OLIVER
The edge of the kitchen counter dug into my back. I put my shirt on and closed my eyes to try my fantasy again.
The gallery set out a generous buffet. Canapés filled with mushrooms and gruyere. I reach for another just as someone else reaches for the same one. Our fingers touch. The jolt of sensation makes me yank my hand back and look up. The scruffy man who tried to nab my canapé wears too many layers of clothing for the mild weather. He looks a bit… desperate, like maybe he crashed the opening to swipe some free food.
He turns his back on me and hunches over the table. With his big hand, he grabs half the bacon-wrapped dates and makes a hasty retreat.
I pluck a few napkins from the holder and follow, drawn by the man’s daring and the look he’d given me. Dark eyes, black hair, skin as stark white as Ophelia’s neck in Millais’s painting.
The opening night crowd fills the rooms between the food table and the front door. He veers toward the back hallway, eats as he walks, with jerks of his elbow, spitting a trail of discarded toothpicks.
At the emergency door at the end of the hall, the man whirls, snatches the front of my shirt, and turns us in a half circle until my shoulders hit the door. Huffs of angry breath and his hard look contradict the uncertainty I detect in the furrow between his brows.
We stare until I lift my arm and say, “I thought you might need a napkin.”
In a move too fast for me to avoid, the man slams my hand against the door by my head, trapping the wad of napkins between our palms. I expect harsh words, but he leans into me with his full weight. I have to thrust my hips toward him to keep from pressing the emergency bar on the door.
“It’s okay,” I say. I want him to know I don’t think he’s doing anything wrong and I won’t tell anyone he crashed the party.
In a blur of motion, he unfastens my pants with unmistakable intent. His mouth, when he kisses me, tastes of bacon and sweet richness. I smell dust and sun-warmed skin, like he’s been outside too long. My hands around his upper arms grip muscles too spare on a frame built for heft.
He takes my cock in his palm slick from the greasy food he’d stolen, and yanks me in a tight, busy grip. His desperation makes me imagine ways I can make his life better.
When he bites my tongue, I blast my climax between us, cover his hand and the edges of my suit jacket with cum.
The man doesn’t stop. He grabs at my kisses, rubs at his cock through his thin jeans, finishes with a grunt, mauls me with his mouth from start to finish—one long, angry, unbroken kiss.
I clawed my way out of the fantasy, snapped hard back into reality to find myself doubled over the kitchen counter, my hand and my dick covered in spunk. I shivered from overstimulation, tried to catch my breath.
Grant Eastbrook was officially messing with my life—a life that had worked fine without him for a long time. I hadn’t invited him into my fantasy, but he’d barged in anyway.
I don’t want him.
He was broken and furious. He’d cast himself in the role of victim. I had no business being attracted to that, to him, despite my imagination’s rude betrayal.
I straightened and rinsed my business into the kitchen sink. When I failed to also rinse away the awareness of my physical attraction to Grant, I escaped the scene of the crime.
*****
Book synopsis:
The truth is harder to hide when someone sharp starts poking around.
Grant Eastbrook hit the ground crawling after his wife kicked him out. Six months later, in Seattle without a job or a place to live, he escapes to the woods of nearby Vashon Island to consider his options. When he’s found sleeping outdoors by a cheerful man who seems bent on irritating him to death, Grant’s plans to resuscitate his life take a peculiar turn.
Oliver Rossi knows how to keep his fears at bay. He’s had years of practice. As a local eccentric and artist, he works from his funky home in the deep woods, where he thinks he has everything he needs. Then he rescues an angry man from a rainy ditch and discovers a present worth fighting the past for.
Amid the buzz of high summer, unwelcome attraction blooms on a playing field of barbs, defenses, and secrets.
Buy now: alicearcher.com/book/the-infinite-onion
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About Alice Archer:
Alice has questions. Lots of questions. Scheming to put fictional characters through the muck so they can get to a better place helps her heal and find answers. She shares her stories with the hope that others might find some healing too. For decades, Alice has messed about with words professionally, as an editor and writing coach. She also travels a bunch. Her home base is Eugene, Oregon.
Connect with Alice:
Website: www.alicearcher.com
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