Sting (6 page)

“I, ah, thought you might like to try one of these. We just whipped up a fresh batch of lemon and macadamia nut cookies.”

I eye her suspiciously. Lemon is my favourite. “Thanks, I’d love to. I’m big on lemon.”

She smiles, and her shoulders sag. “Yeah, me too. They’re made from my home-grown lemons, although hopefully they grow a bit better next year. I think I need to give them some more TLC.”

“So did you grow up in Freo?”

Her smile drops and she directs her gaze away for a moment. Her shoulders stiffen. “Ah, no,” she says, and turns to leave.

What did I say wrong? One second she’s smiling, and the next she can’t wait to leave.

“Wait,” I say. I’d grab her hand to stop her, but after yesterday, I don’t wanna spook her.

She swings around to face me. “Something else I can get you?” she asks, and blinks a few times in quick succession.
Damn, those lashes.

“I’m sorry if I was out of line yesterday,” I apologise, ignoring her question.

“Don’t be silly. I should be the one apologising. I’m sorry I caused a scene.”

‘What did he do to you?’
I wanna ask. Instead, I’ll try a different tact. “Is there anything I can help with?” Someone I can look into? Beat half to death, perhaps?

A soft smile spreads across her lips. “I’m fine, but thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

I admire her pins as she walks away, and wrap my mouth around the cookie. The tang of the buttery texture melts on my tongue.
Damn
. This woman can cook too.

This, here, is serious dick-hardening material.

****

WILLOW

Since I found out his name yesterday, it’s been on my mind. Somehow, he’s not just a customer anymore. Somehow, it’s more personal now.

And here he is again.

I pour his third coffee for the day. The tingling in my body intensifies. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s a side effect of all rational thought leaving my body.

The more time I spend around him, the more my body reacts. It’s stupid. Seriously stupid. Maybe I should throw myself at him, get this giddy-girl-crush feeling out of my system, and we can both move on. The past has proven that relationships and I aren’t friends. I miss intimacy, but I don’t want to get close. It’s a double-edged sword. Close means questions. I hate lies, so the less I have to tell, the better.

Perhaps a one-night stand will do it?

Ah, who am I kidding? I’ve never had one before, so what on earth would make me want to do it now? The potent sexuality radiating off this guy is slowly turning me stupid. With a wink, and a flash of a dimple here and there he has me wanting to do things that never would have otherwise entered my mind.

I glance at the clock, noticing it’s after five p.m. “You know, with this much coffee, Brown-Eyes, you’ll be up all night.”

“I’d argue that sometimes that’s not a bad thing.”

Sugar
. Why did he have to take my thoughts straight to the bedroom? I close my eyes briefly and try to bring my mind back to business. Coffee.
Right
.

“Just take it easy, before you get hooked.” I secure the lid to his takeaway drink, and pass it to him.

“Too late. I’m already gone for,” he drawls.

Holy sharks.

I want to know more about Ryan. It’s driving me crazy, but I know never to ask a question that I don’t want directed back at me.
Where you from?
That’s one question I will never answer. Jail-time does not appeal to me.

“Tell me something,” Ryan says, leaning on his elbows on the counter, and tilting his head.

“Maybe.” I want to know what he wants before I promise anything.

“Are you a lesbian?” he whispers.

I scoff. Really? Surely I don’t give off that vibe.

“Ah, no. Definitely not.” I try to hold back a smile. I end up smirking instead. I probably look like an idiot.

He nods. “Good. Just checking.”

“So you think that just because I’m not trying to jump your bones I must be gay?”

He shrugs and slowly flashes me that perfect smile. A smile I’ve grown accustomed to seeing day in and day out in our little café. Something in this sleepy town that I look forward to.

“You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

“I’m alright.” He shrugs. “No, scratch that. I’m better than alright. Regardless of that, I made you smile and it’s made my day.”

Why does he have to be so utterly adorable? And hot? And stupidly sexy? It’s totally not fair.

“I’ll see you Sunday,” he says.

Before I get the chance to rein in my disappointment, my mouth drops open. He comes in almost every day—today it’s been three times—and I won’t see him now for two days?

