Mr. Red (The Case Brothers Book 3) Page 4

  “The shower is in my room,” she states, concentrating on stirring whatever’s in the pan. “There’s a washer in the hall. Although you might want to burn what you’re wearing.” She refuses to look my direction.

  I shuck my leather jacket, and toss it over the arm of the couch.

  “There’s a closet next to the washer,” she says with a note of irritation. “You can hang your jacket there.”

  “Anal retentive, much?” I retort.

  “My house, my rules,” she snaps back, stirring vigorously.

  “Whatever you say, your highness,” I say with a mock bow. Irritated she won’t even glance at me. Whatever. Living with a woman I don’t like isn’t anything new. Only it eats at me this time, because we shared a smile in the vineyard, and I assumed it meant she didn’t hate my guts. Dumbass. I hang my jacket and dump my shoes in the wastebasket. There’s no salvaging them. Alison’s bedroom is as immaculate as the rest of the house, and I hesitate in the doorway, surveying the giant king-sized bed with navy and gray silk sheets. Sheets that are meant to be rumpled, twisted, and yanked during a session of heavy lovemaking. My cock swells, pressing against my zipper at the thought of messing those perfectly tucked in sheets, of seeing Alison flushed and spread out in the middle of the bed, ready to be fucked into next week.

  Shoving the thought aside, and forcing my dick to calm down, I cross the room, and enter the bathroom. And fuck me if it’s not resplendent in femininity. As austere as the bedroom is, the bathroom is another case entirely. Bottles, pots, and potions line the countertop, arranged by size and color, a stack of fluffy white towels fills a gold shelf, and a pink satin robe hangs on a hook. I reach out to finger the material. Silk. I shut my eyes as my cock jumps eagerly at the vision of the material gliding across her curves, teasing her nipples into hard peaks. I bite back a groan. This room screams sensuality, and pleasure. I’m half tempted to check her drawers for a dildo. What other secrets does Alison harbor in what is clearly her sanctuary?

  My fingers twitch, and my pulse races at what I’m about to do. I know it’s wrong, invasive. But I want to know. Fuck, I haven’t been curious to actually know a woman in… maybe ever. But Alison has clearly wormed her way under my skin, and I desperately want to discover what makes her tick. In spite of the fact I hear her banging away in the kitchen, I look over my shoulder, guilt gnawing at me for what I’m about to do. I slide open the first drawer. No surprises there- a toothbrush, toothpaste, floss. A tube of zit cream. A razor. Fuck, does she shave her pussy? Another image rises, unbidden, of a slick, smooth pussy, swollen and waiting for my touch.

  I shut the drawer and move to the next. My stomach jumps when I see the contents. I’ve hit the jackpot, but it’s not at all what I expected. No dildo, or lipstick vibe, no handcuffs or naughty toys- only a pile of sticky notes. I glance at the mirror and can see the vague outline of glue around the perimeter. She obviously didn’t want me to see these. I’m surprised she didn’t mind me seeing the softer side of her on display and wildly curious to discover what she felt necessary to hide. I grab the pile, flipping through as my stomach yo-yos with each brightly colored note.

  This body is just the keeper of my magic

  My body is not an apology

  I LOVE my curves

  My body is strong and resilient

  DO WHAT MATTERS- FOCUS ON WHAT MATTERS

  I am a strong, sexy, beautiful Asian American woman

  **You are the new hotness**

  FUCK. Fuckfuckfuck. I drop the notes, heart slamming against my ribs, and shut the drawer a little too forcefully. My stomach churns at how I’ve violated Alison’s privacy. I don’t deserve to know the secret side of her, what makes her lose sleep at night, what feeds her insecurity. But there’s no unseeing those words, or the loopy, clearly emotional handwriting. My cheeks heat with shame that runs straight to my toes. I’m half-tempted to hop on my motorcycle and disappear. I know how to keep secrets. Dark ones, shameful ones- the kind that are best forgotten and never allowed to see the light of day. I don’t know how to keep secrets of the heart, secrets laced with hope, with determination. Her secrets scare me, because there’s more than shame at stake. There’s a heart.

