Page 8 of Rough Daddy (REAL DADDIES: Boone Brothers #5)

Seven

Tessa

" T hat's enough."

Beau's voice sounds like he's been hit by a truck. He drags the toy from my lips, reaching over and laying it on a towel next to the sink, then backing away like he’s in pain. His back is pressed against the refrigerator, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon.

The man looks ready to collapse.

I'm still perched spread-eagle, legs shaking, the halter top and denim skirt I chose for this seduction twisted and bunched up like I’ve just been put through the wringer. My brain feels like cotton candy, thoughts fuzzy and slow.

Wine. Wine and orgasms make you stupid.

Get it together, Tessa.

"Are you...? God, are you okay?" I ask, watching him drag his hand down his face.

His answer is a shake of his head then, "Water. You need water."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine." He pushes off the fridge, moving around me to reach the cabinet. He grabs a glass and fills it from the tap. “Can you sit up?”

“We’ll see.” I ease my slack legs over the edge of the counter, the tendons in my hips protesting for a second as I consciously straighten my spine. When he hands the glass to me, our fingers still don't touch.

Sipping the water, I watch him over the rim. He won't look at me directly. Just stares at the counter beside my hip, jaw tight, hands balled at his sides like he's fighting some internal war.

"Beau."

"Yeah."

"You can touch me now."

His eyes flick to mine, and I get the feeling a storm is coming. "No, I can't."

The alcohol and the manic blood flow through my body are making everything soft around the edges, but I can see his struggle.

This man who just watched me curse and come and squirt, who talked me through every second of it, won't let himself have even the smallest contact. Not even a brush of fingers.

Touch me. Please just touch me.

I slide off the counter onto my feet, thankful my legs hold me up. When I look up, he immediately steps back.

I wobble slightly and his hands twitch like he wants to steady me.

"Head rush," I explain, pressing my palm to my temple.

He spins on his heel, swinging open a cabinet, fighting with the cap on a little bottle. Then, with a curse, he braces it between his teeth, cracking the cap off.

“Fucking childproof.” He returns with two white pills. "Ibuprofen. You'll thank me tomorrow."

Swallowing them with more water, I study his face. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Don't you need..." I gesture vaguely to his mid-section where there are clear signs of distress behind the fabric to the left of his zipper.

Huge distress.

"I'm fine."

"Liar."

A ghost of a smile crosses his mouth. "Guest cabin's set up for you. Clean sheets, towels. I'll walk you over. You need rest and I need a shower."

“I need a shower, too,” I try, reaching for his chest, but he retreats, already moving toward the door when there’s a loud crash outside.

Freezing, I stare at him. "What was that?"

Beau tilts his head. Another crash, closer this time.

"Probably just a bear. I fucking forgot to clean up the stone oven after I cooked." He grimaces. “You’ve got me distracted, baby.”

" Just a bear?" My voice shoots up an octave. "Just a BEAR?"

Turning back to me, he must see how wide my eyes have gone, the way I'm pressed against the counter, because his expression softens. "More scared of you than you are of them."

"I seriously doubt that." Another crash, and my whole-body jolts. I take an involuntary step toward him, drawn to his steadiness. "How do you...? How do you live here with that going on?"

He shrugs, and I want to go skinny dipping in those pale blue eyes of his.

"Where do you live?" he asks, and I fight off the urge to climb onto his back like a little kid, putting him between me and whatever is out there in the darkity darkness of Wildfire.

The question hangs there and I scramble to remember my cover story. Tina Quincy.

I'm supposed to be Tina Quincy from... where did I say I was from? Think, Tessa. Did I already tell him something? Am I about to contradict myself?

"New York," I finally manage, going with the truth, and hoping it won’t unravel my lies.

He snorts, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorframe.

"You think a bear is dangerous? Bears don't mug you.

They don't carjack you or break into your apartment while you're sleeping. They just want food, or to be left alone. Or to protect their family. They’re not malicious. They have no hidden agendas."

