6. Dane

Patrick was just as handsome as I remembered from the wee hours of the morning. He hid behind his glasses, fidgeting with them every time he got the least bit nervous.

What I hadn't expected was just how stinking adorable he was.

He hadn't exuded unshakable confidence at the accident scene, but he certainly hadn't been timid; but, when I'd stepped out to greet him, I thought the guy might sooner crawl under his car than enter my house. I couldn't decide what made me like him, what drew me in. He was nothing like any of the guys I'd dated before. I'd never really thought about having "a type." The whole concept sounded discriminatory, and I'd grown up with enough of that to never want to see it again.

Still, big muscles and bigger personalities lit my fire. I was usually the one to sit quietly and listen as the hottie across from me chattered like a talking toy whose string had been yanked out and become stuck. I liked it that way. It was less work, and I didn't have to face the spotlight.

But with Patrick, if I didn't talk, I doubted we'd have any conversation. He was handsome, bordering on pretty, but I'd always tended toward more rugged men, beefy gym rats who worked hard and played even harder. Hell, Daniel had been model-ready, somewhere between bleach blond GQ cover and bodybuilding champion. The only thing he and Patrick had in common was the hint of blond in Patrick's hair if the light hit just right.

So, why was this guy—this guy I'd met only hours ago—making me want to wrap him in my arms and skip the spaghetti I'd been craving all day?

His perfectly full bottom lip and wavy hair were sexy, and his eyes held a warmth I'd seen in few others, and his stubble-covered jaw squared off just right … shit, he was handsome …

"… the station?"

"Sorry, what?" I blinked myself back to the present, quickly reaching for the pasta scooper thing with the pointy parts and ladling a mountainous pile onto a plate.

Patrick's eyes widened. "Please tell me that's your plate."

"Not hungry?"

"I don't think I've ever eaten that much in my life. Small villages don't eat that much in weeks."

I shrugged and dumped a nearly equal amount of meaty sauce onto the noodles, then sprinkled parmesan across the top. "What can I say? I'm a growin' boy."

He chuckled. "If I ate that much, I'd be growing, but in all the wrong places."

I looked him up and down. "Looks like you've grown just fine."

He turned redder than the sauce. "You work out a lot?" he deflected.

I assembled his plate, careful to add what my mom would call "a dainty amount" of pasta. "Every day, some days twice. It would be hard to do my job if I wasn't strong enough to handle the equipment. And you never know what might get in our way."

"So, those muscles aren't just for show?"

I flexed a bicep as I lifted our plates and headed toward the table. He watched the trim of my shirt strain. I looked away, trying not to grin.

Patrick sat, and I refilled our wine glasses, then uncorked a second bottle and set it on the table.

"You trying to get me drunk?" he asked.

"How else will I get you out of those jeans?"

The fork he'd just picked up clattered to the floor.

I couldn't help a laugh. "I'm just teasing."

He glanced up, something between terror, relief, and desire filling his eyes.

"You can just get naked now and save us the time later. Your wiener won't stop me from eating."

His mouth opened and a strangled sound gurgled out; one hand gripped his chest. I thought I might have to perform CPR.

"You want … naked … me … I mean, really?"

I sat and tried to stay serious, but his utter astonishment almost brought tears to my eyes.

"You're kidding again, aren't you?"

I grinned. "You sure you read people for a living?"

He cocked his head like a golden retriever. "My sources don't usually suggest I eat pasta naked."

"They're more into nude breakfast? Omelet and wiener kind of guys?" I stabbed a chunk of meat from my plate, held it up, then slowly raised it to my mouth.

Poor Patrick gaped. "Breakfast? No. Really. No nudity at all."

I chuckled. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't give you so much shit on a first date. Guess teasing is how I deal with being nervous."

He blinked more rapidly than before, and his mouth fell open again. "You? Nervous? Seriously?"

I nodded and chewed.

I could practically see his brain cells smashing together, trying to process what I'd just said, but rather than ask anything else, he grabbed the clean fork I'd brought him and twirled a bite with his spoon.

For the longest time, the only sounds in my house were those of forks and spoons against plates, interrupted by the occasional tap of a wine glass returning to the table. Eating in silence never bothered me, but Patrick's eyes darted from his pasta to me almost as quickly as he took bites.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Where are you from originally?"

Okay, first date interview time. Not very original, but easy. Got it.

"Small town you've never heard of in Kansas."

"A farm boy. That makes sense."

My brow furrowed. "How do you figure that?"He sat back and cradled his wine glass in both hands, like it was a precious jewel he had to protect. "It just fits. Hard worker, kind of stoic, flat accent."

