
moving when all she wanted was to collapse against him. She dared to open his
eyes and viewed him beneath her, looking both helpless and profoundly powerful,
pumping hard, breathing hard. Somehow his thumbs found her again, and she felt
herself building to a higher peak.

They
reached it together. Her body shook; his wrenched. His breath stopped, then started
again, broken, carrying a quiet moan.

Wild
, she thought.
Wild sex
.
Like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

She
settled on top of him, her respiration shallow, her heart pounding
frenetically. His skin was warm, his body surprisingly comfortable. He
softened, unrolled the sheath and dropped it onto the foil wrapper on her night
table. Then he stroked his fingers aimlessly through her hair. Her eyes came
into focus, and she saw the small tattoo on his shoulder, four neat, indigo
block letters: LIVE.

She
traced the letters with her finger. “Live?” she asked, pronouncing it as an
adjective, with a long
I
.

“Live,”
he corrected her, pronouncing it as a verb.

“What
does it mean?”

He
hesitated, then said, “There was a time when I should have died, but I lived.”

He
should have died? How? Why? Who was he? That last question seemed at once the
easiest and the most complicated, so she asked it. “Who are you?”

“Ty.”
He must have seen her puzzled expression, because he elaborated. “Tyler Cronin.
People call me Ty.”

“Ty.”
She tried out the simple nickname and decided it suited him. His name didn’t
tell her who he was, but it was something. Something that made this encounter
marginally less anonymous. “I’m Monica Reinhart,” she said.

“Monica.”
He curved his arm around her, cuddled her to himself, and closed his eyes.
After a moment, his breathing grew deep and steady. He had fallen asleep.

She
couldn’t imagine sleeping. She had just made love with a man whose name she
hadn’t even known until a minute ago. He was still a stranger to her. Just a
name, a tattoo, a tall, strong body, a beautiful face. A golden stubble that
had left beard burns on her skin. A man who might disappear in the morning, who
might vanish from her life without ever really having been in it.

She
felt wicked. Wanton. A little bit worried. And very wild.

She
must have fallen asleep at some point, because in the middle of the night he
woke her and they made love again, soft, sleepy love. He loved her first with
his mouth and then with his body, and she climaxed so many times she wondered
if her legs would function when she tried to stand. But he hadn’t crippled her.
After that second go-round, they’d hauled themselves out of bed in order to
wash and to turn off the lamp in the sitting area, and then they’d slid back
beneath the covers, curled up against each other, and drifted to sleep. In her
dreams she saw his tattoo, four crisp letters, dark yet resonant with hope,
with survival, with life.

 She
arose, as she usually did, at seven. Opening her eyes, she found him beside her
and felt a pang of uneasiness. Last night was last night. This morning
was…reality. The reality of a strange man taking up most of her bed. He had
kicked off the blanket overnight, and she pushed herself to sit, stared at his
rangy, beautiful body, and felt a queasy sensation roil her stomach. She
couldn’t blame it on too much wine last night, because she hadn’t even consumed
a whole glass. Less than one glass of wine couldn’t have made her drunk enough
to explain last night’s little sexual escapade, either.

It
wasn’t a little sexual escapade, she thought anxiously. It was a very big
sexual escapade. The best sex she’d ever had.

What
did that say about her? Was this her first step down a tawdry path of
encounters with strangers? Was this the start of a nasty new habit of picking
up unknown men in bars and bringing them back to her apartment?

Good
lord. Her parents lived in the suite just three floors above her.

She
reminded herself that she was an adult. She no longer lived with them. She
didn’t have to obey them. She didn’t have to check in with them, or justify her
choices to them.

This
hadn’t exactly been a choice, though, had it? He’d shown up at the inn, and the
night had proceeded with a certain inevitability. He’d found her and they’d
made love. Last night couldn’t have happened any other way.

That
was bullshit, she told herself, swinging out of bed and stalking to the
bathroom. She adjusted the shower to a scalding temperature, stepped under the
spray, and did her best to scrub her mind as her washcloth scrubbed her body.
There had been no inevitability to her inviting Ty into her bed. She’d made
love to him for no good reason, nothing she could wrap her rational brain
around. She was a slut. Cheap. Foolish. The one thing she’d never been:
irresponsible.

