Taming Tess, page 14
Roman charged up the steps and hit the upstairs bedroom door with a fist. The door flew open, catching Tess in the middle of shimmying the close-fitting camisole down her back.
In the instant it took Roman to register her state of undress—in the instant before he turned his back on her—her image burned into his corneas. The sweetly tapered back his hands had stroked four nights ago. The gentle curve of the spine his fingers had mapped. The blood red rose at the base of that spine peeking at him from the lacy edge of a mere scrap of pale yellow panty.
Roman tried to force the image of Tess Abbot's nearly naked body from his head ... and his tingling fingertips ... and the male member twitching beneath his bath towel.
"Twice in one day, St. John? Is this going to be a habit with you?"
"Sorry,” he muttered over his shoulder. “I knocked once. The door swung open before I could knock a second time."
"This being your house, I'd have thought you'd be aware of all its little idiosyncrasies ... like an ill-fitting catch."
"I said I was sorry,” he growled, wheeling at her, remembering too late the state of undress she'd been in when he'd burst into the room. At least she'd put on a robe, the short, slinky one that barely covered that scrap of yellow panty.
He forced himself to think about the business at hand, his shorts—or rather, lack of them—and demanded, “Where are my shorts?"
"You said you would not wear pink shorts. I got rid of them."
"I also asked you to buy me new shorts today."
"You didn't ask, you ordered."
"Ordered. Asked. Whatever,” he snapped. “Just tell me you bought me new underwear."
"I bought you new underwear, St. John."
"Where are they?"
"Right here,” she purred, lifting an ominously small bag from the clutter of female products atop the dresser.
He read the black lettering on the green paper bag she held out to him. “You bought me underwear from the Men's Emporium?"
He snatched the bag from her fingers. “There are cheaper places to shop."
"But Franklin and Son Men's Emporium has the finest quality."
Roman frowned at the bag that little more than covered his hand. “What'd you do, buy me just one pair of shorts?"
"Of course not. I bought you six."
He dug in the bag, his frown deepening as he pulled out one of the thongs. “What the hell is this?"
"A thong,” she chimed. “It's the latest thing in undergarments ... for men as well as for women.” She pulled out another thong from the bag cradled in his hand and stretched out the narrow cord that comprised the back of the garment. “See? It leaves no panty line."
"Do I look like a man who worries about panty line?"
She glanced down at the towel barely covering his modesty. He resisted the urge to fold his hands over the place where the family jewels twitched in protest. His heart and mind may be willing to abstain, but that conscienceless part of his anatomy didn't like being out of commission.
"Okay. You've had your fun,” he muttered. “Now where are the real shorts?"
"These are as real as you're going to get."
"You can't be serious."
"You commanded me to buy you shorts. I bought you shorts."
He dangled the thong in her face. “These do not qualify as shorts."
"The junior Franklin considered them shorts."
"Junior is into alternatives. Just ask his significant other, Vincent. I'm not."
"Variety is the spice of life."
"I'll spice up my life in my own way, thank you very much."
"Ah, yes. Ski jumper and world class ski instructor. Had yourself quite a run in your oat-sowing days. Got it all out of your system."
"All out of my system. You got it."
"Put all your little boy toys away, huh?"
"It's the sort of thing grown-ups do."
"And what is your grown-up idea of spicing up life? Taking out the garbage on Tuesday instead of Friday? Or maybe it's the day you rotate your mattress."
Mattress. Bed. That's where he wanted to be. In his bed. Him and Tess Abbot between the sheets. How was that for grown-up impulses?
More like his impulses had just taken a bad turn into never-never land. What he, the adult Roman needed, was sleep.
"Look,” he prodded more gently, “I don't suppose I could talk you into washing out the few white shorts I have?"
"How about you wash your own shorts?” she fired back at him.
"It's late. I need to get some sleep. I have to be on the site tomorrow by five a.m. What if I throw them in the washer and you toss them into the dryer when they're done?"