  I blow out a breath through puffed cheeks and quickly shed my clothes, turning the water to scalding, once again wondering if I can possibly scrub the filth from my soul. But rose-scented soap and rough washcloths aren’t enough, and when the water starts to cool, I exit, feeling as dirty and dark as when I stepped in. Too late, I realize my new wardrobe is still in the living room. I wrap the towel around my hips and head for the living room. There’s no chance I can get to my clothes without Alison noticing, so I might as well own it and see if I can get a rise from her in the process.

  “Dinner’s rea-” she turns, words dying on her lips when she takes in my towel. Her eyes darken to nearly black as she stares avidly. My balls turn heavy and full under her gaze, filled with an ache desperate for release. She licks her lips, then seems to shake herself. “Please get dressed,” she orders primly as she returns to the stove, and busies herself filling our plates.

  “I’m pretty comfortable like this,” I drawl, smirking at the way her back stiffens.

  “If you’re expecting a compliment,” she bites out, “you’re sadly mistaken.”

  I flex and grin when I catch her sneaking a peek my direction. “The fact that it seems like you’re bent on seducing me is compliment enough.”

  She gasps and slams her spatula on the counter, cheeks flushing as pink as her pretty top. “I am not doing anything of the kind.”

  “Oh?” I drop into one of the chairs at the table. The towel pops open at the bottom exposing part of my thigh.

  She turns, eyes shooting daggers, but her mouth drops open when she fixates on my leg. She grabs a shallow breath, eyes narrowing to glittering points. “Are you trying to get kicked out? Because I don’t give a shit what Declan says. Any more of these-these shenanigans, and so help me, I will boot you out in nothing but what you’re wearing.”

  “So explain to me the nice dinner, the wine…” I wave at the carafe on the table. “And the jazz coming from your phone.” I’ve got her here, and she knows it.

  She huffs out a breath. “Contrary to what you might think, some women do this kind of thing for themselves, and not because they’re hoping to get laid,” she says with a tone as sharp as glass. Her eyes turn icy. “I can’t force you to put on pants, but I refuse to serve food to Neanderthals. If you want to eat, put on a damned shirt.”

  I rub a hand across my pecs. “But the view won’t be as nice,” I tease.

  “I’ll. Live,” she grits, clearly at the end of her patience.

  “Your loss,” I say with an overly dramatic sigh.

  “Not really,” she snaps back. “I value more than a hot body.”

  “So you’re saying I’m hot?” I flex again as I rise and take the few steps to where my bag lies next to the door.

  “I’m saying I don’t give a shit about bodies.”

  “I call bullshit.” I pull a black tee over my head. “Everyone wants hot bods.” I roll my shoulders back to stretch the cotton, and turn, catching Alison with an almost forlorn expression on her face. My stomach sinks. I’ve gone too far.

  Her jaw sets as her eyes bore straight into my soul. “Wrong. Everyone wants someone who’s not a douchebag.”

  Ouch. But I can’t say I didn’t deserve that. Her arrow hit its mark right in the middle of my chest. Tension fills the space between us, and even though it’s not in my nature to apologize, I see the words on the stickies. “I’m sorry. I went too far,” I say in a low voice.

  She swallows visibly and nods. “Let me get your plate.”

  “Let me,” I offer. “You sit.”

  “No, I-”

  “Sit,” I order, sidestepping her and moving to the stove. She’s baked salmon, sautéed broccoli rabe with garlic, and cooked a steaming pot of herbed rice. “Holy shit, this looks amazing.”

  She makes a disbelieving noise in the back of her throat. “I thought it would go well with the wine.”

  I turn with two plates piled high. “So what other hidden talents do you have, Alison?” Veronica couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger, let alone cook. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked a nice meal for me. I know she said she eats this way all the time, and maybe she does, but her effort feels… personal. And I’m grateful.

  Her cheeks turn that pretty shade of pink again, and she turns quickly, reaching for the carafe and pouring out the wine. “So I found these barrels in the cellar, and this wine comes from one of them.” Her voice rises two tones and goes breathy at the end.

