Love Me Like That Page 3

  She nods and follows me up the stairs to the guest bedroom. I open the door to one of the rooms I actually haven’t made it in yet since arriving. The interior designer did a great job in here as well. She kept with neutral colors on the walls and gave it a modern feel without detracting from the rugged aspect of the home as a whole. The large bed is against the exposed logs which serve as the accent wall. Every room in the home that is on an outside wall has the same.

  “Your room?” she mutters.

  “Hardly,” I say with a huff. “This is the guest bedroom. The bathroom is right through there.” I point to a door on the far wall. “Should be fully stocked. If not? Well, we’re in the middle of a fucking blizzard.” See, the asshole has arrived.

  “I appreciate it,” she says and slides past me making sure she doesn’t touch me.

  She doesn’t seem like the shy type but more uncomfortable with the situation she’s been tossed into with no control. She walks further into the room and the sinful shape of her luscious ass does not go unnoticed.

  I clear my throat. “I’ll be downstairs.” Like she gives a shit. I pull the door close behind me and take the stairs down two at a time.

  I scrub my face with my hands and then run them through my overly long hair. I know getting drunk with a stranger in the house is not the best game plan, but it’s going to happen none the less. I’m here with very strict instructions to ‘get over my bullshit and don’t come back until I do,’ and that’s my game-plan, well the first part at least... It starts with the whiskey.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  I’m in this big ass house, in a room larger than most hotel suites. I’m more concerned about the man wearing flannel driving a beat up old clunker. I can’t keep my mind from wondering if he broke into this place and he plans to chop me into tiny pieces and burn me in the fire.

  He’s been courteous and respectful if a little put out by my being here. I sit on the side of the enormous bed and look around the room. It’s like something out of a home décor or Crate and Barrel ad. The bed is made up of expensive covers and sheets, including a thick duvet I’d love nothing more than to snuggle up in.

  Actually, that’s the best idea I’ve had for a while. I use alternating feet to kick my shoes off. A glance at the door confirms there is a lock, but it’s not engaged. I push myself off of the bed and walk to the door.

  Just as my hand reaches the knob, a thunderous boom echoes into the house from outside and the lights go out, throwing the room into pitch black nothingness. I stand stock still, terrified as my other senses try to account for my loss of vision. Several minutes of standing in the pitch black of the room reveals nothing other than the sounds of the storm outside.

  Shouldn’t a backup generator kick in? It never does. The chill in the air from the heat not rolling through the vents is immediate, like icy fingers of death licking at the skin on my legs which are covered by only a thin layer of fabric. If I stay in here, it’s going to be just as bad as sitting in the damn car.

  I turn the door knob and do my best to make it to the stairs from memory, praying I don’t tumble down them and snap my neck. Nothing says thank you for rescuing me from the car in the ditch like a snapped neck at the base of a flight of stairs. Keeping my hand on the banister and taking subtle, focused steps I make it to the bottom unscathed.

  I want to call out to the man in the house, but I realize we never even told each other our names. Why wouldn’t he ask? Hell, why didn’t I ask?

  I follow the faint glow of the fire through the house. A noise to my right catches my attention, and I turn my gaze just in time to see him coming back in the house and stripping out of his cold-weather gear. He’s grumbling and cussing, no doubt from the severe weather outside.

  He walks back toward the fire and stops short when he notices me standing in the shadows.

  “The damn generator isn’t kicking in,” he says as he rubs his hands together near the hearth.

  No shit Captain Obvious.

  “Can I…I mean is it okay for me to stay down here? The room upstairs was already getting cold again.” I give a weak smile because it’s the most I can manage after the day I’ve had. I shiver and rub my hands up and down my arms.

  “Of course. Shit, let me get you a blanket.” He walks down the hall, and I hear a door open. Less than a minute later he walks back in and hands me a thick fleece blanket.