She yawned. “I'd like to help you out, St. John. But somebody woke me up this morning at the crack of dawn. I just can't seem to keep my eyes open."
"Just tell me where the pink shorts are."
"In the garbage."
"Fine.” He turned for the steps.
"Not your garbage."
He regarded her narrowly. “What do you mean, not my garbage?"
"Given your hypersensitivity to the color pink, I thought it prudent that I don't put them in your garbage. Wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea about you, now would we?"
"Where are they?"
"I put them in my garbage."
"At The Castle?"
"That's where my garbage is, and I do have a lot of garbage these days, thanks to you."
Roman groaned. “What the hell am I supposed to wear for underwear tomorrow?"
Tess dangled the thong in front of his face.
"That is not going to fit me."
She slid her hand into the front pocket of the thong, flexing her fingers until she stretched the silky sack to capacity. “Feels like the perfect fit to me."
And she would know. She'd handled him to a fever pitch only nights ago on the very spot where he now stood. He tightened just thinking about the silky exploration of her fingers around his...
He snatched the thong from her fingers and wheeled for the steps.
"Sweet dreams,” she called after him.
The bag of thongs crushed in his fist.
Chapter Ten
"You're walking kinda funny there, Roman,” his cousin Raymond chirped. “Did the black widow finally castrate you?"
That was the sort of thing Roman had contended with all day. Though none of the guys had guessed the real reason he walked funny ... because he wore thong underwear that felt like a rope between his butt cheeks. But they all knew about Tess’ whereabouts post-fire, thanks to Brody.
Roman climbed into his truck. It would be a cold day in hell before he trusted Brody with any more of his secrets.
He started the truck and turned it in the direction of The Bargain Mart. He'd buy his own damn underwear, Tess Abbot and her thongs be damned.
Though, by afternoon, he had begun to get used to the coarse scrape of denim against his backside and the slick slip and slide of the thong pocket cradling his most personal assets. At the oddest moments, he'd recall the way his houseguest had nestled her fingers into the sack of the thong, fingers she'd closed around his arousal.
The memory made him jerk within the slick pouch—made him recall how she'd stood over him naked, wet, and ready. She with her taut runner's body and glinting belly button ring. He still hadn't tasted that ring, and he still wanted to in spite of her razor-edged tongue. He wanted to bury himself in her hot, wet heat.
He wanted to chase the harpy away and make Tess Abbot abandon herself to that passionate woman who'd been intent on taking him on the floor at the foot of her bed. Which woman was she really, and what would she do if he walked into the house, caught her up in his arms and kissed her?
Probably smack him into next week. He shuddered. He didn't need any more blows to his ego. She'd battered that enough in the weeks since they met to last him a lifetime.
The floodlit sign for The Bargain Mart loomed to his right. He slammed on his brakes and careened into the parking lot. Hell, even thinking about the woman made him forget what he was doing. Hardly the hallmark of a ‘til death do us part relationship. Tess Abbot was definitely hands-off.
* * * *
By the time Tess had called out, “Sweet dreams!” after Roman last night, steam had all but been rolling from his ears. It had felt good to get him back for ordering her around ... at first. Then an image of the thong pouch heavy with Roman's cock and balls had filled her thoughts.
Oh, yeah. He was man enough to fill that silk sack to a dangerous limit. She knew. She'd held him in her hand—stroked him to his full glory. She'd felt the weight of his balls heavy with need.
Desire had corkscrewed through her, twisting up from her gut and pinching at her stomach. She'd bought the thong underwear to spite Roman, only to find herself preoccupied by their arousing properties.
Trouble with a capital T or not, she'd wanted Roman at that moment more than air. After a restless night of erotic dreams all centered on her irksome contractor, she wanted him more than independence. After an even longer afternoon calling cleaning services for estimates and browsing Roman's computer, she wanted him more than victory over her father.
