Designed for Love (Texas Nights) (19 page)

The hand between her legs stilled as she watched him pump himself.

“Don’t stop,” he barked, making her jump, but spurring her on again.

“I thought you wanted to finish me.”

“Jesus.” He yanked her hips forward and twisted the fabric on her hip in one fist. Thread popped and silk ripped. One hand still around his dick, he shoved her panties down one leg, then came back and pushed one blunt finger into her. Her muscles squeezed, rippled.

“Condom,” he rasped.

She reached behind him, took advantage of his busy hands to cup his ass. But when he tweaked her clit, almost pushing her into O-land, she shoved her hand into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, felt for the square package.

She ripped it open. It took both hands to smooth it over his tight skin. So hot. He would warm her from the inside out. As soon as she had him covered, he shoved her thighs wide, pushed his hips forward and slid home.

And oh God, that was exactly what it felt like. Home.

* * *

Holy God and all the angels in heaven. Mac was pretty sure he’d just heard the strum of harps, the feel of Ash’s body was so freaking
heavenly.
And how unbelievably sappy was that?

Sappy but true.

He paused to catch his breath. If he didn’t slow down, he wouldn’t honor his promise to finish her because he’d be too busy finishing himself instead.

Not happening.

“Mac?” Ash ran a hand over his shoulder, up the side of his neck to cup his cheek. Looked at him with sex-blissed eyes. Or maybe that was what love looked like. His stomach jumped at the thought. “Everything okay?”

So much better than okay it wasn’t even funny. “Just gathering my stamina.”

Her laugh was low, sexy as all hell. When he flexed his fingers on her hips and pushed his forward, that laugh dragged out into a moan. Her teasing fingertips on the back of his neck, playing with his hair, shot sensation down his spine to settle heavy in his balls. He wanted to just let go, slam into her. Forget why he’d felt it a good idea to make love to her on this bike. Forget how fucking miserable it would feel to leave her behind when he returned to Dallas.

Taking a woman on a motorcycle should feel illicit, hurried, a little dirty.

Illicit, he could cop to.

But he refused to hurry and nothing he ever did to or with this woman felt in the least
dirty.
It just felt bone-deep
right.

He palmed her ass, tilting her up, opening her wider, forcing her to brace one hand on the seat behind her. The other she kept wrapped around his neck. He leaned over her, pressed light kisses along her fragile collarbone. Nipped the hollow at the base of her throat. She pushed her naked breasts against his chest, almost derailing his concentration. But he took his time, gave the same attention to the other side of her body.

She squirmed against him, trying to push her lower body closer to his. The friction had Mac’s eyes rolling back in his head. Still, he leisurely skimmed his lips down the slope of her breast, hesitated just above her nipple.

“If I kill you right now, any jury in this country would rule it justifiable homicide.”

Mac smiled against her skin. When he finally sucked her nipple into his mouth, Ash’s head fell back.

This was what he wanted. What he needed. A strong woman who knew what
she
wanted, was willing to ask for it, but was also willing to take what came and make it work for her. He needed a woman who saw the world in vivid blues, greens and oranges. Someone who could appreciate the beauty and the awe, but still deal in reality.

Fuck it. What he needed was this woman.

His body knew it. His brain knew it. Maybe it was time his heart got with the fucking program.

“Brace your other hand behind you.”

She didn’t hesitate. Her beautiful golden skin glowed in the moonlight. Her hair streamed down behind her shoulders skimming the leather seat. The contrast was a turn-on in itself.

Unimpeded, he ran his hands over her satin skin. His rough palms over her smoothness seemed almost sinful, but she arched into his touch, telling him it was a contrast she enjoyed. Made sense why some religions believed making love was a way to get closer to God. Because this was about as close as Mac had ever been. Would ever get.

Slowly, to pay the proper homage, he slid back. The hot, wet drag on his dick made him clench his jaw. Yeah, this was heaven all right. No wonder mere humans couldn’t look straight at God. It was too much, too good, too intense.

