Take My Breath Away
“What? No.” With a frown, she turned her head, then jerked it back when she saw what he’d wrought.
Naked tits. Overinflated, pearly pink and topped with tight, upstanding nipples.
A squeak of horror escaped Poppy’s lips, followed by a moment of stunned silence. Then she started to laugh. As she laughed harder, she put one palm over her belly, and the other over her mouth.
Need—rash, blazing and no longer deniable—overtook Ryan. That mouth, he thought again. He was going to have that mouth. It was imperative he taste the laughter bubbling from it, inhale the sound into his shrunken soul. He had to kiss her.
* * *
POPPY’S GUARD WAS down, thanks to an outrageous pair of puzzle breasts. Maybe because of the wine she’d drunk or maybe because she’d been walking a tightrope of tension all evening, hyperaware of Ryan’s very-male presence in a room that had kept getting smaller by the second, but for whatever reason the sight of those naked boobs had tickled her sense of the ridiculous. Aware she might sound the tiniest bit hysterical, she pressed her hand harder to her lips, still giggling like mad when Ryan reached over and drew it away.
The gesture didn’t immediately alert her to a threat. She still couldn’t believe that she’d been so anxious to smother the sexual vibrations humming in the room that she’d gladly dived into working a puzzle...of an X-rated image. Even with the knowledge that her car and her cabin were half-ruined lurking at the back of her mind—or because that knowledge was lurking at the back of her mind—it struck her as hilariously funny. Even now another laugh rose in her throat.
“Poppy,” Ryan said, his voice soft.
Her gaze shifted to his face, and the glow in his blue eyes sent her to serious in a hurry.
But it didn’t send her body anywhere safe. Instead, she sat frozen on the couch, her hand cradled in his much larger one. The contrast made her feel feminine and breathless and...oh, boy, curious. Because she knew what that tone in his voice signaled. She knew what was coming.
And she hadn’t been kissed in over five years.
So sue her, she had a curiosity about kissing. Strike that. She had a curiosity about how Ryan would kiss.
And then...and then he was showing her. His mouth brushed over hers, the touch as light as a snowflake, though the brief caress sent heat racing like a flash fire over her skin. When his lips came back a second time, she parted her mouth, hoping to entice him to make it firmer. Hoping he’d brush his tongue with hers.
It had been aeons since she’d been French-kissed.
On the third gentle pass, she speared her hand in Ryan’s hair to keep their lips locked. He made a sound, low in his throat. Gratified? Smug? She didn’t care. Her muscles tensed, her body quivering as she anticipated his next move.
His tongue, all right, but now it brushed like damp butterfly wings against her bottom lip. Her thighs clenched and he rubbed his thumb over the knuckles of the hand he held. Soothing, every stroke of his soothing, as if he knew she was all of a sudden so keyed up that a stronger touch might shatter her. Who would blame her for that?
Five-plus years without a proper kiss.
Ryan’s free arm came around her shoulders to draw her closer. She breathed in his scent as tears stung the corners of her eyes, and she squeezed them tight, mortified that she might have to explain—again—a crying jag. It had just been so long since she’d snuggled up to something this big, this warm, this human.
“You smell better than Grimm,” she said against Ryan’s mouth.
He drew back a little. “What?”
She discovered her tears had dried up and she was on the verge of more giggles. How much wine did she have floating around in her system? “You smell good,” she said, nuzzling beneath his chin.
“You’re suddenly friendly,” he murmured as she pressed tiny kisses along the edge of his elegant jaw.
“I’m curious,” she corrected, drawing her lips over his chin.
“Me, too,” he whispered, then tilted his head to take another kiss.
Oh. Oh, God.
His tongue plunged into the cavern of her mouth. It was no longer a subtle exploration, but a sexual onslaught, masculine, deliberate, hot.
Delicious.
Poppy clutched at the hand that held hers and pressed close to his hard chest as her head fell back and he took what he wanted from her. This wasn’t a French kiss, this wasn’t anything cosmopolitan or civilized in the least. This was a Neanderthal kind of kiss, one that might involve caves and the pulling of hair and the ripping of fur robes—if only she had the guts to beg for such things.
