Screwdrivered

  “Um, you mean Black Swan?”

  “Yeah, that one. Natasha Portland. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  I am pretty sure no one had ever told me I looked liked Natasha Portland before.

  I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want him speaking anymore. I used my feet to push against him, rocking his manliness against my secret flower, feeling this beautiful man. He got the message; a gleeful look coming over his face as he felt me, wanting and needy below his giant man hands.

  His left hand rose to my cheek, sweeping my hair off my face. Burying his hand in my hair, he grasped me firmly by the nape of the neck, angling me to deliver the First Kiss.

  He leaned in, the scent of sweat and sun and . . . hay . . . filling my nostrils.

  I’d thought my tummy would be fluttering in “please hurry up and pound me silly” excitement. But I guess when something this epic happens, your body shuts down a bit, probably getting ready to redirect energy to the sexy parts.

  Yeah, that must be why I’m not feeling anything here . . .

  He licked his lips.

  Here it comes!

  I licked mine.

  The romance of the century, ladies and gentlemen!

  And then he kissed me.

  Correction.

  Cowboy. Ate. My fucking face.

  His mouth opened wide enough to swallow me whole. His tongue slapped and slobbered. His lips, wet and mushy. His breath? Stale beer and horror show.

  My eyes? Wiiiiiiide open. Like my legs, which quickly began to shut.

  Pressing against his chest, so sweat-slicked that I couldn’t gain traction, I finally pulled his mouth from my neck, where it had begun to suck.

  His eyes were filled with lust, and now confusion. “Where’d you go, baby?” he asked, licking my cheek. Like a motherfucking cat. Shudder.

  “Slow your roll there, cowboy,” I said, climbing down and tugging my T-shirt over my bottom.

  “What the fuck, dude?”

  “Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.”

  I sighed, feeling the weight of everything I had pinned on this crashing down on me. What a fucking idiot I was.

  “Cocksucker,” I swore.

  “Sounds good to me,” Hank said.

  I stared him down. Rising to my full height of five feet, two inches, I asked, “Why now? I’ve been throwing myself at you for weeks.” Shit, the things I’d done to get this guy to notice me.

  He ran his hands down his chest, then adjusted his dick. “Your tits look great in that shirt. I figured, eh. What the hell.”

  And there it was.

  Hank was not a pirate, not a rogue prince, not even a cowboy. He was not the hero, nor was he the villain.

  There were no layers to peel here. He was just a phenomenally good-looking guy who would always be attractive, even when he got a bit of a gut and that gorgeous hair started to thin. And there was nothing in the world wrong with being a hot, dumb guy. He just wasn’t ever going to get to see how fantastic my tits really were.

  So he should stick to his big, dumb, blond girls. Tiny tattooed brunettes were too much for him.

  I left him confused and alone in the barn, and headed back toward the house. The dark clouds had gathered, and my mood now mirrored the weather. As I crossed the yard the wind blew my shirt up over my torso, and I didn’t even care. I made it to the back porch just as the first fat drops of rain started falling.

  I climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier and heavier. Was it possible to have sad feet? They felt sloppy and slow, drudgy and draggy. I let the door bang shut behind me and went to the kitchen sink to rinse the spittle from my face. And neck. How had I played this so very wrong?

  I heard the first sprinkle of raindrops on the roof, and by the time I made it into the living room, the windows were a sheet of rain. I flipped on the light but the bulb just buzzed and flickered out.

  I focused on the fireplace, on the wonderful heat emanating from the blaze, my toes curling toward the flames. They were temporarily happy, but the rest of my whole body was sad.

  It was so fired up for this manic coupling to go down, in perfect symmetry with the landscape, that now I internalized the rain, the damp, the chill. I looked left and saw the turntable I’d brought down from the attic. I looked right and saw Mathis, waiting for me. Why not embrace my inner sad sack: put on some old music, pour myself a Scotch, and let myself go full-on crash. But just one Scotch—no repeat of last night.

  Shit, if I wanted to go full-on crash I could really think about last night. Was I ready for that?

