After a devastating betrayal, Rachel Allen is making one of the most daring moves of her life. She's leaving behind a painful past and embarking upon an uncertain future-alone.
At least that's the plan, until sexy-as-sin mover Malcolm Cohen shows up on her doorstep. But there's no room in Rachel's life for a man like Malcolm. Strong, tender, and loyal to a fault, he's not the kind of guy to whom Rachel is accustomed.
Moving out on her own should be simple, but there's only one problem-Malcolm also isn't the kind of man to whom Rachel can say "no."
Excerpt
Mal was particularly careful with any boxes that felt light enough to contain clothes of any kind. Though Rachel had loaded the lingerie and toy box into the back seat of her car, he didn't know what other surprises might pop out if another container were to spontaneously break open.
The wooden porch creaked under his boots as he climbed up and crossed the threshold into the house. It quickly became apparent the place was even larger than he'd first thought. The hall and living room beyond it loomed immense, made even more so by the fact that other than the mirror Steve and Joe had already carried in and leaned against one of the walls, the rest of the first floor was entirely empty.
The hardwood floor, once a rich, dark oak, now looked scuffed and battered. Tell-tale signs of too many feet stomping on the smooth surface without care proved that time and negligent owners had taken their toll on the polished wood.
Deep jagged grooves scored the floor in one end of the room, perhaps where a dining table had been. It wouldn't take long to repair the damage, but he doubted Rachel had the time or the inclination to undertake such a job herself. She could hire someone, of course, but that thought only made Mal conjure up images of men like Steve and Joe coming over and leering at the pretty homeowner while they charged her double and did half the job.
Damn it, Mal, get a grip. You're her mover, not her handyman.
A winding polished staircase led to the second floor. Though Rachel hadn't specified whether she wanted the boxes in their respective rooms now that the original agreement had changed slightly, the two he carried had been marked with a blue sticker. The word bedroom had been scrawled beside it.
He took the stairs two at a time, balancing on his heels as he climbed, then stopped in front of a whitewashed double-door at the end of a wide hall.
Pushing the door inward with his elbow, he stepped inside another empty room, this one the size of his entire basement apartment, placed the boxes on the floor, and was just about to turn and walk out when he spotted her.
Rachel stood beyond a set of glass French balcony doors with her back to him, both hands gripping the metal balustrade. The room faced west, providing a stunning view of the front range of the Rocky Mountains. Their thrusting granite faces shadowed the back yard, which was little more than an unkempt garden. Beyond it, tall trees obscured most of the nearest neighbor's home, though a tin roof shone brightly in the sunlight.
Rachel's shoulders shook, her entire small frame wracked by silent, violent sobs. She didn't make a sound.
Mal knew he should just turn around, unload the rest of the truck, and mind his own business.
But he couldn't.
The door closed silently behind him. He clicked the privacy latch into place, then tried one last time to talk himself out of what he was about to do. When that didn't work, he made his way to her, his footsteps thudding against the hardwood floor.
She stiffened as he came near. "Please, go away."
He had to give her credit for the rich, smooth tone of her voice, which barely trembled as she spoke. Although common sense screamed at him to walk away, something else made him reach out to her.
Something altogether insane.
She flinched when he touched her shoulder. Through her silk shirt, the warmth of her skin seeped into his palm. The urge to run his hands down her arms, to wrap them around her waist and pull her to him was overpowering, sending a wave of arousal flooding his body, stiffening his cock.
"I said, go away," she repeated, but made no move to dislodge his hand.
He took that as an encouraging sign. "I don't think you should be alone."
She sniffed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then laughed, a silvery sound that contrasted with her earlier sobs. "And what makes you such an expert?"
He let his fingers skim down her spine, then gave in to the urge to sweep his hand around and lay his palm against her flat stomach. Closing the distance between them, he pressed close to her back and whispered in her ear, "Just good with people, I guess."
She chuckled. "Do all your customers get the hands-on treatment?"
"Just the ones who really need it."
"I don't need this," she protested, though her lithe curves told a different story. With a deep sigh, she leaned against him, molding her small form to his much-larger frame.
"I know. I thought you might want it, though."
She ran her manicured nails over the back of his hand. "Why?"
"You're obviously hurt. I'm a good listener, if you want to talk about it."
Rachel turned around in his arms. Leaning against the balustrade, she slid her palm over his chest, sending a tremor through his body. Certain she could feel his obvious erection, he jerked his hips forward until his cock lay flat against her stomach. To his surprise, she didn't flinch or pull away. Instead, she ran her hands lower, over his ribs, his hips, then behind to cup his ass and pull him forward.
"You think I'm hurt," she whispered against his lips. "I'm not."
Mal leaned in, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch above hers. "I don't believe you. Whoever this guy is, he obviously did a number on you."
"He did," she agreed, her ebony eyes gleaming. Tears had streaked through her mascara, leaving a dark trail down one cheek. He reached up and brushed the smudge away. She shuddered at the contact. "But I'm not crying over him," she continued. "He's not worth it."
"Why, then?"
She flicked her wrist, the gesture encompassing the entire house, then laughed self-consciously. "Have you seen this place? How on earth will I manage a house like this? It would take three gardeners just to get the yard under control. The rest of the place needs work, too. The basement's still unfinished, the plaster's coming off in the kitchen, half the tile has been ripped up in the bathroom but never replaced, the plumbing doesn't--"
He pressed his mouth down on hers, hard, cutting off the rest of her rambling self-doubt. Whatever this house needed, whatever she needed, he'd make sure she got it.
Right now, as she clutched at his shirt and opened to him, Mal knew she needed the same thing he did.
Their tongues met, flicked against each other. She groaned, the sound lost against his own trembling moan. The flavor of tears and candy, a delicious blend of sweet and sour, flooded his veins. His cock twitched, hardening even further against her belly.
When he finally released her lips, it was only so he could bend his head down to her tempting, full breasts. The delectable mounds had intrigued him since he'd first seen her, and he yearned for a taste.
He unbuttoned her blouse, gently, with a patience he wouldn't have thought himself capable of. She wore a white cotton bra, form-fitting and practical. He lowered one cup, then clamped his mouth around the chocolate-colored bud that sprang out. Feasting on the hardened nipple, he nibbled, licked, and caressed the tender flesh as Rachel squirmed beneath him, her breathing quickening along with his.
"Oh, God, Malcolm," she whispered, her fingers tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. "What if someone sees us?"
Moving On
Genre: Contemporary / Interracial / Multicultural