Melt For Him Read online

  “You always said she was a hell of a photographer,” Becker said quickly, eager to act like all was cool with the situation and he wasn’t lusting like a fool over Megan. Besides, he needed to stop. His friendship with Travis meant too much to him, and if anything more happened with Megan, his buddy was not going to be happy. “Looks like she got your best side.”

  “That she did, bro. That she did,” he said, and tucked the phone away. “You’re next, right?”

  Becker nodded. “Yup. Tomorrow.”

  “Maybe she’ll put a hyena head on you. You’d look mighty fine like that.”

  “Or an anteater,” he offered, glad to keep the conversation light when it came to the woman he couldn’t stop thinking about. The woman who calmed his mind and eased the aching in his chest.

  They kept up the friendly barbs for another few minutes. Becker should have felt better, because clearly Travis trusted him. But Becker wasn’t sure if he trusted himself.

  Chapter Twelve

  He studied the drawing on the mailbox the next morning. A penguin wearing an orange bow tie clicked his heels, like an old-fashioned movie star singing in the rain. His lips quirked up in curiosity as he leaned in closer for a better look. The penguin was comically drawn, but also precise. There was an expert quality to it, even though the creature wasn’t supposed to be the least bit realistic.

  Megan’s mark on the world.

  He was a few minutes early, an old habit that wouldn’t die. Being in his line of work entailed so much rushing and quick responding that he’d grown accustomed to getting ready faster than the average man.

  “My mom has a thing for penguins.”

  Becker looked up from Megan’s handiwork and tapped the shiny steel box admiringly. “Evidently.”

  “I drew it for her a few years ago. Well, I sketched it, then painted it.” Megan stood on the front porch of a small but well-kept house. The door was painted bright red, and the windows were decorated with planter boxes that were in full bloom with spring flowers in bright yellows and blazing oranges. The two-story house was picturesque, an emerald-green lawn sloping up to meet a brick porch, but the best part was Megan, leaning against the doorjamb, all casual and crazy sexy in a faded denim skirt.

  Becker’s eyes were drawn to the way the skirt showed off her strong thighs, and then her sculpted calves. Her feet were bare, and as he strolled down the stone path to meet her on the porch, he noticed she had a slender silver ring on her second toe. Becker wasn’t a foot man, but for some reason he found the ring inexplicably hot.

  Then he met her gaze, and she was smiling, a sweet, almost innocent expression across her beautiful face. When she looked at him like that, he felt a press of nerves inside his chest. It was a strange feeling, and reminded him of picking up a woman for a date for the first time. He hadn’t felt this way in ages. He certainly hadn’t been celibate in Chicago, by no stretch of the imagination. He’d had lovers and girlfriends, one or two serious, including the one who’d been far more interested in his line of work than an actual relationship, but it had been a while since he’d felt as if he were waiting for a date.

  Which was a stupid thought and a dumb feeling, so he locked up both the thought and the feeling in the trunk of things he didn’t want to deal with, then threw away the key. He couldn’t let himself go there with her or think of her that way. Even after that kiss yesterday. Especially after that kiss yesterday.

  “I’m no expert on penguin art, but I like your style. It’s playful,” he said, gesturing to the mailbox.

  “Thank you.”

  “Reminds me of something my brother sent me a few weeks ago from one of the movies he’s working on.”

  “He’s working on a penguin movie?” she teased.

  He shook his head. “No. An outer space thing. But it’s got a comical flair like yours. And I told him as well how much I like it.”

  “Then that makes me happy,” she said and pointed to the open door. “I’m just finishing up breakfast. Want to come in for a second?”

  “Sure,” he said, glad that he’d battened down the mental hatches before walking into her house. Fine, it wasn’t even her home, and it wasn’t as if her mom’s surroundings would give away much about Megan and who she was beyond the little flashes she’d let him see. But then as she led him into the kitchen, he stopped short when he spotted a framed photo on the wall.

  Taken years ago and faded to a sepia shade, the picture was still recognizable. A young Megan and Travis were jumping into a pool with their father. In another shot, they were roasting marshmallows at a campfire. Next, their father was pushing his kids on a swing set. Becker scanned the wall of family photos. The odd thing was all the pictures were of a young Megan and Travis. Then, there was a handful of them older, in their early teens. It was as if years went missing in the family. Becker knew Megan’s dad had died when she was young; he and Travis had talked about it. Still, it was sad to see a sort of black hole in the photographic history of the Jansen family.

  He left the photos behind and followed Megan into the kitchen, the first rays of morning starting to peek through the windows. She picked up a box of Cinnamon Life cereal and waggled it at him. “Can I interest you in some cereal? I know, I know. Try to contain your enthusiasm at how awesome a cook I am.”

  His lips quirked into a smile. “You can always interest me in cereal. That’s my favorite kind.”

  “I know,” she said, and turned to the cabinet to reach for another bowl.

  As he watched her reach into the cupboard, her shirt riding up and showing a sliver of her sexy waist, he latched onto what she’d just said. “How did you know?”

  She swiveled back with a maroon ceramic bowl in hand. “Um,” she said, and looked down as if she’d been caught red-handed. “I noticed it at your house.”

