Wild with You (10 page)

 

Chapter 12

B
RODY
SCANNED
THE
menu, but it might as well have been written in French. The only thing he wanted was sitting beside him, using every excuse to touch him. A hand on his arm. Her thigh brushing up against his as she accidentally slid too far into the booth.

“Do I need to tie you up for dinner?” he murmured.

“Are you planning to feed me? One french fry at a time?” she teased, leaning close, her shoulder touching his.

“I might.” He looked at her over the top of his menu. Her eyes sparkled as her hand moved to his thigh. Brody sucked a deep breath. Here, in the corner booth of the upscale restaurant, she looked like Kat, the supposed ER doctor he'd met in the airport hotel—­daring, welcoming, and intriguing as hell. He realized that she was at home in a room ­peopled with strangers.

Or she was still turned on from the ride over.

His jaw tightened and he set the menu aside. Blindfolding a woman in the parking lot behind the pizza place, and opening the door to the way he wanted her, what the heck was he thinking?

It was the look in her eyes when Delilah talked about Harvard as if the fancy school had handed Kat the keys to the kingdom. But he could connect the dots. The little girl who'd tried to find a family at the Falls Hotel holding her science project as proof she deserved a home, that kid didn't show up at an Ivy League school and wait for handouts. She'd fought her way to the top alone. She'd struggled, adapted, and changed.

And he was goddamn crazy about the woman she'd become. He'd blindfolded her and stolen her away from his hometown to remind her who she was now—­a beautiful, sexy, smart woman who didn't need anyone feeling sorry for her.

“Do you feel at home in New York?” he asked after the waiter left with their order.

“Depends on how you define home.”

Kat took a sip of her white wine, drawing his attention to her full lips. On the drive over, he'd stolen glances at her mouth. He'd been tempted to pull over and kiss her. Her lips were like a beacon, calling to his from below the blindfold.

“I feel alive there. And I love the diversity. ­People from all over the world meeting in one place. They all have different stories, but the focus always seems to be on the now,” she said.

“Your friends in New York look at you and see a doctor and the rest falls away.” Logically, he understood, but the thought of cutting ties with the past felt foreign to him.

“Yes.” She smiled. “Have you ever been? To the city?”

He raised an eyebrow. “There's more than one city.”

“Not when you live in New York.” Her calf brushed his under the table. It was too damn bad she'd traded in her short skirt for a pair of blue jeans.

“No, I've never been to the East Coast. My mother caught the travel bug when we were kids. Claimed she couldn't stay in one place.”

“She just walked out? On all of you? I knew you lived with your dad in high school, but I didn't know your mom abandoned you.”

“Yeah, she just up and left one day. After my dad got out of the army. When my sister was still little.”

“There wasn't anyone else? A reason?”

“It wasn't my place to ask. My dad was a mess and he needed help. I pitched in with the laundry, made sure everyone got to school, and my dad, well, he took over the trucking company, working alongside my grandfather.”

“Did you ever try to find her?” Kat asked, her wineglass poised at her lips.

“No.” One word offered without a hint of regret.

“I can't imagine having family out there and not reaching out to them.”

He knew his mother's abrupt departure from their lives left a lingering wound, more so for his siblings. But for him it was over and done. His job was to make damn sure Chad, Katie, and Josh never felt the pain of someone they loved giving up on them and letting them down again.

“Your father's out there,” he pointed out, his defenses rising.

“My dad is in prison. And he's never been a part of my life.”

“Same goes for my mom,” he said. “Not the prison part, though I guess it is possible. But she is not in my life now.”

Kat set her glass down, turned and stared at him, her head cocked to one side. “I've been wondering why you've stayed single. But I don't think you have lingering commitment issues.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?” He shifted away, her words unsettling him. The way he saw it, he had major “commitment issues”—­his family, work, search and rescue, the farmhouse he planned to fix up now that they had the money. The list went on and on, pulling him in a dozen different directions.

