Screw Single Read online

  Screw Single

  By Tacie Graves

  Copyright 2012. All rights reserved.

  Growing up in Blue River, NY, there was one word that was a curse: single. I married at 20 to get away from it, but my husband, Liam, decided that “Love, Honor, and Obey” was really man-code for “Screw Over and Betray.” I decided I deserved better than that and, going against every word of advice I ever received, left him. Then I was, to my Irish Catholic mother’s eternal dismay: divorced.

  Saints preserve us.

  Time passed and people finally stopped thinking of me as divorced and started thinking of me as single again, so I began to date. Then I was single, but dating. Now single, but dating, is better than just single, but not by much. Single, but dating is just a step on the road to married as far as Blue River is concerned.

  When my sex-drive stepped in and informed me that my sporadic ventures into dating weren’t cutting it, I finally gave in to temptation and slept with Donovan Collins. That moved me from dating, to easy, because even though Donovan and I had worked together for years, he wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship. Hell, he wasn’t interested in a relationship at all. No one would ever accuse him of dating.

  I have to admit, the sex was incredible. It was an earth-shattering, toe-curling night, but I was too brainwashed by my Irish Catholic upbringing to be comfortable with the idea of easy. So, I went back to dating—with a little push from Donovan that felt caring even if it was more than a little insulting.

  All this back and forth and up and down was making me crazy. I wasn’t cut out to be married. I wasn’t even good at the dating, if I was honest. So, I finally put my foot down and went back to just being single. Mom could spit it at me as much as she wanted, but I was pretty damn sure it was better than easy in her book.

  Easy, though… Easy was a constant temptation. I have enough hormones to medicate an entire nursing home through menopause, and although I had my trusty shower massager, it just wasn’t the same. I hadn’t had a social orgasm in months, and I was beginning to think in terms of if instead of when when it came to sex. Donovan said he’d be back in my bed if it was empty for too long, and I was almost angry that after six months he hadn’t made good on his threat… I mean promise. The truth was, though, that I hadn’t even seen Donovan since I stopped dating. He’d been out of Blue River for months working on something he couldn’t explain to me. I figured that meant some Government something—like taking over a South American country, or rescuing an African diplomat.

  Even so, I wasn’t ready to give up the Donovan fantasy completely. As a matter of fact, fantasy Donovan was really good to have around on those lonely late nights when my hormones were grumbling about my having ditched my latest “boyfriend.”

  I could have found someone to date. Two officers down at the station had faced my father’s wrath and invited me out to dinner and a movie. A guy I went to high school came back to town to take over his family’s numbers running racket, and he asked if I wanted to lay a bet on a “sure thing.” None of them appealed more than fantasy Donovan, though, so I politely turned them down saying I was taking a breather from the dating scene. After everything I’d been through, no one questioned that.

  I distracted myself with work. Being a private investigator in a family full of cops isn’t easy. Sometimes I found myself on the wrong end of a discussion with someone who’d been locked up by my dad or one of my brothers, and, unsurprisingly, they often think it’s the perfect opportunity to get even with a McAnally since I don’t wear a badge. This is where Donovan usually comes in. Being my own boss I’ve had to take a lot of contract work to fill in during the lean times, and over the past few years I’ve helped him out on more than one occasion--even uncovering an embezzler within his company. He knows he can count on me, and I have his word that he’ll provide muscle whenever I need it. So, whenever something came up where I needed backup, I called Collins Security and someone was always mysteriously “available.”

  Most of the men who worked for Donovan were local with a few exotic faces thrown in for good measure. They’re all ex-military—skilled, dangerous, and cautious to a fault. I would put my life in any of their hands in a heartbeat, but my favorite? My favorite was Jack.

  Now some people might say, “How can you pick a favorite out of all those hunky men?” I say, “Easy. Just look at him.” Jack Diaz was 6 feet and 4 inches of hot sticky cinnamon bun—spicy and sweet and sinful just to have around. His eyes were as green as my mother’s shamrocks, and his hair was short and curly and as dark as coal. He had beautiful hands, perfectly muscled arms, and long, strong legs that would be heaven to be tangled in sheets with. He was hot, he was funny, and to top it all off he actually talked on stakeouts.

  All of this contributed to my hormone problem considerably. I mean, how was I supposed to convince a storm of raging Irish hormones that the hot guy playing with my hair isn’t fair game? I was so frustrated I think they considered “fair game” to actually be “anything within reach” and Jack knew it. He reveled in it. He liked to walk up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. Then he’d rub his thumbs in gentle circles, larger and larger, and finally drag those beautiful hands down my arms. Sometimes he’d trace a finger along my jaw, and then bend over and whisper unnecessarily in my ear, pressing that long, lovely body against me the whole time.

  Basically, he was teasing the hell out of me, the bastard.

  My only consolation was that after a while it seemed to affect him as well. I heard his breath hitch more than once when I turned quickly in his arms to face him. And there was, ahem, other proof that he was susceptible to the teasing as well. It was almost a game to see which of us could leave the other in a worse state. Yeah, I know… masochism at its finest.

