A relationship? Hannah moving to Westport? Him moving to LA? What?
It all sounded completely ridiculous in the context of Fox’s life.
“And, Jesus, I’m not going to start now,” he added, shooting his mother a wink. “You want me to drop the blender off to Eleanor?”
Her smile dimmed slowly. “Are you sure?”
“I think I can handle it.”
Charlene hesitated slightly before hefting up the small appliance, clearance sticker still attached to one side, handing it to her son. Fox stepped down off the stage and made his way back to the table. Everyone turned to watch him go by—or look at the blender, rather—like vipers in the grass. He set it down in front of Eleanor, pretending he didn’t notice the tension at the table. Maybe if he ignored it, they would follow his lead.
Wishful thinking.
As soon as he set the blender down in front of Eleanor, Paula pounced.
Her bony fingers dug into the top of the box, but Eleanor was no rookie. She’d anticipated the move and started stabbing at Paula’s hands with her blotter, leaving blue marks on the woman’s skin. A hubbub ensued, bingo players shuffling around to get a better look at the action. Confident he could defuse the stressful situation—he was a king crab fisherman, after all—Fox inserted himself in between the women, giving them his best smile, in turn.
“Ladies. Let’s end the night friends, huh? Let me get you both a soda from the snack bar and—”
Eleanor swung the blotter and got him right in the center of the forehead.
Hannah gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth.
And then her shoulders started to shake.
Could he really blame her for giggling? There was a giant blue dot in the middle of his forehead. He was a human bingo card. Weirdly, he was enjoying her happiness, even though it was at his expense. “Really, Hannah?” he drawled.
She dissolved into laughter, no longer trying to hide it. “Does anyone have a tissue?” she asked through her tears. “Or a wet wipe?”
“That’s going to take some scrubbing,” called someone from the cheap seats.
On her way around the table, someone pressed a pack of tissues into Hannah’s hand, and she continued toward him, almost stumbling she was laughing so hard. And before Fox knew it, he was allowing Hannah to take his hand and pull him out the side door into the cool, misty night.
The rain had stopped, but moisture lingered in the air along with the distant smell of the ocean. Streetlamps cast yellow beams on puddles, turning them into pools of wavy, windblown light. Traffic moved in a hush on the nearby highway, the occasional big rig letting out a long-winded honk. It was a setting that, over the last seven months, might have made him feel lonely and exasperated with himself for missing Hannah. But there wasn’t any loneliness now. There was only her. Opening the pack of tissues with her teeth, taking one of them out, and bringing the soft sheet to his forehead, her body still racked by laughter.
“Oh my God, Fox,” she said, moving the tissue in circles. “Oh my God.”
“What? You’ve never seen a geriatric hit job before?”
Her peal of renewed mirth rang through the quiet parking lot and shot his heart up into his mouth. “You tried to tell me bingo needed crowd control, but I didn’t believe you. Lesson learned.” She was giggling so hard, she could barely keep her arm up, the appendage repeatedly dropping to her side. “You were so confident, the way you stepped in between them.” She dropped her voice to mimic him. “Ladies, ladies. Please.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Apparently you’re not the only one who’s immune to me, huh?”
He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but it was too late to trap the words.
They were out there, and Hannah wasn’t laughing anymore.
Wind blew through the scant space between them, whispering and damp in the silence, making more of those perfect curls at the sides of her forehead. And Fox realized he was holding his breath. Waiting for her to let him down gently.
He forced a chuckle. “Sorry, I meant—”
“I’m not immune,” she breathed. “I’m far from immune to you.”
The soft admission made his knees feel like fucking jelly, but right on the heels of that, he went hard. Everywhere. Each one of his muscles pulled taut, his cock turning thick in his briefs. “How far?”
Sandbags weighing down her eyelids, she let him see the answer. Her thirst for him. And in response, her name caught in his throat, his tone one of surprise. Relief.
Slowly, Hannah moved more thoroughly into the shadow of the building, turning and leaning back against the wall, reversing their positions in a deliberate dance, taking her time tracing the planes of his face. Wrecking him with her simple, perfect touch. The way she curled her fingertips into the collar of his shirt and drew him down, down, so they could exhale roughly against each other’s mouths.
“Kiss me and find out.”
He made a halting sound and moved, unable to stop himself now that he’d been given permission, catching her hips in his hands and gradually pinning her to the brick barrier, molding their lower bodies together until she whimpered.
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Jesus.”
Where the hell to start? If he kissed her mouth first, he swore he might eat her whole, so he zeroed in on her neck, fisting her ponytail and tugging left, giving himself a clear path up to her ear and breathing a trail up that incredible softness, finishing his exhale just beneath her lobe. He savored her cry greedily, rejoicing in the way she went limp between him and the brick wall, her fingers twisting in the front of his shirt for purchase.
Still—still—worried he might implode if he actually allowed himself the singular flavor of Hannah’s mouth, he nonetheless attacked those parted, waiting lips, groaning brokenly as her taste sank into his bones, made him light-headed.
God. Oh God.
He wrapped his tongue around hers and pulled hard, once, twice. He sensed her awareness, her anticipation, her hips squirming where he kept them stationary on the wall. Her movements rubbed against his erection, working him the hell up. So intensely worked up, so eager to fuck, he recognized immediately that he’d never, not once, wanted anyone like this.
Hannah was good. Hannah was right.
Being inside her would be a celebration, not merely part of a routine.
There was nothing typical about this. Or practiced. It was a spontaneous combustion of the urges he’d been suppressing where Hannah was concerned, both physical and emotional, and that implosion bred an urgency in him.
Now. He needed her now.
Fox dropped his hips down and lifted her slightly, creating friction against her sex, and her eyes rolled back, hands pulling him closer. Their mouths moved in a frantic rhythm, tongues meeting in long strokes, his hands traveling down her hips and up the valley of her sides, sensitizing the smooth skin beneath her shirt. Making her wet and pliant. He knew that truth like he knew the sea.
“You a virgin, Hannah?” Fox rasped, lightly scraping his teeth up her throat.
“No,” she whispered, eyes dazed.
“Thank God,” he growled, growing impossibly harder. Hungrier. “Once I’m good and deep, I don’t think I’ll be able to slow down.”