Too everything.

Just as slowly, he pushed back into her tightness until he was buried again. He could do this all night. Or until his heart stopped.

Out.
Breathe.
In.
Don’t lose control.
Still, he watched. Couldn’t help himself. The sight of his dick, slick with all her wet heat, becoming part of her, was so right.

“This so trumps the high heels.” He pushed deep. Breathed through his nose to beat back the pulses squeezing his balls. When he tried to pull away and her muscles clenched around him, those pulses became drumbeats. “Ashton, I’m holding on by a thread here.”

“You can’t control everything. Some things just happen, Mac. And we recover later.”

Her words sent a bolt of pain through his chest. Yeah, shit happened all right.

But not tonight.

He cupped a breast in one hand, played her nipple until it was tight and swollen. Then he thumbed her clit, circling and teasing until it matched her nipple.

Then, he finally moved again, pumping his hips forward in varying depths and force. And hell yeah, she clamped down on his dick until the friction made him as drunk as he’d ever been. Her hips pumped against him, and the high sound she made was both demanding and pleading.

“Give it up for me,” he said.

“You have no idea what I’d give up for you.”

Those words steamrolled through his hazy brain, but before he could decipher them, Ashton threw back her head and groaned. Ground her body against his. Her orgasm shuddered through her body and into his.

He was floating, unleashed, about to blow apart. So he took her mouth, grounding himself in reality. In her. Kissed her with hot, openmouthed strokes while he stroked in and out of her body.

When she wrapped her arms around him, clung to him as if he was everything she ever wanted in the world, Mac finally let go. Finally let what he felt for this woman crash over him.

Chapter Nineteen

His heart was working overtime. Not only to come to grips with what he felt for Ashton Davenport, the most unlikely woman in the world for him, but also for the fact that they’d just loved away all the ghosts and guilt associated with this hunk of metal and leather and chrome.

Ashton had yet to open her eyes after the explosion of their orgasms. But the flush on her cheeks and the smile touching her lips told Mac they were on the same page.

Her lids fluttered open, exposing eyes sleepy with satisfaction. “Can we do that again?”

He hadn’t even pulled out of her body yet, and his dick was already nodding its head in agreement. But they really should try a bed at some point. “Um...”

“I never realized sex on a motorcycle would be so...delicious.”

Shit. She didn’t mean making love with him again. She meant she wanted him to do her on his bike again. “I’m getting rid of it.”

Ashton’s body tensed. “But...but you obviously love it.”

He eased out of the warm heaven of her body. Swung a leg over the bike, turned his back to deal with the condom. “Actually, I hate it.”

The sound she made was half gasp and half huff. “How can you say that after...”

He hung his head but didn’t turn back to her. “Making love to you on that seat is the single best thing that’s ever happened on that bike. As a last memory, I’ll take it.” Hell, take it? He’d like to immortalize this night. “I’m not one to tempt fate so I’ll sell it as soon as I can get someone to take it off my hands.”

Rustling came from behind him. Then warm, naked skin pressed against his back, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Mac, tell me.”

He laughed, but it was a pained grunt. “Wanted to show my dad what a big shit I’d become. What I could afford. The kind of toys I had.”

She molded tighter against him.

“What the fuck I was thinking, I don’t know. My dad had never ridden something like this bike. But he was never one to walk away from a new experience.” Mac drew a breath, let the crickets and frogs fill the silence while he got his shit together. “He thought it would be a good idea to take it out on the LBJ Freeway. The freeway, for fuck’s sake. The man lived in a place where a divided highway was the biggest road in town.”

“Oh, Mac.” Her palms splayed over his chest, over his heart, but they didn’t ease his conscience any.

“They said he was probably doing seventy or eighty. Trying to keep up with traffic. He lived long enough for my mom to make it to the hospital. But Jesus, the shape he was in.”

“He wasn’t wearing a helmet?”