Roman's truck rumbled into the driveway, and Tess turned toward the front door and away from the stove with its steaming pots. Her father had often said, “The way to a man's heart is through his stomach."
She was about to test that theory.
Outside, a truck door slammed. Tess smoothed her hands down the back of her Bargain Mart shorts and quickly ran out of material. Just in case her father was as wrong about men's stomachs as he was about her, she'd dressed to appeal to the male anatomy located slightly south of the stomach. Short shorts and crop top.
Roman walked in, plaid flannel shirt slung over one shoulder and thermos caught between one big hand and a lean hip. Add a low-slung tool belt and yellow hard hat and her fantasy would have been complete. Oh, yeah. A tool belt with all its tools banging against those denim-wrapped thighs. Firm thighs whose muscles had popped and bunched beneath her palms that night on the floor at the foot of her bed. A skier's thighs. She could spend all day thinking about those legs. Oh, yeah.
He stutter-stepped to a halt, and she looked up in time to see his gaze fix on her bare midriff. Bingo. Why had she bothered with kettles and hot water?
Then his gaze lifted to the stove behind her, and he grimaced. “You're cooking?"
Leave it to her father to screw up even a seduction. “Relax, St. John,” she fired back at him, reflex overriding planned seduction. “It's spaghetti."
He raised an eyebrow at her.
"I can boil pasta."
He hung his shirt on the peg by the door, circled the table away from her, dropped his thermos by the sink, and stopped in front of the stove.
"The sauce smells ... good,” Roman said, his voice edged with astonishment.
"It should,” she returned acidly. “It's yours."
Roman looked at her, that quizzical eyebrow once more raised.
"I found it in your freezer."
"In that case,” he said, sounding far too relieved, “supper should be edible."
"Just go wash up,” she muttered.
* * * *
Roman escaped into the bathroom, slumped against the sink, and promptly suffered the pinch of an over-stimulated libido. He jerked back from the unyielding edge of the sink, scowled, and turned on the faucet.
The minute he'd spied Tess in that belly button baring, leg revealing outfit, he'd wanted to throw her down across the kitchen table and nibble his way from one end of her to the other. Or maybe he'd have started with that ring piercing her belly button.
Yeah. He'd have started with that gleaming gold ring, then moved to her creamy white skin. Ah, but in which direction to move? Upward to the underside of those sweet mounded breasts teasing him from the loose bottom of the cropped top or ... downward? The downward path would be barred by the elastic waistband of the gray shorts ... which he would chew through with the speed of a skill saw.
He tightened, filling the silk pouch, the caress of that slick fabric reminding him of her fingers around him. He should have hung those gray shorts back on The Bargain Mart rack with the pink set which had reminded him of cotton candy and nibbling the sweet confection from—
Roman groaned and shoved his hands into the steaming stream of water. Maybe a little blistered skin would keep his mind off Tess Abbot's skin ... her very supple, very exposed skin. Smooth skin stretched across her flat stomach. Taut skin climbing from her polished red toenails to—
Roman groaned again. It wasn't his hands that needed blistering. But he hadn't the stomach for self-mutilation ... especially not to the extent required to evict Tess Abbot from where she'd burrowed under his skin. For a woman who'd decreed sex between the two of them a bad idea, she sure wasn't making it easy for him to ignore her succulent body.
Or maybe she didn't want to discourage him. Maybe Tess Abbot was dishing up something besides a spaghetti dinner tonight. Maybe she was dishing up another dose of vengeance.
His arousal pressed against the zipper of his jeans. The discomfort of metal zipper teeth reminded him of the pain she could cause his ego. He'd just have to muzzle his lust through supper.
Muzzle. He snorted. What he really wanted to muzzle was Tess’ mouth.
Her delicious mouth with its ripe, cleft lower lip.
Roman groaned a third time and muttered at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, “Just get through supper without touching her. You can hold out that long."
And the rest of the evening?
He'd take a cold shower then lock himself in his office.
