The Lumberfox (Geekrotica) Read online

  Maybe Georgia snowstorms weren't so bad, after all.

  She was just getting up her nerve to dig her fingers under his shirt when someone banged on the elevator and shouted, “Seriously?”

  Ryon drew back with a tortured groan, and she leaned against the mirror, panting. But he didn't make a move for the door—just looked at her like she was a steak dripping with butter. Shyness overcame her, as usual, and she felt her cheeks go hot.

  “So, Mr. Lumberfox. Etymology revs your engine, huh?”

  “No, but smart girls who know what etymology is do.”

  He reached for her face again, and she panicked.

  “Just call me the Yoda of the Urban Dictionary.”

  He stopped, cocked his head. “Why do you keep doing that?”

  She picked his hat up off the floor and held it out to him, feeling sheepish.

  “Do what?”

  “Make a joke out of a charged moment.”

  “I...”

  Someone banged on the other side of the door. “I need to go get my laundry, assholes. I can hear you in there.”

  Still unsure how to answer him, Tara reached past Ryon to press the button that would open the elevator doors. They slid open on a rumple-haired dude in a robe holding an empty laundry basket.

  “Sorry, Mac,” Ryon said. “Technical difficulties.”

  “Go make out in your own apartment, Brubaker,” the guy grumbled, but he was smiling.

  Ryon winked at her and led her down the hall to number 1408, which was indistinguishable from every other door on the hall. They were wide-spaced, and the honey-colored wood floors gleamed. Tara began to feel like a girl spirited away to another world, like some mixed-up Disney princess who'd gotten lost in the snowstorm and been saved by a handsome prince and whisked away to the Beast's urban castle. She felt a little sorry for Han as the bag bumped against her thigh under her coat. With kisses like Ryon's, maybe she wouldn't need batteries to rev her engine.

  Keys jangled, and Ryon held the door open for her.

  “It's a little messy, but...”

  Tara stepped inside and smiled. “A lot better than a blizzard.”

  And maybe it was a little messy, but mostly with books and bottles and boxes of more bottles, all of them clean and empty. The kitchen table looked like an old-fashioned chemistry set, a row of empty dark brown bottles lined up with SERENITY BROWN BREW labels facing forward. Not a stank-ass sock in sight. Ryon went straight to a sleek marble fireplace and flicked the switch. A fire flared to life, and Tara unwound her scarves and made two stacks of cold-weather clothes, her own and the borrowed ones Ryon had insisted she wear for their walk in the snow. Soon she was down to a bunny-soft sweater, jeans, and boots, and on second thought, she stripped off her footwear, too. The leather boots were soaked, and so were her socks. Slipping her laptop bag under her coat, she plopped down in front of the fire and stretched out her fingers, closing her eyes at the bliss of licking flames.

  Tara spaced out while Ryon moved around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers and pressing buttons. The sharp bite of onion reached her as a knife chopped with a woodpecker's intensity. She'd been in the car for so long, and then tense and slogging through the snow that Tara felt tied in knots.

  When Ryon curled her fingers around a stemless wine glass, she woke up enough to murmur her thanks and drink. It was a heady red, and she mostly forgot her empty stomach as she sipped it. Ryon draped a soft blanket around her shoulders and sat down beside her on the plush rug, likewise stretching out his fingers to enjoy the fire. He was in well-fit jeans and a button-up with the sleeves rolled back to show his tattoos. The sailor-style Artoo she'd seen before was mirrored on the other arm by Iron Man surrounded by roses. She could've stared for hours, tracing his ink.

  “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Chicken and veggies. Can you wait that long?”

  She sipped her wine, swirled it in the glass. It was going straight to her head.

  “If I don't get drunk and pass out before then.”

  “To be honest, you look way too wound up to sleep. May I?”

  He scooted behind her and slid her blanket down, his hands stroking her shoulders briefly before his fingers began to knead the tense lines of her neck and back. Thumbs pressing in made her gasp and sigh in relief. She began to melt, as if he'd finally teased out a knot and was unraveling her like a sweater with just his fingers and warmth. Without meaning to, she let out a little moan and let her head fall forward.