  She’s not used to compliments. “Tell me more,” I ask as I set the plates down and take a seat.

  “I assume your palate is fairly developed. Taste it.”

  The glass holds a full pour, so I can’t really swirl it, but I do gently circle the glass to catch a whiff of the aroma. “I smell apples and buttery toasty notes. The color is deeper than straw, indicating some age.”

  Alison makes a noncommittal noise and nods, leaning forward in her chair. “Taste it.”

  There’s anticipation in her voice, an eagerness I haven’t heard before, and again, I can’t help but wonder what this woman is like when she’s aroused. I take a sip, letting the wine sit on my tongue a long moment before I swallow. I’m hit with bright notes of stone fruit, with a creamy luscious mouthfeel. It’s fucking phenomenal. “Neutral oak?” I ask, keeping my cards close for the moment.

  “Tastes like it, doesn’t it? There’s no record.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She gives me a baleful look. “I wouldn’t kid about something this good.” She takes a sip, and the pleasure on her face
as she experiences the wine is nothing short of arousing. I’m grateful for the table between us as my cock tents my towel. She opens her eyes, excitement written all over her face. “This wine is fanfuckingtastic,” she says breaking into a grin.

  I raise my glass. “To fanfuckingtastic wine.”

  “I’ll cheers to that.” She clinks her glass against mine and takes another sip. She takes up her fork, and tries a bite of the salmon, slowly chewing, and then finishing with another taste of the wine. “I knew it,” she says, flushing with excitement. “I knew this would be perfect with salmon.”

  You’re so beautiful when you’re excited.

  She drops her fork, freezing, hand in midair.

  Fuck, did I say that out loud? The expression on her face says I did. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

  Chapter Seven

  Alison

  “Y ou’re so beautiful when you’re excited.”

  I freeze, my fork slipping from my fingers, emotions flooding my body. Nico’s earlier comment rings in my head. Everyone wants a hot bod. No shit, Sherlock. Tell me something I don’t know. I was foolish enough to believe that was different, once upon a time. I know better now.

  He must be punking me. My bod is the furthest thing from hot, and it’s certainly not beautiful. I’m not beautiful. I can never be beautiful. Not in this body. How many times did Tommy shout at me, voice dripping with disdain, that I was butt-ugly? That if I had any self-respect, I’d go to the gym and lose a few pounds. How many times did Nico and his cohort call me worse?

  I’ll settle for ‘not-ugly’. I’ll settle for healthy. And maybe someday I can look into the mirror and believe the affirmations I recite off of pretty-colored stickies every time I look in the mirror. But beautiful? Never. It’s not in my vocabulary.

  Shame burns in my chest, racing up my neck and heating my face.

  Nico’s face registers surprise, then his brows knit together. “What? Did I offend you?”

  “Don’t fuck with me,” I say, voice shaking. “And for fuck’s sake, don’t insult me by saying shit you don’t mean,” I bite, the old anger rising up. I won’t tolerate taunts in my own house. Not anymore. I fight the urge to run. If one of us is leaving, it’s Nico. He can use his goddamn motorcycle as a pillow for all I care.

  He glares back. “I don’t fuck with people.”

  “Bullshit,” I counter. “You’re a Case. That’s what you do.”

  His jaw tightens, and he grips his fork so hard his knuckles turn white. But he squirms in his seat, guilt flashing across his face before he breaks eye contact. “Not anymore,” he mumbles.

  Jesus. Does he remember? My stomach drops. That’s a conversation I’m far from ready to have.

  He grabs his wine and takes a big gulp. Sinfully large for the kind of wine we’re drinking.

  “Hey, that’s not a wine cooler,” I snap, covering up my feelings of helplessness and discomfort with aggression.

  He slams the glass on the table so hard, some of the wine sloshes out, then stares me down with fire in his eyes. “I’ll freely admit I’m an asshole, and someday, we can decide to unpack all the ways I deserve to go to hell, but I am most definitely not fucking with you, Alison.”

  I want to believe him. The way he says my name makes my pussy ache. God, I want to believe him so bad. But I can’t purge the memories. Or the shame that goes with them.

