Skin Heat (13 page)

Hebert signed off with the locals and then got in his car. Ordinarily he’d have quite a few notes to go over by this point, but this hadn’t offered the usual informational buffet. That made him uneasy.

His phone rang then. There was always another mess to clean up.

Thanksgiving came and
went. Zeke spent it with Neva, much to his aunt Sid’s chagrin. They made a turkey, along with all the trimmings, took care of the kittens, talked, and listened to music. Sometimes at night, she read. He liked her complete focus while she turned the pages of her suspense novel. At least, he guessed at the genre, based on the man on the cover with a gun.

It did things to Zeke now, watching her chew her lip as she studied the lemon yellow paint on the kitchen walls. No doubt it brightened the room up, but so did she. They had finished in here tonight, after the clinic closed. Paint splattered her T-shirt and smeared her jeans; there was even a streak on her cheek, and he’d give twenty years of his life to cup her face in his hands and bend to touch his lips to hers. He hurt with the need of it.

“You like it?” she asked, turning to him.

He nodded because his throat was too thick for words.

They’d done the parlor first because they hoped it would be dry by evening that first weekend. He’d opened a window to allow the breeze, though as the can promised, the stink wasn’t too bad—at least not for anybody with a normal sense of smell. He’d felt like the inside of his nose had been burned with an open flame.

They’d switched off caring for the kittens because Neva didn’t want to stop working. Like him, she didn’t seem to enjoy sitting around. Which made him feel better about his own restless energy.

There are better ways to burn it off.
But Zeke couldn’t listen to those instincts. The animal inside him wanted her so bad that it snarled constantly. It didn’t understand why he couldn’t have her.
She’s here,
the beast whispered,
in our territory. The house smells like her. That means she belongs to us.
Well, he wanted that to be true more than anything, but it wasn’t, and he had enough man left in him to know that. He feared the day when that stopped being true—and what he might do, then. Sometimes he felt like he was climbing a muddy slope in the rain, clinging to slippery roots that would tear free when he least expected it.

“I can’t believe we’re just about done.”

She’d been thrilled they had enough paint to do the hall, too. They hadn’t planned for it, but once they started on the parlor, it looked so bad she insisted they had to keep going. Scraping the bottom of the can, they’d managed to finish it. And tonight they’d wrapped up the kitchen.

“Good work,” he said, because she clearly expected something.

“I’ve been thinking. If you want, we could try a daubing technique I’ve been reading about. We have enough yellow left from the kitchen and it’ll be a subtle effect on top of the Bavarian Cream.”

“Uh-huh.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but it made her so happy, in that moment, he’d have let her paint the whole house pink if she wanted. Because the darkness had gone from her eyes; she was alive, glowing with pleasure, and he understood joy in fixing what was broken. They were alike in that way. He liked shoring things up, too. Sometimes you just couldn’t because they were beyond repair.

She paused. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Above my pay grade.” Zeke jabbed a thumb into his own chest. “Handyman, right? Not a decorator.”

“You don’t mind?” Worry flashed in her eyes, acorn brown, rimmed in gold. He knew that from working close to her. “I don’t want to overstep.”

Zeke wanted to say the farm was hers as
he
was hers. But they were here together because somebody had been cruel to a mama cat and her apartment ceiling had a leak, not by her choice. She was only helping with the house because she liked doing such things and she didn’t enjoy being idle.
Nothing like cashing a reality check.

“Nah. Place needs some love.” Afterward, he wished he hadn’t put it like that because her gaze sharpened, as if wondering if that statement extended to him as well.

“I’ll make us some sandwiches.”

He watched her work in his kitchen with painful pleasure. Living with her might kill him. It had been two weeks, and she was a good roommate. Zeke had no complaints there. She pitched in, doing chores and fixing up the farmhouse, and never acted like she thought she deserved something better. Even though
he
did.

