Give And Take: Taken Part 11

Your nose nuzzles into my hair. "Does this mean I get to touch your chest, too?"

"Sure, if you're brus.h.i.+ng off sawdust."

"You know I'm going to be up all night thinking of ways to get you covered in sawdust." Your finger trails down my arm, bringing up goose b.u.mps despite the temperature.

Speaking of tonight... "Where is everyone going to sleep? We should probably get some rooms ready."

"So eager to leave me?" You trail your finger up and down my arm again. "I need to get a domestic out here."

"A domestic? Like a maid?"

"Maid, cook, grounds keeper. I'll tell Joan to place employment ads and we'll start interviewing this week."

"I can handle it. We don't need someone right away."

"I don't want you handling it. You're the boss, not the one scrubbing toilets." You kiss my forehead, then guide it back down onto your chest. "I already miss it being just the two of us out here."

I smile. "It's only been a few hours."

"I know. Maybe we can just leave the place in ruins and make them all go home."

I prop my chin on my hands and glance up at you. "You know you don't want to do that."

You tap the tip of my nose. "No. I guess not." You sigh. "It's so much easier when it's only the two of us. No arguments about past partners. No jealously over potentially flirtatious acts with foremen."

"You mean no real life."

"Exactly."

"You're dangerously close to becoming a hermit."

"I told you, I'm considering it. I wasn't joking."

I scowl and put one foot on the ground, tugging your hand. "Come on."

You wrap your arms around me and pull me back down, possessing me with your mouth on mine. Your tongue grazes my bottom lip. I open my mouth and sigh into yours, meeting your tongue with mine. My fingers fist in your hair. I can't get you close enough.

You wrap a hand around the back of my knee and hike my leg up over your hip. I feel the familiar long, thick ridge behind your zipper. You grind it into me. I gasp and run my tongue down onto your neck. You're sweet, like sweat...and honey. "Please don't keep me like this," you groan.

"You said you'd be patient." You grind into me again and I moan.

"You want this, too." Another thrust.

"I do. I can't. Please."

"Please what, Rachael?" Your hands press into my behind as your hips rise and circle.

"Oh. G.o.d." I'm losing myself to the delicious heat your body's inflicting. I tug on your bottom lip with my teeth.

"Don't deny yourself. You can have me. Right now." Your hands squeeze and press as your hips rise and circle again.

I'm a senseless, pulsing, aching need. "Please," I beg.

"Please what? You have to tell me. You have to take what you want." You flip us, so now you're on top, and thrust against me. Your breath is hot on my neck, sending tingles down my back. Your moan is irresistible in my ear. "Tell me." Your tongue flicks my earlobe, then you take it in your mouth, sucking.

Your strong body on top of mine increases the heat between my legs, the throbbing, the wetness. You press up on your arms, holding yourself over me. Your eyes burn with need. "Why are you holding back from me?"

"I don't know," I whimper. "I wish I could give in. I want you."

Your hand runs up and down my thigh. "I know you do. I can hear it. I can see it."

"That has to be enough for right now." I close my eyes, not able to stand the disappointment in yours.

Your forehead lowers to rest against mine. We're still and silent, breathing each other's air. "Okay," you whisper. "I'll have to work with this. I'll find a way." It's like you're talking to yourself instead of me. Finding a battle plan for some business takeover. You sit up on your knees and pull me up into a hug. "Let's go back and clear out rooms for the crew to sleep in."

On our way back, your arm never strays from around my shoulders. You're going to be patient, and that's the best honey you can give me.

Chapter Eleven.

We work in separate rooms, and it's probably for the best or we might not get anything done otherwise. I find nothing to salvage, only old junk and trash to be tossed out. I wonder what we'll do with trash on the island, it's not like there's a trash truck that will rumble down the road every Tuesday morning like at home. Guess we'll have to burn it.

The tell-tale click-clack of heels alerts me to Joan's presence behind me. "Where's Merrick?"

"Not in here." I don't bother turning around.

"The crew has a bonfire going. They're cooking out, brats and beer, so there's no need to fix them anything for dinner."

"Great." Is she expecting me to cook for her? Not likely. "Hope they can sleep a few to a room. Not many of the floors are stable enough to let them use the guestrooms." Out of the twenty rooms, the wood floors were rotted in over half.

"I think they'd rather sleep outside. They brought tents and everything. At least until the hotel is renovated. It's kind of like a guys' retreat out there."

Her light tone makes me turn around and find her smiling. "Sounds like they're having fun."

"They are." Her gentle expression falters. "Do you mind if I take one of the rooms inside?"

Why would she a.s.sume I'd have an issue with that, like I'd make her sleep out on the patio or something? "Of course! I expected you to."

She nods. "Have you looked at the clothes I brought you yet?"

"Oh, I forgot about them." I wave a hand around the room. "I got busy."

"It's been an interesting day." She shakes her head and her eyes snap into clear, driven, Dragon Lady focus. "I'll find Merrick."