  The press of warm lips on the nape of her neck shocked her delightfully, and a shiver ran up her spine.

  “Is this okay?”

  The words caught in her throat. Did he even have to ask? No one else ever had, before. But he was waiting now, fingers stilled and his breath on the tender skin of her neck.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Then, louder, resisting the impulse to say something silly, “Yes.”

  Gently he took the mostly empty wine glass from her hand, leaning to place it far away, next to his empty one. Tara smiled to herself and stared into the fire, curious to see what he would do next. Ryon moved behind her, just close enough to feel the warmth of his bulk but not close enough to satisfy her wish to touch him. The brush of his beard over her nape made her quiver, and his lips nibbled up and down the exposed skin. He pulled away, and before she could complain, he tugged the pencil out of her bun, and dark hair cascaded down her shoulders. Firm fingers dug into her scalp, massaging the places where her bun had pulled for hours. The combination of sensations was dizzying, and she tipped her head back to give him better access.

  “I love your hair,” he said.

  She couldn't stop herself from blurting, “I'm sure it looks like go se after the blizzard.”

  His fingers pulled through the dark mass, tugging a little.

  “No. Not crappy in the least. I like the wildness. Looks like you just had amazing sex.”

  “That was not the way I got rammed today.”

  His fingers stilled, and he turned her head so that they looked eye to eye. Somehow, he managed to be both stern and playful at the same time.

  “Let's make a deal, Tara. Every time you try to break the tension with a joke, you have to take off a piece of clothing.”

  She flushed like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar. But the punishment was more cookies. “Why?”

  “Because we've got nothing better to do. We're trapped here until the blizzard stops and the snow melts. Might as well enjoy ourselves, right? Unless you're in a relationship...”

  She shook her head.

  “Or diseased or not into guys or not into guys like me.”

  It took an effort to look him in the eye and speak, the tension thick enough to spread like butter. No one had ever been this straightforward and unapologetic with her sexually, and it was maddeningly attractive. No deception, no wheedling, no lies. Just the understanding that he'd like to get her naked and wanted her thoughts on the matter.

  “Nope. I'm healthy and...” He smirked as she sought the right words. She almost said, “Already wet” but chickened out and muttered, “Not opposed.”

  “Good. I'm game if you are.”

  Tara bit back a smirk. “Okay, but you know you're setting me up to fail, right? I mean, losing at Strip Joker is going to be as much fun as losing at Strip Poker.”

  Ryon's eyes glinted wickedly. “That's one. Give me your sweater.”

  She was only half-shocked when he gripped the edge of her sweater and lifted it gently over her head. Her arms rose obligingly, and she was glad she'd worn both a tightly-fitted V-neck and a lacy tank under the itchy cashmere. That was one more layer to let him tease away. One more chance to bite her lip instead of saying something silly.

  If she wanted to.

  The sweater popped off her head, her hair crackling as goose bumps rose on her bare arms. Ryon tossed her sweater onto the pile of her clothes by the door and ran his hands up and down her arms.

  “Cold?”

  “Uh, no.�
�

  “Something else?”

  She struggled not to say something cute and looked straight into his eyes instead. “Definitely something else.”

  Just the act of owning up to her own lust was empowering, and she flushed warm and sat up straighter, nowhere close to the giggles. And why not enjoy herself? He was right. They were trapped here, cocooned from the storm, and it was easy enough to pretend that the rest of the world didn't exist, that it was a mad, modern-day fairy tale. Judging by the family photos she'd seen on the mantel and a few crayon drawings to Uncle Ryon stuck to the fridge, he was safe and sane, and her mom now had his driver's license number. Hell, maybe he really was as amazing as he seemed.

