Bloom of love, p.14
Bloom of Love, page 14
His temper snapping, he whirled around to storm over to the truck and tell her exactly what he thought of her…and only barely kept from bowling her over. Somehow, she’d snuck out of the truck and over to stand behind him without making a damn noise.
“Shit, Carla!” he bellowed, springing backwards in shock, coming down on Marshmallow’s paw, who let out a loud yip of pain. “God!” he yelled, stumbling forward again and trying to get his bearings. If he stepped on or ran into or hit one more thing, he thought his head would explode.
He forced himself to close his eyes, and breathe in slowly, then back out slowly.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered, turning around and stroking Marshmallow’s head, feeling like an awful human being. “I didn’t mean—”
“Oh!” came a squeak of terror behind him. “Oh my!”
He jerked his head around, trying to spot the threat so he could take it out, but found nothing. He looked back at Carla, who was looking straight at Marshmallow, her eyes wide and her breath shallow.
“He’s, uhh…” she squeaked, her voice a full octave higher than normal, “he’s big.”
“Marshmallow?” He looked back down at his dog as if seeing him for the first time. “Yeah. I mean, he’s a big boy all right, but he’s a real lover. He’d never hurt you.”
“Marshmallow?” Carla repeated faintly, and then laughed. “Your dog’s name is Marshmallow?”
He scowled at her. He was still pissed, even if she’d finally managed to get her ass out of the truck. “Yes, it is,” he said tightly. “Nieves named him for me years ago, and honestly, it fits. It was either that, or Snow Drift. During the winter, with his all-white coat? He disappears.”
But still, she just stood there, her hands clasped behind her back as she stared at the sweetest dog on the planet as if she expected him to rip out her throat at any moment.
“Dammit, Carla, he’s a sweetheart,” he growled. “Stop looking at him like that. Great Pyrenees are bred to guard sheep in the Pyrenees mountains between Spain and France, and are some of the smartest dogs you’ll ever meet, and loyal to boot. Unless you’re a coyote or wolf, or you attack something that he considers to be his property, he’ll love you forever.”
“How much does he weigh?” she asked as she clasped her hands in front of her instead. He figured that was some sort of progress. Maybe.
“Just under 125 pounds. So before you ask, yes, he eats a lot of dog food, but he also pulls his weight around here, guarding and watching over the farm.”
Her fingers were fidgety and twirling around each other now; her teeth were chewing on her bottom lip. He was on the verge of barking at her to just pet Marshmallow already, but then, she beat him to it.
“Hi, Marshmallow,” she said, her voice quaking as she held out her hand for him to sniff. Perfunctorily, he did, and then moved over to sit down next to her so she could do her job and pet him.
Uncertainly, she patted him on his head and then yanked her hand away like she’d just touched hot coals.
Marshmallow rolled his head and looked up at Christian with what he’d would swear was disgust in the dog’s big brown eyes. If Marshmallow could speak, he would surely be saying, “Can you believe this woman? She doesn’t even know how to pet properly.”
Somehow, this trip to hell – aka, his place – had turned into a “How to not be afraid of a large dog” session instead, and Christian jumped on it with both hands. Anything that meant not taking Carla inside was a-okay with him. Maybe they could just learn how to pet a dog, then climb back inside his truck, and drive back to town as if this was nothing more than an excursion to meet Marshmallow. Forget the rest had happened.
“Look,” he said, “I know he’s big—”
“His head is bigger than Leo!” she broke in. Her hands were back to fiddling, her anxiety not lessened in the slightest by touching the dog.
“—But he wouldn’t hurt you if his life depended upon it,” Christian continued, ignoring her comment. Actually, he was pretty sure Marshmallow’s head was bigger than Leo and Bella put together, but he wasn’t about to say that. “He protects his herd, and in his world, that’s me, and to a lesser extent, the other guys who work here and the Miller family. He doesn’t pick a fight unless he has to; he prefers howling and marking his territory, but I’ve come outside some mornings to find his muzzle and paws stained red from blood. He’s nocturnal by nature, so he stays up all night and guards the farm while us humans sleep, and then sleeps in snatches throughout the day to repeat it again the next night. I swear he sleeps with one eye open. I promise you, he won’t hurt you. Now, put your damn hand out and scratch him behind the ears like you would your cat.”
