The Feel Good Factor(10)
Oh, wait. Maybe those are my naughty wishes reflected back at me.
Because I want him.
Do I ever. I want to climb him, rope my hands through his hair, and haul him in for a wild kiss.
Whoa.
That bout of desire was brought to you today by what-happens-when-lust-slams-into-you-like-a-freight-train.
“Gee, was I speed-walking?” I toss out, mainly to keep him standing there, because I’m mesmerized next by his tattoos. Sunbursts and tribal bands curl over his sinewy arms, and I’d like to lick them. I’d like to know if he’s inked elsewhere and how far, or how low, the artwork on his body descends.
To his hips? The top of his ass? The V of his abs?
A woman can dream.
With a tilt of his head and a far-too-knowing grin, he answers, “Let me guess. You either didn’t realize it, or you have someplace real important to be?”
“So important. I have to . . .” I trail off then make my voice as husky as can be as I set down my avocado, “. . . make guacamole.”
“You don’t say,” he rasps, his low baritone caressing me all over. “I could help you with that, officer.”
“Are you Mr. Avocado Farmer?”
“I’m Mr. I Can Show You How Ripe They Are.” He steps into the booth, moving next to me, getting into my space.
Closer than he needs to be.
A tremble rolls over my shoulders as he crowds me. “Let’s see.” He strokes his neat beard, and I rein in a whimper. I want my hands on that scruff.
He studies the sea of avocados, reaching for one at last and then sliding even closer, so his shoulder touches mine. It’s the match to my kindling and strikes a fire inside me.
If anyone tried to tell me a woman doesn’t have a type, I’d call that person a liar.
I have a type, and the type lights me up from sea to shining sea.
He cups the fruit in his palm, then brings it near my chest. I draw a quick breath, then flick my hair off my shoulders.
“By the way,” he says, “I like your hair up, but I fucking love it down.”
Dead.
I am dead from desire.
Before I can reply—I’m honestly not sure I can form intelligible words—he rubs his other hand over the rind. “See, you want to find the one that’s ripe and”—he pauses and turns his face to meet my gaze, his dark eyes holding mine—“ready to eat.”
A shudder hijacks my body. “Is that so?”
I don’t need a tutorial in picking avocados. Please. I know how to pick them just fine.
But I want his lesson. Want to hear his voice. Watch those hands move. Feel him slide closer.
“It’ll feel slightly soft, and it’ll yield to just the right amount of gentle pressure.”
And that pressure builds between my legs, an insistent throb. “How do you tell if it’s enough pressure?”
He pushes a thumb against the flesh of the fruit, making a husky hum low in his throat. “Just like that. See how it responds?”
“How’s it responding?”
He turns, angling his body nearer to me, his dark eyes shining with desire as he roams them over my face, my hair, my breasts. “Just the way I like it.”
This man is going to ruin me in the best possible way.
While I don’t have the time or inclination for dating, dinners, or fitting someone into my very busy schedule, I’m pretty sure I could deal with a little ruination.
Yes, I could definitely do with getting ruined.
7
Derek
Today is my lucky day.
I’d like to thank my sister for getting my ass out of bed.
I’d like to thank my niece for telling me the nice lady with the paints had just made her way down the veggie aisle.
And I’d like to thank fate that this avocado stand is in an out-of-the-way corner of the market, and that the farmer running it must have had to take one hell of a leak.
It’s just us.
This woman is fiery, flirty, and already driving me out of my mind. The stream of market-goers has thinned to a crawl as we near closing time, and left us in a cocoon of raw lust.
I place the fruit on the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth, brush my fingers over her hip, and tug her against me. She lets out the sexiest little sound. “Tell me your name. I’m dying to know.”
“Why do you need it so badly?”
“So I know what name to say when I’m fantasizing.”
A murmur crosses her lips, and she leans her head back against me, her hair spilling down my chest. “Are you fantasizing about me?”
“Every. Single. Night.”
“You must be having a lot of long nights, Mr. Trouble.”
“Long, hard nights . . . Miss Demeanor,” I say with a smirk, trying that nickname on for size.
“Well played.”
“Thank you. It just came to me.”
She glances back at me, her green eyes looking rife with dirty thoughts. “Do you want to come down to the station with me?”
“I want your name, beautiful. Give me your name,” I growl into her ear, commanding her.
“Perri,” she says breathlessly, her voice betraying her longing. A longing that matches mine.
“Perri,” I repeat, tasting her name on my tongue.