Need You for Mine (Heroes of St. Helena) (20 page)

Holding her gaze, he traced a fingertip down the curve of her neck, across her flat stomach, and all the way to her waist, loving how her muscles quivered in his wake. Then with purpose he slid both hands around until they were cupping her amazing ass and,
man
, two perfect handfuls.

“Are we talking a matching set, or do you have Honeysuckle under there?” he asked.

“Seeing my panties is strictly a third-date event,” she said with a sinful smile. “Being that this is our first, I didn’t wear any.”

“Thank Christ for first dates,” he said, his body tightening at the information. With a growl he lifted her up. “Wrap your legs around me, sunshine. This exploration is about to get real.”

She did as she was told and he had every intention of walking them into the room, but she started kissing him and playing with his belt, and before he knew it, his pants were around his hips and she was pressed against the wall.

“Here?” he asked against her lips.

He thought she mumbled something about a cat but it was hard to hear what she was saying with her tongue down his throat. Then her legs tightened around him and so did her hand and—
sweet baby Jesus
—his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his knees started to buckle.

She was an artist all right. Fucking Picasso, with the way she used sure, smooth strokes and deliberate brushes to drive him right up to the edge, again and again, until he was certain he’d go all the way over if he didn’t do something quick.

Using the wall for leverage, he slid one hand down her ass and beneath, pulling the perfectly-too-short shorts to the side and doing some creative reaching to give a stroke of his own. It wasn’t Picasso, because, hell, he was limited holding her with one hand, but it was enough to have her gasping. The second stroke had her moaning his name, and the third? He added a little brush combo at the end that had her whole body tensing. So he did it again, loving how she grabbed his wrist and held him there, as if afraid he’d stop before she got her cookies.

Not his style.

“Tell me what you want, Harper. More of this?” Stroke. Brush.

Her head fell back against the wall, thrusting her breasts up and her hips forward, increasing the friction—and the heat. Always good with orders, he started pumping and stroking and the way she closed around his fingers when he sank even deeper was enough to drive a man insane.

“Yes, more of that,” she moaned.

“There you go again, making this too easy. You haven’t heard the other options. Like this,” he said, giving her a kiss that was meant to rock her world, and by the way she clung to him, he figured he’d rocked it hard.

“Or maybe some of this?” Tilting his head down, he captured her nipple in his mouth, which was right there begging for attention. He gave a sharp bite, then soothed it with his tongue. “What will it be, sunshine?”

“All,” she said on a scream.

Adam did just that. He had her groaning in one kiss, shuddering with a well-placed nibble to her swollen breasts, and exploding when he applied the right kind of stroke in the right kind of spot. Her body clamped around his hand as her orgasm took her higher and higher.

She sighed and one leg slid to the floor and that was when she looked up at him through desire-hazed eyes and said, “I want it all.”

And with her hair messy from his fingers, her lips bruised from his kisses, and her voice hoarse from crying out his name, Adam decided he wanted it all too.

Things got a little frantic, him working the bow, her searching for the condom that was—
bingo
—in his back pocket. A few seconds and one hell of a rubdown later, he was wrapped, she was ready, and they met in the middle with a single thrust.

She gasped. He nearly cried. Then neither of them moved, neither one of them breathed. They stood there, her right leg on the floor, her left locked around his back, and he was finally where he wanted to be.

After he could breathe without the fear of his lungs collapsing from pleasure, he shifted his hips ever so slowly, and she landed a move that was so unexpected it was like a wrecking ball right through his chest.

She tightened her arms around his neck, then kissed his nose, his chin, and finally his lips as she moved in sync with him.

Sweet, God so fucking sweet it hurt, then she pulled him in for what had to be the most erotic and all-encompassing embrace he’d ever been given and he knew he was in trouble. There they were, half naked, fucking up against the wall, his pants around his ankles, his shirt bunched up around his waist, and Harper somehow made this moment special. Made him feel special.

And he liked it. More than he should.

“You feel so good,” he said, but what he really meant was that around her he felt good. Terrified, confused, scared shitless, but good.

As if this were right.

She tightened her arms around him in a way that was all Harper, and Adam finally let go.

