Dax

Tuesday Evening

Of all the useful skills my dad taught me, he never shared how to clean a fish.

When my fishing efforts earned me three decent-sized bass this morning, I realized I’d have to consult the Google machine, or watch YouTube videos to learn.

It’s not as easy as the guys on the screen make it look. Even with the sharp-as-shit boning knife I purchased. But I prevail. I don’t save as much fish meat, since I’m not yet as deft with the knife as I’d like. I also earned a shallow slice in my left forefinger that bled like a bitch, but I quelled it enough that I didn’t have to resort to an emasculating Band-Aid.

Let it never be said I shy from challenge.

“Except where Becca’s concerned,” I mutter aloud as I bag the fish and toss it into the fridge. After all that work, who the hell has the energy to cook it?

So yeah, Becca. I could’ve taken her up on having dinner with her. I didn’t, and not for the reason I told her. Yes, I’d planned on going to the cabin, but her invitation seemed to come from a sense of obligation on her part. I’m not sure she was sure she wanted to ask me out.

She’s not obligated to hang around with me because we shared a few nights. Anyway, if things were ending, last night was as good a stopping place as any. Or so I keep telling myself in between kicking my own ass for not saying yes. She looked a touch hurt before she pasted on a smile and bade me farewell.

I pull a beer from the fridge and take a sip. God, that tastes good. Instead of fish, I’ll have beer and potato chips for dinner. Not like I haven’t done it before.

I clean up my mess, pulling the trash bag and walking it outside. The cans are locked in an enclosure to keep the bears out, so I take the key from the hook by the back door. Once the trash is secured, I start up the back steps as headlights slice across the drive.

It’s a Toyota. A white one.

The lights shut off and Becca steps from her car, reusable grocery tote on her shoulder. She starts for the front door, totally missing that I’m at the corner of the porch when she puts a foot on the first step.

“This is a surprise.”

She shrieks when I speak, clutching her chest, and then bursts into surprised laughter. It’s contagious. I let out a chuckle I didn’t expect. She slumps, her form grainy in the darkness since I didn’t bother with the porch light. Too many moths gather, so I left it off.

“You scared the life out of me,” she says, but she’s still smiling. I’ve missed her smile, and it’s only been one day since I saw it.

“Don’t know about that. You look lively to me.”

Dressed in a pair of heeled sandals, a dark pair of dressy pants, and a slim tank top baring her golden shoulders, she looks more than lively. She looks amazing. Her hair is its normal choppy, stylish mess, but she’s pinned up one side, showing off one cute ear.

“I won’t bite.” She gestures at the distance between us, since I stopped short of approaching her on the porch.

“Not why I’m keeping my distance, Princess.”

Her smile falls like she’s been expecting a rejection since she arrived. “Oh.”

“No, not oh,” I tell her. “I’ve been fishing since ten this morning. Gutting fish for the last hour. I need a shower, and I need one bad.”

She licks her lips, not quite smiling, but she doesn’t look dejected anymore. I gesture to the bag on her shoulder.

“If that’s the makings of dinner, you have my undying loyalty.”

“Well . . .” Despite her hesitation, her entire face brightens. “If you’re okay with breakfast for dinner.”

Against my will, my stomach releases a loud grumble.

“I will take that as one vote yes.” She surveys my body, then her gaze ventures to my face again. “What say you, Dax Vaughn? May I come in and make you breakfast for dinner?”

Fuck yeah, she can.

“Yeah, Princess.” I gesture to the front door. “It’s open.”

She lets herself in and I follow behind her.

“Like what you’ve done with the place,” she comments as she sets the bag on the counter. “The fishy smell is new.”

“Sorry about that. I probably don’t smell much better.”

“Go get your shower.” She waves me off. “I know where the cleaning supplies are and I’ll give the countertops a fresh wipe-down and get started on your meal.”

This place is smaller than the last, thank God. One big master bedroom. One bathroom. Kitchen. Living room. Wraparound porch with a deck. No game room or hot tub. Though it does have a fireplace, which is useless in this sticky spring weather.

Glad to have her here, I duck down the hallway and leave her to it.

