Blue Collar (A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology Book 2) Read online

  “The Little Cabin, right?” He strode off in the correct direction.

  A big clue his question had been rhetorical.

  Bemused, I stood rooted to the spot.

  What the hell had just happened? I’d always been more attracted to brains than beefcake. Metrosexual types with trendy glasses, sharp suits, and wiry bodies honed at a gym. But after spending months in absentia, my sex drive had other very intriguing ideas.

  Then my brain kicked in, computed what he’d said, and I raced after Jeremy. When I’d called this morning, I’d told Mrs. Fix-It I was planning a reno, not that I'd started the process.

  When I reached the cabin, he was standing with his arms crossed, surveying the interior. His brawny frame blocked the doorway. I didn’t need to see inside. I already knew what the Little Cabin looked like in the rational light of a new day. The main living space was an unholy mess.

  I crossed my arms, too, and took a look anyway.

  Jeremy’s biceps were freaking huge. I spent a full minute and a half indecently mesmerized by his well-muscled physique. I spent the subsequent thirty seconds estimating that both my hands would definitely not span one of his arms. Around minute number three, I faced the shameful yet tempting truth. I was ogling beefcake.

  I’d experienced a case of insta-lust a time or two, maybe even three or four, while I’d been married. The fact that I’d been committed to someone else hadn’t precluded me from looking and admiring. I may have scrutinized an especially fine male form. I may even have had a few stray daydreams. Both were perfectly healthy, legal activities. But never once had I converted thought to action.

  This time, though, I was not married. This time, I could take my thoughts as far as I wanted.

  I thought about Jeremy when we’d met at the compound’s parking lot.

  I’d been out of the dating game for a decade, but I was reasonably certain I wasn’t the only one who had felt a flicker of interest back there.

  Hello, he’d dropped my hand and left pretty damn fast.

  Still, I was uncharacteristically unsure of my next move.

  I actually liked having a plan. I liked structure. I liked being an organized person, thus creating the illusion I was in control. Recently, though, I’d done such an excellent job of deconstructing my life, I could no longer even imagine what a next move looked like.

  “You do this?” Jeremy asked as he kicked aside a couple of wood panels with his steel-toed boot.

  My random thoughts about seducing the handyman crashed along with the boards, creating a fresh pile of rubble. I ordered myself to ignore my hormones and stay focused on the job of renovating the cabin.

  I looked up.

  He looked down at me, frown lines creasing his forehead.

  He was clearly waiting for an answer. I tried, and failed, not to notice his eyes were a deep sea green.

  “As opposed to did I have help?” I asked, unable to stop the sarcasm from slipping into the words.

  Defense was a lousy default strategy. That didn’t mean I was about to apologize for being capable. All it ever took was one stray comment, and I stepped into the ring. Ready to defend a woman’s right to wield a crowbar or a sledgehammer or a—

  He leaned in so close I could count the laugh lines around those amazing eyes. In the ten seconds before he opened his mouth, I wondered what it would take to make him laugh.

  “Yeah, as opposed to did you have help doing all this over the weekend, because the cabin was in pristine condition when I was here Friday morning?”

  His tone was surprisingly conversational given the attitude. But then I was the one who’d made assumptions. About him. About myself. Apparently, he hadn’t been questioning my abilities at all.

  He turned away, breaking whatever the hell spell he kept putting on me and walked along one of several pathways I’d created through the debris toward the other side of the room. About three quarters of the way, he stopped, pivoted, and used the toe of his boot to lift a sizable, jagged triangle of glass.

  Mom had been talking about replacing the cracked mirror for years. Yesterday, I’d made an executive decision to speed the process along.

  “You’re in for seven years’ bad luck,” he said.

  “Nine actually.” I shrugged. “Though to be fair, the first two were half decent, so seven sounds about right.”

  Although I don’t ascribe to superstitions, I was in no position to take one on.

  “Half decent,” he muttered as though testing the phrase. “As opposed to great, spectacular, love of your life?”