  He makes an animal noise of pure frustration. A completely male, testosterone-filled, sexy as fuck noise, and he rises. “I’m. Not. Fucking. With. You.” He articulates and pushes back from the table to stand.

  His words only register in the back of my brain, because all I can see is the enormous erection tenting the towel slung low across his hips. My breath sticks in my throat. I’m hallucinating. I must be. Because the man is hung like a fucking horse. My fingers twitch, because fuck, I want to grab it, run my hands along his length. Taste it. I flick my gaze to his. His hazel eyes burn me, and the heat sears me all the way to my pussy. My clit throbs, dying for touch, and I can feel the desire rising through me. I want to run, to step outside and gulp cool air. I have to gain some kind of control, because my brain cells are exploding at an alarming rate, making it difficult to breathe, let alone stand.

  “You’re lying,” I whisper.

  He closes the space between us, and my heart jumps to my throat as he pulls me up from my chair. His hand engulfs mine, his thumb caressing the place where my callouses live under my skin. His touch is too much. My nipples tingle, hardening to bullets, aching for pinches and licks, for everything my dirty mind has ever fantasized about. He brings my hand to his cock, and oh dear lord, I can feel the lip of his crown, the searing heat of him through my 900 GSM towel.

  “Dicks never lie, angel.”

  My heart is pumping so hard, I think I might faint. What kind of a desperate maniac does it make me that all I can think of is how bad I want that cock inside me, filling me up?

  He tangles his fingers in my hair, tilting my face up. “At least let me kiss you,” he murmurs.

  I must be imagining things, because I swear, there’s a note of desperation in his voice. The rational part of me is screaming for me to put a stop to this. “I don’t like you,” I confess.

  He lets out a dry laugh, his breath skating across my cheek and sending goosebumps down my neck and across my collarbone. “I’m not sure I like you either, but I can’t stop thinking about fucking you.”

  “That’s quite possibly the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I murmur, past the point of filtering my speech.

  “I can say hotter,” he murmurs, dipping his head and taking my mouth.

  I’m utterly unprepared for the riot of energy that assaults me. The time I zapped myself plugging in a curling iron with damp fingers doesn’t begin to hold a candle to the jolt of heat and electricity that hits me everywhere at once. Like, I think I literally fried my circuit board, and if I ever speak coherently again, it will be a miracle.

  His mouth is alternately soft and coaxing, then fierce and demanding, his tongue taking ownership of my mouth, demanding my submission, and in spite of my rational self freaking out, I fall into the kiss, letting the sensations roll over me and pull me under. He kisses me like he’s desperate, like he wants me naked, like I’m his last breath, his last… everything. And how can a woman not respond to that? I sink into the sensation, forgetting everything except the feeling of his tongue against mine, losing myself in the swirl of neurons exploding.

  I give his cock a tentative squeeze, and he groans into my mouth. That’s all the encouragement I need, and for a hot second, I completely forget myself, stroking him through the towel I’m not quite brave enough to remove.

  “Tell me you have condoms stashed someplace,” he murmurs as he relinquishes my mouth.

  The words act like ice-water. I can’t deny I want him too, but the rational, protective part of me, still holds sway. But it’s been so long, the wanton side of me argues. For a beautiful second, I give in to lust. But then my courage vanishes. Fuck, who’m I kidding? I can’t do this. “I can’t have orgasms,” I mumble, face burning. “Not during sex,” I clarify. I’ve got a two-hundred dollar vibrator that does the trick quite nicely. But with a man? Even a woman- because, yes, after my divorce, I swung the other way for a while, desperate to figure out what was wrong with me. Never. Never with another human.

  Nico’s voice is the picture of disbelief. “Now you’re bullshitting me.”

  I shake my head, averting my eyes. “I think there’s something wrong with your dick.”

  “There’s nothing the fuck wrong with my dick, angel,” he grits, thrusting into my hand.

  No. No, there’s definitely not anything wrong with his dick. Kill me now. He closes the remaining space between us, pinning my hand between my very soft hips, and his angular, hard ones.