  I wrap it around my back and settle on the couch in the spot closest to the fire. I should probably let him have his pick of places to sit seeing as this is his place, but he’s got at least fifty pounds or more on me so I figure he won’t get as cold as easily as I will.

  He walks to a table just out of reach of the fire’s light, half of his apparently muscular body hidden in the shadows.

  “You don’t need a blanket?” It’s the best I could come up with as far as conversation is concerned.

  “Why? Do you plan on sharing with me?” I smirk at him and give him my best not-in-your-wildest-dreams look. He laughs. It’s deep and husky and even though I’ve had one of the worst days of my life I can still appreciate the sex appeal this man has rolling off of him in waves. “I have this to keep me warm anyways.”

  I watch with wide eyes as he brings an exceptionally large bottle of whiskey to the small table in front of the couch and sets it, along with two tumblers, down on the wooden top.

  I grin from ear to ear at his presumptuousness.

  “Can you tell I’ve had a shit day?” I ask nodding toward the other glass.

  “We’re stuck in a blizzard together, and we don’t even know each other’s names. Nothing says pleased to meet you like Jack Daniel’s.” I have to agree with him.

  “London,” I tell him.

  “No, I think this is made in the States,” he says turning the bottle at an angle so he can read the side.

  I laugh. Did I just giggle at him? “No. My name is London.”

  “Ah! Nice to meet you London. I’m Kadin.” He holds his hand out, and I shake it but pull away abruptly.

  “Your hands are freezing,” I explain and tuck my hand back into the safety of the fleece blanket, pretending I didn’t feel more than just the cold of his fingers when we touched.

  “Hence the whiskey. Would you like some?” He holds up a half-full tumbler.

  I reach out and take it from him, making sure not to touch him again. “Thank you.”

  He pours himself an equally full glass, and I’m sure the leaving off of the cap is an indication of his plans for the night. I take an overly large gulp of the golden liquid and close my eyes as it burns a path down my throat.

  I hold the tumbler with both hands near the bottom of my chin, in close range for my next sip. I watch the fire crackle and burn. The flames are shooting up and finding no respite, endlessly burning with nothing further to take hold of and destroy.

  Nothing left to destroy. A perfect example of my life right now.

  Another sip out of my glass tells me I’ve been drinking without realizing it as my latest attempt leaves me with an empty mouth. I cut my eyes back to Kadin and find him smirking at me.

  “More?” He holds up the bottle.

  Without a word, I hold my glass closer to him and watch him fill it fuller than he did the first time around.

  “I don’t usually drink. I’ve had a super shitty day.” I explain as to why I’m throwing back whiskey like a marathon runner does water after a race.

  “No judgment here,” he says and tosses back the last of his own drink. He begins to pour himself another. “Story of my life these days.”

  I’ve never been the type to talk about my problems. Well, with anyone other than Keira, but for some reason I want to speak to this man. The silence around us is not uncomfortable, but I have a craving for his voice.

  I realize I’m buzzed from the alcohol when I almost ask him to say the Pledge of Allegiance, so I can close my eyes and listen to his deep, husky voice as he recites it. I laugh at the rid
iculousness of it.

  He smiles slyly at me even though I’m certain he has no idea what I laughed for.

  I clear my throat as he continues to watch me. The firelight makes his eye color appear almost black, in a soothing dark chocolate kind of way and the shine reflecting off of his mahogany colored hair would make any woman jealous. It’s either tousled and messy from the hood of his jacket when he was outside earlier, or he’s accustomed to running his hands through it repeatedly.

  I turn my focus back to the fire when I catch myself staring at his full lips, chiseled cheeks, and strong jaw that’s covered with a day or two of unshaved growth. My fingers itch to touch the coarseness of it.

  Shit, I need to quit drinking. I bring the glass to my lips and take another long pull.

  “You have a beautiful home.” I look around the room that seems more romantic and less eerie than it did fifteen minutes ago. Thank you, Jack.