He’d seen Harper Court, but only ever set foot in the kitchen. They’d let him eat his lunch in there, as part of his pay. So he knew what she was used to and wondered why she chose to live as she did. Most people would be happy having stuff handed to them on a silver platter.

But she was different . . . and he liked having her around. Everything was better. His panic dialed back over the things he sensed; it got easier to accept and not fear what it meant, or if he was walking his mother’s road. To him, she felt like a good-luck charm—if she was here, nothing bad could happen.

She looked less exhausted, too. Tonight, after work, they sat in the front room, listening to the radio. Neva always sat with her legs curled to one side, leaning on the arm of the couch. He wished she’d drape herself on him that way, so he could hold her and breathe her in. He’d learned she used honey-almond lotion after her bath, which explained the sweetness, but not his reaction. Mixed with her natural scent, it hit him on a gut-deep level, and he found it all but impossible to keep from reaching out to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

They carried their food into the parlor and sat at opposite ends of the couch. With the fresh paint on the walls, he became conscious of how bare the room was otherwise. Zeke had taken down all the pictures of his family, anything that could serve as a reminder. He’d also put away his mother’s knickknacks years before.

“Why don’t you have a TV?” she asked at length. “I couldn’t help but notice you don’t have a computer anywhere, either.”

He didn’t want to admit the truth, but he couldn’t lie, either. So he shrugged as if reality didn’t sting. “No money.”

Times had always been tough, even before things got really bad. Before his mom fell down the dark hole and never came up again. Before his dad started drinking to forget. He could still see her swinging in the barn; she hadn’t been dead long. He had been nine at the time. He remembered feeling puzzled and running for help, someone to get her down and wake her up.

The truth hadn’t sunk in until later.

His dad spelled it out, a few years on, in a drunken rant.
Everything was fine before you came along. Fucking kid. She never wanted you and neither did I.

“There’s that look again.”

Zeke wished he
did
have a TV so she’d stop paying such attention to him. But then, he liked her interest in him . . . and he didn’t. It made him want things he couldn’t have. It made him want her to have a reason for caring how he felt, and then he felt doubly like an ass for hoping.

“What look?”

“The one that says you have sad secrets.”

“Everyone does,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I just thought we’d . . .” She hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure of the right word. “Become friends in the past weeks.”

Is that what we are?
He didn’t think there was a word for what he felt for her, some awful mix of adoration and helpless longing. And it knotted up inside him, leaving him mute and sick with the impossibility of it.

Given his past and hers, he’d known that going in. He’d still wanted to help her because her problems offered a welcome distraction from his own. But he hadn’t figured on just
how
hard it would be, seeing her first thing in the morning, right after she got out of the shower, at the breakfast table, and in the middle of the night, hands brushing while they cared for the kittens. Familiarity didn’t change his ache, and the more time they spent together, the more he needed to remember why he could never have her.

If he didn’t do something, he was going to make a mistake, a big one. He was starting to forget why she was here. Plain and simple, he was just getting used to having her around. It would hurt when she left, but he was used to pain.

Belatedly, he noticed her downcast reaction to his silence. She’d taken it as a rejection. Well, Christ Almighty, he couldn’t let that stand.

“We are,” he said, though it nearly killed him.

Need clawed at his gut, each time she spoke, each time she touched him gently. There was nothing sexual in her fingers on his forearm when she sought his full attention, but God, how he wanted it to be. He needed her hands on him in the worst way; he spent half the days hard and aching.

She didn’t make it any better when she put her hand on his biceps and gave him a gentle rub like he was a skittish critter she thought to tame. His tension sent the wrong message, giving her the impression he was in pain. Well, he was—just not the way she believed.

“Did you hurt yourself at work today? Let me see.” Neva slid off the couch and circled around behind him. When she set her hands on his shoulders and tugged the neck of his shirt aside to look, a groan escaped him. She sighed, taking that the wrong way, too. “You did, didn’t you? Was it when you lifted the rottweiler? It’s probably a pulled muscle.”

