Rock Solid. Samantha Hunter
last time he could remember anything really good, and he wanted that back more than he could say.
He bunched his fingers in her thick, dark hair—shorter now, and curlier. Angling her mouth so he could go deeper, he walked her back toward the wood island that dominated the center of the kitchen. It was lower than the counters and would work for what he had in mind.
He kept kissing her—Hannah loved lots of kissing—as he covered one full breast with his palm, feeling the nipple bud against his palm.
“Damn, I missed this,” he muttered against her lips, tweaking the hard bud between his fingers and catching her gasp with another deep kiss.
She was wearing jeans, and he slid his hand down, working the snap with one hand. Slipping his hand inside, his fingertips brushed her soft curls. He laid his palm flat against her lower belly.
She murmured something against his mouth, but he continued the kiss, tasting more. He was hard, getting harder. He hadn’t felt this alive in some time.
This was what it had been like between them since the first time they’d met: spontaneous combustion.
He slipped his hand between her legs and swallowed her responding sigh. She tried to move against his hand.
“Not yet,” he whispered against her ear.
He used his other hand to push her shirt up, moving the lace of her bra out of the way at the same time.
Hannah had the prettiest breasts he’d ever seen. Full and perfectly shaped, the pert, peachy nipples were like dessert to him, and he savored each one in turn.
She cried out, and he saw her grip the edge of the island tight. His back was starting to ache, so he removed his hand and got onto his knees, working her jeans down her legs as he went.
Then he spotted it—the small racing flag tattoo that he’d talked her into, right beneath her belly button. He leaned in, kissed it and looked up to find her watching him.
“You kept it.”
“Of course I kept it.”
He smiled, remembering the day when she’d gotten the tat, and how they’d celebrated after, made him even hotter.
He nearly lost control then, as he kept looking into her eyes. Hannah, who was so cool, collected and composed most of the time. His responsible, serious Hannah, who wore boring suits and talked about accounting, now looked back at him with wild hair, flushed cheeks and eyes glittering with desire.
But there was more than desire there. There was warmth, need and...affection? Expectation? Concern?
He’d seen that soft look before, and wondered if they had more between them. That was a problem—then and now—because they couldn’t have more than sex. Sex was all he wanted. All he needed.
That was an even better reason for her to go.
He couldn’t do this, use her to entertain himself, to take his mind off his life for a little while. Brody backed off, his breathing heavy, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, Hannah. This shouldn’t have happened,” he said stiffly, closing his jeans as he walked to the sink, washed his hands, his face. Washed the past few minutes away.
“Brody?”
“Just leave, Hannah. Please.”
Hannah fixed her clothes, straightened her hair. She still looked amazing and turned on. Brody peered out the window, fighting for control.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s happening.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, can’t you get that? I’m fine. I don’t need you here. Despite what you might think, you mean nothing to me.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. It was low for him to speak to her like that, but he needed her to go. If he had to insult her to get her to do it, fine. It was better than insulting her even more by letting her stay under false pretenses. By taking her here in his kitchen, with no plans for anything more than that.
He didn’t warrant her concern, and he certainly didn’t want her pity.
“Listen, whether you like it or not, I’m your friend. I want to help, whatever the problem is.”
He watched incredulously as she stormed over to the small dinette, sat down and looked at him. He’d never seen such a stubborn, determined woman.
There was only one thing to do.
“Fine, I’ll go, then,” he muttered, grabbing his hat and keys. He walked out the back door, letting it slam, hating himself in about a dozen ways.
He felt like dirt. He wanted to apologize, to beg her forgiveness or to go back and finish what they started.
But he couldn’t do any of those things.
Climbing up in his Charger, he wasn’t even sure where he was going. All he could think about was Hannah and all the memories of their time together.
As for why she was here—it didn’t really matter. He’d still have had to turn her away rather than lie to her. Brody wondered how long it would take before she’d give up on him and take off. He hoped it was sooner rather than later, because he wasn’t sure how well he could hold up if he saw her again.
HANNAH WOKE UP on a strange sofa, not knowing where she was for a moment, but the faint irritation left by Brody’s stubble on her skin brought back the events of the morning, quickly reminding her of her surroundings.
It was midafternoon the same day, Friday. The house was quiet, and she stood, stretching and then looking out the window. Hers was still the only vehicle in the driveway.
Brody was no doubt waiting her out, but in truth, she was waiting him out, too. She had her own stubborn streak, and... Well, she was worried. She didn’t want to be, but she was.
Her stomach growled again, and she caught sight of her hair in a mirror on the opposite side of the room. She looked as though she’d crawled out from under the couch, and she seriously needed a shower. Heading out to her car, she grabbed her bag, and then went in search of the main bathroom.
As she undressed and stepped under the hot water, she firmed up her resolve. Hopefully, she’d have a chance to talk to Brody again, but if he wasn’t home by breakfast the next morning, she’d go. She could leave him a note with her phone number and an invitation to call her if he needed her—in a purely platonic way, of course—which would put the ball in his court.
It took practice, walking away, making boundaries, but she was getting better at it.
Abby always said she was overly responsible. Hannah never really understood that before; a person was either responsible or not. You either did the things you were expected to and made sure you kept your promises and were there for the people who needed you, or you weren’t. How could someone be overly responsible? It was like saying rain could be too wet. Impossible.
But Hannah knew when she’d returned from her month with Brody that Abby was right.
Her employer treated her like crap because Hannah was so dependable. So responsible. When her father died, Hannah had tried to take his place from a very early age. She worked as soon as she could, helped her mother in any way possible. She never wanted to disappoint.
Content to let her hair air dry in the Florida heat, she hung her towel neatly, then threw on a sundress and sandals. She packed up her supplies and went downstairs in time to hear the doorbell ring.
That couldn’t possibly be Brody—why would he ring his own bell? Struggling with whether she should answer the door, she did, and found a very pretty young woman in a very scanty cotton summer dress on the other side, holding a pie.
Her pretty smile collapsed when she saw Hannah. She