Well,
it couldn’t be undone. She could wash all traces of him from her skin, but not
from her soul.

Sighing,
she stepped out of the shower and dried herself. The rough texture of the towel
reminded her of his hard, callused hands and his scruffy facial hair. The blast
of air from her hair dryer made her hot. Tears burned her eyes. She’d cried
yesterday evening at the bar before she’d seen him, and here she was again,
crying. Tears could be the bookends of this reckless, crazy night.

She
stepped out of the bathroom—and there he was, standing by the door, waiting for
her. Naked.

Looking
at him only made her want to cry even more.

He
gathered her into his arms, and her towel dropped to the floor. There was
nothing sexual in his embrace, even though they were both naked, their bodies
pressed together, the heat of his flesh warming her. She batted her eyes,
hating that her tears might be dampening his chest. “Hey,” he murmured.

“I’m
sorry—”

“No.”

“I
mean—crying like this—”

“It’s
okay.”

“It’s
just that—I mean—I’ve never done anything like this.”

He
didn’t respond right away. She supposed he
had
done things like
this—one-night stands, sex with a stranger. But he stroked his hand soothingly
through her hair and brushed a kiss against the crown of her head. “Last night
was amazing,” he said. “I don’t know what it means or why it happened, but it
was incredible.”

True
enough. A smile teased her lips in spite of her tears.

“I’ve
got some stuff to take care of today,” he said. “I’ll be free this evening.
Maybe we could do something normal, like have dinner together.”

Her
smile expanded to a laugh. All right, this was not going to be a lifelong romance.
He was not going to occupy the next ten years of her life the way Jimmy had
occupied the last ten. But dinner tonight offered a glimpse of a future for
them, however brief. “Okay,” she said.

“We
could meet at that bar with the jukebox. Six o’clock?”

“Okay.”

He
loosened his hold on her, dipped his head to kiss her lips, and said, “Have you
got a towel I can use?”

While
he showered, she fixed breakfast. Usually she ate a bowl of oatmeal or corn
flakes, but she doubted that would satisfy a big man like him, so she prepared
a batch of French toast, sweet and eggy, and sliced up some oranges. By the
time he was dressed, she had her table set and the coffee brewed.

“Last
night you told me you worked here at this inn,” he recalled.

She
nodded, inordinately pleased that he remembered that detail about her.

“What
do you do?”

“I
help to manage the place,” she said. “I do a little of everything. My family
owns it. If all goes well, I’ll be running it once my parents retire. I’m
learning the business, one area at a time. Right now, I’m in charge of
maintenance.”

“You
should be in charge of the dining room,” he said, devouring a chunk of French
toast. “This is delicious.”

“I’m
not that good a cook. French toast is easy.”

He
shook his head. “I’ve been living on sandwiches and freeze-dried food for a
week. This is really good.”

She
extended the platter toward him. “Take as much as you want. I can always make
more.” Once he’d forked another slice of French toast onto his plate, she
asked, “Have you been camping?”

“Sailing
up the coast,” he told her. “Transporting a boat for a friend.”

That
sounded ridiculously sexy. “For a whole week? Where did you start?”

“Key
Biscayne, outside Miami.”

“Do
you do that professionally? Transport boats?” She bit her lip as soon as the question
was out.
Professionally
? She sounded so stuffy.

He
didn’t seem to mind. “I’m a carpenter,” he told her, “I work mostly in
buildings, but I also do restoration work on boats. I love to sail. This guy
who docks in the winter at a marina where I do a lot of work asked me to bring
his boat to Brogan’s Point for him, so I did.”

“A
nice little vacation for you,” she said.

“A
paid vacation,” he added, then grinned.

“So…I
guess you live in Florida.” She gave herself another mental kick. Asking him
about his profession, then grilling him about where he lived… She must sound
like a pushy, needy girlfriend, trying to pin her footloose lover down.

He
didn’t seem to mind. “At the moment,” he said. “I move around.”