“Um, you’re not coming in tomorrow?”

“Nah, full day on the water. You close up early arvo on the weekends, right?”

“Yeah, we do.”

“So I’ll see you Sunday for breakfast.”

I imagine waking up next to him, our bodies entwined beneath crisp white sheets with a tray of food between us.
Breakfast
in bed.
With naked Ryan.

The blush that rises up to my cheeks moves at lightning speed. A hiccup bursts from my mouth and I gasp.
Face palm!
I want to curl up in a ball on the floor and die.

“Well, um, have a great day tomorrow. I’ll—”
Hiccup
.

Sugar!
Why do I get the hiccups at the worst times?

“I’ve got a sure-fire way of getting rid of hiccups,” he says, as his dark eyes wander over my upper body. A scorching gaze meets mine, and I hiccup even louder.

“How?”

“Another time,” he says with a smirk.
What does he mean by that?

“I’ll see you on Sunday,” I say, my chest jerking involuntarily again.

He taps his knuckles on the counter twice and leans in. “You bet.” I watch him turn, and with those strong, muscular legs, he carries his beautiful body out of the café once more.

A shiver runs through me.

I wish it were Sunday already.
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

RYAN

Mick and I settle in to camp out on the boat for the night, with a couple of canvas swags. We take it in shifts, two hours at a time. After midnight, once Mick has finished garbling on about how much he loves old cop movies, he sleeps while I keep watch. I don’t know how many times I have to elbow him in the ribs during the next two hours. Man, can this fucker snore. It’s not real stealth-like surveillance when he’s making a racket like that.

Mick takes the next watch while I try and get in a catnap. I don’t sleep the best in these situations, and a catnap seems to work best for me anyway. We make another shift change.

Not so much as a peep all night.
Except for Mick.

Before the sun rises we get prepped for business, both of us dressed in navy shorts and our white polo shirts. Keeping with the cover, today we have a boatload of guys who are on a charter for the start of their buck’s weekend.

We load on board six cases of beer between eight of them. I wonder if they plan on catching any fish in between all the drinking. Ah, well. Who can blame them? You only get married once, right?

We’ll be out for a half-day charter, about six hours, give or take.
Six hours of hell, if you ask me.
Lucky for the boys the swell isn’t too bad. At least this way they’ll have half a chance at holding all this grog in.

The buck is wearing a short strapless floral dress, which brings extra attention to his hairy body. All I can do is laugh and shake my head.

The boys have painted his eyes haphazardly with bright blue eye shadow and eyeliner, his cheeks are stained with a bucket-load of blush, and his lips are painted red. Clown-style. Knowing the heat of the sun, and the thin film of salt that covers you while out at sea, I can only imagine the state of him at the end of the day.

After three hours the boys are out of beer and they’re a helluva lot rowdier than they were at five a.m. They’re calling it a buck’s week. I’d be surprised if they all make it out alive.

The buck asks us to head back. Even though they’ve paid us for the six hours, he informs us they’ve had enough fishing, and they’re thirsty.

When a man’s thirsty, I guess you’d better lead him to the nearest establishment.

After almost getting into a fight with the best man, who was being a total cockhead, they agree to take their empty bottles and shit with them. I’ve got enough to do without cleaning up after these clowns. I’ve dealt with enough drunks in my day.

We clean up the boat, hose down the rods and clear out the bait tank. The fuckers didn’t even use half the baitfish we caught last night while we were keeping watch. The stench of bait and the salt on my skin is getting old. I don’t mind it on the beach, but nearly every day is getting too much. I fucking reek.

Lucky for Mick and I, we caught a lazy couple of fish today. Our customers didn’t want them so it’s a win for us. I’ll cook it up tonight for dinner with whatever shit I have in the fridge. I don’t know why they even bothered with us this morning, but I guess the pubs don’t open at dawn.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, Palmer? There’s a storm on the way so you might as well make the most of what good weather is left.”

“Yeah, think I will.”

“I’ll stick around here for a while and keep an eye on things.”