“That’s the one thing I’d insisted on. But he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. No jacket, no leather.” The pressure in his chest rose, punched its way up his throat. Exploded into a shuddering sob. And that was downright pathetic. “The way he looked when my mom saw him. He was...shredded.”

Her cool hands smoothed over his burning skin. Remembering the sight of his dad, skin stripped from his flesh, from his bones, crashed into Mac’s midsection, and he stumbled away from Ashton’s hold. His abs jumped as his body tried to expel that memory physically. He dug a fist under his ribcage to stop the contractions. Even he knew vomiting wasn’t the way to end a lakeside seduction and subsequent confession.

He breathed in the cool evening air in controlled, even inhales, letting it ease the pain in his gut. “When he saw her, he smiled. That cocky, sonofabitching grin he always gave her when he’d done something stupid but fun. And you know what he said?”

Ashton said nothing. Of course, she didn’t know.

“He said, ‘I always told you I’d go out in flames.’” And the sound his mom had made was half laugh, half sob. “Was friggin’ nice enough not to die until she left the room.”

“How long was this before your business crashed?” Her voice came from a distance. Smart woman to stay away.

“I never could get my shit together after that. Started drinking way too much, showing up at job sites late, basically dialing it in. Didn’t take much for someone else to swoop in and snatch up that development I was supposed to build. So not only did my dad die, but I let everything I’d worked so hard to build, to prove to him, just go straight down the shitter.”

“You were grieving.”

“That’s not an excuse. I should’ve gotten my ass back in the game. To just give up after...that...it was wrong. It was like waving a big old fuck-you sign at everything my dad represented. Everything he’d done to help me become the man I am. Was.” He swiped a hand across his mouth and swung around expecting to see that sad sympathy that had been in everyone’s face for months after his dad’s death. Instead, her hands were on her hips as though she was about to tear into him.

“Did you just give up?”

“Look where I am.” He threw out his arms. “Look what I’m doing.”

Her face closed down, and she turned away to gather her clothes, still scattered around the bike. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I thought you were doing good things for good people. I thought you were building a future for your mom. That we were building something special together.”

“You don’t understand.”

That brought her head up. “Michael Something-or-another McLaughlin, I completely understand the need to prove yourself. Believe me, you’ve already done that once. Me? This is
my
chance. It may look like a child’s game to you. But to the people around here, the Community at Lily Lake could be a big deal. A make-it-or-break-it deal.”

And she saw it as a make-it-or-break-it deal for her too. “It may take you longer than you thought. You may have to do some things differently, but eventually, you’ll—”

“You never really gave a crap about this project, did you?” She hooked her bra, drew it up over her breasts like Xena’s armor.

“Ash, I—”

“I get it. I begged you to take it on. But that doesn’t mean you really cared about it. That it was more than a way for you to make a little money. You never believed it would put you back on the map, did you? You thought you’d do your little bit and the whole thing would fritter out after you left. But no big deal, right? Because Ashton Davenport is just a flighty blonde bobblehead. She’ll find some other little project to occupy her time. Doesn’t matter if she disappoints the people in this town. Doesn’t matter if she disappoints herself.”

“You have to understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly, Mac. There’s no room in your bed, no room in your life, because you and your guilt are taking up all the room. All the space. You know what, that’s just fine, because three’s a crowd, so as of now, you and that guilt can cuddle up without me.”

Chapter Twenty

Mac was a bastard. He’d known that for a long time, but he’d never taken it out on someone the way he’d bashed Ashton with it last night. Even Napoleon had looked disappointed in him when he’d driven them home.

He circled their ruined pavilion, kicking up dirt and generally feeling like an asshole.

The sound of a car brought his head up. His hope that it was Ashton died a quick, but not painless, death. Instead of her zippy little convertible, a Buick Roadmaster came rumbling up to the job site. It came to a stop, and an older woman wearing a lime-green hoodie and matching pants stepped out.

“Michael McLaughlin?”

Mac closed his eyes momentarily. If Adelaide Chappell was here, it meant things were bad. Worse than he’d even thought.