  Then, two days ago, Donovan came back.

  I had no idea what I was walking into when I went to the Collins offices. I just wanted my files, you know? But no—I walked in and waved at the receptionist, only to be sideswiped by the scent of cedar and smoke that dragged my memory back to the night I spent in Donovan’s bed. Every muscle in my body simultaneously seized. Add that to the star-struck look on the receptionist’s face and there was no other answer: four months with no news, and then poof—no warning—he’s back.

  I was lucky I didn’t hyperventilate before I even saw him.

  I unlocked my knees and forced myself over to Bridget’s desk, clearing my throat so I could get a sound out.

  “Any clients for me?” I asked.

  Bridget gave an epileptic little jerk and pointed to a short stack of files on the corner of her desk. I didn’t envy her. Working with those men every day would be more than I could handle even when the boss was away playing Savior of the Free World. When he was actually in the office? Yeah… so not happening.

  I thanked her and grabbed my papers, quickly turning to make my escape. I knew I’d have to face him sooner or later; I was just hoping for later, rather than sooner. However, as was so often the case in my life, the Universe was not on my side. Just as I turned to leave, the inner door opened and the room was flooded with essence of Donovan.

  When Donovan is around every day, I somehow manage to forget just how handsome he is. Not having seen him for almost four months stripped me of that insulation and left my defenses crumbling in the face of near perfection. He was tanner than before, and his hair was longer, just hanging low enough on his forehead to make my fingers itch to brush it away. He was wearing gray fatigues that matched his eyes and a worn cotton t-shirt that was so tight I could probably see his pulse through it. I could feel the instant that his gaze locked on me; it jolted like electricity through my veins hot and cold and searing all at the same time.

  “Need to talk to you outside, Pet,” he s
aid, the soft lilt in his voice making my knees weak, and inclined his head to Bridget as he headed out the door. I didn’t even try to make my goodbyes. She wouldn’t hear them.

  He walked a little ahead of me and I watched his body as he moved, his rolling gait eating up distance without seeming rushed. I noticed the dimples that marked the ends of some muscles and the beginnings of others. There were deep impressions in the sides of his ass that even his fatigues couldn’t hide, and his gray web belt simply reinforced the narrowness of the waist it encircled.

  My mind, though, refused to simply allow me to fixate on the man in front of me. It insisted on overlaying images of Jack’s deeply defined forearms and incredibly long, jeans encased legs over Donovan’s more muscular body, and the combination quickly had my pulse racing and my head spinning as I tried to keep up with Donovan’s pace.

  When he stopped at his Jeep, he turned towards me, peering over the top of a pair of mirrored sunglasses. As he removed them, I could see his eyes pause as he noticed the pulse fluttering in my neck, and the flush spreading from my face to regions further south. Self-preservation in mind, I refused to acknowledge the glitter in his eyes and the almost tangible waves of desire clouding the air between us.

  “When’d you get back?” I asked, amazed that I managed to speak over the lump in my throat.

  “Yesterday,” Donovan replied, master of the one word sentence.

  “So… what’d you want to talk about?” I asked, still shooting for calm.

  “Jack,” he said, again employing the one word reply.

  “Good guy, great help, terrible flirt, anything else?” I answered, tiring of the power play.

  “Just this,” he said and in less time than it takes to describe he had grasped my wrist and pulled me to him. He pressed my back against the warm black body of his Jeep and pinned me there, staring into my eyes like a snake would hypnotize a bird. Slowly—painfully slowly—he lowered his lips to mine, never breaking eye contact. His lips were warm and soft and teasing, and I couldn’t stop a groan from escaping. As if he were waiting for that little encouragement, that tiny sign of weakness, he immediately deepened the kiss, licking and nipping at my lips. His mouth fit mine so perfectly that I groaned again. I grabbed his shirt—either to pull him closer or to hold myself up, I wasn’t sure—and he kissed me harder, one hand on the back of my head, tangled in my hair, and the other sliding up the side of my breast, fingers teasing my nipple as they passed. I was swamped with the sensations and clung to him like a life raft in a tidal wave.

  When we broke apart, I was gasping and I could feel my pulse in my swollen lips. Anyone looking at me would know that I’d been thoroughly kissed—my eyes were glazed and my cheeks flushed—but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to care.

  Donovan looked at me intently for long seconds and after nodding as if in response to a voice only he could hear, he pulled away and opened the Jeep door.

  “I’ll see you later, Pet,” was all he said, and he climbed in and was gone.

  I stood there for long moments not knowing whether to scream or stomp or cry, finally settling on stomping my boot covered feet in anger before heading to my own truck. I swung open the door, climbed in and slammed it with all the force I could muster, so frustrated that I could have bitten through nails.

  Every nerve in my body was wracked, my panties were soaking wet, my knees were shaking, and with every heartbeat, my lips pulsed and reminded me of the plundering kiss I had just experienced.

  Four months he was gone… FOUR MONTHS, and within twenty-four hours of returning he had me so wrapped up in knots that I didn’t know what to do.