  Jeremy, I was learning, was not a “Hi, how are you?” “Fine, thanks” kind of guy. When he asked a question, he seriously wanted an answer.

  “Yeah, as opposed to good.”

  The simple, yet oh so complex truth. My marriage hadn’t been terrible. It just hadn’t been very good, either.

  He moved his foot away, and the piece of mirror fell, perfectly intact, back onto the floor.

  Figures.

  “Here’s to my seven years,” he said.

  Then he stomped on it. Hard.

  A yelp of surprise whispered across my lips. Not because of the noise made by the glass shattering into a gazillion pieces. At least that was what I told myself. No, I was far more startled by what Jeremy had just admitted.

  What I had admitted to him. I had just confessed more about my marriage to this man than I had to my family. I also had the distinct impression, because he was now staring at the wreckage in the kitchen and not me, that Jeremy’s confession had been equally unexpected.

  I stepped into the room, not quite sure what to say. I was sorry. Of course I was. Failing at a relationship, at love, didn’t look good on the resume of life. It felt worse. Yet at the same time, a part of me was grateful for those few words.

  They meant I wasn’t the only one stumbling around trying to figure out how to move on.

  “Stop. Don’t move.”

  His voice was calm, clear, and commanding. I froze.

  In three strides he was beside me. He grabbed my arm and tugged.

  I stumbled and landed against his chest with a soft “oomph.” A girly response for a woman in the midst of a midlife crisis, but then I’d always thought the phrase “he was built like a brick wall” a romance novel exaggeration. Apparently not.

  “You may know how to rip out walls, but it’s damn dangerous in here,” he said.

  He kicked out, dislodging another board only inches from where I’d been standing. This one had a big-ass nail sticking out of it.

  Up until now I’d held my own. Verbal sparring as foreplay. Game on. But just like that the tension in the room—between us—shifted abruptly, becoming far more intimate.

  The heat of his hand on my skin where he gripped my arm. The brush of his fingers against my T-shirt, the slightest movement caressing my breast. The sharp ache deep in my core.

  “You can let me go now,” I said, pleased my voice sounded more or less normal.

  I didn’t care about the wannabe compliment or the nail. I wasn’t being stupid or reckless. I simply did not need rescuing. Damsel in distress wasn’t a role I wanted to play.

  He released me.

  Reluctantly, I thought. I knew he wouldn’t step away. I didn’t either.

  “The cabin may have been tidy, but it was outdated by at least two decades,” I said. “Why were you here Friday morning?”

  My brothers hadn’t said a word about maintenance work. I should have kicked both their asses. I was an equal partner. One who didn’t need to be coddled.

  “I’ve been looking after the place this year.”

  “Then you’ll take on the reno job?”

  A smile touched his lips. “I have to, or Dad will give me grief for ruining the Fix-It family reputation.”

  He didn’t sound terribly grief stricken over the prospect.

  “Ah, you read my mom’s note on the fridge,” I said, and like an idiot I smiled back.

  My panties were wet. My
face felt hot. My heart—my heart had only the most tenuous hold on hope it could heal.

  I gestured toward the debris. “I did do all this myself. I’ll help you clean it up.”

  He gave me the once-over, clearly assessing my attire.

  Like him, I was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. I was even wearing sensible footwear. A pair of old running shoes, though I would admit they were no match against a rusty nail.

  Somehow, he found a pair of heavy duty work gloves that fit me.

  I stood patiently and actually listened while he reviewed work safety rules.

  When I’d first started my impetuous reno, I’d bashed a few holes into the walls, stood back to take a look at my handiwork, and decided it might be prudent not to destroy the furnishings and the kitchenware. Even though I’d been challenged to shove the furniture onto the deck and pack up the small kitchen, tearing apart the place had been a lot more fun than cleaning up the mess I’d made.

  Relationship mess. Cabin mess. Maybe I’d invented a new form of therapy. If so, the work was hot, sweaty, and dirty. Not my usually thing, but the tangible act of throwing out crap was definitely very cathartic.