  I shuffled to the records and made my selection. The grand passionate romance that had bloomed in my imagination for months was imaginary. I was three thousand miles away from my family, who loved and cared for me whatever I did and whatever mistakes I’d made. And here I was, perched on the edge of a cliff in the rain. Alone. And all the adrenaline that had built up, making ready to celebrate with the cowboy, had crashed into bone-crushing loneliness. What had Clark said? Everyone gets lonely sometimes?

  I winced. Shit, I wasn’t ready to think about Clark yet.

  I slid the vinyl from its sleeve, set it on the turntable, and dropped the needle.

  As soon as I heard the first notes of the piano, I realized that Aunt Maude was right. You kept Johnny Mathis close by at all times. I walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured a highball rather high, and went to stand before the fire. Humming the familiar tune of “Chances Are,” I clutched my Scotch to my chest and laid my head on the mantel, feeling the cool marble kiss my skin.

  I was pathetic.

  I was pitiful.

  I was . . .

  Footsteps

  . . . no longer alone?

  The footsteps behind me were slow and strong on the wooden floor. But I wasn’t scared, because I knew exactly who it was.

  The librarian.

  chapter sixteen

  I took a deep breath and slowly turned. And I mean slowly. Because as I turned, something happened. Something magical and intense, and not at all what I was expecting.

  The lighting that seconds ago was dreary became enchanting. The chill in the air went from damp to bracing. The firelight turned to dancing flames of gold and bronze, painting sensual shadows across the walls. The music was no longer sad, it was timeless, full and swelling as it spoke of love and tenderness. And the rain was cozy and romantic, a perfect backdrop for the breathtaking image before me.

  Clark. Brown chinos. White button-down. Tweed jacket. Elbow patches. Dusty glasses.

  He was beautiful.

  I was floored.

  It doesn’t always have to be so hard. Sometimes falling in love just means turning around and seeing what’s right in front of you.

  My breath left my body in a great whoosh as my eyes opened wide and took in what was now, and had been the entire time, standing right in front of me. My heart skipped a beat, then raced to catch up with the rest of my body, which was suddenly reaching out for this man, this man alone.

  I’d been in a romance novel this entire time, but I had the wrong book. This was my book. This was my story. This was my man. Who wants a Superman when you can have a Clark?

  And I wanted a Clark.

  I wanted this Clark. It’s amazing how much you can learn by just turning around.

  “I came by because of the rain. I wanted to make sure the tarp had stayed down in these high winds. I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear me with the music on,” he started, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.

  And in that moment, that exact moment, I fell 100 percent completely and totally in love with Clark Barrow.

  Cue tummy fluttering.

  He wasn’t meeting my eyes, though, and I needed him to see me. My body was vibrating with the need to tell him . . . something. Anything.

  “Th
ank you,” I managed, and the way my voice shook caused him to finally look up. “For checking on me.”

  We stood across from each other, the tension in the air palpable.

  He took me in, his gaze traveling over my body, frowning slightly. Then his eyes narrowed.

  “What in the world are you wearing, Vivian?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

  I looked down, pigeon-toed in my tube socks and white T-shirt. “Jammies,” I answered primly.

  He let out a groan.

  I’d heard that groan before. Nighttime Clark.

  Emboldened, I shifted my weight to one hip. The effect on him was instant.

  “Are you aware that, standing in front of the fire like you are, I can see everything you’re wearing underneath?” His eyes flashed back up to mine. “Or what you’re not wearing?”

  I blushed, my hand fluttering to my collarbone, remembering that I was without a bra. I cocked my head to the side and looked at him from underneath my lashes. “I’m aware. I am so aware.”

  He took a step toward me, hesitating. So I took a step, without pause. Then another, and then one more.

  Standing in front of him, I reached up almost on tiptoe because he was so very tall, and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Clark,” I whispered, and he closed his eyes. But not before the sweetest smile I’d ever seen crossed his face.

