Wild Man (Dream Man #2)(27)

“Come here, baby,” he murmured, I caught the feel of the room and the look on his face and didn’t delay in rounding the island and going there.

When I got close, his arms folded around me and he pulled me deep. Then his head dipped and he gave me a sweet, delicious, long, deep cupcake kiss.

When he was done, against his mouth, I whispered, “You taste good.”

To which he replied, “I know.”

I smiled against his lips and he returned the gesture.

Then he lifted his head an inch, his arms gave me a squeeze and he said gently, “I wanna spend the night.”

My belly dropped and I felt a convulsion between my legs.

Then I replied, “Okay.”

His eyelids got heavy, his arms got tighter, my arms around him got tighter, his head descended and he kissed me again, this time longer, deeper, sweeter and even more delicious.

This went on for awhile. Long enough for me to get my fingers in his hair. Long enough for Brock to get one of his hands up the back of my tee and the other one clamped tight on my ass. Long enough for my ni**les to swell and the area between my legs to get wet. Long enough for me to think the bedroom was way, way, way too far away and to be glad I kept the kitchen floor mopped because that was where I wanted him to take me.

But unfortunately not long enough that we were still making out standing up in the kitchen rather than somewhere either na**d or semi-naked and thus at the point of no return when a knock came at the door.

Brock’s head came up on a low, short, frustrated growl and his eyes went over my head toward the front door. I blinked at this unwelcome turn of events and twisted my neck to look in the same direction.

It was closing on ten. Too late for a caller. Unless that caller was Martha who forgot something and Martha was the kind of gal who consistently forgot something no matter where she was, like her wallet, purse, credit card and other such non-trivial items.

Another knock came at the door and I felt Brock’s arms squeeze, this also happened to coincide with his fingers digging pleasantly into my ass. That felt great, so great, I forgot someone was at the door and I looked to him to see him looking at me.

Oh my.

He was still turned on too.

And let’s just say that look on his face was nice.

“Hold that thought and for f**k’s sake, whatever you do, hold that look,” he growled before he let me go, I teetered slightly but managed to stay standing, turn and watch him stalk toward the door.

I walked the few feet to the island and put my hands on it as he unlocked the front door.

Then my eyes dropped.

On the corner of my island was a white, ceramic pedestal cake stand with glass dome.

Sweeping lines. Simple and elegant. It cost a fortune and I didn’t care. I baked cakes. I needed fabulous cake stands. At that moment in my life, I owned seven of them (in my home, at the bakery I had tons more). All of them fantastic, most of them expensive. They rotated to the top spot on my island depending on my mood.

In the one now were six cupcakes with mountainous swirls of frosting, glittering, edible fairy dust and pastel confetti. Two had mint green frosting, two had pale pink, two baby blue.

This meant Brock had a cupcake while I was saying good-bye to Martha, before I made it to the kitchen when he was eating his second one.

I felt my face go soft as I realized I missed that too. He had a great body, the kind of body that no matter what age, but especially at forty-five, you worked on. He didn’t shy away from his food, his beer or his bourbon. He lived his life like he appreciated it. But he still took care of himself. I’d phoned him enough times when he told me he was at the gym or just got back from a run to know this was true.

But he had a weakness for my cupcakes. And my cake cakes. And my cookies. In fact, anything that came out of my oven, he made no bones about liking it, liking it more than anything else that I’d noticed he liked and he didn’t do this by handing me flowery compliments. He did this by consuming them with relish.

And in that moment, I found I loved that.

On that thought, I heard Brock snarl, “You have got to be shitting me,” and my head snapped up.

“Who are you?”

At the sound of the familiar voice asking that question, my hands slid down the counter and curled tight around the edge as my chest compressed so deep it felt like I was being crushed.

Damian.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that you are not here. You are never here.

You are never anywhere near this f**kin’ house, Tess’s f**kin’ bakery or Tess. I see you or I hear you are, honest to f**kin’ God, I’ll deal with you and you do not want me to do that.”

Brock was still snarling, it was vicious, biting and I could feel his mood all the way across the living room, through the kitchen and to me. It was filling the house, beyond his pissed off snap of electricity, this was rough and abrasive, scoring at my skin.

“I beg your pardon?” Damian asked.

Oh no. Oh God. Oh no.

Damian was at least three inches shorter than Brock. Damian was probably twenty pounds lighter if not more. Damian was lean in the sense he was lean, not muscled, no bulk. He was fit but there was no power to his frame like there was to Brock’s. In a physical tussle, Brock would take him, easy.

And Damian wouldn’t give one flying f**k. Damian spent most of his time pissing in corners. Damian would not take to a threat well.