A Perfect Mess (9 page)

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes followed my tongue as I wet my bottom lip. Our laughter drifted away, forgotten, on the sultry air, and awareness thickened the humidity around us.

She jolted and looked away. “Oh, there’s another one!”

I speared the frog.
Down boy!
I ordered my hardened dick. Frog-gigging wood. Freaking A, that was a first.

#

When we reached that beautiful house she’d commented on before, I pulled into the driveway and pushed the remote to open the garage.

She turned to look at me. “This is your house.”

“It is.”

She punched me in the arm. “You really are annoying, Booker.”

I got out of the Jeep chuckling. “Just let me get these frogs taken care of. Come on in.”

She got out and followed me through the door from the garage as I hit the remote again and the door slowly descended behind the three vehicles.

“Oh, man,” she breathed softly as she rushed to the full bank of windows that looked out onto the bayou. “This is so amazing. I’m so jealous of you. Look at that view!—and your deck and garden! The ferns and flowers. Looks like your brother was here, too.”

“Yep. This is where your aunt saw my brother’s work. She contracted him after that.”

“He really is talented. Even my friend, Ashley, who’s studying landscape architecture, thinks so.”

“Yeah, I saw what your friend Ashley thought of my brother, and I don’t think it had anything to do with his artistry.”

She turned, flushing again, catching her bottom lip against her teeth and wincing. “She’s pretty wild.”

“Well, that’s okay. Boone is, too. Recklessly wild. Sometimes I worry about him.”

“Everyone has to find their way, Booker. Looks like you did. So, bestselling author? In what genre?”

“Horror and fantasy.”

“Why horror?” she asked leaning her shoulder against the sliding glass door.

I shrugged.
Because I understand it. Because I lived it. It’s inside me.
“I guess because it was a good outlet for all my teenaged anger.”

“Teenaged?”

“I wrote the books in high school. Had them sitting on my computer. When this self-publishing craze started, I polished them, got myself an editor and contracted a cover designer. The first book went up last September, and it immediately went viral. I got a lot of press and a lot of offers for the second and third books, but I turned them down. I don’t like being told what to do. Got a problem with authority. And when those next books went up, they’ve been even bigger successes.”

“The rebel author. Why doesn’t that surprise me? What pen name do you write under?”

“O. B. Thomas.”

Her eyes widened and she sucked in her breath. “Seriously? I’ve heard of you.”

“You’ve read my books?”

“No. I…horror scares me. Does the O stand for Outlaw and the B for Booker?”

“Bingo. Thomas is my middle name.”

She just stared at me with admiration in her eyes. I have to say, it was pretty sweet. “I’d better get to these frogs. I’ve got to get them dressed and in ice. Make yourself at home. There’s water, lemonade, and sweet tea in the fridge.”

“I can’t let you do all the work. I helped you skewer the poor things so they could sacrifice their delicious legs to our stomachs. The least I can do is help.”

I looked at her wryly. “This is a pretty messy business. Guts and stuff.”

“Hey, I know you’re not getting sexist on me. I loved biology. Who do you think dissected the frogs?”

“Most girls aren’t keen on skinnin’frogs, sugar. You’re not even eatin’ ’em.”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “I might change my mind about that, depending on what else you’re having.”

“Crayfish.”

She closed her eyes and I heard her stomach growl.

“If you’re having
boudin
, that’ll seal the deal.”

“Absolutely,” I said. So, the girl loved the Cajun sausage.
Boudin
hadn’t been on the menu, but it was now. “Okay, let’s go.” I was ecstatic. I felt like a ten year old whose girlfriend was coming to his birthday party.

It took us about thirty minutes to sever the legs and skin them. Once that was done, we washed our hands at the sink. “You got frog guts all over you.”

She shrugged, pulling off the white shirt to reveal a gray cotton tank top. She balled it up and stuffed it in her bag. “So do you.”

“Ugh. Let me take care of that.” I pulled my t-shirt over my head and chucked it into the laundry room behind me. “Do you want something to drink?”

When she didn’t answer, I looked back at her. She just stood there. She had a shell-shocked expression on her face. Then it dawned on me. She couldn’t speak because she was struck dumb by my bare back and chest. I took in a quick breath.

She was so damned beautiful, even when she’d been wearing her frog-gut-smeared shirt. Beautiful in a tousled, repressed, coming-undone sort of way, and up close, in the bright light of my kitchen, her red hair gleaming, her green eyes glazed, she looked exotic.

Every adolescent wish, dream and hope about Aubree and her mouth spiraled down to my dick. But I knew better than to kiss her. So I opened the fridge and grabbed the closest pitcher, the sweet tea. Opening the cupboard, I grabbed two glasses and filled them. I felt her breath on my shoulder and I swallowed. I turned and handed her one of the glasses.

“Thanks,” she said breathlessly. She wasn’t making this any easier. “And thank you for bringing me out here tonight.” She took a sip of her tea. “It helped to get my mind off of, you know, the, ah, text.”

I noticed she hadn’t moved back, even though I’d given her the glass. Her blush was deepening, and she was having a hard time holding my gaze. Despite her best attempts, her attention kept straying to my chest and my abs, and down the length of my arms.

“We should probably get going with cleaning up the frog guts and all.”

