Can't Hardly Breathe. Gena Showalter
he glanced at the clock on the nightstand—1:08 a.m.
He frowned. As he stood, his dog tags clinked against his mother’s locket, the one he’d worn since her death. He pulled on the wrinkled, ripped jeans he’d tossed earlier and anchored his gun against his lower back.
Forgoing the peephole, he looked through the crack in the window curtains. His gaze landed on a dark, wild mass of corkscrew curls, and his frown deepened. Only one woman in town had hair like that, every strand made for tangling in a man’s fists.
Concern overshadowed a fresh surge of desire as he threw open the door. Hinges squeaked, and Dorothea paled. But a fragrant cloud of lavender enveloped him, and his head fogged; desire suddenly overshadowed concern.
Down, boy.
She met his gaze for a split second, then ducked her head and wrung her hands. Before, freckles had covered her face. Now a thick layer of makeup hid them. Why would she ever want to disguise them? He liked those little dots, and sometimes imagined—
Nothing.
“Is something wrong?” On alert, he scanned left...right... The hallway was empty, no signs of danger.
As many times as he’d stayed at the inn, Dorothea had only ever spoken to him while cleaning his room. Which had always prompted his early-morning departures. There’d been no reason to grapple with temptation.
“I’m fine,” she said, and gulped. Her shallow inhalations came a little too quickly, and her cheeks grew chalk white. “Super fine.”
How was her tone shrill and breathy at the same time?
He relaxed his battle stance, though his confusion remained. “Why are you here?”
“I...uh... Do you need more towels?”
“Towels?” His gaze roamed over the rest of her, as if drawn by an invisible force—disappointment struck. She wore a bulky, ankle-length raincoat, hiding the body underneath. Had a storm rolled in? He listened but heard no claps of thunder. “No, thank you. I’m good.”
“Okay.” She licked her porn-star lips and toyed with the tie around her waist. “Yes, I’ll have coffee with you.”
Coffee? “Now?”
A defiant nod, those corkscrew curls bouncing.
He barked out a laugh, surprised, amazed and delighted by her all over again. “What’s really going on, Dorothea?”
Her eyes widened. “My name. You remembered.” When he stared at her, expectant, she cleared her throat. “Right. The reason I’m here. I just... I wanted to talk to you.” The color returned to her cheeks, a sexy blush spilling over her skin. “May I come in? Please. Before someone sees me.”
Mistake. That blush gave a man all kinds of ideas.
Besides, what could Miss Mathis have to say to him? He ran through a mental checklist of possible problems. His bill—nope, already paid in full. His father’s health—nope, Daniel would have been called directly.
If he wanted answers, he’d have to deal with Dorothea...alone...with a bed nearby...
Swallowing a curse, he stepped aside.
She rushed past him as if her feet were on fire, the scent of lavender strengthening. His mouth watered.
I could eat her up.
But he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t even take a nibble.
“Shut the door. Please,” she said, a tremor in her voice.
He hesitated but ultimately obeyed. “Would you like a beer while the coffee brews?”
“Yes, please.” She spotted the six-pack he’d brought with him, claimed one of the bottles and popped the cap.
He watched with fascination as she drained the contents.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and belched softly into her fist. “Thanks. I needed that.”
He tried not to smile as he grabbed the pot. “Let’s get you that coffee.”
“No worries. I’m not thirsty.” She placed the empty bottle on the dresser. Her gaze darted around the room, a little wild, a lot nervous. She began to pace in front of him. She wasn’t wearing shoes, revealing toenails painted yellow and orange, like her fingernails.
More curious by the second, he eased onto the edge of the bed. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“All right.” Her tongue slipped over her lips, moistening both the upper and lower, and the fly of his jeans tightened. In an effort to keep his hands to himself, he fisted the comforter. “I can’t really tell you. I have to show you.”
“Show me, then.” And leave. She had to leave. Soon.
“Yes,” she croaked. Her trembling worsened as she untied the raincoat...
The material fell to the floor.
Daniel’s heart stopped beating. His brain short-circuited. Dorothea Mathis was gloriously, wonderfully naked; she had more curves than he’d suspected, generous curves, gorgeous curves.
Was he drooling? He might be drooling.
She wasn’t a living doll, he decided, but a 1950s pinup. Lead me not into temptation... She had the kind of body other women abhorred but men utterly adored. He adored. To his shock, and delight, a vine with thorns and holly was etched around the outside of one breast, ending in a pink rosebud just over her heart.
He wanted to touch. He needed to touch.
A moment of rational thought intruded. Strawberry Valley girls were off-limits...his dad...disappointment... But...
Dorothea’s soft, lush curves deserved to be touched. And licked. The freckles on her body were visible, the perfect treasure map for his tongue.
I’ll start up top and work my way down. Slowly.
She had a handful of scars on her abdomen and thighs, beautiful badges of strength and survival. More paths for his tongue to follow.
As he studied her, drinking her in, one of her arms draped over her breasts, shielding them from his view. With her free hand, she covered the apex of her thighs and, no shit, he almost whimpered. Such bounty should never be covered.
“I want...to sleep with you,” she stammered. “One time. Only one time. Afterward, I don’t want to speak with you about it. Or about anything. We’ll avoid each other for the rest of our lives.”
One night of no-strings sex? Yes, please. He wanted her. Here. Now.
For hours and hours...
No. No, no, no. If he slept with the only maid at the only inn in town, he’d have to stay in the city with all future dates, over an hour away from his dad. What if Virgil had another heart attack?
Daniel leaped off the bed to swipe up the raincoat. A darker blush stained Dorothea’s cheeks...and spread...and though he wanted to watch the color deepen, he fit the material around her shoulders.
“You...you don’t want me.” Horror contorted her features as she spun and raced to the door.
His reflexes were well honed; they had to be. They were the only reason he hadn’t come home from his tours of duty in a box. Before she could exit, he raced behind her and flattened his hands on the door frame to keep her inside the room.
“Don’t run,” he croaked. “I like the chase.”
Tremors rubbed her against him. “So...you want me?”
Do. Not. Answer. “I’m in a state of shock.” And awe.
He battled an insane urge to trace his nose along her nape...to inhale the lavender scent of her skin...to taste every inch of her. The heat she projected stroked him, sensitizing already desperate nerve endings.
The