Great.
If he lived in Florida, he would be gone from Brogan’s Point and her life
sooner or later—probably sooner. If he moved around…he would also be gone from
her life. Apparently, her future with him wouldn’t extend much beyond dinner
tonight.

She
would accept that. She would be wild now, while he was here, and once he was
gone she could reclaim her old, tame existence. Hopefully, after he departed,
she would be left with happy memories and no ugly scars.

***

She
spirited him from her apartment, down the hall at the back of the inn and out
the back door without encountering anyone. He wasn’t offended by the notion
that she might be embarrassed about his presence in her room overnight. She was
dressed for work in clean, stylish business clothes, while he was wearing the
torn jeans he’d had on yesterday, and his beard was a day longer and thicker.
Of course she didn’t want anyone to see them together.

He
had to get onto the boat. He needed his toiletries, his clothing, his laptop.
He hoped to God that damned police tape was gone and he could board.

He
ought to be focusing on the trouble he’d viewed at the Freedom’s slip last
night. But as he sauntered down the driveway, away from the inn, he could think
only of Monica, her soft hair and her soft body, the way she’d peaked and
peaked and peaked in his arms. She was astonishing. Beautiful, gentle, smart,
sensitive…and hot enough to leave third-degree burns on his psyche.

Today,
he’d get his gear, hopefully resolve whatever had merited a visit to the boat
from the cops last night, and then find a motorcycle to rent. He’d tool around
the area, check out some back roads, fill the day until he could meet up with
Monica and fill the night with her. Maybe he’d hang around Brogan’s Point a
little longer than he’d planned. Maybe she could get a day off from her job at her
parents’ inn and they could ride up the coast to Maine, or travel down to
Boston and be tourists. Or they could spend the whole day in bed, screwing
themselves silly. He wouldn’t object to that particular plan.

Nearing
the yacht club, he saw more cars in the parking lot than before. Two of those
cars were gray sedans with “Brogan’s Point Police” spelled out along their
sides and bars of lights stretched across their roofs. Their lights weren’t
flashing, but it didn’t matter. The police were still present, and the boat was
still cordoned off in police tape.

Shit.

Once
again, he wanted to U-turn and run away. But he couldn’t. He had to get his
stuff.

He
reminded himself that he hadn’t broken any laws or done anything wrong. He had
no reason to fear the police. Whatever had happened to the boat—vandalism, a
robbery, someone trespassing and injuring himself—wasn’t his fault.

Steeling
himself, he continued past the main building, down the sloping gangplank to the
slip where the Freedom was moored. A uniformed officer stood near the boat,
guarding it. He measured Ty with his gaze, then said, “Are you Tyler Cronin?”

How
did the cop know who Ty was? Ty recalled that he’d signed the marina’s log when
he’d arrived. “Yeah,” he said, tamping down his apprehension. “What’s going on?
Is something wrong?”

Behind
the cop, he saw the sailboat rocking gently on its rippling cushion of water. A
man dressed in civilian clothes emerged from the cabin. He was tall, with a
square face and hair the color of tempered steel. “Tyler Cronin is here,” the
uniformed cop told him.

The
other guy stepped off the boat onto the dock. “Detective Ed Nolan,” he
introduced himself, then handed Tyler some papers. “We have a warrant to search
the boat.”

Tyler
unfolded the document Nolan had given him. A bunch of legalese; he had no idea
what it said, but he’d take the man’s word for it that it was a search warrant.
“Why?”

“Maybe
you should come down to police headquarters with me,” the detective said. “We
can talk there.”

“I’ve
got some stuff on the boat I’d like to get,” Ty said, hoping he sounded
innocent. He
was
innocent, but the way these two officers were staring
at him made him feel guilty as hell. “My clothes, my laptop—”

“Your
possessions are all in police custody right now,” the detective said. “Let’s go
down to headquarters and see if we can straighten this out.”

Straightening
things out sounded good to Ty. But he wasn’t naïve. He was in deep shit, and he
had no idea why.

Refusing
to accompany the detective to the police station was not going to get him out
of that deep shit. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”