Just as she ran out of air, he lifted his head and they both sucked in ragged breaths, staring at each other. Poppy’s head swam a little, from lack of oxygen or perhaps from a surplus of libido. She wondered about trying to work up some regret or concern about the kisses, but her heart was pounding too hard for clear thinking. A little muddy logic was good, she decided. It kept her mind off unpleasant things, such as why she was at Ryan’s cabin in the first place.
For that alone, she owed him. “Definitely better than Grimm,” she said.
Still holding her close, Ryan’s expression turned bemused. Then he glanced toward the snoozing dog. “I’m starting to worry, Poppy. Do you mean to tell me you let your dog kiss you? Am I going to catch something with you being the conduit between me and getting a sloppy from your pooch?”
Such a silly conversation, she thought. She didn’t get kisses from Grimm. But the silliness made it perfect for the giddy, dizzy mood Ryan’s thorough kisses had left her in. “Absolutely not,” she said, stroking the placket of his flannel shirt with her fingers. Poppy Walker, touching beautiful Ryan Harris’s flannel!
“You’re not going to make me believe a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s,” he said. “That’s an urban myth.”
“But you’re in the mountains now,” she pointed out, smiling a little as she teased him.
He shook his head. “God, you’re cute,” he said, then pressed a kiss to her nose. “But let’s be real. Out in the woods I’ve seen your dog sniffing some extremely suspicious substances.”
Thank goodness he appeared to want to avoid serious or second thoughts as much as she. Poppy wiggled on the cushions and found a comfortable place against Ryan’s side. His hand stroked idly over her hair, and the atmosphere turned almost companionable, though the smoke from those powerful kisses lingered like a haze in the air. She stretched her legs, displacing some puzzle pieces as she propped her heels on the coffee table. “The bacteria in a dog’s mouth is species-specific,” she informed him. “Which means you’re much less likely to catch something serious from a dog than another human.”
He glanced down at her, the amused light in his eyes making her heart jerk, once. “Where did you come across this bit of knowledge?”
It was the kind of thing the mother of a young son knew, especially the mother of a young son who adored his furry pet. But she didn’t want to tell Ryan about Mason. Her little boy and her status as a mother were secured in another compartment for the moment. Mason’s mommy didn’t cozy up to handsome men by crackling fires. Mason’s mommy didn’t want to share some more of those potent kisses.
But Poppy did.
Because she was tipsy, or tipsy on Ryan’s taste or maybe because she needed further diversion from recalling the damage the storm had wrought on her life. Her mind began to flash on the crack of sound as that heavy limb—
No.
She twisted toward Ryan, grabbed the front of his shirt in a fist and yanked his mouth down to hers. He lurched toward her, catching himself with one hand on the back of the couch before they bashed noses. Their lips met instead and she reveled in this next kiss: the sure thrust of his tongue, the heat of his body, the flame that set fire to her blood. Her fingers curled into his shirt just as she thought about taking off hers, because she was hot, so hot, and—
An icy trail of moisture hit the back of her head, ran down her neck.
Startled, Poppy jolted, then jerked her head upward, only to receive an eyeful of freezing water. “Wha—?”
More trickled into her mouth and both she and Ryan came off the couch in a rush. He shoved the furniture away from the narrow stream that now seeped steadily from the seam between an exposed beam and the ceiling plaster. She ran to the kitchen for a pot to catch the leak.
Another sprang before she returned.
Poppy’s mood plummeted as she watched Ryan bend to slide one of the glasses they’d been drinking from beneath the new drip. He looked disheveled and aggravated and absolutely gorgeous.
And completely the wrong man with whom to be satisfying her curiosity after five-plus years of celibacy.
“What is wrong with me?” she said aloud. Her dwelling was damaged, her vehicle was damaged and she’d been playing kissy face with some rich, great-looking stranger who from the beginning had put up her back. Yet she’d almost been on her back! “How did this happen?” she demanded.
Ryan spared her a glance and she could see he was as displeased by the situation as she. “It’s March,” he said with a grimace. “Fucking March.”