Becca

Dax emerges from the hallway, hair damp and spiky, wearing a familiar pair of frayed-at-the-bottom jeans. His T-shirt is black, making his eyes appear an even darker shade of blue.

“I thought I was hungry before. Now I’m starving.” He puts a hand over his stomach and another rumble comes from the depths. “It smells incredible in here.”

“What was your plan tonight, before I gifted you with my culinary genius?” I ask as I slide another fluffy flapjack onto a plate.

“Beer and chips.”

“Healthy.”

“Not sure you’re winning a health award with pancakes for dinner, Princess. Are those chocolate chips?” He rounds the counter and my entire body goes on alert when he stands next to me. He places a kiss on my temple and a buzz of pleasure slides down my spine.

“Yes, they are,” I say as he pours himself a glass of milk. “But I skipped the espresso powder since it’s evening. Wouldn’t want to keep you awake.”

We share a lingering glance and I wonder if his mind went where mine did—the other ways we’d like to keep each other awake.

I pull the bacon from the oven and slide four slices onto a plate with a stack of pancakes and hand it over.

“What about you?” he asks. Sweetly.

“Just finishing mine up.” I gesture at the table, where I put out real maple syrup and foil-wrapped pats of butter I swiped from the restaurant. “Start without me. I’ll be there in a few.”

Dax is half done with his meal when I sit across from him and I dig in to my own plate of sweet, syrupy pancakes and crisp, smoky bacon. He finishes in record time, sits back in his chair, and pulls a hand over his flat stomach.

“You know how to make a guy miss you,” he says.

He missed me. Man. That honesty again. That bold, naked way he has about him. I missed him, but no way can I admit it.

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

He doesn’t accept my lame platitude.

“I’m not only talking about the food.”

I sip my own glass of milk, unsure how to respond. Luckily, I don’t need to, since Dax is willing to steer the topic to safer shores.

“You’re working late tonight.”

“Yeah, we had all these bookings come in. And here I thought we were about to go out of business after the storm. Our two other parties left, and you were the last man standing. I thought for a second I’d have to make my other part-time job my new full-time job.”

“What do you do when you’re not running Grand Lark?”

“You mean when my brother’s not watching me like a hawk while I try and run Grand Lark?” I joke, then answer, “I teach a Zumba class in town sometimes.”

“What the hell’s that?”

I can’t help giggling at how confused he looks. “You never dated a woman who took a Zumba class?”

“Not that I recall.”

“It’s cardio with a lot of dance movements. High octane, an hour long. You sweat your ass off.”

“My dancer,” he says with a note of possession—one I don’t mind even a little.

“That knowledge helped. The movements came more naturally than if I hadn’t had any experience. I took a Zumba class about five years ago and was hooked instantly. I liked the movement, the fluidity, the community. The dance-club feel of it. Then I mistook that passion for actual dancing and moved to New York City to dance with the best dancers in the world.”

Mistake. They were leaps and bounds above my skill level. I tried to keep up but eventually accepted I’d never be good enough to be great.

I push my plate aside, pleasantly full of pancakes. Dax’s eyes go to my half-eaten stack. “Want the rest of mine?”

“More than my next breath.” He takes my plate and polishes off my pancakes in three big bites. I stand and reach for the dishes, but he stops me with a palm on my arm. He clears the table himself as I settle back into the chair. “How long were you in New York?”

“About six months. It wasn’t for me, so I moved again.”

“You move a lot?” he asks over the running water as he rinses and washes our plates.

“I used to. I’m trying to be super careful about where I go next. I don’t know. I guess I never put down roots except when I lived at home.”

Dax shuts off the water and leans on the counter, arms braced. I’m facing him, my arms resting on the back of the kitchen chair.

“What about you?” I ask. “Have you always lived in Ohio?”

“Never saw a reason to go anywhere else.”

“What’d you do before you owned a bar?”

“Drank in a lot of them.” He smiles. “More milk?”

“No. I’m good.”

“Yeah, me too.” He comes to me and extends a hand. I slip my palm into his, loving that he takes my hand and the warmth radiating from his palm to mine.