  I dumped another load into the rear of Jeremy’s truck. He’d backed it up close to the front door of the cabin for convenience. Then I pulled off one of the work gloves and tugged off the baseball cap I’d put on to keep my hair and the sun out of my face.

  The day had turned humid, and I resented the heavy denim, the runners, even the T-shirt I wore seemed too much. As part of his onsite safety, Jeremy had regularly mandated breaks to rehydrate. I decided to call one and ducked around the side of the cabin to the deck where we’d stashed a big cooler filled with bottles of water.

  I opened a fresh bottle, but instead of taking a drink, I dumped the contents over my head. Water cascaded through my hair and down the back of my neck and over my face. I closed my eyes and tipped my face toward the sun.

  A shadow blocked the heat. I could sense this even with my eyes shut. And then his lips made contact with mine, cautiously at first, so as not to startle me. I barely noticed when the empty water bottle fell from my hand.

  His mustache brushed lightly against my skin. This was a new experience, kissing a man with facial hair, but the second I started to analyze it, I ordered my brain to shut up, determined to give in to the moment and the sensations.

  We stood there, not touching except where our mouths were locked together oh so innocently. Then his tongue ventured forth along the seam of my lips.

  My heart was wary about taking the risk. But, my hormones didn’t give a damn. I moaned, the reaction instinctive and primal, and I opened my mouth to tangle my tongue with his.

  Blindly, I touched the soft cotton of his T-shirt and yanked. His laughter broke us apart, but I didn’t care. I opened my eyes so I could watch his face.

  He reached out and cupped my face in his hand. His thumb caressed my cheek, caught a stray drop of water, and brushed it away.

  “You didn’t need to pour a bottle of water over your head to cool down. We can go for a swim.”

  “Maybe later,” I said, still determined to part him from his T-shirt.

  His suspenders were impeding my progress. I slid them off his shoulders.

  He obliged by tugging the tee free from his jeans and over his head.

  “Later.” He agreed and threw the shirt against the wall where it slid into a heap on top of one of the boxes containing kitchenware that I’d stacked against the side of the cabin.

  I skimmed my hands across his chest and down his flat stomach to the faded denim waistband, fascinated by the soft, brown fur that covered his torso.

  “Now who’s the one in danger?” I asked, my fingers working their magic to undo the button on his fly.

  He caught my wrists in his large hands, effectively preventing me from stripping him further.

  “Two pieces of clothing to none,” he said. “I need to even the odds.”

  No shirt. Check. But he still had on his jeans and—I glanced down. Ah, he wasn’t wearing his work boots, which explained why I hadn’t heard him approach until he kissed me. I toed off my running shoes and smiled up at him. His sea-green eyes turned stormy with amusement, and he shook his head ever so slightly.

  He took two steps back, dragging me along, until he was leaning against the deck’s railing. Another slight tug and I was trapped between his legs, his hard-on pressed against my abdomen. He bent low until his mouth brushed the shell of my ear.

  I shivered at the intimacy he created with that one simple move.

  “I want you,” he said.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “Good, because I’ve been waiting the whole damn day for this.”

  “Me, too.” I didn’t understand how that was possible. I only knew it was true, and I didn’t want this to stop.

  These revelations did not distract Jeremy from his objective. Within seconds both my T-shirt and bra were off. Not that I particularly minded since that only meant more pleasure for me. He kissed my jawline until I arched my neck, willingly giving him access. His tongue licked the length of my collarbone, and I thought—I was certain—I begged for more.

  The next several minutes were filled with awkward fumbling. Our appetites for each other were voracious. Tongues dueled. We were eager to learn the taste of each other’s mouths and skin. I kissed his shoulder, breathing in his musky scent. Freed, my hands could finally investigate his magnificent muscles.

  To kiss, to touch, and to keep our balance as we stripped each other, however, was a distinct challenge. I lost—or won, I wasn’t quite sure which, when he took his mouth off my body long enough to shove my jeans to my ankles. Before I could return the favor, his hands grasped my waist and lifted me free of the restrictive material. An instant later, I found myself standing on top of the cooler facing the lake, not him.