"You do that," I say as she strides from the room, our fleeting moment of neutrality gone with a rush of her red sundress.

About a half hour later, I finish sorting through the room I'm working in and decide there's no reason to start on another if the men are sleeping outside anyway. My stomach rumbles, but I need a hot shower before anything else.

Jogging down the stairs, I notice my bags are no longer in the kitchen. They must've been moved. I turn and go up to your room-our room?-and find you sitting on the couch looking contemplative. "Something wrong?"

You give me a brief smile and open your mouth to say something, but my phone rings sitting on the coffee table. We both stare at it like it's a bomb threatening to destroy the bubble of denial we've created and survived in the past few days.

"Are you going to answer it?" you ask. Your voice is controlled and quiet. I can't tell what you're feeling.

I don't know, so I don't answer you. My hands are gripped tightly together and pressed into my waist, like touching my phone will burn me worse than the hot ca.s.serole dish.

Slowly, you lean forward, pick up the phone and hold it out to me. "Take it. You should answer."

Are you testing me? I probe your eyes for any indication of what you're thinking, but they're as unwavering and controlled as your voice. This must be your business-G.o.d-poker-face.

My hand trembles as I reach out and take the phone on its third ring and press the green answer b.u.t.ton. "H-h.e.l.lo?" I stutter, watching you lean your elbows on your knees and lower your face into your hands waiting for the bomb to drop.

"Rachael, why didn't you call me back? I left you a message." My mother uses her typical condescending tone. "I was worried."

"You don't need to worry about me."

Your hands drop away from your face, and your eyes go wide watching me.

"How's your trip?" I ask.

"Well, it's rained the past two days, so I'm hoping it doesn't keep up the entire time." Leave it to my mother to be unappreciative of a free multi-week, European vacation.

"It's lovely, Rachael," my aunt calls from somewhere near my mom. I'm on speaker. "Tell Mr. Rocha thank you. It's a very generous thing to do."

"Well, of course it's generous!" my mom says, like she's been accused of being ungrateful. "I just hope it stops raining so we can take advantage of his generosity."

"How's the consulting coming along?" my aunt asks.

"It's going well." I say, watching your deer-in-headlights expression ease a bit. "There's a work crew here starting renovations. It'll be incredible when it's finished."

"Will you be home soon?" Mom asks. There's an edge to her voice. She's never been alone in her life. She lived with my grandparents until she married my dad. The past year without him has been a trying experience for her-and for me. She expects me to stop by every single day. I don't have my own life. I pay rent to live in an apartment I never spend time in.

"I'll be back when you are."

You sit up straight and hold your hand out to me. I take it and sit beside you.

"You're not very talkative," Mom says. "There's something wrong. I know you." Oh no. She's going to start prying. This I don't need.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired. It's been a long day."

You run a hand up and down my back.

"What time is it there?" I ask her. "It has to be late. And where are you?"

"We're just getting ready for bed. We're on the cruise s.h.i.+p heading toward Italy."

"Italy. Wow."

You wrap an arm around me and pull me to you. "I'd like to take you to Italy," you whisper in my ear.

"We'll bring you some pizza," my aunt says, laughing.

"Sounds good. I'm starving."

"I'll make you something." You squeeze my thigh and stand.

"How are you living on that island?" Mom asks as I watch you leave the room. "Does it have any modern conveniences at all?"

"Yes, mom. Merrick-Mr. Rocha-made some updates, like the kitchen and bathroom, so we're able to live comfortably while renovating."

"Merrick, huh?" my aunt says. I don't miss the innuendo in her voice. "First name basis?"

"Well, we are here working together. You normally do call your co-workers by their first names." I will not fall into this trap.

"Co-worker? Isn't he your boss?" Mom says.

"I'm actually the boss on this project." I sound smug. I can't help but smile. I'm the boss.

"I thought you were only consulting." Mom's voice is panicked. "Did you take the project manager position and not tell me?"

"No." Or did I? I really don't know how I got the role of boss other than you gave it to me.

"Then I don't understand this. How can you be the boss?"

"I don't know, Mom. Okay? It just is what it is."

"Stop pestering her," my aunt says. "She's doing what she loves, and she's apparently doing a good job of it. Be happy for her."

"I am happy for her." But Mom doesn't sound happy at all. "And I'm proud of you, Rachael. You must be doing a great job if Mr. Rocha put you in charge."

A spike of warmth jolts through my heart. My mom has never said she's proud of me. "Thanks."

After an awkward pause, I make an excuse to get off the phone. "Well, I need to get in the shower and find something to eat. I'm glad you're having a good time. Let me know how Italy is."

"I'll call you in a couple of days. Don't work yourself to death. Stay hydrated. It has to be excruciatingly hot there."

"It is. Don't worry, Mom."

"I love you, Rach."

"Love you, too, Mom."

We hang up, and I set my phone back on the coffee table. Our conversation seemed so normal. I didn't even have to lie to her about how I got here. Maybe we are past that.