  “Vivian,” he breathed, leaning into my touch. His hands slowly came up to my face. His eyes still closed, his strong hands approached my skin, every nerve in my body reaching out to wherever his touch would land first. His hands were so big they touched everything at once. Cradling my face, he closed the distance, breathing me in. And he looked down at me with the deepest and warmest dark chocolate eyes I’d ever seen, swirling with molten caramel and flashes of firelight.

  Now he would carry me up to my bed, lay me down across the quilt, take me into his arms, and make love to me on a cloud of angel songs.

  But then his expression changed. He looked slightly confused; one hand moved into my hair, pushing through the curls toward the back of my head, and bringing forth . . . a piece of hay.

  He looked at it curiously, and then his gaze was drawn suddenly to the picture window behind me. And I heard the rumbling of Hank’s truck roaring out of the driveway.

  I saw Clark put the pieces together and come up with a roll in the hay. And the fury and agony in his face brought tears to my eyes.

  He backed away from me, his face shuttered and his body absolutely rigid. “So stupid,” he muttered, and the look on his face crushed me.

  “No, Clark—it’s not what you think. Nothing—”

  “Save it, Viv. I don’t need this one spelled out for me,” he spat.

  I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth at the sound of my name. “No,” I whispered, horrified.

  “You’ve got that right.” He spun so quickly I barely saw him go. I heard his angry, hollow footsteps as he hurried through the house and out the back door.

  I crumpled onto the antique rug. All I could feel was emptiness, a hollow at the pit of my stomach that I’d hurt Clark so deeply. It didn’t matter that nothing happened with Hank. That he thought it had, that my actions could cause such pain to such a dear, sweet, wonderful man, was sickening.

  Tears ran down my face, which his beautiful hands had just held.

  The hands that I was lucky to have felt. The hands that any woman would be proud to hold, to feel, to writhe beneath, and to clasp tightly. And I wanted those hands.

  What would a heroine do in this situation? Cry and wail and scream?

  Maybe. But not crumpled into a ball on the floor. She’d do it while going toe-to-toe with her hero, making him hear, and making him see.

  Fighting for her man.

  I was on my feet in a flash, flying through the house, grabbing blindly for the back door and stumbling out into the rain. I made it down three steps before I saw him.

  Standing by his car. Not getting in. Just standing.

  In the rain, the thunder and the lightning, the tumult and the wind. Up to his loafers in the mud. Not getting in.

  Holding his keys in a tightly clenched fist. One hand on the top of the car. Letting the rain pour down on him. Soaked. Angry. Not getting in.

  “Clark!” I yelled. He turned. I ran across the yard. Soaked. Angry.

  “Go back inside,” he warned, his voice raised over the raucous rain.

  “No,” I said, and his fist shot out to pound on the roof of his car. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”

  “Go. Back. Inside,” he said again, taking one step forward. He tore his glasses from his face, shoving them into his jacket pocket. His eyes were dangerous. His hair was plastered against his face, his tweed and his white button-down rain soaked. Absolutely magnificent.

  I took a step forward myself. “Make me.”

  I could see the anger boiling off his skin. We both stepped forward at the same time. He opened his mouth, and my hand shot out to cover it before he could tell me to go back inside again.

  I knew I only had seconds before he shut me down once more and actually left. So I took a deep breath, and spoke from my heart.

  “I fucking love you, you goddamned librarian.”

  His eyes narrowed, so I went on.

  “And it’s not just because you’re incredibly sweet and kind, or incredibly gorgeous and stunning, or incredibly smart and well read, or incredibly sexy and hot as all fuck, or incredibly impatient and smart-alecky, or incredibly strong and tan, or incredibly thoughtful and chivalrous, or have an incredibly substantial penis. Which I’m banking on, because I’ve seen you in running shorts, and holy shit, Clark.”

  His eyes widened, so I went on.

  “I love you because you are all those things, but most important, because you’re Clark. You’re him—the one I’ve been dreaming about and lusting after, and wishing and waiting for. So you can leave here tonight if you want to, but I’ll be outside your house tomorrow morning with scones, Clark—and I will be there every morning until you see me again. Until I can be your Vivian once more,” I said, my hand still over his mouth.