"Stoic?" I grumbled.

"Prosecution rests." He chuckled and took a sip. "Brothers and sisters?"

"Two brothers."

"Younger? Older? Where are you?"

I set my fork down. "Robert is four years younger, and Grady is two—no, three—years younger than him."

"The oldest. Interesting."

I shifted in my seat.

"And your parents?"

This was beginning to feel like a therapy session.

"Dad died a few years ago. My mom is still back in Kansas."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't kill him."

He nearly spat his wine. A red trickle dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. "What?"

I shrugged and raised my glass. "Sorry, guess that subject makes me a little weird."

He blotted a napkin on a few inky spots now spreading across his shirt.

"I might have some club soda for that," I said, scooting my chair back as I stood.

"Thanks."

I returned a moment later, kneeling beside him. He didn't exactly recoil, but I'd clearly entered his personal space in a way he wasn't used to. When I wet a kitchen towel and raised it to one of the splatters on his chest, he flinched.

"Easy, tiger. Let me wet that before it dries."

He nodded, a small boy suddenly facing a stranger.

I pressed lightly, then rubbed the soda into the fabric. Some of the wine faded, but not all. "We really need to saturate—"

His hand speared forward and snatched the soda bottle from my hand. Before I realized what he'd done, half the bottle had emptied and was dribbling across his chest, down to his jeans, and onto the floor around his chair.

"Crap! Dane, I'm sorry." There was near panic in his eyes as he stared down at the liquid pooling beneath him.

I snorted. "You didn't soak me. Nothing to be sorry for. I'll grab another towel."

He dried himself with a fresh towel as I worked on the puddle. I half expected him to run from the table to the safety of the bathroom, but, oddly, he didn't move from his seat when I kneeled to sop up the mess. He simply let me wipe the floor as my shoulder and head brushed against his arm and leg.

"Guess we soaked that wine good," I said as I braced myself to stand.

"I think most of it came out, but my shirt's still soaked."

I tossed the wet towel onto the island and looked back. Patrick's shirt might as well have been dipped in a vat of soda. It was now wet, wrinkled, and had distinct polka dots left in the wine's wake. The pitiful set to his eyes and mouth made him more adorable than ever. I wanted to reach out and muss his hair to complete the picture.

"Let me get you a dry T-shirt. Stay right there."

He tried to protest, but I walked out before he could say two words. When I returned a moment later with a navy Atlanta Fire Department T-shirt, he stared at it like I'd just awarded him an Oscar.

"This doesn't make you a fireman or anything." I smiled to make sure he knew I was teasing.

His gaze flew up, his eyes wide. "No, of course not. I never … You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

God, he was cute when he pouted.

"Yeah, just a little joke."

"Where's your restroom?"

"Last door." I pointed to a door at the end of a short hallway, and he rose, still clutching the T-shirt like it might combust if he squeezed too hard.

He returned a moment later, my shirt hanging off him like it was a tent for seven. It didn't hang too low, but the shoulders and chest were far too wide for his frame. His hair was mussed from changing, just like I'd imagined it before. About halfway down the hallway, I caught him looking down at the Fire Department logo plastered across his chest, and a hand reached up and slender fingers traced the emblem. I didn't know what it was about that gesture, but my heart skipped a beat, and I swear he'd somehow become even cuter than before.

"See something you like?" He'd caught me staring—and this time, he'd managed to beat me to a punch.He smiled, tossed his wet shirt on the island, and took his seat.

"You look good in navy."

His face flushed, though not with the embarrassment I'd seen before. This time, his eyes glittered and didn't leave mine. His bottom lip pooched out as the corners of his mouth curled.

"Thanks. I like this shirt." He touched the symbol again, almost reverent in his motion.

"If I can find one that fits better, you can keep it. I have a million of them. The higher-ups are all about us strutting our stuff in public. Guess they think it's good PR."

"I like this one fine. Baggy feels good." He raised a sleeve to his nose and sniffed. "It smells like you."

I blanched. "Oh shit. Please tell me I didn't give you a dirty shirt."

He laughed, light and free. "No, it's clean. I have the nose of a hound. I didn't think anybody wore Drakkar anymore."

My brows rose. "You can smell that on a clean T-shirt?"

He shrugged and tapped his nose. "Hound, remember?"

"Wow." I finished the last of my spaghetti. "I probably use cologne once a month, maybe less. I used to wear it every day."

His head cocked again. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why don't you use cologne more often? Your eyes turned sad when you said that, like there was more you weren't telling me."

"Shit, you really are a reporter." I ran a hand absently through my hair. "Are exes really a good topic for a first date?"