  Ryon pulled her knees around to face him, and they sat that way, legs crossed and knee-to-knee in front of the fire. Tara realized she was breathing in time with him, their mouths open slightly, the crackling fire the only other sound. Tentative, she reached out to run a finger down the inside of his arm, touching the lines of fading ink. Much to her satisfaction, goose bumps rose, and his hand made a fist on his thigh. When she touched his other arm the same way, he caught her hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing her knuckles one by one. He had a mermaid on the outside of that arm, and she wondered which of them was the siren in this situation.

  “I'm ticklish,” he murmured against her fingers.

  “I can tell.”

  “What about you?”

  His tongue darted to the cleft between her knuckles, and she was shocked when a jolt of heat shot through her like forked lightning and wetness spread lower down. He must've seen her shudder, as he did it again, slowly and deeper this time. Jesus, it was like he was licking her most secret center, the sensation somehow connecting from her fingers to darker, hidden places. Tara swallowed hard and struggled not to break eye contact or fidget or say something silly, and Ryon slowly turned her fist over and unfurled her fingers, planting tender kisses on each fingertip, down her palm, and up her arm. When his beard brushed over the inside of her elbow, she bit back a giggle.

  And that's when he went in for the kiss—when her lips were pursed and her nerves dancing. It was firmer, this time, more urgent, and he didn't nibble at all, just sought immediate, demanding entry. She kissed him back, just as hard, wrapping her hands behind his head and enjoying where the longer top of his hair flopped down over the shaved part, a contrast of smooth and prickly. Hungry for more, she tasted and teased with her tongue, dipping deep and drinking in the strange wonder of raging passion for a near stranger. As if untying a bow, he untucked her feet and hooked them over his thighs, pulling her into his lap and wrapping his arms around her like the most delicious cage.

  And, dammit, she let him, because it was wonderful.

  Wanting more, she settled firmly into his lap and circled her legs around his waist, squeezing his sides with her knees as if urging a horse to a gallop and opening her lips wider as he lapped at her and explored every part of her mouth.

  He pulled away for a brief, burning second. “Goddamn, I like kissing you.”

  She set her forehead to his. “I know.”

  And he kissed her again, deep and sloppy and hungry, as if quoting Han Solo was the hottest possible thing a woman could do.

  Ryon's hands settled on her waist and drew light circles up her sides, inching under her tee shirt and cami and making her shiver where the air struck. It was warm in his apartment, but the heat of the fire made every slice of shadow a cold shock.

  “You trying to steal second, scoundrel?” she purred.

  He already had her tee-shirt halfway over her head when she realized what she'd done and muttered, “Oh, shit.”

  “Arms up. Be a good sport, princess.”

  But her arms were already up, and she soon had them crossed over her chest to combat the chill. Glancing at the parted curtains of a tall window, she saw nothing but white. No flakes, no breaks, no swirls. Just a solid wall of white edging into dusk. Ryon tossed her black tee on top of the clothes pile and smoothed her hair back over her shoulders, revealing thin, white, lacy straps that she knew very well stood out over the black lines of her bra. It had been months since anyone had stripped her down far enough to discover a cami that didn't even attempt to hide what waited underneath.

  “Black, huh?”

  She shrugged. “To answer your question without being funny, yes. I wear a lot of black.”

  “Under white. That says something about you.”

  His eyes narrowed, the orange of the flame behind her dancing against the dark blue, daring her to give him any excuse to peel the cami off her and expose the frilly demi bra below. And she almost said something silly in her own defense, but instead, she ovaried up and began unbuttoning his shirt from the neck down.

  “Let's see what you wear under plaid flannel, then. Five bucks says it's a band shirt.”

  His fingers traced the line under her cami's lace-edged hem. “I can't decide if that's supposed to be funny or not, but the tension's still here, so I'll allow it.”

  When the last button was undone, Tara looked down. The National. Of course. He let her slide the button-down off his arms and stretched his shoulders as she tossed it aside. He was built, for a geek, but that went with everything else she'd seen of his life: thoughtful, beautiful, and not afraid of hard work. The tee stretched over his biceps, a few blank spaces on his arms showing skin still waiting for ink. She couldn't help herself—she traced fingers over his shoulders and down his pecs, dragging fingertips over ridged abs that thrilled her.