CHAPTER FIVE
FROM YOU SEND ME, a screenplay by Linus Hamilton:
FADE IN:
EXT. STREET—DAY
A luxury convertible pulls into a parking space in front of the log cabin-style post office in a tiny, isolated Southern California mountain town. Twenty-nine-year-old LINUS HAMILTON’s head turns from side to side, taking in the flanking businesses: a minuscule grocery and an even smaller real estate office. A summer breeze plays with LINUS’s wealth of dirty-blond hair.
A woman in shorts and hiking boots exits the post office, catching his attention. She shades her eyes with her hand, as LINUS, in slacks and T-shirt, steps from the vehicle.
WOMAN
Are you lost?
LINUS
Nope.
He grins, an easy smile that is boyish and charming.
LINUS
Just exploring the area. Do you happen to know how many post offices there are in these mountains?
Bemused, the woman shakes her head.
LINUS
Only slightly fewer than the number of rodent-size dogs you can spy on a stroll down Rodeo Drive. In other words, a lot. I’ve made it my goal to mail my brother a postcard from each and every one.
He ambles past the woman, who turns to watch him as he reaches for the door handle.
INT. POST OFFICE—DAY
Inside the narrow space, a short wooden counter is directly ahead. The left and right walls are covered with old-fashioned post office boxes, their glass faces painted with gold numbers edged in black that look Western in design. Behind the counter is twenty-four-year-old CHARLOTTE “CHARLIE” WALKER, her head with its pixie-cut of flaxen hair lowered as she organizes something on the shelf below. When the door opens, she looks up with a smile. It fades as LINUS crosses the threshold.
CHARLIE
Are you lost?
Staring at CHARLIE, LINUS’s hand creeps up to his chest. Then he shakes himself a little, pulls in a breath and beams out another trademark grin.
LINUS
I think I just found exactly what this summer’s been lacking.
* * *
THE COLD BROOK, California, post office provided counter service for its small community from 3:00 p.m. until 5:00 p.m. in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. Charlotte Walker passed a book of stamps over the scarred wooden surface and flashed a farewell smile for her friend Janelle, who clerked in the deli/grocery next door. It was Monday, which meant Charlie hoped to be seeing the other woman again a couple of evenings from now in Blue Arrow Lake. The two of them and some other girlfriends had a standing date in the bigger town twelve winding miles down the highway—weather permitting. A fierce March storm had been raging on and off but if it let up, then Charlie was going to have a relaxing couple of glasses of wine with her friends later this week.
A girl, even a born-and-bred mountain girl, had to get out and see a little more of the world sometimes.
Charlie took a peek at the wall clock. Fifteen more minutes then she’d slide and lock the metal grille that secured the counter area and back room. She expected one or two of Cold Brook’s eight hundred residents would rush through at 4:58 p.m. with the urgent need to get a package weighed or a letter sent off, so she occupied herself by tidying the carousel of postcards that sat next to her station. Hardly anyone ever gave them a glance, so it was a bit anal of her to double-check they were properly organized, but she was studying online for a degree in accounting and details mattered to Charlie.
The customary squeak of the front door came at 4:57 p.m. A bit early, she thought, glancing up to see Walt Eustace bustle through, a box of pamphlets in his arms. Brochure-mailing day, she guessed. It was the time of year when he sent out reminders to previous renters of Cold Brook properties in anticipation of the summer season. We wish you were here!
Walt’s big belly had yet to make it halfway to her when the door swung open again and twelve-year-old Erin Frye walked through, a letter clutched in her hand. She had a pen pal across the country, someone she’d linked up with through Scouting, and Erin enjoyed perusing the binder of stamp choices to pick just the right one to paste in the right-hand corner of the envelope intended for her buddy in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Charlie stifled a little sigh. Stamp-shopping could take the middle-schooler past closing time.
Oh, well. Given that Erin’s pen pal was a Boy Scout, Charlie got a little kick out of imagining an innocent romance was blooming in the mailbags that crossed the country. It spiced up the mundane routine of her days as the winter doldrums had yet to be replaced by spring fancies.
She was reaching for Walt’s carton of glossy leaflets when the door squeaked a third time, bringing with it another cool draft of moist air. The small hairs on Charlie’s exposed nape stood up, an instant before her gaze lifted to take in the newcomer.
Her palms went damp.
Charlie’s rite of passage had returned.
