I'm having a bit of a block/fight with Meara and Oakley, so here's an oldie but goodie.
Your comments and love so far have given me LIFE and I'm so grateful. Keep it coming! *big kisses*
**************
She's trying to read. She can not. Especially when he's outside the garage, just off the side of the deck, tinkering with his bike. She should have known better. He's been at it for hours, only stopping long enough to get something to eat, or to bark out a request for something to drink.
After she'd finished cleaning the house, she'd thought it'd be a good day to catch up on some light reading. Her favorite lounge chair seemed the perfect spot. Except, of course, he is there, drenched in sunlight and sweat, with his big hands and his ripped undershirt smeared with motor oil. She's got a perfect view of his thickly muscled arms. The dog tags swinging from his neck when he moves. When he stands, lifting his arms to stretch out the kinks in his back and broad shoulders, the book nearly slips out of her hands and goes tumbling to ground.
Of course, his sensitive ears catch the sound and he glances over at her. Arches a thick brow at her as the corner of his full lips tug up into a knowing smile.
She narrows her eyes at him, though when he turns his attention back to his work, her gaze is traveling the length of him, greedily drinking in the sight of the full tattoo sleeve that goes from the top of his left shoulder all the way down to the back of his hand - a breathtaking mess of swirling blacks and vibrant reds, mesmerizing greens and deep, deep ocean blues. She would be hardpressed to name a man who could wear jeans the way he did, like they were painted on him, the well-worn fabric, thread-bare in some spots and hugging his lean waist and molding deliciously over his fantastically thick thighs.
She's supposed to be reading. Instead, she's drooling over her man like she's a damn dog in heat.
"You gonna sit there and watch, or you wanna give me a hand, sugar?"
His voice, low and raspy and tinged with obvious amusement, drifts to her over the small space separating them. Teasing her because he knows she can't help him, and because he knows her book has been open for the past ten minutes to the same page. Knows the power he holds over his woman; it's the same power she has over him. Because if he wasn't covered from head to toe in a layer of grime and sweat, he'd have launched himself over the deck railing and taken her right there. Spread her wide and pretty and devoured her.
She's wearing one of her dresses, one of the pale, gauzy ones she only wears around the house. And, thank the Gods, because he'd kill any man who dared to look at her when she wears one of those things.
This one is sky blue and contrasts perfectly with her deep pecan skin. And when she moves just right, the sunlight catches it and he can see the definite outline of her luscious shape beneath the fabric. That, coupled with the mass of tiny dark braids hanging over one lean shoulder, makes her look like a goddess, a goddess crafted from sex and sunshine.
"Fuck you," she calls, just as sweet as can be, and he laughs. Winks at her as he expertly flips a wrench in his capable hand.
The sun sinks lower. Casts their little corner of the world in winding purple shadow. Brings a cool breeze that dances across the yard. He gives up for the night and she watches while he cleans up and walks the bike back into the garage.
She's watching him still as he steps up onto the deck, his boots making the floorboards shake beneath her. He smiles at her. Bends low to place a kiss on her expectant, upturned lips.
"Lemme get cleaned up," he murmurs, breath fanning across her cheek. "I'll buy my favorite girl dinner."
He starts to straighten up but she curls a thin hand in the front of his shirt to stop him.
"Wait," she says, stretching upward to brush her lips across his plump ones. "Kiss me again."
He chuckles lowly and the sound vibrates inside her chest. She opens for him, welcomes the slick slide of his tongue in her mouth. Moans softly when he nips playfully at her lower lip, lifting a hand to twine her fingers through his long dark hair and hold him close for more.
"Sugar, I'm a mess. Don't start nothin'."
"Mmm, you taste so good," she says softly, seductively. "I'need ya."
She's purring for him already and she knows what that does to him. He starts to reach out, to gather her lush little body to his, and remembers that his hands are filthy. He clenches them at his sides instead.
"We're out in the open, gal, and I'm covered in filth," he replies, more as a reminder to himself than a warning to her. "I can't even touch you without getting my grimy prints all over you."
She's pushing up now, standing to her feet and using the hand she has twisted up in the front of his shirt to turn them. Her eyes are gleaming in the waning light, shimmering pools of dark promise. The devil's in her gaze. He opens his mouth to speak but, before he knows it, she's shoving him backward onto the lounger.
"Then, don't touch," she says.
He scoffs but the sound is weak because he's mesmerized by the sight of her crawling toward him over the lounger, the hem of her dress caught in one hand to keep it out of the way. Her lips are parted, soft and glistening faintly, large dark eyes trained on his. He can just see the tops of her thighs as she moves, the give and flex of lean, dark muscle there.
