Page 15 of Luke (West Bend Saints 3)

  else. But when he touches me, it's like electricity floods my body, sending shockwaves of arousal through me. When he touches me, I picture his hands caressing me, his mouth on mine.

  With one touch, one brush of his finger against my skin, I can feel him inside me.

  I want him inside me.

  The feeling is stronger than anything I’ve ever known.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, my voice wavering, drenched with arousal.

  “Good,” he whispers, leaning closer. “I’d hate to think you’d forgotten me so quickly.”

  As if I could forget. The memory of his touch is imprinted on my skin.

  “Wait, you think I’m the paranoid type?” I ask, deliberately changing the subject. The last thing I need is to be a puddle of goo, a bundle of need and want, right out here in the yard when my employees show up for work. The nanny should be here soon, and I know she already suspects something by the way I look at Luke. I can only imagine how the old ladies in the town would gossip about a scandal involving Luke Saint and I.

  Luke shrugs. “If the shoe fits,” he says. “I didn’t mean it as an insult, though. You should be paranoid when it comes to your kid. I respect you for it.”

  “Oh, you respect me?” I ask, laughing. “Somehow I get the impression that Luke Saint doesn’t respect anyone.”

  A strange look crosses his face, and I think for a second that I’ve hurt him again. “I might be flippant about a lot of things, but there are some things – some people – I do respect.” He looks at me meaningfully, and I swallow hard.

  Suddenly, I think that maybe I’ve been wrong about him, that I’ve written him off as a stereotypical younger guy – immature, thrill-seeking, whoring around – but that there’s more to Luke Saint than I’d thought.

  Then I catch where his gaze lingers. “Eyes up,” I say, rolling mine.

  Luke grins. “I can’t help it,” he says.

  Yep, totally underestimated his maturity.

  “And you were saying something about respecting me?” I ask, as we follow Olivia and Lucy toward the house.

  “I respect you. I also happen to want to throw you over my shoulder, carry you into your house, and rip those damn clothes of yours off.” I’m walking in front of him, but he grabs my hand and pulls me back against him, his mouth near my ear. “In fact, feeling you come on me is one of the only things I can think about.”

  I shake his hand off, trying to step away from him, but he holds me tighter. “People are going to be here any minute,” I protest. “Greta will get here in a second. Mary will be here to open the cidery.”

  “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about my mouth between your legs,” he whispers.

  A thrill rushes through me as the image of Luke in the hallway, kneeling at my feet, his tongue buried inside me flashes in my mind.

  Of course I’ve been thinking about it, I want to say. I’ve touched myself thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about it, to an unhealthy degree.

  But the sound of tires along the road makes me jump, and Luke lets go of me. “And that’s the nanny,” I say, walking toward the driveway, following Olivia as she meanders up to the wrap-around front porch, crawling up the stairs instead of walking, the way she always does.

  “I want to see you again,” Luke says.

  I laugh. “You’re seeing me right now.”

  “You know what I mean,” he says.

  “Sure, I know.”

  I know exactly what he means. It means sweaty limbs entwined together, the taste of Luke on my tongue…his cock inside me, bringing me to the brink, hands interlaced with mine, until I can’t hold out any longer.

  But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say what I expect, innuendo and promises of ecstasy.

  “A date,” he says.

  “Excuse me?” I ask. “Olivia, don’t pull on Lucy’s ears.” Olivia looks up at me, her hand paused, mid-stretch, near Lucy’s head, and Lucy licks her hand, then runs away.

  “You heard me,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say. “Isn’t dating not really your thing?”

  “It hasn’t been,” he says. “But I’ve changed my mind.”

  “I – don’t know what to say to that,” I say, my eyes on Greta as she gets out of the car. I wave, stepping away from Luke, consciously trying to put some distance between us.

  Both literally and figuratively.

  “Well, since your nanny is about to walk up here, you should probably say yes,” Luke says. “That way, I don’t have to do something dramatic, like get down on my knees and serenade you.”

  “That would be dramatic,” I say.

  “Well, shoot, if you want me to sing, I'll do it right here,” Luke says, starting to kneel. “I’ve been told I have a voice that sounds a lot like a cat in heat.”

  “Stop, stop.” I can’t help but laugh. “Before she sees you.”

  “So that’s a yes, then.”

  “Do you always blackmail women into going out with you?”

  Luke shrugs. “I’ve never asked a woman to go out with me.”

