“You coming?” she asks, staring back at me like I’ve lost my marbles. “There’s nothing in here but ash, I promise.” She crosses a finger over her heart. “I wouldn’t trick you like that.”
“Fine,” I say, lifting the neck of my T-shirt to cover my nose and mouth. “Let’s make it quick.” I follow her inside the dimly lit building, noting the walls covered in black soot stains.
“That’s the furnace.” Whitney points, drawing my attention to a huge metal contraption. “It’s where the magic happens,” she says with a smile. She crosses the room, to a steel table. “And this here,” she adds, nodding toward what looks like some sort of kitchen appliance, “is the grinder.”
A visual of Jeffrey Dahmer turning human body parts into ground meat and sausages comes to mind and I blanch. “I’m afraid to ask…”
“Whatever doesn’t burn, mostly bones, gets ground into a fine powder and mixed with the ashes.”
“That’s only slightly less creepy than what I was imagining.”
“I don’t find it the least bit unnerving.” She looks around the space fondly, like it’s just another room in her house, and I guess as far as she’s concerned, it is. “Death is an inevitable part of life…a ritual…a rite of passage.”
“I couldn’t do it.”
“Well,” she says, “I can’t bring myself to deal with them before they’re embalmed, mostly because the blood and other bodily fluids gross me out.”
“That’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” I say, reading her expression. “And while I appreciate your intent, can we just get this over with, without the grand tour?”
A devilish grin curves her rosy lips, and there’s trouble written all over that pretty face of hers when she reaches into the bag dangling from her shoulder and slaps a rubber penis into my palm.
I jump back like it’s a snake about to attack, holding it out as far from my person as possible. “This some kind of sick joke?”
“Deathly serious,” she offers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite so pleased with herself. “That’s no run of the mill willy you have there.”
“No?”
“You, my friend, are holding an exact replica of William’s penis. His widow special-ordered it and would like it filled with some of his essence.”
Just when I think a day in the life of working in a funeral home can’t possibly get any weirder.
“Don’t worry, she assures me that it hasn’t been used…yet.”
“Thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.”
“Really?” she asks, widening those baby blues.
“I haven’t moved past the fact that I have a dead guy’s dick in my hand…and that it feels eerily real.” I shudder.
She moves to the covered box on the table, smothering a laugh. “I just need you to hold it a moment longer while I get these ashes inside.”
“I think this calls for a bit more than two dates.” I close the space between us, advancing until she’s backed against the table, her palms resting on the surface.
She tilts her face up toward mine. Mischief dances in her eyes. “What’d you have in mind?”
“A kiss.”
She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, giving my proposition obvious thought before bobbing her head. “One kiss…when you walk me to the door after our next date.” She ticks off her conditions on her fingers, adding one more before I have the chance to counter. “No tongue.”
“One kiss,” I agree, wrapping my free hand around her slender waist and pulling her close. “No service till payment is rendered.”
“What?” She glances around the cramped space, her chest beginning to rise and fall rapidly with the acceleration of her breaths. “Here?”
I nod, bending forward to breathe in her scent, letting jasmine and vanilla drown out the stench of the room. I trail my nose along her collar bone and up the bend of her neck. “Right here,” I whisper against her ear. “Right now.”
Her gulp echoes in the stillness.
“With tongue,” I add.
Her trembling hands flatten against my chest, her little finger stroking absentmindedly over my nipple, driving me positively mad with desire. “O—only a little.”
“A lot,” I counter, taking hold of her chin and smashing my mouth to hers with a feral groan. Without a second’s hesitation, her hands are fisted in my hair. The only fight is for control as our tongues war with each other, desperately seeking to fill the ache we spend every moment in one another’s presence denying.
“Wyatt,” she mumbles against my lips.
“So good,” I say, reaching around to cup her ass before spitting a laugh right in her face when I’m cock-blocked…in the most literal sense.
She backs away, wiping at her face, offended and still panting from our kiss. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Sorry,” I say, hardly able to catch my breath. “I can’t.”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “Can’t what? Kiss me? It was your idea.”
I hold the massive penis out in the space between us. “I can’t kiss you with another man’s dick in my hand.”
It’s been three days…
For three whole days, I’ve been able to do little else but ruminate over that kiss. When I close my eyes, I feel warmth of his tongue flicking against the roof of my mouth, and the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. I can still taste the coffee on his lips. And the smell of his cologne is seared so deeply into my subconscious that it scents my every inhale with sandalwood and man.
Desire heats my blood whenever I recall the way he dominated the situation, commanding complete control. And my God, did it feel good to shut my mind off for those brief seconds and relinquish it—to react on instinct—to exist wholly in that moment…a luxury I’m realizing I seldom allow myself anymore.
Now here I am, seated less than two feet away from he who occupies my every thought, in the cab of his pickup. We’re headed out to join Kate and Beau for some line dancing—my idea—and I can’t focus enough to hold a simple conversation.
My game is so off…
Yeah, right, what game? More like nonexistent.
“You all right, Whit?”
“Huh?” I turn from where I’ve been absently staring out the window. He’s looking like some kind of model in his signature ass-hugging Levis and a brown leather jacket. Beneath it he dons a crisp white tee that would make anyone else look underdressed. But he wears it better than most men wear a three-piece suit.
Truth be told, Wyatt isn’t what I’d normally go for. I prefer my guys a little more…clean cut. But the way those unruly blond whisps curl over his ears has me pressing my thighs together thinking about all the dirty things I’d like him to do to me. I steal a glance at him gripping the wheel and suddenly feel those work-roughened hands scraping along my smooth skin, sending tingles down my spine. “Yeah. Why do you ask?” I give my head a shake, tossing my hair back and away from my face.
One broad shoulder rises and falls before he runs his fingers through his locks, offering me a hesitant smile. “You just seem far away.”