  She smirked. “Do you even lift, brah?”

  But before she could laugh, he'd yanked the cami up and over her head. With one muscled forearm behind her shoulders, he tenderly bulldozed her to the rug so that she lay on her back before the fire. His chest was even harder pressed on top of her, a hollow between his stomach and the soft curve of hers. One of his knees drug up between her thighs. Jesus, they were all lined up, and she was practically popping out of the demi cups of her bra as he devoured the skin from her throat in a straight line down to the cleft between her breasts.

  “No warning at all that time--”

  With a grunt of both satisfaction and want, he contracted away from her and flicked the button on her jeans, baring those two inches of flesh that were somehow the difference between Maybe and Oh, God, now.

  Putting his lips to her ear, he murmured, “The safe word is Wookiee.”

  With absolutely no irony, she cupped his jaw, fingers caught in his beard, likewise set her lips to his ear and whispered, “Laugh it up, fuzzball.”

  His growl was nothing like a Wookiee's, and he leaned full over her, lined up chest to feet, and took her mouth in a passionate kiss that somehow rendered all their previous kisses soft and sweet. She could barely breathe but for him, his breath and his skin and his scent surrounding her. Her leg clamped down over his and her hips pressed up against him. Her fingers searched under his tee shirt, climbing curves and hard ridges of muscle, tracing bones with heat and yearning. Goddamn, he was the hottest thing she'd ever seen and felt, the sexiest man she'd ever touched, and she could barely believe she'd ever assumed he was just a bad driver who didn't know how to deal with snow.

  Ryon Brubaker knew exactly how to deal with snow.

  And with bodies, considering how he was tracing the top curve of her breasts with his lips, slipping his tongue under the lacy edge of her bra as his cheek grazed her clavicles. She'd never made out with a guy with facial hair, and it was intriguing and erotic, the way the roughness scraped and enflamed in counterpoint to the softness of lips and tongue. The chill of the air, the heat of the fire, the strange place and her hunger: every sensation was heightened, combined, willing new nerves to fire and making her feel more alive than she had in forever. And that was before he edged down the bra cup and took her nipple in his mouth, grazing it lightly with his teeth.

  Tara's body arched up as jolts of pleasure burst and expanded.

  “Force lightning,” she moaned, an
d Ryon pulled away.

  “Are you... being clever?”

  Her smile curled up like a cat in a sunbeam. “Being cunning.”

  His eyes narrowed, his lips twitching into a wicked smirk.

  “I can be cunning, too—linguistically speaking. And you owe me another article of clothing...”

  Kissing down her stomach, he dipped his tongue into her navel for the briefest moment before grasping her zipper with his teeth and tugging it down. She gasped and arched her back as he tugged the tight jeans down around her hips and over her butt, lifting her legs straight up as he slipped them off and tossed them on the pile of clothes.

  “Ballerina?” he asked, massaging the arches of her feet as she pointed her toes.

  Tara snorted, lifted her arms overhead, and extended her body out flat so that her arms and legs hovered over the ground, stick straight. “Diving team.”

  She didn't remember that she was in nothing but bra and panties until he ran his fingertips from her neck, down over her clavicles, between her breasts, into the ticklish valley between her ribs, over the swell of her tummy, and directly into her black and white polka-dotted panties. A little moan escaped her as one of his fingers dragged between her lips, already slick and wet and welcoming. He kneeled beside her, his face a mask of want and concentration, focused only on her and the small sounds that she couldn't quite control.

  “God, that's lovely,” he muttered, and the next thing she felt was his breath through the satin as he stretched out on his stomach and licked her through her panties. His palm spread across her mound, that one finger crooked and plunging between her lips as his beard rasped the insides of her thighs and his tongue played with the black lace edges. When she opened her eyes, she had an eyeful of his elbow, inked with a spider's web and his eyes closed in rapt devotion further down.