Carla sent him a doubtful look but reached out tentatively and scratched the Great Pyrenees behind the ears. With a happy sigh, Marshmallow leaned against her legs, tilting his head to the side to give her easier access to just the right spot.
She laughed a little. “You are a big love, aren’t you?” she murmured in wonderment, switching to his other ear. Marshmallow just leaned in harder, and Christian wasn’t sure who was going to land on the ground first – Carla from being pushed over by his dog, or his dog falling over to give Carla full access to his belly.
“Good,” Christian grunted. He was tempted – oh so tempted – to say, “I told you so!” but swallowed the phrase instead. Nothing good ever came from telling a woman, “I told you so.”
Just as he was starting to think that they could make their way back to the truck and pretend like none of this had ever happened, Carla straightened up. “All right, let’s do this thing.”
Christian stifled a groan – he should’ve known it’d be too much to ask for Carla to just forget why they’d come out here – and with leaden feet, turned to the house. What he wouldn’t give in that moment to be anywhere else but there.
“Does Marshmallow live inside with you?” Carla asked as she followed along behind him.
“No,” he said, dragging his feet, hoping to somehow put off the inevitable. “He’s definitely an outdoor dog.” Maybe, an earthquake would hit. “Marshmallow’s never even tried to come inside. I think he’d hate it in there.” Maybe, Yellowstone would blow its top. “Out here, the world is his oyster. He can run and chase and bark and jump in the canal and do whatever he wants.”
Nothing. Not a single well-timed explosion.
“Inside, he’d be cooped up, just staring at four walls. I think he’d go crazy.” His shoes were filled with cement, dragging with every step. “Not to mention that he runs through every mud puddle in the county. You don’t want him tracking all of that inside.”
And yet, no matter how slowly he walked, they still somehow made it up onto the shitty front porch, the gray, weathered boards creaking underfoot, a couple of them loose and promising a broken ankle to an unsuspecting soul. He knew better than to step on those boards, but Carla didn’t. That was all this excursion to his house needed – a trip to the hospital afterwards.
He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. He couldn’t remember – had he even made his bed that morning? That was a rather hit-or-miss affair.
Maybe he should beg for five minutes to straighten up.
No. Clean or dirty, it was still a hunk of junk. No amount of cleaning would fix that.
With an inward groan, he opened the front door. “After you,” he muttered, stepping aside and gesturing her in.
Well, it was fun while it lasted. Sure, she was a nice piece of tail, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be fine by himself again. He was almost 40. He’d been alone this long. He could be alone another 40 years.
He was fine.
Just fine.
“Where’s your bedroom?” Carla asked quietly. He pointed to the right down the short hallway.
“Mine is on the left; there’s a guest bedroom on the right,” he said dully. “Not that I have guests. Stetson used to make all of the single guys share this place but when I was promoted to foreman, I said I wanted a place of my own. No more roommates. It was about 2016 or so when I got the place to myself.”
Four and a half years. All that time to make it his home, and he never had. Even when he’d stopped having to have roommates, it still wasn’t his happy place. It wasn’t his. It was just where he slept, and when he had to, where he cooked.
It sure as hell couldn’t be where he made love to Carla. That wasn’t ever going to happen in this hellhole.
He realized with a start that Carla was most of the way down the hallway, opening up the door to his bedroom before he could stop her. “Hey!” he hollered, hurrying after her. What was she thinking, going into his bedroom like that?! He didn’t say she could see—
His brain fizzled to a stop. Carla already had her shirt off, and was unhooking her bra, her back to him. “Wuh…” he stuttered, his brain frozen. She leaned forward, letting her bra straps slide off her arms and onto the floor, and then turned to look at him, completely topless. There were her delicious tits, just begging for him to play with them, and he wasn’t entirely sure he knew words anymore.