He strode across the ruined slab toward Ashton’s grandmother. “Yes, ma’am?”

She stood at the hood of her car, hand on her hips, surveying the abandoned job site. “Well, this is a fucking mess, isn’t it? I have to say I expected better of you. Of my granddaughter.”

Could he save this whole project for Ashton? She thought he wasn’t invested in it. In her. Maybe he hadn’t been in the beginning. And now? Now he needed to make it right for her before he had a prayer of sorting out his own shit. “All it needs is another load of cem—”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Adelaide stalked toward the pavilion. “Idea was good, but execution was piss-poor.”

Might as well have shot him with a staple gun. How could she talk about her granddaughter, his lover, that way? “Wait a damned minute—”

She swung around to stare him down. “I got her in over her head, didn’t I?”

“How was she supposed to know a crazy environmentalist would show up and throw a kink in the plans?”

Her eyes—the same blue as her granddaughter’s—narrowed. “Kink is just another word for life. Nobody gets a free lunch. Nobody gets an easy ride. And if Ashton thought she could just pirouette around, bat her lashes, and have this project magically build itself, then she’s not the woman I thought she was.”

“She’s trying like hell to work through the kinks.”

Adelaide cocked her head, scanned him from the toe of his work boots to the top of his head. “Does that include sleeping with her general contractor?”

His spine went as straight as a plumb line. “That’s really not—”

“Really not what? Not my business?” She rolled a hand toward the water and trees lining it. “This land is worth millions. It’s not a plaything.”

“Ashton hasn’t been playing out here.”

“Oh, so she’s been doing the slap-and-tickle thing somewhere else?”

If Adelaide had been fifty years younger and had a penis, Mac would’ve decked her. Seeing as she wasn’t and didn’t, he clenched his fists and rolled his head on his neck. “I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating. And I doubt like hell Ashton would either.”

“So you’re telling me whatever you and my granddaughter have been doing isn’t just a booty call?”

Mac’s face went hot. How had he gotten himself into a conversation talking about his sex life with his lover’s grandmother? “You don’t have much respect for her, do you?” That was when he caught her in a lip quirk. “Do you have something up your sleeve?”

“How do you feel about my granddaughter, Michael?”

Something low in his stomach gurgled, and he didn’t think it was the three cups of coffee he’d guzzled earlier. “I...”

“Cat got your tongue?”

Yeah, something the size of a Siberian tiger. He swiped a hand across his mouth. “You’re not giving her enough credit. I wasn’t sure if she had the goods when she approached me about this project. But she’s a hard worker. She’s determined. Does she make mistakes on occasion? Sure. But don’t we all?”

His own words went electric inside his head.
Don’t we all make mistakes?

“Up to the time she moved to Shelbyville, Ashton’s life was a cakewalk. She was never really exposed to life’s hardships. Money can certainly protect a person, but it can also insulate. Cripple at its worst. I’m not interested in having a crippled granddaughter.” When she poked him in the chest, he realized exactly where Ashton had inherited all that grit. “I want to know when I leave this world that she’ll be able to handle anything life throws at her. Maybe not always with grace. But I need to know she won’t get knocked to her knees and be unable to get back up.”

“Is that what this whole thing has been about?” Stupid question. Of course it had.

“Do you believe she has what it takes to finish this project?”

“Without a single doubt.”

“If you’re willing to trust me, no matter how tough it may be, you’ll get what you wanted out of the whole deal. I’ll take care of you. Make sure you’re able to go back to Dallas with your head held high. Put a bug in the right people’s ears.”

And wasn’t that what he’d wanted all along? To regain his reputation as a sober—and sane—contractor rather than the complete fuck-up he’d been right after his dad died? And if Ashton’s grandmother really had her best interests at heart, surely she wouldn’t let her fail. “I’d hate to see everything she’s worked so hard for—not only the development but her self-confidence—trampled in the process.”