The free fall started, pumping through his veins and rocking his body. Harper felt it too because she started to tighten around him, and breathing turned nonexistent, as if his chest were too big for his skin, and he wanted to deploy the chute and free-fall forever all at the same time.

Then she lifted her head to meet his gaze straight on, looking at him as though he was her choice, the right choice, and—bam—he was a goner.

The pressure built, hotter and higher, and Harper must have let go too, because he felt her start to shake and then she was crying out his name. Chanting it really.

Not that he was one to talk, since he was doing some chanting of his own, and he finally gave in to the heat. Everything went black and he dropped his head to her shoulder, pressed his face to her throat, and took her in, while she melted into him, both breathing hard.

“Those were some pretty amazing cookies,” she said into his neck.

Adam laughed, and when he was no longer afraid of his legs buckling, he looked up and what he saw looking back had him smiling. Man, she was gorgeous and sweet and funny—a total turn-on.

“I was thinking that the next batch could be enjoyed in bed,” he said.

“That depends.”

He lifted a brow. “On what?”

“How do you feel about Grumpy Cat?”

“Never met a kitty I couldn’t get purring.” To prove it, he threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold and headed down the hallway.

I
t had been several days since the impromptu dinner at the station—and dessert at her place—and Harper could still feel her body tingling. No matter how many times she told herself it was just chemistry, or applied soothing body lotion, the tingling wouldn’t go away.

It had started in her lips the minute she realized it wasn’t a
for show
kind of smooch, spread south when she found him on her front porch, and finally reached her toes when they staged an impromptu photo shoot in her apartment Friday morning, and continued tingling straight through the weekend. It stuck with her through Monday’s papier-mâché class where Tommy mistook a bowl of paste for pudding, Tuesday’s nine hours of burning the midnight oil with the campaign mockup, and this morning’s argument over why Spanx for men was not upping the store’s swagger.

“Tell me again why we’re putting the girdles at the back of the store,” Clovis said, resting her cane between two display shelves, creating a makeshift rolling rack.

Jabba lifted his head from the garbage can under the counter and locked eyes on the cane.

“Maybe you need to get a hearing aid to go with that cane,” Ida Beamon, one of Clovis’s oldest friends, said. She was hanging a collection of nude-colored body-slimmers from the cane. “The girl already told you that girdles don’t really say
youthful allure
.”

“Tell me how alluring it is when all that vintage-grade cottage cheese is flapping in the wind,” Clovis argued, but she picked up one end of the cane, while Ida grabbed the other. Together, they navigated their way toward the back of the store, Jabba hot on their trail. “Plus they’re our biggest sellers. There’s no sense in making people walk all the way to the back to get the biggest sellers.”

“Actually, back-loading the store with everyday necessities that are not necessarily sexy is a perfect merchandising strategy,” Harper said as she slipped a summery-style negligée over the mannequin in the front window. “It forces people to walk past the beautifully displayed babydolls and French décolletés with the matching garter-panties you just got in.”

“I agree with Harper. Babydolls up front is smart merchandising,” Peggy said from beside Harper, and everyone groaned.

Not that Harper didn’t appreciate the support, but Peggy had been agreeing with Harper all morning. She’d walked into the shop with a bag of cookies and a smile, sporting Harper’s cardigan and a necklace that looked vaguely familiar, then planted herself directly at Harper’s side.

“I don’t look good in babydolls,” Clovis mumbled, moving the girdles to the hooks on the back wall. “They make me look top-heavy.”

“You don’t
look
it. You
are
,” Ida said to Clovis, who repositioned her top half with pride.

Peggy grabbed a babydoll off the rack and held it up to her frame, then looked in the mirror—more specifically at her top half. She twisted side to side a few times, watching the material flirt in the mirror on the far wall.

“Plus, National Underwear Day is Tuesday,” Harper pointed out, fully aware that Peggy had turned to stare at her mouth. “We want to highlight the seductive side of the shop. Show the customers that lingerie can be fun, flirty, sensual.”

“Seductive side,” Peggy repeated, her voice pitched eerily close to Harper’s. “Fun, flirty, sensual.” She drew out each word, careful to bite her lips on each hard consonant.

Ignoring the mockingbird to her right, Harper went back to her mannequin. Which meant Peggy smoothed the mesh over her cleavage, then released a big sigh before going back to her own mannequin.