  “Oh.”

  “So it’s settled,” he says. “Tonight.”

  “I don’t have a babysitter or –“

  “I’m coming here,” he says, over his shoulder as he starts down the step. “I’ll cook. Not a crappy dinner, either. I'm going to impress the pants off you."

  He’s walking off, out toward the orchard, whistling to himself, before I can even protest. But I can't get the words out of my head – impress the pants off you.

  When Greta walks up, she smiles. “Luke is here early,” she says.

  I hold up my coffee. “Way too early.”

  I try to sound annoyed that Luke was on my front porch, but fail miserably. Greta gives me a sideways glance as she takes Olivia’s hand and leads her inside the house, and I do my best to hide the corny-as-hell growing smile on my face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Luke

  What the hell am I doing here, anyway?

  That’s the thought going through my head as I stand here on her front porch, about to knock on the door, a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach like I haven’t ever felt before. For a split second, I even consider turning around.

  The rational part of me says that’s exactly what I should do. The old Luke – the Luke from, shit, a couple weeks ago, would be itching to get out of here.

  Of course, the old Luke wouldn’t have stuck around in the first place. Hell, he would never have tried to get in Autumn’s pants to begin with.

  I broke my first cardinal rule. No moms.

  Then I went and broke the second rule. No sticking around after sex.

  Now, I’m standing here about to knock on the front door of her house, so I can break another rule. I’m going on a date with her? And, a million times worse, I’m coming to her house to cook dinner for her and her kid?

  I’m in way over my fucking head.

  She’s messing with my head, making me want to break all the rules I have. I don’t know what it is about her, but I should be running and I’m not. Instead, I’m here, armed with supplies like I’m Joe Regular, coming home from a normal nine-to-five to my house in the goddamned suburbs.

  I knock on the door, and she pulls it open, her cheeks flushed, hair falling in messy wet tendrils down her shoulders. She's dressed in a thin cotton bathrobe that’s worn so well that it's nearly sheer, knotted loosely at the side but falling open to reveal her cleavage. “Sorry,” she says, breathless. “I was working, and Greta left early, and Olivia – I think she’s teething and she’s been a hot mess the past couple of hours and I just barely got out of the shower.”

  “You look –“

  Autumn interrupts me. “Trust me, I know. I’m almost as much of a mess as Olivia,” she says, pointing to Olivia, who’s standing in the middle of the hallway, her eyes rimmed red. Lucy immediately bounds down the hall, and Olivia squeals with delight, her entire attitude suddenly chan

ging. “I’m sorr –“

  I don’t even bother to wait, because I can’t. I bring my mouth down on hers, silencing her excuses, until she pulls away, still breathless, but this time for a different reason. “You look perfect,” I say.

  Fuck, that’s some lame shit. I immediately want to slap myself. That’s cheesy as hell, like a line from a movie or something.

  Autumn just laughs, trying to step away from me. “You’re lying,” she says.

  Hell, now she thinks I’m just messing around with her. Except I’m not. It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing, makeup or not; I can’t get enough of her. I pull her against me, into my hardness, my lips close to her ear. “That says I’m not lying.”

  She giggles, pushing me back. “You obviously have low standards.”

  “I think it’s the other way around,” I say, walking down the hallway toward the kitchen, greeting Olivia on my way. Olivia and Lucy trail closely behind me, following the food source.

  “I’m starting to think kids really aren't all that much different from dogs. And I totally understand dogs."

  “Oh, you think?” Autumn is standing in the kitchen, her hand on her hip, fabric from the bathrobe falling loosely around her curves and God help me, all I can think of is how much I want to pull the tie that holds her robe together and let the entire thing come undone.

  God, how I want her to come undone.

  “Yep.” I set the bags on the counter and look over my shoulder at Olivia, who’s on her hands and knees mimicking Lucy’s posture with head on her hands and rear end in the air. “In fact, if you want to put on clothes – not that I think you should, mind you, since I much prefer you this way – I think Lucy has the whole babysitting thing covered.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I’m right upstairs, though, if you need anything. Don’t put any pans on the front burners, and just watch that nothing splatters if you turn the stovetop on, and…”

  I turn around, leaning against the counter, watching her tick off items on her fingers, mentally running through every possible catastrophe that might befall Olivia while she’s upstairs. “Got it. No deep frying on the stove when the baby is on the floor,” I say. “Or dangling hot pans in front of her.”