Any words.
He saw her lips move and a part of him knew she was talking, but the rushing in his ears made it impossible for him to hear her. Maybe in 20 years, he might be immune to the sight of her body, but he sure as hell wasn’t today.
Definitely not today.
In a dream, he saw her moving towards him, in his bedroom, in this house he swore he’d never show her, and she was undoing his belt, tugging it out, pulling his zipper down, cupping him through his boxer briefs. He wasn’t sure he wanted this, but he also knew he could never tell her no. He was embarrassed by his home, sure, but not that embarrassed.
Not embarrassed enough to turn down the opportunity to make love to Carla Grahame.
Chapter 21
Carla
They’re kissing again. Do we have to hear the kissing part?
~Grandson in The Princess Bride
Was it bad that she was forcing this to happen?
Well, maybe ‘force’ was the wrong word. She wasn’t raping him, after all. She was just taking the lead. There was a difference. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and how she wanted it. That was allowed.
Okay, so that wasn’t it at all. The truth of the matter was, she was starting to understand Christian. It didn’t take Sherlock to figure out that he was embarrassed about where he lived, something she could more than relate to, and making love in it? It was the ultimate show of acceptance. She could tell him all day long that his place outranked hers – he at least had a damn shower and a kitchen sink – but he’d never believe her.
This was her speaking the truth without words – something more effective than words – that in her world, he was what mattered. Not where he lived or what he made.
Only him.
She stepped back out of the circle of his arms and pulled the side zipper down on her swishy skirt, as she liked to call it, letting the whisper of fabric pool around her feet.
Christian’s dark chocolate eyes went black with lust and, sucking in a breath, took a step towards her.
“No,” she breathed, and his hand stopped mid-air. “Not yet.”
Despite her I-am-a-woman, hear-me-roar thoughts of just moments before, the truth of the matter was, she’d never taken the lead in the bedroom. Based on her very extensive survey of romance novels, rom-coms, and the occasional R-rated movie, she’d always known her handful of experiences in college had fallen short of how mind-blowing sex should be.
Way short.
Six weeks ago, Christian had showed her that she hadn’t been wrong her whole life. Love really was magical, and today, she wanted to be in charge of that magic.
His eyes held the question he didn’t ask as Carla stepped out of the pooled skirt, feeling the cool of the AC air flow over her skin, pebbling her nipples.
Or maybe it was the lust growing inside of her. She could be in charge, and she could like it.
With trembling hands, she tugged on the waistband of Christian’s smart, new dark blue jeans until they slid over his slim hips and pooled around his ankles. Too late, she realized her mistake – he still had his cowboy boots on. He wouldn’t be able to step out of his jeans like she’d stepped out of her skirt.
With a disgruntled sigh, she let him take control again for just a moment, toeing off his boots and dropping his jeans in a pile. When he straightened, she grinned naughtily at the jutting front of his boxer-briefs.
“Is that a pistol in there, or are you happy to see me?” she murmured in her best Mae West voice as she moved forward to cup him through the fabric. He reached for her again but she leaned up and tapped her finger lightly against his lips. “Not yet,” she whispered again.
He groaned.
She grinned.
Slowly, she began unbuttoning his dress shirt, each slide of a button through the cotton revealing another inch of tempting tanned skin. Just for a moment, she pondered the idea of buying him a pearl-snap button-up shirt – or ten – to make access to his chest an easier affair, but then decided against it. She liked unwrapping him slowly, like a birthday present just for her.
The last button released, she slid her hands up his sculptured chest, feeling the muscles jump beneath her fingers, and then, her hands at his rounded shoulders, she pushed the shirt down, letting it slide down his arms to join the jeans on the ground.