"Bears are bigger than muggers."

Beau smiles and I think his eyes lighten a shade. "Some are. Some aren’t. But they’re a hell of a lot more predictable than people."

Something snuffles against the side of the house, and panic cinches around my windpipe.

Oh my God. Oh my God, it's right there.

Beau cocks his head, leaning toward the window, then his eyes are back on mine. "Black bear. Maybe three hundred pounds. He's checking out the bird feeder now. I’ll have a hell of a mess to clean up in the morning. Serves me right."

"Three hundred pounds?"

"Don’t worry, city girl," he says, as a new rush of heat blasts through my veins. "You're staying in my room tonight."

I blink. "What?"

"Maybe I baited him. Made sure I could keep you closer." He winks. He freakin’ winks at me as a three-hundred-pound bear leisurely dismantles everything outside. My knees are ready to give out when he gestures toward the stairs. "Come on."

I toddle behind him, as close as I can get without breaking the no-touching rule, which is getting more difficult by the second, and follow him upstairs, then through one of the two doorways on the short landing.

He flicks on a light, which turns out to be a tangle of various antlers dangling from the ceiling, with a light bulb at the center, casting fantastically whimsical shadows on the walls.

His space is nothing like I expected. Neat as a pin, warm wood walls, simple furniture that looks handmade.

A bright quilt covers the king-size bed, blue and green in a pattern I recognize from a little venture my parents took me on to an antique market so they could show my audience how ‘homespun’ I could be.

On the dresser, framed photos catch my eye. Three men who look like variations of Beau, all dark hair and serious expressions. Some include a smiling woman half the size of her brood, but with a smile twice as big. One of the men is definitely his brother from the garage.

"Brothers and mom?"

"Yeah." He opens a drawer, pulls out a white t-shirt. "You know where the bathroom is. This should be comfortable to sleep in, and it’ll keep you covered so I don’t lose my mind and violate you in your sleep."

That thought sends a wicked shiver over my skin. “Maybe I’ll leave it off then.” I crinkle my nose as he growls, pointing to the bathroom.

“Fine.” I pout, heading through to the bathroom. I strip off my halter top and skirt, pulling on his shirt. It hangs to my mid-thigh, the sleeves nearly to my elbows. In the mirror, I look like a child playing dress-up.

My new black hair is a disaster. Sex hair, wine hair, completely tangled from where I thrashed around on that counter.

I give it a quick finger comb, but decide I like the new post-orgasm look.

Coming out, I find Beau sitting on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortable. When he sees me, he scratches the back of his neck, then says, "I’ll sleep on the couch."

"Don't be ridiculous." Climbing onto the bed to sit cross-legged beside him, my brain starts to come back online and I scramble for a reason for him to stay. I don’t break the actual no-touching rule, but I come precariously close.

"Will you help me with my hair? It's a mess, and all my stuff's in the guest cabin. "

He presses his teeth together and his eyes close for a long moment, like I've asked him to defuse a bomb.

Finally, he comes back up for air, asking, "Help you how?"

"Brush it? I always braid it to sleep, but I can't do anything with it like this."

"I don't know how to braid."

"I'll show you."

Disappearing into the bathroom, he returns with a brush, then sits behind me on the bed, careful not to touch anything but my hair.

His hands are gentle, working through the tangles with patience I didn't expect.

"You're good at this."

"I have nieces. You hit one little knot in their hair, and you’d think I threw their favorite stuffed animal onto the barbecue."

I imagine him brushing the hair of a little girl and new flutters of a different sort tickle around my heart. He smells like he looks. Like mountain air, a little wine, and Irish Spring.

Leaning into the rhythmic strokes, my eyes drift closed, tension melting from my shoulders. This is nice. Too nice. "You’re so careful. I can’t imagine you hurting someone."

The brush stills. "What do you mean?"

"The way you won't touch me. Like I'm made of glass. You said you hurt people."