  Autumn sticks her tongue out at me. “I’m sure there are other dangerous things I’m forgetting.”

  “She’s allowed to use knives, right?”

  Autumn narrows her eyes at me. “I think that was sarcastic, but on the off chance that it’s not…”

  “That was incredibly sarcastic,” I say. “Everyone knows toddlers can only peel potatoes, not use chopping knives.”

  “Fine,” she says. “I’m leaving.”

  “I hope so.”

  I wait until she’s walking away to squat down in front of Olivia. “Are you thirsty?” I ask. “You drink out of a glass now, don’t you? I brought wine."

  “I heard that!” Autumn yells from the stairway.

  Fifteen minutes later, Lucy is gnawing on a treat. Olivia is lying on the floor nearby, playing with oversized Lego blocks I found in the living room. I’m trying to put the finishing touches on a tower when Autumn walks in. “Having fun?”

  “Actually, yeah,” I say, adding a makeshift turret to the top. I’m about to make a smartass comment about something, but I look up at her, and promptly lose all ability to speak. I just stand up, staring at her like an idiot. She’s wearing this simple black dress that’s anything but plain, her hair dry now and piled up on top of her head, little pieces spilling down the sides of her face, and no shoes. For some reason, the fact that she’s not wearing shoes, that she's barefoot with the little black dress, pushes the whole thing over the edge. It makes her look unfinished, undone, and it's a thousand times sexier than if she were all dressed up.

  I have the sudden, not entirely sinking, feeling that she’s going to be my undoing.

  “I haven’t worn anything other than jeans in longer than I care to remember,” she says.

  “It’s…yeah.” God, I’m an idiot. A complete and total idiot.

  Autumn flushes, pink on her cheeks the way she does when she’s self-conscious. Or when she’s...underneath me, her lips slightly parted. I shake off the image that immediately springs to mind. “Thanks,” she says, her voice uncertain.

  Crossing the room, I brush my lips against her cheek as I slide my hand around her waist. “You’re breathtaking,” I say. “Sorry, I lost my words there for a minute.”

  “You?” she asks, a hint of a smile on her lips. “At a loss for words?”

  Autumn plays with Olivia, and I cook for them – grilled chicken and linguini for Olivia, pork chops set aside for us, but only wine right now, until after Olivia eats and plays and has her bath and falls asleep. It’s seven-thirty when Autumn comes downstairs from Olivia’s bedroom. “You didn’t have to do all this,” she says.

  “Pork chops?” I ask, my back toward her while I sear them. “They’re really easy to do, you know. I could show you how.”

  “Oh?” she asks, leaning with her elbows back on the counter, beside me, her back arching up, pushing her breasts up higher in the air.

  My dick hardens just looking at her. “Not if you keep standing there looking like that,” I say. “I won’t be able to focus on teaching you anything.”

  “Well, not about food, anyway,” she says, smiling.

  “I’m not sure you need help in any other department,” I say.

  “It smells wonderful,” she says. She picks up a bottle of on the counter. “Are you cooking with my cider?”

  “I'm using it in a glaze,” I tell her.

  “That’s so cool,” she says. “I’ve thought about talking to one of the restaurants downtown about doing a seasonal menu with my ciders or something, like a tasting thing?”

  “You should,” I say. “I’m sure one of the restaurants could feature them really well.”

  When we sit down, she takes a mouthful of food and moans. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

  “Nowhere special,” I tell her. “It’s really relaxing.”

  “You should be a chef, you know,” she says.

  I laugh. “You’re the first person to tell me that.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second,” she says. “I’m sure you’ve been told that a thousand times.”

  I shrug. “I don’t really cook for anyone,” I say. “Guys I work with, sometimes. But they’re not exactly connoisseurs. And it's never anything fancy. Venison chili, that kind of thing.”

  “When do you have to go back to the smoke jumping?”

  I give a nonchalant shrug. “It’s on and off, you know?” I ask. “I take contracts, work when I can find it, or when I want to.”

  “You don’t ever stay in the same place.”

  “Not…ever,” I say.

  Shit. Not yet, is what I almost say. What I nearly say, but not quite.

  I never really wanted to before.

  It’s the thought that pops into my head, except I don’t say it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Autumn

  “You brought cheesecake?” I watch, dumbfounded, as he carries a plate to the living room. “You know you’re already getting laid tonight, right?”