That was better. Now they were even – her in her panties, him in his boxer-briefs. Starting at his earlobe, she began trailing kisses down his neck, nibbling and sucking, feeling the excited heartbeat against her lips at the base of his throat.
“Carla,” he moaned, the sound vibrating through her lips. “Please…”
Ignoring his pleas, she continued further down to one of his brown nipples, flicking at it, tonguing it, and his pants grew harsher.
“Carla!” he groaned loudly. “I can’t…I need…” He buried his hands in her hair, trying to pull her closer, trying to direct her lips.
She pulled back with a breathy laugh. “I don’t remember saying you can put your hands in my hair,” she scolded him. He dropped his hands to his sides, his eyes glowing lava hot with need.
“You can’t expect me…”
He couldn’t seem to finish.
She didn’t mind. If he was talking, he obviously had too much blood north of the waistline.
Speaking of…
She dropped to her knees in front of him and tugged at the waistband of his boxer-briefs, finally slipping the fabric down far enough that his dick sprung free, bouncing a bit with the force of the release. She laughed, feeling like a daredevil as she wrapped her fingers around him. When she’d had sex in college, it’d been drunken affairs in the back of a car or in a twin bed, hurried along by the scare of being walked in on by roommates. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever wrapped her fingers around a dick before, but she was sure that she hadn’t on as magnificent a specimen as Christian. Somehow, it was soft yet hard; velvet yet steel.
Sucking in a breath for courage, she leaned forward and wrapped her lips around him.
“Oooohhhhh…” Christian groaned, his hips jerking. “I…you…”
Gloating at what she’d managed to turn Christian into – a conglomeration of cells screaming with delight – she slowly moved her mouth down his shaft, trying to bury it completely in her throat. She choked and instinctively pulled back before she did something awful, like have her gag reflex engaged, causing her to throw up all over her boyfriend.
That would be a story for the grandkids.
“Why, the first time I went down on your grandpa, he was so big, I choked on him and puked all over the plac—”
Christian buried his hands in her hair and pulled her off him, breath choppy as he stood there, clearly trying to regain his composure.
“I…need…a…minute,” he rasped. His eyes were closed; his face showing a desperate kind of pain. “There’s only so…so much a man…can take.”
She sat back on her haunches and grinned up at him, thoroughly enjoying the fact that she’d made this beautiful specimen of a man almost cry with the pain of holding back.
But, she couldn’t tease him forever. Twisting around, she found her skirt on the floor and patted to find the tiny pocket that was worthless for almost anything – why was it that women were never given normal-sized pockets in their clothing, as if they could never have anything they needed to carry on them? – except holding one tiny, incredibly important thing: A condom.
She ripped it open and placed it on the end of Christian’s straining dick, slowly rolling it in place. Just like the banana she’d been handed in the 8th grade to practice on. Thank you, sex ed. They’d forgotten to use a condom while up in the mountains, but this time, she was smart enough to plan ahead.
With a hiss of breath, Christian hauled her to her feet, spun her in a circle, and dropped her down on the bed. He was done letting her be in charge, which was probably good anyway. She’d just about run out of ideas on what should happen next.
With one smooth thrust of his hips, Christian was inside of her and breathing hard, trying to hold back, but she didn’t want him to. She wanted him to take her like a dying man in the desert sucked down water.
She wanted to be desirable.
She wrapped her legs around his hips and lifted herself to him, pushing him deeper inside of her. Oh, that felt good. She strained, pulling him as deep as he would go.
“Christian…Christian…Chris…” she panted and begged, and he broke. Plunging forward, he began his rhythmic strokes.
“Yes…please…I…” The world was building to a crescendo around her and she couldn’t stop it or control it and she didn’t want to, and then—
Her back arched and she let out a guttural scream of delight as the world vanished and all she felt was pure joy and lust and desire roll through her, wave after wave, and her hair grew damp and a part of her realized that she’d been crying.