  “Thank you,” he answers giving nothing away.

  I look back to the fire, suddenly feeling awkward and unable to think of anything else for small talk.

  “Where do you call home?” I close my eyes at the rumble of his question.

  Then I realize just what he’s asking. “I used to live in Great Falls, but I’m moving.”

  “You were moving today? I don’t recall seeing that much in your car.” What are you a damn detective?

  I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t have much.”

  My hope that he would keep within the boundaries set by social norms in regards to what’s considered appropriate topics among strangers is broken when he asks, “What are you running from?”

  I whip my head to face him and find him watching me with a raised eyebrow. You wanted to talk to him, don’t get pissed when you’re uncomfortable with the topic.

  “Boyfriend trouble,” I answer honestly.

  “Enough trouble to make you leave town?”

  “Enough to leave the state,” I retort quickly.

  “Wish running was always that easy,” he laments as he takes another sip of his whiskey and I notice for the first time the glint of the fire off of a wedding band.

  Motherfucker.

  I drain my glass without a second thought and mentally slap myself for ogling this married man’s lips.

  “When do you expect your wife to make it? After the storm?” I watch for his reaction, but his blank stare into the fire gives me nothing.

  “She’s not coming,” he finally replies as he pours another glass and tops mine off.

  I drink immediately. Trouble in paradise it seems.

  He sets down his glass and stands; clearly I’ve said something to piss him off.

  “I’m going to go get a fire going in your fireplace upstairs, so you don’t freeze to death tonight.” He clicks on a small flashlight he’s pulled from his back pocket and makes his way out of the room.

  I’m stuck with this man for the next God only knows how many days and a few hours in, and I’ve already pissed him off somehow. I toss back the remainder of my drink and close my eyes. Not like I have anywhere else to be or anywhere to go for that matter.

  Although my legs and feet are steady, I can tell from the haze of my vision and the mild swimming in my head that the whiskey has already taken hold. Trudging up the stairs, I cuss under my breath at this whole fucked up situation.

  When do I expect my wife?

  I never imagined that conversation coming up and it sure as hell isn’t a conversation I’m having tonight, with a complete stranger no less. I should never have asked the questions I did. I opened the door without even knowing it.

  I hit my knees in front of the hearth in the guest bedroom and slowly begin to get the fire going. The wood supply is sparse up here as well. Another thing to add to the list of stuff to buy. Not buy, add to the list to email. You won’t be leaving here.

  Before long, the fire is raging, and I let the warmth engulf me even though nothing is strong enough to reach the iciness in my veins. I can’t imagine anything in the world strong enough to return me to the man I was just a few short years ago. Knowing I can never go back is one of the nails in my coffin. Knowing I will never have what I once did is the catalyst for being in this cabin.

  I sit for a while longer but realize, unplanned or not, I still do have a guest downstairs, and I’m in her room. From the way she was staring into the fire, I have no doubt she wants to get away from me as much as I needed to leave just a few minutes earlier. I climb to my feet and sway slightly; my time at rest allowed the alcohol to take a stronger hold of me.

  Using the tiny beam of light from my flashlight, I make my way down the stairs and back into the den where I find London with her head back and her eyes closed. Thinking she’s asleep, I reach out to pull the empty glass from her hands.

  The movement startles her, and she gasps at my close proximity as her eyes snap open.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I apologize taking a step back.

  She grins at me sheepishly and then…then she bites her fucking lip. Her green eyes sparkle in the flickering light of the fire and my hazy, alcohol-impaired mind uses this moment to remind me of her luscious ass.

  I close my eyes briefly and try to convince myself that her reaction to me is in my mind, and my thoughts are only because of the excessive amount of whiskey I’ve consumed in a very short period of time. That, along with the crushing loneliness that always haunts me, is clandestine.

  “Your room should be comfortable enough for you to sleep in.” I take another step back from her and set her empty glass on the table.