When Peggy couldn’t keep her eyes off the babydoll, Harper asked, “So how did it go with the
teeth too white to be real
guy at the senior center?”

“It was going well until that floozy from the over-fifty-five community started flaunting her menopause glow around the dance floor,” Peggy said, her voice much softer than her words. “The man leaves his glasses at home for the night and suddenly every AARP card–carrying woman in town notices him.”

“I’m so sorry, Peggy.” Harper’s heart went out to the older woman. “But if he gets dazzled by something as ordinary as menopause glow, then he’s”—Harper lowered her voice and repeated the best advice she’d been given as of late—“a dumbass.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t think, I know. Just like I know there is someone even better out there for you,” Harper said confidently. If someone hadn’t been brave enough to tell Harper the same thing, she’d still be waiting on a man who was dazzled by designer boobs. Instead she’d had cookies—a baker’s dozen to be exact—with one of the sweetest, sexiest, and most sensitive guys in town. “And if you want that babydoll, then get it for
you
. Not some guy with too-white teeth.”

Peggy patted Harper’s hand in gratitude, then blinked back a little moisture. When the blinking didn’t work and the tears became real, Peggy diverted the attention off her by asking, “Is that magenta trim on the blue netting?”

“It’s actually bougainvillea-colored silk trim on aqua mesh. I think it will capture a lot of foot traffic.” It was vibrant, breezy, flirty—and exactly what they needed to appeal to a new variety of clientele. The same clientele Lulu Allure was targeting. “And it would go lovely with your eyes.”

Even though Harper knew she’d have to rehang and reshelve everything the ladies touched, and make sure Clovis didn’t put the girdles in the window display the second Harper left for work, she loved spending time with her grandma and the girls. They’d been a steady fixture in her life since she was a little girl. Her mom would shuttle Harper from theater to theater, but when a big role came along she’d drop Harper off at Clovis’s.

All three of these ladies had taken her in as if she were theirs. Embraced her and all of her eccentricities. Treated her as if who she was at her core was too special to be overlooked.

Harper’s phone buzzed from the pocket of her dress. She fished it out and sucked in a breath. “Oh my God. It’s Chantel.” She showed the caller name on the screen to Peggy. “She must have received the few photos I sent over.”

Harper had wanted to make sure that what she was doing matched Chantel’s expectations. But she’d only sent them that morning—it was too early to hear back. Unless she loved them.

Or didn’t.

“If you mean the ones of Mr. July pulling a Magic Mike in my back room, then put it on speaker so the girls and I can hear,” Clovis said, dropping the girdles and hobbling across the store.

Harper didn’t bother to ask how
the girls
knew about those photos. They’d been taken in this very shop and touched up in her apartment, which her grandmother had a key to—and used at will.

“We don’t have all day. Answer it before she gets impatient and we miss out on talking about those photos,” Ida said.

“You think this will be one of those video chats?” Clovis asked, her voice all atwitter. “If so, she might hold up those photos so we can get a better look at them. See if he was stuffing the shorts or if it was real.”

It was real all right. Everything about Adam felt real when they were together. So real that the tingling had lasted for days.

Harper took in a few calming breaths so she wouldn’t sound as if she were hyperventilating, or daydreaming about her faux-mance that was turning out to be the most real romance she’d ever had, and swiped the screen. “Hey, Chantel.”

“Sorry I’m calling so early. It’s going to get crazy busy here later, and I didn’t want to miss the chance to call.”

“It’s perfect timing, I’m at the shop,” Harper said, and walked out the front door to gain some semblance of privacy. Not that it worked, as three frosted heads and one drooling dog pressed their faces to the window. Harper turned to face the street. “Actually, I’m working on a new window display for National Underwear Day.”

“If it’s anything like the images you sent over, I want to see it,” Chantel said, and Harper swallowed.

She looked at the bright, whimsical, summer-loving theme and then thought about the deep masculine undertones of the photo shoots. “It really makes a statement, if that’s what you mean.”

“Statement?” Chantel laughed. “Those images were a visual orgasm. They were raw, erotic, captivating, a feminine take on male sexuality. I had to open a bottle of wine while looking at them. Your branding for the line is light-years ahead of what our marketing team came up with.”