He couldn’t have spoken to save his soul. Instead he sat and let her massage him, her fingers gentle but firm. Pleasure began in tiny pinpricks and expanded into the glowing heat of fierce arousal. His cock swelled against his jeans, aching for her touch. Her fingers brushed the nape of his neck and it was all he could do not to shift and tug her over the back of the couch. At last he could take no more.

“Much better,” he rasped.

He pushed to his feet and muttered some excuse about checking something in the barn. The truth was, he needed the distance. Sadly, the cold didn’t dampen his desire any, but he could get out of the house at least.

By the time he went to bed, he was wound so tight he might break. Time to take matters into his own hands. He made sure the door was shut and the house was quiet and then he lay down on his bed. Instead of the old fantasy, he built a new one.

Neva, as she’d looked today. Only she wouldn’t talk about being friends or wonder whether he’d hurt himself doing manual labor. When she came to him, her eyes would show the same heat he felt. He imagined pulling the shirt over her head to reveal her pretty breasts. She had a small waist and a sweet flare of hips. He didn’t want to rush this. If this was all he’d ever get of her, he’d make it last.
Jeans off, now.
She wore nothing but a tiny pair of panties and she spun teasingly to show him her delicious ass. He’d drag her down on him so he could watch her face.

I want you,
she’d whisper.
I’ve wanted you for years. I can’t wait.

He knew that wasn’t true. Right now that didn’t matter at all.

His breathing quickened. With his own hands, he touched himself as he wanted her to. Delicate, teasing fingertips on belly and chest. Not him. Her. Phantom fingertips brushed his balls and his inner thighs. He felt her mouth on him, hotly kissing a path down from his neck.

In his encounters with women, they’d expected him to do all the work. And he knew how. A man put in the time to earn the prize. But in this fantasy,
she
made love to him while he lay beneath her. The real Neva probably wouldn’t be like this in bed, but in his head, she wanted to please him.

Nobody ever had, and it was such a powerful picture that he lost it. He forgot he wasn’t alone in the house. Zeke wrapped his hand around his cock at last. A low moan escaped him. It had been so fucking long.

A whisper of movement outside the door stilled him. Nobody else would’ve noticed it, not right now.
Especially
not now. But he felt her as much as heard her, lingering there. Smelled her honey-almond lotion. Did she know? She made no sounds, and she didn’t move away. If she wanted something, she’d call out, surely.

It would kill him to go see what the problem was . . . and he couldn’t do it right away, but if something was wrong—and then came the slow turn of the knob. The door inched open a fraction, and stayed there, just a slice of darkness. Still no movement. No hint anyone was there.

For all her talk of friendship, she wanted to watch, and that knowledge lit a fire in him. It meant she was curious about him as a man. As Zeke closed his eyes, his hand started moving almost on its own. It wasn’t a conscious decision. He felt her gaze on his body, traveling over him like a touch.

Her breath hitched, and it sparked him hotter to know she liked what she saw. He wished she’d push the door open, but if she did, then he’d have to stop. This way, he could pretend he didn’t know she was there. He could finish the secret show.

Working faster, he knew it wouldn’t take much longer. If she hadn’t shown, he could’ve controlled himself. But she drove him wild with her unexpected curiosity and her quick, shallow gasps. Soft sounds reached him.

Oh, God, was
she
. . . too?

Even if she wasn’t, the mere idea offered more push than he could stand. A low grown tore from him as he came. Her footsteps whispered away then.

Zeke lay there, shaking. Pleasure streaked through him. For the first time in longer than he could recall, he felt like a man—and it was because of her reaction. He couldn’t be as worthless as he’d thought, if she had any interest in him. Maybe she just liked watching, maybe it was a secret thing of hers, but he couldn’t help the cocky feeling that came over him. He found himself smiling for no reason at all.