  She seems to be studying my face. “It’s very kind of you to let me stay here.”

  I reach my hand out to her. “It’s not like I could’ve left you to die in your car.”

  She smiles at me and takes my proffered hand. “I suppose not,” she whispers as I gently tug her into a standing position.

  The momentum of my actions and her alcohol intake leaves her ability to balance a little skewed as well. She falls against my chest and uses her hands to steady herself. The flex of her fingers against my shirt does not go unnoticed.

  She giggles and sighs as she turns and sweeps her head back and forth; it’s almost like she’s already forgotten how to get back to the guest bedroom.

  “Let me help you,” I offer and steady her with an arm around her waist. I once again want to sweep her up in my arms, just like I did outside. Only, this time, the reason would be a little more self-serving because I want to feel her warmth against my body. I do know my limitations, though, and we’d both fall down the stairs if my drunken ass attempted that. In no way is a broken neck chivalrous.

  I shake my head quickly trying to rid it of any of those thoughts.

  “Thank you,” she whispers and turns her head acknowledging me. The gust of her warm breath on my neck sends a quick shiver down my spine, and for the first time today it has nothing to do with the below-freezing temps that are going on outside.

  I resist the urge to squeeze her hip with the hand that is resting there and take a step forward, gently propelling her to the stairs. We stagger and sway down the hallway and somehow manage to traverse the stairs without injury or damage to the house.

  I’d closed her door behind me to keep the warmth of the fire in the room when I left earlier. Stepping up to the door, I use my free hand to turn the knob and push it open. As we clear the reach of the door, I use my foot to close it behind us. How I did that without toppling us both over I have no idea.

  I’m trying to convince myself I’m not as drunk as I’d initially thought as I step up to the side of the bed. With London on my right, I reach out with my left hand and pull back the covers so she can slip in. When I feel her hot breath on my neck again, I’m convincing myself I’m too drunk to make good choices.

  I blame the alcohol for parting my lips when she turns in my arms and presses her soft mouth against mine. I blame the alcohol for taking two large handfuls of her succulent ass and squeezing. I blam
e the alcohol for grinding my erection against her lower belly.

  My erection.

  An erection that I got from just this kiss. A typical response to a sexual stimulus. A response that hasn’t happened in what seems like forever that didn’t take an extremely assertive focus, namely long minutes of oral stimulation. In other words, it usually takes a focused blow job to get me this revved up. At least it has the last couple of years.

  I groan when her cold fingers find their way under my t-shirt and caress the muscles on my back. I reach over my shoulders and pull the shirt over my head, tossing it unceremoniously to the floor. Grateful she broke the skin to skin proverbial ice, I slide my hands past the waist of her athletic pants, under her barely there panties and grip her ass.

  Sliding her hands around, she begins to work feverishly to get my belt buckle undone. I step back and take over, unable to move fast enough with the whiskey haze. She watches me and begins to strip down. Not even bothering with her top half she hastily pushes down her athletic pants and underwear, kicking them to the side.

  The second my jeans and boxers are free of my feet we crash back together. Her arms are around my neck, and my hands have once again gravitated to her ass. The skin to skin contact is electric, and I’m so greedy for her I lift her in my arms and position her on the bed, my erection pulsing against her hot, wet heat.

  I nip her neck and release her ass so I can shove her shirt up. Pulling the zipper of her sports bra down, the most magnificent pair of tits I’ve ever seen are exposed in the dancing light of the flames from the fireplace.

  Amazing. I’ve always considered myself an ass man until this very second when I came face to face with these incredible breasts. She whimpers when I strike at a puckered tip with my hot mouth. The grinding of her hips against my already straining length is all the permission I need to pull my hips back, lining the head up at her entrance and thrust into her.

  She arches her back, pushing her magnificent breasts into my face. My mouth is hungry for her as I feed on every inch of her delicate flesh that I can reach without having to leave the incredibly tight heat of her body.