Then he stopped, Shamus stopped (though Shamus didn’t want to stop and his “come on you guys” glance over the shoulder said it al ) and I stopped.
Hank bent, kissed my temple and then his lips went to my ear.
“You try to be difficult and hard but I can tel you’re soft and easy,” he whispered.
I jerked my head back and scowled at him.
“I’m not soft!” I snapped.
“You cry at commercials,” he pointed out.
This, unfortunately, was true. Worse, I’d volunteered this information to him, just like the idiot I was.
“Wel , then, I’m not easy,” I went on stubbornly.
“We’l see.”
Shit.
* * * * *
We walked Shamus on a two block loop. Then Hank let us into his house.
I stood at the closed front door, trying to be obvious about wanting to leave (although I didn’t want to leave, I needed to leave) while Hank turned on some lamps.
The front door led to one big front room consisting of a living room to the right, dining area to the left, then a bar and set of cabinets that began a u-shaped kitchen.
It had been redone and looked nice. Gleaming hardwood floors, the kitchen completely refitted with oak cabinets and KitchenAid appliances, deep-seated, cushiony furniture covered in mocha twil and an old-beat up dining room table that looked cool.
It was (somewhat sparsely, but stil ) decorated in what could only be considered “Colorado”. A couple of old Colorado license plates with skiers stamped into them over the doorway to a hal , some Native American artifacts on the tables that looked careful y chosen, two framed prints of New Belgium Brewery beers (“Fat Tire” and “Skinny Dip”) over his twil couch.
That was kind of it for decoration. It wasn’t like he had an abundance of scented candles and toss pil ows, but it was enough to give the place a personality and homey feel. Like he lived there. Like he liked it there. Like he was proud of it and the work he’d done on it.
I thought of it with some nice, sturdy, black iron candle holders with mulberry scented candles and some curtains covering the blinds.
Stop decorating Hank’s house. I told myself and crossed my arms to emphasize my thoughts to myself.
“You want a drink?” Hank asked from the kitchen after he’d taken off Shamus’s lead. Through the floor and overhead cabinets, I could only see his waist and abs.
As with al things Hank, it was a good view.
Shamus sauntered over and sat on my feet again. I uncrossed my arms and scratched his ears.
“I want to go back to the hotel,” I answered.
“You’re spendin’ the night here,” Hank informed me, moving to the end of the counter that delineated the kitchen from the dining area and leaning a hip against it, then he crossed his arms.
My mouth dropped open and I stared.
Then I closed it.
“I’m not spending the night here,” I said.
His eyes looked lazy again.
My heart started beating faster.
“Come here,” Hank said softly.
“No, take me back to the hotel.”
“Come here and I’l convince you that you don’t want to go back to the hotel.”
Good God.
He didn’t have to convince me, I was already pretty certain I didn’t want to go back to the hotel. But, I had to go back to the hotel, for Hank’s own good if not for mine.
“Whisky, I have to get a good night’s sleep. I have things to do tomorrow.”
I didn’t real y, but I needed an excuse.
“What things?”
I kept silent.
Then he went on. “You can come here or I can go over there and get you. Your choice, but I’l warn you, you should probably come to me.”
I stared at him and he stared back.
My heart wasn’t only beating faster, it was tripping in my chest like a jackhammer.
We kept staring at each other, one beat leading into two, two beats leading into three.
Then his arms uncrossed and he moved forward.
Shamus saw Hank’s advance and deserted me (damn dog).
I backed up and as I was standing at the door, in half a step, my shoulders slammed against it.
I lifted my hands to keep him at arm’s length.
“Whisky…” I started but he avoided my hands by bending double, putting a shoulder to my stomach and lifting me in a fireman’s hold.
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
“Hank!” I shouted at his back, but he’d turned and was walking through the dining area.
“Put me down!” I yel ed, pushing against his waist but he kept going, through the kitchen and into a dark room.
“Goddammit! Put me down!” I kept at it when he turned and walked into another dark room.
He stopped, bent, turned on a lamp and then put my feet on the floor. I would have escaped but he was right in front of me and a quick glance around showed that there was a huge bed, made out of what looked like logs, behind me; right behind me.
“Get out of my way,” I demanded. “I’m cal ing a taxi.” His arms slid around me.
“No taxi,” he said, one hand gliding up my back and into my hair to cup the back of my head and keep it steady. “No hotel,” he went on, the other arm wrapping itself completely around me so his hand was gripping me at the side of my waist, my body pressed the length of his. “Tonight you sleep in my bed with me.”
I looked up at him. In his arms I was quickly losing the wil to fight.
“Please,” I whispered, the last desperate attempt.
His head bent and, with his lips against mine, he said,
“Remember that word, you’re gonna be using it a lot tonight.”
My stomach fluttered, I felt it and I liked it.
Those were my last coherent thoughts.
He kissed me, his tongue sliding into my mouth. I went dizzy and my brain scrambled. I kissed him back; I wanted to fight it but I didn’t. I probably could have if I wasn’t weak.
But I was. I’d been weak with Bil y and now I was weak with Hank.
My arms went around his neck, my hand slid into his hair.
He had great hair; thick and soft and just enough wave.
“You have great hair,” I whispered into his ear as his lips trailed along my cheek to my ear.
“You’re a nut,” he whispered back, sounding like that was a good thing. Then his mouth touched me behind my ear and I shivered.
“I’m not a nut,” I went on quietly and turned my head to press my lips to his neck, just above his turtleneck, then I touched my tongue there.
His hand left my waist, went into my shirt and slid up the skin of my side. I was sensitive there, even ticklish, and I squirmed against him.