He leads us to a fat leather sofa in the living room and we sit.

“I played football,” he says.

“College?” I guess. I can picture it. All his bulk strapped down in pads, a pair of tight pants, black smudges under his eyes. Purr.

“The Ohio State University.”

“Emphasis on the ‘The’?” I ask.

“There’s only one. Friend of mine went pro but blew out his shoulder. He’s sacked out on my couch right now. Hence my being here on your mountain.”

“I should thank him,” I say, following Dax’s lead to be honest and blurt what I’m thinking.

“Maybe we both should.”

Another silence sizzling with shared attraction hums in the air before Dax shatters it to ask the obvious.

“Why’d you come here tonight, Becca?”

“I meant to come this morning and make you actual breakfast, but I was swamped all day and couldn’t get away.”

“Not what I meant.”

I sigh. “I know.”

“I thought we were done. Thought the sun came out and dried up all the rain and took you with it.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” My whisper is almost loud in the quietness. I’m used to talking to Dax over pounding rain. Or maybe confessed truths always sound loud to your own ears.

Before I mean it to, “Did you really miss me?” comes out of my mouth.

What a needy question! I retract it with a quick “I’m sorry. Ignore me.”

Dax doesn’t ignore me. He levels me with that silvery stare of his and repeats, “Why are you really here?”

“Truth?”

“That seems the way to go.”

I swallow around a lump in my throat. Rather than answer, I tentatively lean forward from my couch cushion and touch my lips to his. He doesn’t come closer, but he doesn’t stop me, either. I continue moving my mouth on his, touching his bottom lip with my tongue. He doesn’t take over or pick up the pace, which tells me he’s only being polite.

Or so I think.

I accept his rejection and have started to pull back when one of his hands curls around my nape, his fingers spiking into my hair. He tugs me against his insistent mouth and kisses me hard, his tongue sparring with mine.

I don’t hold back.

I tangle my tongue with his, climbing to my knees in front of him. He lifts one of my legs and encourages me to straddle him. I settle onto his lap, the thick ridge of his growing erection nestled against one of my thighs.

I manage to tear my mouth from his to catch my breath—a much-needed inhale. From where I sit, Dax’s chin is lifted and I’m over him looking down.

“This why you’re here, Princess?”

Yes. It is. I didn’t come here to feed him as much as I came here to devour him. I can’t resist him. I don’t want to be away from him. Since I’m a terrible liar, I answer with a jerky nod.

“Can I interest you in dessert?” I ask.

A laugh tumbles from his chest, further dampening my panties. What he does to me . . . It’s unfathomable.

“You’re a helluva lot sweeter than those pancakes, babe.”

I kiss his lips briefly, then veer to sample his neck, inhaling his scent.

“Mm, you taste good.” Clean, and he smells like that blue soap guys always use.

He sucks in a sharp breath as I continue placing open-mouthed kisses on his throat. He likes this.

“I have an idea,” I whisper into his ear. I fist the hem of his T-shirt and shove it up, revealing his wide, golden chest. I kiss my way over his pecs, along his ribs, and to his belly button, until I’m on my knees on the floor.

“Like your idea already.” He’s leaning back but coiled—fists balled, nostrils flared. Even his voice is strained. The ridge I felt when I rode his jeans is larger from this vantage point. I look Dax right in the eyes and lick my lips. His hips buck.

Oh, yeah. I’m going to enjoy this.

“Princess.” It’s nothing short of a growl.

“Yes, my liege?” I bat my eyelashes as I unloop his thick leather belt and carefully slide his zipper aside to reveal several inches of happiness pointing straight up. “No briefs tonight?”

“Not tonight,” he manages. Barely.

“Tell you what, Dax.” I reach for a pillow and wedge it under my knees, arms resting comfortably over his big thighs. “The only words you’re need to say from here on out are ‘more,’ ‘don’t stop,’ and your choice of favorite swear word.”

“Fuck,” comes his rumbled response.

“Sounds like you’re ready.” Without any further teasing, I lick the head of his cock and take him inch by inch into my mouth until my lips hit the root.

Then the fun begins.