I blink. Tipping my head. For a second, my brain locks up as I swear she said doggie style instead of doggie stew…
“I’m sure you have other skills,” I say, my voice sounding far away as I glance over and see her father narrow his eyes at me.
Fucking hell. I want to chew through her jeans and tongue-fuck her pussy until she drowns me in her sweet honey, but from the glare Walter has set on me, I need to rein it in.
For now.
For a second, I make myself believe that this heady, over the top lust is from being locked up for four years. But in my heart I know that’s not the reason.
I don’t just want her. I fucking need her.
A dinging sound comes from the kitchen, releasing the tense moment as we all stand in silence.
“Show Dutch where he’ll be staying since James has abandoned him.” Walter nods at Daphne. “Sure he’d like to have some time alone to get his bearings.”
Joan scurries toward the kitchen, fluttering some words of encouragement over her shoulder as Walter shoots me a final pinning look. This old fucker, man. He means business. “We’ll talk later.” He turns, heading down the hall where James disappeared, leaving me standing with Daphne, my control hanging by a thread.
“Well,” she starts, stepping past me to grab her coat, “I got the place pretty cleaned up for you this afternoon. But if there’s anything you need, just ask. Come on. I’ll show you the little house as we call it. It’s cozy, but it has a bedroom with a smart TV, so you can watch whatever. Or my I connected my Spotify on there as well, so…music. There’s a little kitchen slash living room, bathroom. Everything you could need.”
I’ve been in jail so long that I don’t even really know about smart fucking TV’s or Spoti-whatever. But it doesn’t matter.
“There’s no way it has everything I need,” I say on a sigh, then recover when Daphne gives me an unsure squint. “A nice hot shower alone sounds good,” I mutter, before I think about what I’m saying. I watch her nibble her lower lip as we head out the front door into the cold.
“Alone, huh?” she asks, amusement in her voice as our feet crunch on the cold path with each step.
She shouldn’t be fucking amused. She should be guarded at all times around me because the things I want to do to her sweet mouth are probably illegal.
I clear my throat. “Four years showering with ten other guys takes its toll.” I breathe in her candy scent as I walk next to her. “But a hot shower alone isn’t exactly what I meant.”
Her cheeks burn red as she nods toward the door of the guesthouse. “I’ll leave you be. If you need anything, just call. James got you a cell. Should be in there on top of a basket with some towels for the bathroom, a couple new pillows we got for you and some spare sheets. I programmed our numbers in already.”
The words hang between us as my cock pulses. This girl is turning me inside out but I have to find my control.
“Thank you,” I manage as she spins, walking back down the path. Watching her go, a hollowness fills my chest. But somehow, I know she’ll be back.
And I’ll be waiting.
CHAPTER 3
Daphne
Back inside the house, I close the front door and lean my forehead into the wall, releasing the breath I’ve been holding.
Did Dutch have to be just so…Dutch?
Dark and brooding, with blue tortured eyes that call to that part of me that feels the need to fix broken and suffering things. He’s got a bad boy vibe but I know in my heart beneath it all there’s a good man waiting.
He reminds me of some of the hard cases on my outreach route. Snarling, warning people stay the heck away all the while their tails are wagging, hoping you won’t listen.
The slick heat between my legs is another issue altogether. My panties are as wrecked as my filthy thoughts.
Trixie, my ninety-pound sack of former chained dog sweetness, comes sauntering in and sidles up to me, leaning against my thigh. She’s built like a tank, but a gentle giant, and I reach out to scratch behind her ears as I think of all the dogs we’ve managed to get surrendered over the years.
Turning hopeless, tortured lives into something bright and new.
Is that what I want to do for Dutch? Is that even something I have any right to think about? Because he’s not a chained pit bull. He’s a grown man.
And what a man.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I met Dutch, but when I saw him standing there next to my Dad it felt like the floor was quaking under my feet. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned enough to show off thick ink that seems to cover his chest and down his arms.
His almost-black hair could use a trim, as well as his beard, but what held me in place was the way his riveting blue eyes pinned me where I stood. Heat flooded my veins as my throat tightened and all the fantasies I’ve had over the last year paled in comparison to the man than stood in front of me.
I already want to run back and throw my arms around him. To everyone else, we are strangers, but we know better. I think of all the letters. How we shared so much. Yet, do we really know each other at all?
My body says we do. The dramatic physical response leaves me trembling as I wander to the back entryway and scoop some food into a bowl for Trixie, looking out into the backyard where the rest of the pack is playing in the snow. I strip off my jacket and head down the hallway to my bedroom, trying to re-group.
Before I get there, I look through the crack in the door to the laundry room.
“Shit,” I curse as I push it open, feeling my heart beat triple time. Sitting there in the basket are the towels, sheets, and the cell phone my mom said she would put inside the little house for Dutch.
I’m just about to pick it up when muffled but tense voices from the home office that James and my Dad share stop me cold. I stand still, listening.
It’s about work. It’s always about work. I know the shop has been struggling. It always has, to tell the truth, but Dad always seemed to make it work somehow. I know lately James has been pushing for changes and it’s put them at odds more than usual.
Dad raises his voice a little, angry now. Someone broke in a few weeks ago and made off with around twenty-thousand dollars of tools and parts. I take care of the books and pay most of the bills, and I knew we were behind on our insurance premiums when it happened, so the loss wasn’t covered and the tension about keeping things afloat has been pricklier than ever.
I jump back as they both come storming out of the door, brows knitted, and James shoots me a hard look. “We have to go to the shop. Did you show Dutch to the house?” He doesn’t wait for my answer before finishing, “We should be back by dinner.”
They grab their coats and storm out the back door, leaving me speechless. It’s not like James to be so gruff, let alone so rude.
The laundry basket taunts me. I peek around the corner into the kitchen to see my mother elbows-deep in mixing up a bowl of her biscuit dough, singing to her Neil Diamond playlist.
My thoughts drift back to Dutch. I did say if he needed anything to call, but he can’t call because he doesn’t have the phone.
I’ll make it quick, I tell myself.
I lean down, scooping up the basket, my heart hammering against my chest wall and my palms start to sweat. At the door, I don’t bother with my jacket. All I’m going to do is leave the basket outside the front door for him, knock and high-tail it back to the house.