“You’re telling me
you
don’t believe in her? I thought you said she had grit.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Damn, Adelaide Chappell was a piranha. But it was clear she loved her granddaughter. “Maybe even as much as you.”

Her smile and nod said she took pride in that. “Then it’s time to take it up a notch.”

* * *

Staring at the pine ceiling since the early morning hadn’t done a thing for Ashton’s mood. It wasn’t black. Even brown didn’t quite peg it.

Gray. Not pewter. Too shiny. Not gunmetal. Too tough.

More like ash gray.

When he’d driven her back to his place to pick up Napoleon, Mac had tried to open the conversational door several times, but Ashton had shut him down. After all this bullshit with the project, with him, she just hadn’t been able to muster the energy to talk, even to listen.

He’d respected that, dropping her and Napoleon back at the cabin without touching her again.

Ashton had never felt as cold, as alone, as she had last night.

Still she dragged herself out of the bed, stumbled into the bathroom. Her hair was a Medusa mess of wind-whipped snarls. That was fixable with enough conditioner. But the flatness in her eyes and the bags under them would be harder to camouflage.

Still, she had to get her shit together if she planned to hit the streets again today to track down the person who’d ripped out those plants and screwed up her life.

Okay, not fair. She’d done plenty to screw up her own life. But dammit, she was trying to turn things around, and she didn’t need other people dragging her down.

She stepped into the old clawfoot tub, tried to soothe herself with the water. She’d just soaped up her hair when the plastic shower curtain was ripped open. Her arms immediately crossed over her breasts, but the scream petered out in her throat when she spotted her intruder. Gigi.

“For God’s sake, Gigi, I’m naked.”

“Like it matters. I changed your diapers.”

“Well, then you’re letting the cold air in.”

“Get out. We need to talk.”

Ashton quickly scrubbed down and rinsed off. She wouldn’t put it past Gigi to turn her water off at the valve if she lingered. A sleep shirt and satin tap pants were the first things at hand so she pulled them on and headed for the kitchen.

A mottled blue coffeepot sat on the stove, which Gigi had cranked up to nuclear. The scent of scorched coffee permeated the space. “How in the hell can you stand living without a proper coffeemaker?”

Yeah, the machine she used to own, the one able to whip every coffee drink known to man—and possibly invent some of its own—with a single button press, had been sold on Craigslist.

Ashton grabbed a hot pad and snatched the enamel pot off the stove. She drained the whole mess and washed it out to start the process again. “I’ve learned to do a few things for myself.”

“Like get yourself in a hell of a mess, you mean?”

“That’s not exactly fair.”

“Life’s not fair.”

Couldn’t argue with that. “I know you’re upset, but I’m working on this, and I’ll find the person responsible—”

“Did you know that old coot Wurzenbach apparently has friends in Austin?”

“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“You didn’t take him seriously enough. Thought you could bat your baby blues at him and everything would be okay.” Gigi rooted through a cabinet and plopped two cups onto the table. “I’m having to call in favors I’d reserved for this health-care bill to keep the state environmental agencies from rushing in to shut this whole project down. On top of that, you’re doing the hoochie-coochie with your general contractor. Is that what you consider professional behavior? Dammit, Ashton, this isn’t middle school. It’s business.”

Why deny their involvement? It was true, and Gigi wouldn’t believe her if she tried to lie about it. “How did you find out?”

“I have my sources.”

Suddenly freezing with her wet hair and skimpy clothes, Ashton held out her hands to the coffeepot to warm them. “How do you know Mac McLaughlin? Why did you rent a piece of land to him?”

“I had a few dealings with his company when he was in Dallas.”

“Have you been keeping tabs on me? You trusted me so little that you installed a mole in my team to blab about every misstep I made? Every failure?”

“Mac’s a professional.”

“Tell me, Gigi. Did you happen to pay Mac a little visit before coming here?”

“That’s not the point.”