  “Or you can stay here, tonight and every night, and let me love you.” I leaned in. “And for the record, I am so turned on by your elbow patches, I’m coming out of my skin over here.”

  His eyes darkened. Deepened. Still dangerous, but no longer cold.

  Then I felt his lips open against my palm, soft and warm, and kiss my skin.

  And then I felt his hand close over mine, sliding down my arm to wrap it around his neck, and he wrapped the other one tightly behind my back, clutching me close to him.

  And then he told me, “I won’t take less than every night.”

  He crushed me to him as he ran with me across the yard, up the steps, and into the house. And then I was pinned against the wall by one very wet, very intense, very hard librarian.

  He caged me in, hands on either side of my head, my back arching to keep contact with him as he looked down at me. “Am I to understand from your confession out there that you’ve been dreaming about me?” he asked, his wet hair tickling me as he ran his nose down my neck, pausing at the hollow at the base.

  He pressed a wet lingering kiss there, nuzzling at my skin. I moaned, the feeling of him divine, and he chuckled. “That wasn’t quite the answer I was looking for.” He nuzzled at me again, now drifting just below my ear, nibbling at the sensitive spot. “Were you dreaming of this?”

  “Yes,” I managed, twisting to keep his mouth on me.

  “And this?” he asked, thrusting himself against me, letting me feel all of him. Exactly where I needed him.

  “Yes. God, yes,” I groaned.

  And then my librarian kissed me. Those sweet lips met mine, crashing in and invading my brain with his lips and his tongue. I pa
rted mine instantly, groaning at the feel of his mouth on mine. We kissed crazily, exploring and teasing, swirling and moaning as he expertly licked at my lips, sweet and perfectly matched.

  Meeting my eyes once more, he lifted one corner of his mouth. “Mmm, Vivian.”

  I sighed at the sound of my name, lifting my shoulders in delight. Which tightened the wet white T-shirt across my chest. You could see everything, and I grinned sheepishly at Clark, a whaddyagonnadoaboutit look on my face. He grinned too, but his was infinitely sexier.

  “This is the most ridiculous outfit I’ve ever seen, Vivian,” he said, in the most proper voice I’d heard all night.

  I followed his glance. My socks had fallen down around my ankles, covered in mud. The wet T-shirt was stretched to the point of ridiculous, falling off my shoulder.

  “Take it off,” he commanded, and I jerked my head up at the change in tone. His eyes burned into mine. I raised an eyebrow. He inclined his head slightly. “Now.”

  Nighttime Clark had arrived. Aw yeah!

  Shivering with need, I lifted it over my head, my eyes on his. When I’d pulled it clear, his eyes roamed. I leaned down, peeling off the socks, then stood as slowly as I could manage. His jaw was clenched, tight and tense, as lust took over his expression.

  “You too,” I chided, hands on my hips, unabashedly thrusting my breasts toward him.

  Not taking his eyes from mine, my librarian began to undress. Tweed, gone. Loafers, kicked off. I couldn’t wait for the button-down to come off, so I unbuttoned him myself. Then I untucked it from his chinos, those perfect tan chinos, and leaned in to pull the shirt from where it was tucked in behind his back. In so doing, I brushed my naked breasts against his chest, skin to skin, and we both groaned. Now scrambling frantically to remove his shirt, I tossed it to the side as his long fingers unbuckled his belt and unzipped the chinos. Down they went, and I got a wonderful surprise.

  Clark didn’t wear anything underneath those chinos. And I had guessed right. Substantial.

  “Holy mackerel, Clark.” I gasped, staring at the work of art on display in front of me. He chuckled, but let me stare. And I did.

  Long and lean, his body was even more amazing than I remembered from the day I saw him running—because now? I had the full effect. Broad shoulders, strong chest, lightest dusting of dark hair tapering into a trail that led down to Substantial Town. I wanted to drop to my knees right there and visit it immediately, but Clark had other things on his mind.