  For some reason, this made him smile. It wasn’t even so much that she’d noticed, but that she’d remembered.

  She poured him a bowl and clinked her spoon to his. “A toast to the best kind of cereal.”

  “What else did you notice at my house?” he asked as he took a spoonful.

  She rolled her eyes. “Nothing,” she said, but the red that flooded her cheeks gave her away.

  “Go through my sock drawers, too, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “Tupperware?”

  “Fine. If you must know, I perused the utensils.”

  He raised an eyebrow as he took another bite. “Interesting,” he said in between crunches. “What did you learn?”

  “That you don’t have enough teaspoons,” she said with a very straight face that made Becker nearly spit out his cereal with laughter.

  “But what about butter knives?”

  “You have plenty of those.”

  “How about soup spoons?”

  “I better check again. I didn’t take a proper inventory of soup spoons.”

  “Falling down on the job,” he teased.

  Soon, she finished her cereal, rinsed out the bowl, and left it in the sink. She started putting dishes away in the cupboards as he worked through his cereal. He watched her whip through the dishes like a champion, shelving the plates, then the glasses, then the bowls. She reached for a tall vase next, quickly hoisting herself up onto the counter like an agile creature so she could align the vase on the top of the cupboards. “The cupboards are all full and this is the only place these tall vases fit,” she explained as she swiveled around.

  She crouched down to hop off the counter, and he immediately pictured her toppling off in a topsy-turvy mess, whacking her head on the dishwasher handle and falling smack on her butt on the floor. Instantly, he thrust his bowl onto the counter, ready to catch. Instead, she moved like a cat, landing softly on her feet.

  “I thought you were going to fall. Since you admitted you were a klutz,” he said.

  She winked. “I just said that to pick you up.”

  He laughed. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

  “Like a charm. I
made you think I was the typical klutzy heroine.”

  “When in fact, there is nothing typical about you. Did you say anything else to pick me up?”

  “I think it was all the things I didn’t say that you liked so much,” she said, lowering her voice and looking straight at him as he dried off his hands on a towel.

  “What do you mean?”

  He watched her swallow, as if she were considering what to say. “I think you liked the fact that I didn’t tell you chapter, line, and verse. I think you prefer not knowing the details,” she said, and her voice sounded thin and nervous. “You liked it better when I wasn’t totally myself.”

  Instinctively, he took a step toward her, running his hand along her arm. He shouldn’t be touching her. He shouldn’t be speaking so plainly to her about how he felt. But he was having the hardest time acting as if there was nothing between them. They weren’t friends, they weren’t photographer and subject. They were onetime lovers who wanted to be more, who were trying to hold back. Or maybe trying not to. “That’s not true. I like when you share things with me.”

  “Isn’t it, though? You said it was easier when we hardly knew each other,” she said, repeating their words from the coffee shop.

  Maybe not holding back would yield a greater reward. Because he liked this far too much. Enjoyed it. Craved it. Needed it.

  “Yes. I did. And so did you. And it was easier,” he said, his heart beating faster as he practiced brutal honesty with her. No walls. No secrets. No pretending. “And now it’s harder for a million reasons. But I also like knowing who you are. More than I should. Much more than I should,” he said, letting his voice trail off as he ran a finger down the bare skin of her arm. They were both watching as she reached for his hand, briefly lacing her fingers through his. That simple touch sent a flurry of shivers down his spine. “I like knowing about your owl. And your tattoo dreams. And I like knowing about the river and what it means to you. And I like knowing you’re not really a klutz.”

  “But what if I were?” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. “What if I had fallen off the counter and hit my head on the cupboard door?”

  “Then I’d have caught you in seconds,” he said, letting go of her hand. “And wrapped an arm around your shoulder,” he added, demonstrating. “Then this.” He scooped her up in his arms, carrying her as he walked across the kitchen.

  “Show-off!” she said, and pounded her fists playfully against his chest.

  “What? You thought I couldn’t lift you?”

  “I knew you could. I just didn’t expect you to.”

  “Ah, so I surprised you.”

  “Yes. You did.”

  “Good. Because I suspect that’s not easy to do,” he said as he set her down in the living room.

  “You’re strong,” she said.

  “I’m supposed to be. Comes with the job.”

  “I know. I’m just not used to being carried. Travis was always trying to toss me on his shoulder and carry me just because he could, but I didn’t let him.”

  “But you let me.”

  “You’re more fun to be carried by,” she said, her brown eyes sparkling. Fun. He didn’t think anyone had called him fun in a long, long time. Hearing it from Megan tugged at his heart. “Besides, when he tried to carry me I just ran away from him,” she said softly. The implication was thick in the air that she hadn’t run from him.

  “Because you’re Miss Independent.”

  “Am I?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “Does that make you crazy?”

  “Nearly everything about you does,” he said, his lips quirking up. “Now, you want to get some shoes on and I’ll clean the kitchen for you?”

  Her eyes lit up as if he’d won a teddy bear for her at the fair. But maybe cleaning up the kitchen was her version of a teddy bear.