Oh, it was so the point. The man she’d fallen in love with had sold her out. And for what, a chance to impress Adelaide Chappell? She’d show him. Show every-damn-one. “It doesn’t matter. I just need a little more time to track down—”

“No.”

“What?”

“Sweetheart, I just can’t afford for you to muck this up any more.”

Pain shot up Ashton’s arms and settled in her chest. So bad it burned. She glanced down at her hand and realized she’d reached out and grabbed the coffeepot handle. She let it go and thrust it away. The pot clattered off the burner, tipped over, and splattered dark liquid and grounds onto the stovetop. Turning away to run her palm under cool water, she tried to breathe through the pain. “So you’re shutting the project down?”

“Not exactly.”

A blip in her chest. Hope. “Once I find those plants, we can retrench, then—”

“As of now—” Gigi wiped at the mess on the stove, sloshing grounds everywhere, “—I’m taking over the project.”

“So I’ll help you—”

“Ashton, I’m trying to tell you that you’re fired.”

Grabbing a scalding coffeepot was nothing compared to being burned by your own family.

* * *

Once Gigi was gone, Ashton stomped around the kitchen, cleaning up the coffee mess. Did a much better job of it than her grandmother had.

Gigi had given her a pink slip. Maybe she should just go back to trying to drum up design business. She still loved decorating work, but dammit, with Lily Lake she had the opportunity to create something bigger, more beautiful, with more of an impact than simply choosing sitting room drapes.

Time to slap mental butter on her scorched feelings and use the residual energy to do something other than feel sorry for herself. Her grandmother wasn’t the only woman who could take control, make things happen.

So Ashton headed to gossip central. If she needed the town’s help, and she did in a bad way, she had to reach out to them. When she walked into Bitsy Miller’s The Big Bangs, the beauty shop smelled of nail polish remover and hair color. A docked iPod blared out country music, but that was mere background accompaniment to the chatter pinballing back and forth from the salon chairs to the mani-pedi chairs. Didn’t matter that the treatments were performed in separate little rooms in the converted frame house. This type of conversation pierced walls.

Bitsy was snipping away at a woman’s hair when Ashton approached her. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Bitsy’s eyes went wide. She grabbed a hank of Ashton’s hair, pulled her close. “You’re finally here. Oh, I can’t wait to get my hands on this stuff.”

Ashton flashed her a we-can-both-win smile, even though she really wanted to wince. “That’s not really why I’m—”

Apparently, Bitsy had gone deaf because she herded Ashton to a chair and whipped a black cape around her shoulders. “Just give me two shakes to finish this cut.” She rushed back to her client, leaving Ashton gripping the chair’s arms. White knuckles and chipped nail polish. How the mighty fell.

She’d just have to play this Bitsy’s way. How bad could it be?

Fifteen minutes later, Bitsy was back, rooting through Ashton’s hair as though they were both orangutans and she was seeking out the juiciest fleas. “Basement doesn’t match the attic, now does it?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d bet you anything these drapes—” she lifted the ends of Ashton’s hair, waggled them toward the mirror, “—are lighter than the carpet.”

Only force of will kept Ashton from sliding down in the chair. Her salon in Houston had been paid dearly never to say those words aloud. In fact, she’d paid them a boatload to make sure the carpet was an exact match to the drapes. Unfortunately, her Berber had been a little neglected lately. “I need your help.”

“About time you figured that out.” Bitsy dragged her back out of the chair and led her to the shampoo bowls. “By the time you leave here, you’re not even going to know yourself.”

Ashton hadn’t realized all her internal organs knew how to cringe. Her back stiff, she reclined in the chair, let Bitsy wet her hair with perfectly moderated warm water. “You’ve heard about what’s happening out at the Lily Lake project, right?”

Bitsy lifted an eyebrow. “Are you insulting me for a reason?”

“I guess the better question is
what
you’ve heard.”

“Depends on who’s talking.”

She couldn’t help herself. “What’s the overall consensus?”

“Well, the pot’s up to about fifteen hundred, and the odds are four to one against you.”