* * * *
Tess wanted to dump the kettle of boiling spaghetti over Roman's head instead of into the colander in the kitchen sink. She wanted to turn on him where he sat at the head of the table and conk him on the head with the heavy pot.
She wanted to pour his precious spaghetti sauce into his lap.
Then lick up every last drop.
Tess struggled to stifle a moan. He'd insulted her cooking abilities and all but ignored her scant attire, and still she wanted him. She wanted him so badly she'd nearly bitten off her tongue to keep from saying what she really thought of his supper should be edible comment. Barbed comebacks were not conducive to seduction.
She ladled a healthy portion of sauce onto the spaghetti and placed the bowl of pasta on the table next to the tossed salad she'd prepared earlier. Roman was frowning at the salad.
"Something wrong?” she asked.
"I didn't know I had any croutons in the house."
"You didn't,” she said, sitting down opposite him. “I seasoned and toasted them myself."
He gaped at her.
"I'm not totally inept in the kitchen."
He raised a skeptical eyebrow at her.
"I happen to mix a pretty mean salad."
"But the croutons...” He eyed the salad on the table between them, his brow puckered above his eyes. “What did you season them with?"
Rat poison. That's what she wanted to say.
But she swallowed the comment. Seduction was tops on the menu for tonight, she reminded herself. Think sweet and non-confrontational. Think sexy, she silently prompted and smiled sweetly as she answered, “Garlic salt, sweet basil, and a little grated Parmesan."
He peered closely at the salad, his frown deepening. “Furry little things, aren't they?"
"For God's sake, they aren't poisoned.” She snatched a crouton from the salad and popped it into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Satisfied?"
He gave her a curious look. Some seduction. At this rate, she'd still be chasing him around when they were using walkers.
"Just eat your spaghetti before it gets cold,” she grumbled.
His frown shifted to the bowl of sauce-drenched pasta.
"Do I need to taste test the spaghetti to prove that's not poisoned, too?"
"Hey, I'm not the one who brought up poison,” he shot back.
"The hell you didn't. That look you gave the salad all but spelled out in neon you thought it might be toxic."
"I was curious about the croutons."
"You were suspicious of the croutons. And now you're suspicious of the spaghetti. Let me show you how ridiculous you're being.” She reached for the bowl.
He grabbed it off the table. “I'll eat it."
"I wouldn't dream of letting you take such a risk,” she huffed back at him, standing and gripping the near rim of the bowl with both hands. “Not until I've taste tested the blasted dish for you."
"I don't need you taste testing anything for me.” He tugged at the bowl. She tugged back. “Dammit woman, I ate your hamburgers without complaint."
"I knew you couldn't stay quiet about them forever,” she shrieked, letting go of the bowl just as he jerked on it.
Tess had never dreamed spaghetti could flip out of a bowl that easily, that singularly. But there they were, thin strands of pasta dripping with sauce sailing through the air en masse straight for Roman's lap, the very lap she'd earlier fantasized dumping sauce into ... and licking it up. How Freudian was this?
Roman, meanwhile, just sat there staring in disbelief when the mess hit his lap. Then, with an ominous silence, he scooped up the tangle of noodles and deposited them back in the bowl.
"I'm sorry,” she managed, biting the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing. “Let me help you clean up."
She began rubbing at his sauce-stained lap with her napkin. He caught her by the wrist and stood. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and, she swore, his nostrils even flared.
"I'll clean myself up,” he said through tight lips, then released her and strode stiffly into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
Tess flinched. That wasn't quite the result she'd been going for. She snorted and slumped into her chair. That wasn't even close to what she'd planned. Now what did she do?
Behind her, the water in the shower splashed on. The metallic scrape of the curtain hooks along the rod and cadence change of spurting water signaled when he stepped into the shower. He'd be naked ... in that shower ... now.
"Wouldn't he be surprised if I walked in on him?” she murmured.
Surprised or aroused?