  I started the truck and slammed it into first, grinding the gears along with my teeth. I turned towards my apartment knowing that if I didn’t get some satisfaction I was going to be the first certifiable case of spontaneous combustion in Western New York. I floored the accelerator and drove as if every demon in Hell were after me.

  All the way home, my mind was consumed with visions of Donovan suckling my nipples, or licking my clit, or slamming wetly into my aching pussy. My frustration was compounded by thoughts of Jack standing behind me, cupping my breasts, grinding his cock into my ass, and whispering his desires in a voice so dark that light simply ceased to exist.

  As I slid into a parking spot I couldn’t help but think of the parallels of a cock sliding into a welcoming pussy, and my knees almost buckled under me as I slid from my seat. I managed to make it into the elevator without collapsing, and I mentally applauded my success, only to end up silently screaming as the shaking of my hands delayed my entry into my apartment. I jumped when my cell phone started ringing, but I let it go to voicemail. I only had one thing on my mind at that moment and it wasn’t talking on the phone.

  On my third try, I managed to insert my key in the lock. I was again swamped by penetration visuals, and as I finally managed to slam the door behind me closed, I began to strip as quickly as I could. I fumbled with my button-fly, damning Donovan and Jack for not being here to do it for me, and when I finally got my jeans and panties off I immediately slid two fingers into my dripping, aching slit. I pressed the pads of the fingers on my other hand against the side of my clit, rubbing it in tiny circles, knowing that it would only take seconds for me to bring myself to orgasm if I could just focus on it.

  The Universe, again, stepped in in the form of the phone ringing. My attention split, I could feel my climax growing more distant and I stroked my clit frantically trying to regain the precipice of pleasure, only to cry out in frustration as it slipped away completely when the answering machine picked up. I heard Jack’s voice and I let out a manic laugh at the irony of it all.

  “Darcy? Is everything okay?” his dulcet tones carried a note of concern. “I saw you peeling out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell. You didn’t even notice me,” he accused.

  I stood there in my jacket and shirt and nothing else, fingers dripping, and growled at his intrusion. I might not have noticed him this time, but I noticed him every other time. That was one of the reasons I was in this state.

  “You didn’t pick up your cell, and you aren’t picking up your land line,” he said, the concern ratcheting up a notch, “I get the feeling something’s wrong. I’ll be at your place in three minutes. Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m on my way.”

  If I weren’t so ready to kill him I’d have thought his concern endearing. As it was, I was standing covered in pussy juices, clothes strewn from my front door to my living room, and Jack—all 220 biteable pounds of him—would be here in three minutes.

  I grabbed my jeans and my panties from the floor—their wetness would be a dead giveaway to one of Collins Security’s observation freaks—and started for the bedroom when my front door suddenly burst in on its hinges. I jumped at the sound, and spun, clutching my clothes closer to me as I was faced down by a dangerous looking Jack, his gun drawn, arms flexed, and booted feet spread. He looked like a rampaging angel come to destroy his enemies and I felt my pulse begin to race again.

  “Darcy! Are you okay?” Jack asked, his eyes raking over me.

  For three seconds we simply stared at each other. When I finally came to my senses and realized that I was still only half dressed, I let out a little shriek—whether of continued frustration or embarrassment, I’ll never know—and ran into my bedroom and slammed the door behind me.

  “Go away, Jack!” I shouted at him through the door.

  I could hear the beginnings of a laugh as he called back to me, “You sure you’re okay, sweetheart? You looked kind of, um…” he paused, “distressed.”

  I saw red. The bastard was actually laughing at me. He didn’t even have the decency to be turned on by my half-naked state. The fucking son-of-a-bitch!

  “Distressed?” I yelled again. “Now why would I be distressed?” I took off my jean jacket and threw it at the door in disgust.

  “I’ve only been teased, taunted, frustrated, and left hanging in the non-orgasmic wind for FOUR
MONTHS!” I blasted. “You tease me, and taunt me, and say all those wonderfully naughty things… but do you ever follow through? No. Not once!”

  I scrabbled through the detritus on my floor and found a pair of running shorts. I pulled them up my shiny slick legs and marveled that even as angry as I was, I was still dripping wetness. That reminded me of why I was angry and I returned to my rant.

  “So, here I am drawn tight as a piano wire and who comes back but Donovan himself, dragging me into the parking lot and plastering me against his Jeep—him with the kisses, and the touching, and the hotter than hell body… but does HE follow through? Of course not! No one actually follows through! I’m like the poster child for sexual frustration here!” I finished as I threw open my door and stomped out into the living room.

  I made it three feet.

  Standing there in the middle of my living room were two men, not one. During my crazed diatribe, Donovan had arrived. God knows when he’d come in, but I could tell he’d heard more than enough.

  Jack was standing to one side his weapon holstered, and his earlier concern gone. In its place there was a deep languorousness, a liquid sensuality, as he caught my eye. Slowly he nodded his head towards where Donovan was standing and said, “I called for backup.”