“Yes,” she said, sipping her wine. The waiter delivered their dinner, a burger for him, fish cooked in some sort of fancy bag for her, and an order of rosemary fries.

“You're wrong,” he said as the server rushed away. “I have a pile of commitment issues. Right now, Josh tops the list. But it has always been one of my siblings or the company, needing my time and attention. When I settle down and get married, I want to do it right. I want to spend the rest of my life giving my wife everything I have in me to give. And everything she needs.”

“That's a lot to offer,” she said, steam rising up from her fancy plate of fish.

Only to someone who'd spent years believing she'd never make the cut, he thought. Her hand tightened around the stem of her wineglass, and for a second he thought it might snap. Raw emotion swam in her green eyes. Awe mixed with confusion, as if the two feelings had been tossed in a blender. But she quickly masked it.

“What would you ask for in return?” Kat set the glass down and claimed her fork. Stabbing the fish, she pulled it apart.

“I'd like to have a family one day. But to be honest, I'd settle for waking up next to the woman I love every morning and knowing she has the same deep feelings for me that I have for her.”

Kat drew in a deep breath, her eyes wide as her fork remained buried in her food. Judging from the look of wonder he saw on her face, she'd never considered that anyone might feel that way about her. Seeing that look, Brody felt his temper rising at the injustice delivered to the woman sitting beside him. If only he could he'd erase the pain of her past. It fucking killed him that this woman had never known love, the kind that bound a family together.

He set his burger down on his plate before the anger pulsing through him flattened his meal. If he could turn back the clock, he'd find Kat hiding in the corners of his high school and he'd do something to make her believe she deserved love. Hell, he might take a swing or two at all the foster parents who'd sent her packing.

“You're like the dream contestant for one of those reality shows,” she said. “Just think, you could have your own TV show with a hot tub full of women waiting for the chance to fall in love with you.”

After witnessing her unmasked emotional response to his words, seeing the awe tinged with confusion, he let her hide behind humor. “Yeah, but then I'd have to tell millions of viewers, including my friends and family waiting back home, that I want whip-­cream sex. At least once a month.”

“Kinky sex is a deal breaker, huh?”

He picked up a rosemary fry without taking his eyes off her. “Seems that way.”

“You can't find a woman in Independence Falls who wants you to tie her up and lick you clean?” she asked, her leg “accidentally” brushing his again.

“To be honest, I haven't been looking all that hard,” he said. But who gave a damn about the past, when he'd found her now?

She set her fork down and rested her hand on his forearm, her fingers pressed into the sleeve of his flannel shirt. “It's because you're so sober. They assume you want serious sex.”

He laughed, allowing his temper over her rotten childhood to fade. He wanted to keep her here, laughing and joking with him. “Serious sex? Sounds pretty damn boring.”

“Like two ­people who keep their clothes on instead of using them for bondage,” she murmured, reclaiming her fork.

“Kat.” He set his burger down again. He was hungry, but he didn't want the fancy French version of an American classic. Lowering his arm, he placed his hand on her thigh, his fingers running up it. “There is nothing serious about what I'm picturing right now.”

S
HE
SURV
IVED
DINNER
. Barely. Every stolen touch, every movement of his body, propelled her desire forward. They'd reached the car and she was tempted to beg him to pull over. She'd wanted him to
take her
in the front seat of his truck. And if her mind was ready and willing to grant him control—­here, now,
anywhere
—­she knew for a fact the physical pull bordered on overwhelming.

Let it sweep her up and drag her under like a fast moving current, she thought. Focusing on the bulge in his jeans kept her mind from playing back his words.

I want to spend the rest of my life giving my wife everything I have in me to give. And everything she needs.

She'd spent years fantasizing about his warm smile and beautiful eyes, but she'd never stopped to fully picture the boy as a grown man. His broad shoulders tapering off to his waist, not an inch of fat on him. That she'd found anyway. She would be happy to resume her search. The muscles that screamed:
I can tie you up, hold you down and make you scream with pleasure.