"You are made of glass." He resumes brushing. "Delicate things break easy."

"I’m not that delicate. Trust me.”

"Maybe. But I'm not willing to find out." His voice lowers, his breath coming closer to my ear. “All brushed through. Now, you braid it.”

“Oh no, mister. You said you would braid it. You don’t want me to cry like you threw my favorite stuffie on the fire, do you?” I poke out my bottom lip and he rolls his sexy blue eyes.

“Fine. Show me.”

I bounce onto my knees on the mattress next to him. "Okay, now watch." I reach back, parting my hair into two sections, then separating the right side into three sections. "Right over middle, left over middle, right over middle..."

I turn my head. He’s watching intently. When I reach the end, I hand him the elastic. "Your turn."

"I'll mess it up."

"It's just hair. You’re not going to pull it out, are you?"

He grimaces, jaw locked.

“Fine.” His thick fingers sweep down the hair, careful not to actually touch my head. He starts slowly, and I hear him repeating my instructions under his breath for the first few movements. “Right over middle. Left over middle…”

I smile. He’s surprisingly deft for having such big hands. He gets it wrong twice, but patiently undoes it and starts over.

The third time, he works it all the way to the end, even snapping the elastic on with a low sigh.

"There." He sits back, like being this close is breaking some solemn vow.

I reach back and check his work with my fingertips. "Perfect."

"You always braid it when you sleep?"

"Always. It’s better for your hair. Less breakage."

"Right, I remember."

Something shifts in the air between us. His body tenses.

Wait. What ? I turn to study his face. "What do you mean, you remember?"

Color rises in his neck as he clears his throat. "I mean... I figured. Most women with long hair..."

"You said ‘I remember’."

"I meant, I remember... what my nieces said. Or my brothers’ wives. I don’t know, I just remember."

I wiggle my tongue into my molar, thinking. Then I shake my head. Something feels fishy here, but why? What could he be hiding?

"You should get some sleep,” he says. “Alcohol actually prevents the brain from sleeping as it should, so you need more hours than usual."

He's deflecting. Again. Always deflecting when things get too real. "Beau."

"Go to sleep." Standing, he marches toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Couch."

"I asked you to stay."

He pauses on a long sigh, bracing both his hands on the doorframe, looking away from me. "Not a good idea."

"I'm not asking you to touch me. I'm asking you to sleep in your own bed. I’ll just happen to be here."

"Same thing."

"It's not."

Another long pause. Some mumbled cursing.

Then he turns off the light, and I hear him moving in the darkness. “Get under the covers. Daddy’s gonna tuck you in.”

I scramble under the quilt and sheet, my heart pitter-pattering as that familiar tension twists in my lower forty.

The bed dips as he settles on the far edge, careful to keep space between us. His hands poke at the quilt, securing it under my body until I feel practically mummified in the soft cotton layers. The bed smells like him, and I take a deep inhale as I push my head into the pillow.

The mattress squeaks and shifts again, the sound of boots thudding on the floor, then more movement bounces me as he maneuvers his enormous body into position.

Lying there in the stillness, I listen to him breathe.

Outside, the bear is still shuffling around, but I'm not scared anymore.

This man might not be willing to even touch me, but somehow he makes me feel safer than I've ever felt in my life.

"Beau?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you. For tonight."

"Go to sleep, baby. And, you’re welcome."

Minutes pass. I’m drifting into dreamland when I feel him shift behind me. The mattress dips as his arm slides under my pillow, the other settling carefully across my waist. On top of the layers of fabric, but still. It’s a start.

Something tight in my chest loosens.

I smile into the darkness. Out the big window over his dresser, the full moon looks like it’s smiling with me.

He pulls me against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade, steady and strong. Our skin doesn’t touch. It’s fabric against fabric, but I’ll take it.

"Just for tonight," he whispers into the dark air.

"Just for tonight," I agree.

But we both know it's a lie.