He grabbed his wine and emptied it, then refilled both our glasses. "Show you mine if you show me yours."

"Still talking about exes?"

He nodded, a grin teasing his lips.

"Damn," I said, then sighed. "Well, I was with a guy for a couple of years. A bottle of Drakkar was the first gift he ever gave me. He said it reminded him of high school."

"That sounds terrible. Who would want to remember high school?"

I grunted. "He did. He was kind of the stud of his school. I guess the smell took him back to his glory days."

"Did he grow horns in college?"

I shook my head. "Oh no. He's ridiculously hot now."

Patrick stilled and his lips thinned to a line. "Do you miss him?"

"No." I nearly choked on a sip. "We broke up a year ago. I'm well past the ‘missing him' stage." I stood, stacked our plates, and walked them to the sink. "Want to take the wine into the den? We can chat or find a movie? Whatever you like."

I had my back to him, as if shielding myself from further questions about Daniel. I didn't hear his chair scoot back or his footsteps. He'd been so timid when I'd entered his sphere that I never would have expected him to creep up behind me. When I turned, we were standing barely an arm's length apart.

His hand lifted to press into my chest, fingers feeling for the muscle beneath. My heart broke into a sprint, and heat flared across my skin.

"What I'd like is to get to know you better, whatever that means."

Does he mean …

I looked down at his fingers, then up at the blaze flaring in his eyes. I closed the distance between us and grazed his cheek with my fingertips. He shuddered but didn't look away.

"This shirt really is too big on you," I said, trailing my fingers down across the fabric until they found his nipples.

He sucked in a breath.

I leaned in so my words tickled his ear. "You need to ask, if you want me to take it off you."

He nodded so fast I thought he might shake something loose.

"Say the words. I need to hear them."

"Please," he stammered. "Take it off me."

My hands drifted down, pulling the shirt up so only a finger's width of skin was visible, then slipped beneath to press my palms against his stomach.

He jumped but was already pressed against the counter and had nowhere to go.

My hands inched upward, taking the bottom of the shirt with them. His skin was taut, his body lean, almost thin, so different. My fingers teased tiny hairs as they drifted further, finally passing his chest.

"Arms," I ordered.

They shot up faster than a perp facing a cop with a gun. I almost laughed, but I was too into the moment.

I pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it aside, then allowed my gaze to roam. Everything about Patrick was lean and tight. His chest held more definition than I'd expected, and his arms balled into firm baseballs when curled. He might've had the smallest waist I'd ever seen on a guy, and the perfect V from the Adonis belt carved into him made my cock twitch.

"I'm too skinny, right?" His voice was pleading, his body tense and stiff.

I cupped his cheek and drew his lips to mine, holding them there far longer than any kiss required. It felt as if his whole body melted and only my hand on his cheek was keeping him upright. When a tiny moan escaped his lips, I thought I might die.

We pulled apart and stared into each other's eyes. This man I barely knew, this reporter who wanted … actually, I still didn't know what he wanted … stirred something in me I'd thought might never wake again.

I reached up and gripped his glasses.

"What are you—?"

"Shh." I kissed him again. "I want to see what you look like without these."

"I won't be able to see you then."

"This close?" He nodded. "Well, read me like Braille."

That brought a curl to his lips.

His glasses slipped off, and I set them on the counter, then reached up and moved the hair from his forehead. "You're beautiful."

He blushed, and his head ducked. I lifted his chin and kissed him gently.

His arms finally unstuck from his sides and wrapped around me. Hands kneaded through fabric.

"Is my shirt bothering you?" I asked between kisses.

He nodded.

"Guess you should do something about that, then. Not my job."

His eyes grinned, and his slender fingers slid beneath my T-shirt and began pulling upward.

"Yow! Your hands are ice cold," I said.

He yanked away. "Sorry."

I kissed him again. "Use my body to warm them up."

Fire danced in his gaze. Skin pressed into skin, tentatively at first, then he kneaded, pressing into each muscle as though searching for something.

"You're so hard," he said.

The eight-year-old in me laughed.

He squeezed my non-existent love handles. I pressed into him and ground my pulsing erection against him.

His eyes widened. "Oh damn. You are hard."

"You didn't bring dessert. I had to make do with what I had."

He blinked a few times, tried to speak, but only managed to suck in breaths as I drove in circles, cock against cock.

"Dane, shit."

I leaned down and dug my teeth into his neck. His head fell back, and he groaned.

"I want you naked," I whispered.

"It's our first date," he whimpered. "You won't want—"

"I already want a second date." His head snapped back up, and his smile lit every corner of the room. "Now, am I taking your pants off in the kitchen or the bedroom?"