Page 51 of On A Manhunt: Complete Series

LINDY

Oh. My. God.

Dex James was… wow. I’d never, ever, gotten turned on in the grocery store before.

Until now. Until him.

About squash.

Maybe because he was the man of my naughtiest fantasies, the man who I’d just written into my latest sex scene.

I was attracted to him and that was a huge problem.

It’ll be the best thing you ever put in your mouth.

That was all I could think about–and putting his squash in my mouth–as I pushed my cart out of the produce section and away from the sexy as sin Dex James.

Would it be just like what I wrote earlier? That it would be really big, too big, for me to take it all? Would I have to grip the base and stroke it as I tried to take as much as I could? Would he hold my head in place as he came down my throat?

I veered to the freezer section to cool off, but it wasn’t going to help.

Ever since I met him when he showed up on my doorstep to take Bridget to Denver I’d been insanely aroused and obsessed with him. Which was a big problem.

I should have been excited about flying on a private jet.

A private jet.

Who had access to something like that?

He did. He was a billionaire. The youngest of the James brothers. He may not run the family business–the Fortune Whatever James Corporation–but he was loaded. Enough spare cash to have a plane.

I bought a new shade of lipstick or a pair of shoes with my spare cash.

We had nothing in common.

So what if I did a little ménage à moi and got myself off while whispering–no, screaming–his name even though I gave him a serious brush off in Denver.

Even after that, when I’d been really cranky, the guy still wanted to have dinner with me. Me!

Like the crazy person I was, I pretty much told him off via vegetables and walked away.

Why did I resist the man who had a bank account equivalent to the GDP of a few small countries?

Why did I resist a guy who was six-two, two hundred-plus pounds of solid muscle?

Who had chocolate colored hair that needed a trim and a jaw that always had a five o’clock shadow?

Who smelled like expensive soap and the rugged outdoors?

Whose smile made my panties melt and his remarkably dark eyes seemed to follow me whenever we were together?

Who called me sugar and made me want to do all kinds of dirty things with him like stick my hand down the front of his jeans and feel how big and amazing his squa–dick was instead of just imagining it?

Yeah, him.

Because he was twenty-seven years old.

I was thirty-five. These days, I tweaked my neck just sleeping weird. I tried so hard to find the One. Mr. Right. It irked me that Dex was an eager puppy–maybe a Rottweiler puppy–and into me when he was Mr. Wrong.

Not a local. Meaning he wasn’t sticking around.

He didn’t seem to have any kind of job or ambition, wandering between Colorado and Montana checking out waterfalls.

He didn’t appreciate how hard it was to earn a living.

He was young. Thinking of having sex with him, let alone actually doing it, was like robbing the cradle. Hot as hell, but he was too young.

At his age, his stamina had to be impressive. God, he could probably go a second round without any recovery time. And he’d be eager to please like that Rottweiler puppy, I was sure.

I didn’t want a puppy though. I wanted someone who knew what the hell he was doing and knew what I needed–like a mind (or body) reader–and gave it to me. Multiple times.

Like a spanking bent over the kiwis.

Gah!

Stamina, youth, vigor–all of that was irrelevant because what guy his age wanted to settle down and immediately work on making babies? I knew what I wanted, and I wasn’t going to waste time on fucking even the hottest man on the planet if it didn’t lead to marriage and kids.

Dex was forward. Direct. Bold about what he wanted and that appeared to be me. So I had to shield myself. Push him and his squash away.

My vagina didn’t agree because it was crying right now in the checkout line.

My panties were soaked. They had been ever since the squash/dick conversation ten minutes ago.

I was thankful I’d made a shopping list because my brain was only thinking about getting in Dex’s pants, not picking out ketchup and tampons.

“Have dinner with me.”

I turned as I was putting that box of tampons–which only reminded me I wasn’t pregnant or getting that way any time soon–on the conveyor belt.

Dex stood in line behind me. He eyed the box, then me, without even a blink.

“Dinner?” I questioned.

“We’ll put your squash with my chicken,” –he held up a package of poultry thighs– “and make something hot.”

Because he had a huge grin on his face, I couldn’t help but smile at him. Total puppy. “We don’t need to have dinner together because our siblings are dating.”

His dark eyes held mine. “I promise you; this isn’t about them.”

I blinked because his usually carefree and playful demeanor had been replaced by an intensity that wasn’t exactly scary, but surprising. And potent.

I swallowed, grabbed the brownies and put them on the conveyor belt.

“Seriously. Have dinner. I make a really great pasta dish and I want to share it with you.”

I turned my head and studied him. He wasn’t fooling around, and he seemed earnest.

Before I could answer, my cell rang. I pulled it from my purse, saw the name on the screen. “Hi, Mr. VanMeyer,” I responded in my usually bright voice when talking to the older man. He probably didn’t want me to forget the brownies.

I turned back to my cart to grab a carton of orange juice.

“There’s been a little accident with the tree,” he said in my ear.

I froze, stared at the magazine display without seeing any of the covers. “Oh my God, are you alright?”

“Yes. But your house isn’t.”

“What? What do you mean my house isn’t okay?”

The next thing I knew, Dex was standing beside me, really, really close and he had his hand on my hip. I had to tip my chin up to meet his gaze. His concerned gaze.

“You’ll see when you get here,” Mr. VanMeyer said vaguely. “You’ll have to park down the block since the fire truck’s in the way. Don’t forget the brownies!”

Before I could question him further, he hung up.

I stared at my phone hoping it would give me answers.

“What’s going on?” Dex asked. His voice was gentle, the playfulness gone.

“My neighbor was chopping a tree down before I left and now he’s saying my house isn’t okay. That a fire truck’s out front. Did he set the tree and then my house on fire?”

His fingers squeezed gently, then slid to the small of my back to usher me through the checkout, abandoning our carts. “Come on. I’ll get you home.”