She took a gulp of her tea and set it down. Her eyes honed to a spot on the right side of my face. “Talk about frog guts. You have some on your…” she reached out and clasped the back of my neck presumably to hold me still. She froze me in place, one of those hot freezes, where the sensation of touch, no matter where it started, somehow ended up jolting my balls. Then she brushed her thumb along my cheekbone.
Fuck
.

I didn’t need this.

Her eyes were on my mouth again, and I’m not some freaking saint, here. That was it. I was toast. I couldn’t go the next five minutes without kissing her. With a soft groan of surrender, I covered her mouth ever so gently. My hands almost circled her tiny waist. I wanted to savor her, drink her in like a fragrant morning air. Kissing her lit up every cell in my body like she was a live wire.

I couldn’t let go of her. I knew I should.

“Should we … I—you, umm…” she said breathlessly, her voice sighing against my mouth as she leaned back far enough to run her thumb across my bottom lip. Her heart pounded against my chest wall as I ran my teeth over her neck, gently grazing her skin.

I understood. I shouldn’t have my hand rubbing gently over her bare midriff, under the band of her shirt. She really shouldn’t be rubbing her face against the side of mine like her life depended on it, but she was trembling, and plastered to me like she needed something solid to hold onto tonight.

And I was solid, all right, like a rock. It had happened so damn fast. She melted against me, easing herself into full-on body contact.

Shit. I knew what I was supposed to be doing—and it wasn’t this—but five minutes.

Or maybe ten.

Because that girl got to me. Everyplace I kissed her she was beautiful, her heart-shaped face, her nose, delicately sculpted and turned up ever so slightly on the end. The almond eyes and the thick eyelashes and the gorgeous mouth I currently and officially couldn’t get enough of.

I was so into her, into her soft curves, and repressed nerves, even her tight ponytail. I loved being this close to her, wanted to get even closer, wanted to be on her, over her, in her.

Inside her.

Definitely ten minutes.

Oh yeah
. Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty.
Fuck it.
I lost count.

Chapter Five

Aubree

I moved my head sideways to close the last scant inch of space separating my mouth from Booker Outlaw’s.

Freaking Booker Outlaw.

His arms tightened around me. My lips parted, his tongue slipped inside, and I fell straight into wonderful, total bliss.

Oh…holy…cow—I couldn’t believe this was happening, heat washing through me, a sweet ache coming to life between my legs. I had to admit, the first time I tried to have sex with a guy I was tipsy. I’d needed the liquid courage so I wouldn’t be so uptight and blow it. But, I blew it anyway. He hadn’t called me again, but that was okay. I had simply wanted to get it done. I really didn’t want to be a virgin. I wanted to experience the kinds of mind-blowing things a few of my friends whispered about.

Was it bad that I was picturing Booker as the only man I’d want to take me all the way?

And, I’d had
no
idea how it felt to be really kissed. No
freaking
idea! Until now.

I opened my mouth wider, wanting more. No man could possibly taste this good, feel this good. I finally understood the real meaning of
swoon
.

And, I’m glad I’d had that other, disappointing experience, because there was no comparison. This…this made up for everything, for months of being alone, for all the humiliation and hurt, for all the fear and the nightmares and the pain.

Except for my aunt, Booker had been the only person in my life who had been there for me when I’d needed him. He hadn’t let me down. But I’d let him down. I’d run from this, from my longing, all because I was ashamed and scared, confused and angry.

And I’d hurt him.

I pulled away, just enough that our mouths were a whisper apart. I sought his eyes, tilting his head so that I could meet his gaze. I’d never seen his eyes so soft, filled with something so soul-deep and real. My chest tightened as I slid my hand down to rest over his heart. The beating so strong and sweet. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

His chest heaved in and out. He cupped my face, our communication all one-on-one, silent, and intimate. He nodded once, his unspoken forgiveness. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back. And I reached up and touched his arresting face…with the tips of my fingers, because they were so sensitive. I wanted to
feel
him. I slid my hand into that mass of shaggy black silk. I’d wanted to touch him for so long. Ever since that afternoon I’d been trapped behind the bleachers in high school, watching his sacrifice.

He opened his eyes, a heart-rending, sapphire blue. He smiled and my chest heaved. Tears clogged my throat in a blink of an eye, and before I knew it, I was sobbing. Nine months of pain and loneliness and anxiety poured out of me.

He looked panicked for only a split second, then in one swift, powerful movement, he lifted me in his arms, cradling me against his hard, muscled chest. He carried me into the living room as I buried my face against his neck and cried like a baby. He rocked me and kissed my temple over and over again, his hand cupped gently on the back of my head.

I don’t know how long we sat like that, but I finally raised my head.

“Are you okay, Aubree?”

I nodded. “But I went all
girl
on you. I’m sorry…how are
you
doing?”

He gave me that teasing grin. “I think with some rest, medication, and counseling, I’ll be okay.”

I laughed, my eyes blurring again. “Are you ever serious?”

“If you hadn’t blubbered all over me and interrupted that liplock in the kitchen, you would have seen how very serious I can get. You’re one hot kisser. But, I have to be honest and truthful here. I’m not…”

I covered his mouth and shook my head. “You don’t have to say anything. It is what it is.”

“But Aubree…”

I slipped off his lap and stood, straightening my clothes. “You are so noble, but it’s not necessary.” My stomach growled then, really loudly, and he looked down at it.