In haste, she refocused on the pamphlets and pasted on a smile for Walt. “Hey, you just made it in under the wire,” she said, raising her voice. “Don’t know that I’ll be able to take care of all the customers before closing time.”
Behind Walt, Erin let out a little bleat of distress. Feeling guilty, Charlie looked around Walt’s rotund form to meet the girl’s eyes. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “Your letter will go out today.”
The man still loitering by the entrance didn’t get any of her attention. Why, oh, why, was Linus here? She’d never expected to see him again; had made it clear that theirs had been a short-term summer romance. No way was she onboard with a replay.
Walt was his usual jovial self. She would have chatted him up longer, hoping that Linus might get bored and leave, but Erin was shuffling her feet and appearing anxious. So Charlie finished business with her current customer, then dragged out the fat binder of loose stamps as Erin stepped up to the counter. From the periphery of her vision, she saw Linus hold open the door and say “Good day” to Walt.
Why couldn’t he follow the other man out?
Her gaze returned to the plastic sleeves that displayed the available offerings. The young girl studied them with deep concentration. “Can I choose more than one—as many as I like as long as it adds up to first class postage?”
“No problem,” Charlie assured the girl. “I’ll hand-cancel them myself.”
Erin turned the page to inspect the next sleeve’s contents. Her fingernails were painted a glittery purple and she had a unicorn-embossed elastic bandage wound around one knuckle—both accessories seemed at odds with her almost-grown-up demeanor.
Had she been so serious at twelve? Charlie wondered. Maybe it took a love interest from far away to turn a girl solemn. Though Charlie’s out-of-towner hadn’t shown up for over a decade, the instant the tall, charming flatlander had strolled into her post office last August she’d recognized the momentous occasion.
Many young mountain women went through the ritual event of a summer fling with one of the area’s wealthy visitors. Opposite attraction was clearly a potent force. By the age of nineteen or twenty, females who grew up in the small, insular communities surrounded by peaks and pines had usually dated all the local guys they found attractive. Working as waitresses or shop clerks, in the high tourist season they often came in contact with So-Cal men who came from a higher social strata. Dates were made, fun was had.
Sometimes hearts were irrevocably lost.
But she’d been clear with him, with herself, that hers wouldn’t be one of them.
“These,” Erin said, stabbing at two different stamps. Her coins clacked on the countertop.
Aware of Linus leaning against a row of post office boxes six feet away, Charlie slowly completed the transaction. With Erin just turning from the counter, Charlie reached high and grabbed the grilled security screen. As Linus stepped up, she slammed it into place.
His head jerked back at the loud clang. Through the metal bars he peered at her. “Uh, Charlie?”
Last summer, he’d often called her “Sal,” in a tone of casual affection. Sure, the Peanuts characters Linus and Charlie Brown had been buds, he’d told her early on, but it was Charlie’s little sister, Sally, who’d carried a torch for her brother’s striped-shirted best friend. When she’d inquired where was his blanket and why wasn’t he sucking a thumb, Linus had grabbed her hand and—
“Charlie?”
His voice broke through her reverie. Stepping back, she crossed her arms over her crisp blue uniform shirt and tried quelling the sense of panic that was squeezing her lungs. “Sorry, we’re closed for the day.”
Linus frowned at her. The expression didn’t mar the absolute even perfection of his features. So, her imagination hadn’t exaggerated how great-looking he was in those dreams she’d had the past six months. They were what she’d had to rely on, because she’d made herself delete from her phone every picture she’d snapped of him during their brief interlude as a couple.
“I’m not here to buy stamps,” he said now, moving closer to curl his fingers over the metal rails separating them.
She stared at his hands, remembering them stroking flesh that was heated by mountain sun—and her body’s fiery reaction to that touch, this man. Just a fingertip tracing the vein in her throat could make her mad with desire. Her lungs squeezed again and she dropped her gaze to her black Oxfords. They were unsexy but comfortable, all that she’d felt about her life since Linus had gone back to L.A.
Missing him, wanting him once more by her side, hadn’t been an option since it was she who had laid out the rules of their short-lived affair. Coming from such different places, she’d known the magic between them couldn’t last.
Her head came up and she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Why are you here?” she asked, trying to keep her tone civil. “Why have you come back?”