And she'd certainly never fantasized about the grown-­up Brody's desire to settle down and give the woman he loved everything. She never focused on the future with anyone—­real or fantasy. If she began dreaming about forever, the inevitable moment would come when the rug was ripped out from under her. The person holding her heart would show her the door, wishing her the best, and then go on with his life as if she'd only been a momentary blip.

“Kat?”

She turned her attention back to him as he sped down the driveway to his home. “Yes?”

Stopping, he threw the truck into park and glanced at her, his gaze burning with reckless, unrestrained need. Kat drew a deep, unsteady breath. The physical she understood. Momentary desire, no matter how potent, was as fleeting as an orgasm.

“Where's the whip cream?” he asked, his low tone teasing her senses.

“In the fridge. I'll race you.”

She hopped down from the truck and ran for the screen door leading to the kitchen. Footsteps sounded behind her. And Brody's strong arms banded around her, drawing her back against his chest. Her hands wrapped around his forearms, pressing into the bulge of muscle. So much strength . . . She arched into his hold and felt the hard proof that he wanted her.

“I want you to go inside and head upstairs. My door is the first on the right when you reach the landing.” He lowered his mouth to her neck, brushing a gentle kiss. “I want you in my bed.”

“How?” Her hips rocked against his erection. “Tell me what you see.”

He loosened his hold, his hands capturing her hips. Holding her tight against him, he murmured, “Take off your clothes, lie on my bed and close your eyes. Wait for me. Let the excitement build. By the time I walk into the room, I want you wild.”

His hands fell away, but he didn't step back. Hovering close, Brody Summers offered a wall of muscle. He didn't push her to go, or leave her standing alone in the dark corner of the yard, waiting for her to race into the house. He gave, she realized, as much as he took. Maybe more. Even when it came to games firmly based in desire and mutual need.

Focus on his bed, the whip cream, and this moment . . . nothing more.

“Bottom shelf on the right.” She moved to the house. “The whip cream.”

Opening the door, she slipped into the kitchen and headed for the stairs. Inside his bedroom, she surveyed the space. The furniture stole her breath away. Everything from the cherry dresser to the rich red textured wood posts of his bed frame defined this place as his.

She walked over to the room's focal point and ran her hand over the large wooden footer. The bed dominated the room. The square posts rising up from the four corners gave the piece a distinctly masculine feel due to the blunt, sharp lines.

Standing in the center of Brody's space, she stripped off her shirt, tossing it over an easy chair. It was possibly the only piece of furniture that wasn't made from the trees lining this property. Her pants and underwear followed, until she stood naked in his room, surrounded by the handcrafted testaments to his love of this land.

Climbing onto his bed, she drew comfort from the fact that Brody Summers was tied to Oregon. The job he loved involved saving ­people on the mountains cloaked in darkness beyond the walls of a home that had been in the family for generations. His room was filled with pieces of this place, carefully molded to highlight the best of Oregon.

Lying back on his bed, she closed her eyes. She could appreciate the natural beauty. But when she thought of what Oregon had to offer, her list stopped at Brody Summers.

The door opened and she heard his footsteps on the floorboards. Desire pulsed through her with each sound. His hand touched her ankle and she let out a gasp.

“Roll over, Kat.”

She obeyed, spreading her legs wide as her feet pushed against the footboard's smooth surface. Planting her palms on the bedspread, she rose to all fours and rocked back and forth, creating the fantasy he'd described in the truck.

“Like this?” She glanced over her shoulder.

“Yes.”

Her gaze fell to his hands holding the whip cream. She raised an eyebrow. “No ropes?”

His brown eyes darkened, narrowing in on her legs. “I couldn't wait. I had to taste you.” Setting the container on the bed beside her leg, his gaze met hers. “May I?”

She nodded, holding back the words
Take me, make me yours!