  “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”

  He returned to the kitchen, washed the breakfast dishes, tucked the cereal box onto its shelf, then met Megan at the door. She wore black combat boots with her short skirt, and even though he found himself missing that toe ring, she was even hotter with bare legs and badass boots.

  “You have everything? Bunker pants, suspenders, boots, helmet?” she asked.

  “Back of the truck. Like you asked. And you? What’s in that tackle box?” Becker said, tipping his forehead to the black metal container she carried that looked suspiciously as if it might be home to fishing lures. “Don’t get me all excited and tell me we’re really going fishing.”

  When they reached his truck and he opened the passenger door to let her in, she flashed him a devious grin, then said, “Makeup. Makeup and body paint.”

  That was all he could think about on the drive to the river.

  Body paint, and all its possible meanings.

  He wanted to paint her body red. Paint it black. Paint it with his hands. Paint it with his tongue. He gripped the wheel hard, forcing himself to focus on the road as he drove.

  But once they reached their destination, he had to admit he was damn curious what she intended to do to him with the body paint.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I thought you were going for a more natural look and feel to the calendar. Now what? Are you going to paint a fire on my chest?” Becker asked after they reached the bend in the river that Megan had declared the perfect photographic backdrop. The spot was secluded, hugged by overhanging willow branches that formed a canopy over the water. They were in a narrow valley, surrounded only by the gurgling river, the chirping of birds, and the misty fog that rolled through on its way out as the sun rose overhead.

  “It won’t be tacky, I promise,” she said. “Now sit.”

  She pointed to a large rock near the river, close to the one they’d perched on yesterday. Becker followed her orders. She opened the black metal box, pursed her lips, and scanned the jars of makeup and tubes of body paint.

  Becker tapped his cheek. “How about a tiger? You know, like you’re face-painting at a fair.”

  She grabbed a brush and brandished it like a weapon, wagging it at him. “You better watch it, or I’ll give you a butterfly or a ladybug,” she said with narrowed eyes.

  He held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “You do that.”

  She selected a tube of charcoal gray paint, a slate-colored one, then midnight black. “Besides, this’ll be easy. I once did a shoot in L.A. for this antifur ad campaign. I worked with another artist to paint the models to look like animals. Took a few hours. This will only be a few minutes.”

  “I trust this washes off easily?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course. And it’s nontoxic and all that.”

  She opened a jar and dipped a paintbrush into it, swirling the bristles into the charcoal color. “Take your shirt off,” she said. He reached over his shoulder and removed the blue shirt easily in one swift move, revealing the broad chest that would now be her canvas.

  Her breath fled as she took in the sight of his muscled body. The rippling abs, the carved pecs, and the beautifully broad shoulders. She reminded herself she had a job to do, so she moved closer, considering the best position for painting him. Should she stand between his legs, straddle a thigh, or paint from the side leaning over?

  “Um, I kinda think I need to get a little closer.”

  “Be my guest,” he said, and waited for her to make a move.

  She opted for straddling him, inching closer so one strong thigh was between her bare legs. He wore the heavy beige turnouts, but even through the thick fabric, she could feel the flexed muscle of his quad between her legs. Why had she thought painting him would be a good idea? Why had she picked this deserted location? Was it subconscious or had she deliberately done this so she’d fall into another moment with him without a soul around to see them?

  She hadn’t been doing such a good job resisting him these last twenty-four hours. Even when she texted him the o
ther night, she could pretend that interaction was safe, since it consisted only of words. But words started everything. Their whole connection began with a conversation that had unfurled into more. She loved the effect she seemed to have on him, how he seemed freer, happier, less tightly wound with her. She’d never been able to do a thing for Jason. But in a mere week in town, she’d already felt like she mattered. She wanted that—she craved that.

  Even so, more contact would be dangerous. It would be stoking the fire that was all too ready to roar. She could already see herself with him in so many ways, but being with a man like him would only ever amount to getting hurt.

  Right?

  Or maybe it wouldn’t, a tiny little voice suggested.

  She shushed that voice as the hem of her short skirt inched up farther. Focus, she told herself.

  Starting at his belly button, she painted a faint line of gray up and over the hard ladder of his stomach, the brush moving and bending with the planes of his body. She dipped the brush into another jar and edged the color with a darker hue. He pressed his hands against the rock, gripping it as she painted more color over his muscles. This time, she started at his pecs, swirling the slate gray downward, farther, until she stopped at the waistband of his pants. He inhaled sharply and dug his hands into the rock as if he could rip off pieces of it.

  She leaned back to consider her work, then sighed heavily. It was all wrong. It looked affected, like stylized plumes of smoke. She’d envisioned a realistic look, as if he’d truly just emerged from battling a smoky forest fire.

  “I need to mix it in better. I need to use my hands.”

  He didn’t reply. He only nodded as she laid the brush on the rock. This time she settled over both his legs, sitting across them, his firm thighs holding her. He bit out a curse when she placed her hands on his chest.

  “I just want it to look right,” she said breathily.

  “Yeah,” he said, staying still. He was a wall, immovable. He was the embodiment of rigid resistance as she feathered a hand over his chest. But two things gave him away. His breathing that grew louder, more intense. And the huge bulge in his pants that pressed against her inner thigh.