“It is?” Harper did her best not to giggle, but it was hard. That tingling she’d been feeling all week spread to encompass her entire body.

“Lulu Rous agrees. She said the concept was inspired.”

Harper nearly passed out. Lulu Rous was the founder and artistic genius behind Lulu Allure. She was one of the most creative minds in lingerie, and
she
thought
Harper’s
ideas were inspired?

“Thank you,” Harper said, sure she was gushing, but she didn’t care. “I had amazing designs to work with and a subject who is a natural in front of the camera.”

Adam was a natural at everything, it seemed. Modeling, cooking, firefighting . . . sex. He was a real sex ninja—and the idea of sparring with him again was tempting. The thought of doing more with him was dangerous, but dangerous had never seemed so alluring.

“That might be, but your style is in every photo you sent, and the concept sets them apart. It’s so refreshing to see a real man, the kind whose muscles come from hard work and not the gym. I am so tired of these metro-sexual models who know more about fashion than me.”

Harper smothered a laugh, because that was exactly what Adam had said. “I wanted to capture the kind of magnetism a guy puts off after a hard day’s work. Then shoot him in his element to show that swagger is earned, not bought off a rack.”

“‘Swagger is earned, not off the rack,’” Chantel said slowly, as if she was writing it down. “I can’t wait to see the final mockups. And your window display is probably as edgy as your photos.”

“I can send some pictures of the window when it’s done.” Which, based on Harper’s mental calculations of just how long it would take to redo the entire display to match the mood of the photos while putting together the online catalog, helping out with Beat the Heat, and doing her day job, would be Friday night. That was, if she skipped all meals and learned how to sleep standing up.

“Great. If they’re anything like these, Lulu will flip. I can just see the taglines you used on these images.
Real Men Work
.
Real Men Sweat
. My favorite is
Real Men Wear Swagger.
Brilliant.” Chantel paused, and Harper could hear her thinking through the phone. “Wait. I have a better idea. What if we came to you?”

“Here?”

“Photos can be underwhelming, so this way nothing can be lost in translation. Seeing the whole concept, how the store, the new display, the campaign, and Swagger all work together to create a singular vision would be helpful.”

Harper looked inside past the three bobbleheads, to the girdles on the floor, the boxes of new sleepwear still needing to be shelved, and felt the panic settle around her neck. “Ah, when were you thinking?”

“We’re launching the line on National Underwear Day, so what if we came the day before? A little prerelease where I can bring Lulu and the entire team, and if it goes well we can wrap this up before the launch.” Chantel’s voice went serious.

“If you like what you see, then you would offer us the same territory, same exclusive terms?” Harper asked, unable to mask the excitement in her voice. This would change everything for her grandmother. It would also change things for Harper. Just a few weeks working on this project and already look how much her life had changed.

How much she had changed.

“What I experienced when I was there changed my mind about you and the Boulder Holder. I know it will change Lulu’s. She’s looking for a reason to say yes to you, Harper. So am I. Your grandma was one of our first retailers.”

“The first. And would Lulu really want to celebrate her prelaunch here?” Harper asked, because in-person didn’t seem to be her forte when it came to people between the ages of eighteen and fifty-five. The idea of negotiating with a roomful of runway-ready trendsetters and executives made her palms sweat.

“Absolutely,” Chantel said with so much confidence that Harper felt her own lift. “I just got word that Lulu will be flying out for the launch and wanted a work retreat away from the office with the team to finalize things. Wine country is sexy, romantic, enticing, and the perfect place to get in the right mindset. Plus, it’s the perfect timing to showcase the new, beautiful, fresh face of the Boulder Holder.”

Any concerns Harper had vanished. Meeting Lulu was the next logical step, and she had no need to be worried. Making friends was what Harper did. It was how she’d survived eight different schools before the third grade. Sure, she was quirky and sometimes a bit awkward, but she was real, knew how to listen, and, most importantly, she had heart.

Lots of it.

Obviously, that was what Chantel saw in her. It was why she was giving her a shot to prove herself. And Harper wouldn’t let her down. She was going to make that shop and display come to life. She was going to take her concept, which she’d dubbed
real women want real men
, to the next level, and make sure Lulu saw that same potential and determination as Chantel.