  I was panting and needy and slightly indignant I had once again failed and now lost my chance to unzip his pants.

  His teeth clamped down on the base of my neck where it met my right shoulder, stilling any further protest. “Too much?” he whispered a second later, kissing the skin where it stung.

  I shook my head. This type of aggression was new, too, but I couldn’t summon even the feeblest of feminist rhetoric against such a blatantly barbaric act.

  My hormones really didn’t give a damn. My cunt was dripping wet.

  In an effort to steady my precarious position, if not my emotions, I clutched the railing.

  “More then?” He sounded amused and perhaps a little desperate.

  A square foil packet appeared in my line of vision.

  I choked on a laugh. The air around me barely stirred it was so heavy. I was only vaguely aware of the rustle of some animal in the foliage below and the sound of water lapping against the dock. It was the middle of the day, and I was stark naked on the deck with its fantastic view of the lake, bent over like some carnal offering to the gods of nature. And Jeremy.

  “Yes, please.”

  He readied himself, and then his hand slid around my hip and down to cup my mound as though he needed to make sure I was wet. His finger found my clit, and I thrust up my ass. Seeking him, seeking more, I was so damn needy.

  He added a second finger and slid down and deep inside me. His fingers pumped once, twice.

  I sobbed when he withdrew to paint lazy squiggles along my abdomen, coating my skin with my juices. I shoved back, more insistent this time. That seemed to be the signal he was waiting for and, gripping my hips to steady us both, he plunged inside of me.

  Delicious sensations bombarded me, and I clenched my secret inner muscles. Jeremy’s grunt of satisfaction was encouraging. With great care and concentration, I crossed my ankles, which had the effect of tightening my vagina even more. He hissed his pleasure, yet somehow managed to slow his thrusts. At which point, he continued his leisurely exploration of my body.

  One hand played with my breasts, tweaking my nipples into hard nubs.
His other hand relentlessly teased my clit. And throughout, he couldn’t seem to stop kissing me—my shoulders, my spine, well, most of it, and the super-sensitive and slightly ticklish spot behind my ear.

  I shook my head, not sure I could take much more. And in the next breath told him what I would do with him if he stopped. The sensual overload left me literally trembling on the verge of orgasm.

  And then, the instant before I was sure I would tip over into oblivion, he stilled. I was about to scream in frustration when I heard it, the putt-putt-putt of an outboard motor heading along the shoreline toward us.

  Holy crap! It was the middle of the day, and we were stark naked on the deck fucking like bunnies. Dazed and momentarily panicked, I let go of the railing. My rash move upset the perfect alignment of our bodies.

  “Easy,” Jeremy said as he pulled out of me.

  I really did want to scream then. I would have fallen over—I’d forgotten my ankles were crossed—if Jeremy hadn’t snaked his arm around my waist and caught me. I twisted round to face him.

  “We—” I began.

  “Haven’t finished,” he said. “Hang on.”

  I barely had time to settle my hands on his shoulders, before his hands skimmed across my bottom and hoisted me into his arms. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around his waist.

  “That’s it,” he said and slipped his cock back inside me.

  Oh My God, I couldn’t believe how good that felt. But while I was all for this new position, we were still stark naked on the deck, in full view of the lake, and with zero escape options. I thought longingly of the bedroom in the Little Cabin, which I’d left intact, but even though we’d spent the morning cleaning the place, it was now a bona fide construction zone.

  I grinned at Jeremy. “The trail’s downhill to the cottage. Nice and bouncy. This should be fun.”

  Even if we made the dash to the cottage, we’d be even more exposed than we were right this second.

  “Smart ass,” he said as he headed farther down the length of the deck.

  In an instant, I understood his naughty plan. When I’d shoved the couch onto the deck, I’d positioned it with its back against the railings. Steps away from relative safety, we spotted the boat rounding the point.