“Thanks, man. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I get home and dive into a hot shower.
Fuck yeah.
After a few minutes of simply soaking in the heat, I soap up. One hand pressed to the wall, with the other I lather my cock with body wash and push it through the stiff grip of my palm. I breathe out slowly until my lungs are empty.

It’s been a long fucking time. I’m tired of having to take care of this shit myself.

I miss the feel of a woman.

Soft skin.

Nails digging into the flesh of my back.

A warm, sweet-smelling body arching beneath me as I fill her, over and over. The heat of our bodies, the groans of pleasure as we’re wrapped together in the peak of ecstasy.

Watching her come.
Feeling her fall apart in that moment.
There’s almost no greater satisfaction than taking a woman, and giving her more pleasure than she knew her body was capable of. Once upon a time it would’ve been a game. A cocky, arrogant game. How many times could I please them in a night?

I pull myself faster, stiffening my grip. My balls tighten as I get closer to release.

I close my eyes. All I see is Willow.

Fuck
.

Without even trying, she’s infected me with her shy, cute ways. Her vulnerability has me intrigued, but beneath that I sense an inner strength. I’d kill to have her sweet little body wrapped around my hips right now as the water streams over me.

She’s trying to keep her distance.

It only makes me want her more.

I’m a stubborn, stubborn man. She doesn’t have a fucking clue how headstrong I can be.

Steadying my legs, I come hard, imagining her doing the same. Willow cries out my name.

What the hell am I doing?

****

I get dressed and take out my laptop. I log into the secure network, file a status report, and read the latest intel from the state taskforce. Not much is going on.

I tap my fingers on the table-top repeatedly as I go through my emails and some of the profiles. As a diversion, I pick up a pen, but I only end up clicking it on and off until I break it. I bounce my leg up and down, like a junkie coming down from a high.

“Fuck me!”
I growl to myself.

I need to do something with this energy. It’s fucking ridiculous. With the lack of sleep I’ve had lately I should crash, but my body has other ideas.
Willow.

I grab a banana from the bowl on the table and eat it so fast I might as well have inhaled it. Potassium hit.
Yeah
.

I pack away the laptop and put my running gear on—a loose white tank, black running shorts and my sunnies. When I open the door to my apartment, the hot wind knocks me back. Fuck this, the shirt’s coming off. I’m gonna run myself to the point of exhaustion to take my mind off her.

I glide my palm down the front of my shorts and adjust myself. How the fuck can I be hard? Didn’t I just take care of this shit?

My feet pound the pavement until I reach the boardwalk half an hour later. Sweat beads run down the centre of my back, and it’s about now that I wish I had my shirt to mop it up.

Thankfully the breeze picks up, gifting me with the cool change
.
Dark grey clouds roll in overhead, letting me know I’ve probably got an hour before the weather turns to shit.

I lean my forearms against the railing and try to get my heart-rate back to a normal beat with long, slow breaths. I stretch out my triceps by curling my arms overhead and pushing my elbow down with my other hand. My hamstrings get attention next, and I straighten my leg and rest my ankle on the railing, leaning my upper body towards my knee.

In the distance I hear a high-pitched squeal. In an instant, I’m ready to pounce. I rush to the other side of the boardwalk, following the sound. It’s followed by a female giggle, and more squeals.

There she is, unmistakable in her trademark plain white tank and blue denim shorts. A cream straw cowboy hat is tilted back on her head and she’s wearing aviator sunglasses.

The little girl—the squealer —is wearing a hot-pink rash vest and black bikini bottoms with frills. It’s the same girl that was in the café the other day. Willow had called her
Princess
. Princess jumps to avoid the waves, but trips and gets barrelled over. Willow picks her up, brushes her hair from her face, and kisses her on the cheek. She throws her up in the air and catches her. The girl giggles, and then Willow sets her down and chases her closer down the shore towards me.

Willow has no idea I’m watching her.
She hasn’t
cottoned on to the stalker on the boardwalk.
She really should be more aware of her surroundings. You never know who could be lurking around. Shit happens in broad daylight. More than most people think.