He shrugged one shoulder in that elegant way of his. “You know my brother has the house at Blue Arrow Lake—”
“Why are you here, Linus?” She lifted her arms to indicate the post office.
“Let me tell you about that,” he began, leaning against the counter and beaming that sunny, seductive smile of his.
“I don’t have time for the tale,” Charlie responded, her voice firm. “I have to lock the front door, finish my duties.”
“Then dinner—”
“Absolutely not.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“I can’t do this twice, Linus. Go away.” She kept her gaze steady on his face. “Please go away.”
“Charlie—”
“I can’t do this to...” She couldn’t catch her breath.
Linus’s expression hardened and his brown eyes turned to polished stone. “To who?” he demanded.
To myself. But instead of revealing any inner turmoil, Charlie forced her chin to lift. “Goodbye, Linus.”
It wasn’t regret coursing through her, or anything close to it, she promised herself as Linus stomped out. The tears stinging the corners of her eyes were from mere relief.
Right?
* * *
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AFTER the first leak had sprung, the storm had at last subsided to a soft, intermittent drizzle and the pots and bowls set out to catch the dozen unexpected overflows needed emptying much less often. Ryan poured the contents of a coffee mug into a bucket and walked the half-full container into the kitchen.
The contents gurgled down the drain’s sink as Poppy entered the room. She held up her cell phone when he glanced over. “Good news,” she said.
Any minute I’ll go blind? Lose my sense of smell? Develop amnesia? Because twenty-four hours hadn’t been long enough for him to forget how she’d felt in his arms, hot and pliant and eager. And in twenty-four hours he hadn’t been able to escape her fresh face and her sweet, signature scent...or the way both tugged at his dick. It seemed as if he’d been hard for her since the moment he’d taken her hand and lied about his name.
Her brows came together and she took a step back.
God, he probably looked as if he was about to close in for a bite. Half-turning, he set the bucket on the counter. “Good news?” he prompted.
He heard her swallow. “My buddy Bob says he’ll be out here tomorrow to take care of the tree across the road. We should be able to leave for town by late afternoon.”
“One last night, then,” Ryan said, grateful that the torture had an end point. It had been hell, not knowing how long he was supposed to repress his urges. His fingers itched to sift through her silky hair as he held her still for his kiss. His palm clamored to cup the curve of her naked bottom. He wanted to be inside her, inside her wet, snug space, where he would move over and over and over, while she moaned and pleaded and clutched at him, begging for release.
The image was so real he felt the sting of her fingernails in his bare shoulders.
Jesus. Ryan cleared his throat, tried clearing the fantasy out of his head. “One last night. That’s good.”
“Yes.” Poppy’s mouth turned up. “Though the couch in your living room is likely more comfortable than anything my brother has to offer.”
He grimaced. She’d refused to take the bed, making do with a couple of blankets on the sofa. They’d both gotten up in the night to check on the leaks, and Poppy Walker in sweats and with a pillow crease on her rosy cheek was more turn-on than any porn star in her birthday suit. “You don’t have to stay there again tonight.”
“I can’t,” she answered quickly. “I can’t be in your bed.” A flush crawled up her cheeks. “I mean, not that you were suggesting we would share...”
They stared at each other and he saw her face take on that dazed look he figured might be on his if he looked in the mirror. It had never happened to him like this, an attraction so powerful that it made him stupid. Lust poured into his bloodstream and he curled his fingers into fists so he couldn’t reach for Poppy and bring her close.
She jumped, breaking their shared gaze. “I’m going to make cookies,” she said.
Ryan glanced at the plastic-wrapped plates already sitting on the counter. While he’d taken a shower that morning, Poppy had dashed back to her place—he wouldn’t have let her go if he’d known—and returned with a box of supplies from her kitchen: flour, sugar, various other baking ingredients.
When she’d said, “Do you like chocolate chip?” his admonitions about going into a compromised dwelling had died on his lips.
But the delectable butter, brown sugar and chocolate confections hadn’t eased his true hunger. He’d still been feeling a bit nauseous from overindulging when she’d flopped down on the opposite end of the couch in front of the fire. They’d tried the parallel-reading thing again.