8. Moody

8

MOODY

H udson returned the following afternoon with Vicki’s turkey chili and fresh cornbread. He’d texted his intentions, so I’d expected him. However, I hadn’t expected the lurch in my chest at the sight of the cowboy filling my doorway with that sexy hat, a saucy grin, and a lunch bag. My body’s involuntary response annoyed the heck out of me.

“You again,” I deadpanned.

“Me again.”

I held the door open and invited him in.

He came again the next day with a container of Vicki’s semi-famous Irish stew and soda bread. And the day after with her chicken tortilla soup and jalape?o rolls. I snapped and snarled that he shouldn’t stay, but I was secretly happy when he shooed me out of the way, pointed at the sofa, and told me to beat it.

We watched TV, I grumbled, he chuckled, and eventually…we talked. Well, Hudson talked. He told me about growing up on a ranch; his first horse, Maggie; the first time he milked a cow; the enormous spider webs that reappeared every summer in the barn which they now referred to as Charlotte’s Barn…because hello, Charlotte’s Web .

He was annoyingly charming and as much as I hated to admit it, I looked forward to our afternoon visits.

I liked the cowboy. I liked the deep timbre of his voice and his teasing smile. And I supposed I liked that he was stubbornly interested in me in spite of the fact that I’d given him every reason to steer far, far away.

By the end of the week, I was beginning to feel like myself. I’d promised Vicki I’d obey the doctor’s orders and not dive back into work as if nothing had happened.

“Ease into it, honey,” she’d cajoled. “There’s no sense working yourself silly. You have Katie and Stella to help, and I’m right next door if they need anything. Recuperate and enjoy your cowboy beau. By the way, I’m going to want the unabridged story on that one.”

“He’s not my beau, and there is no story,” I’d huffed.

“Well, then make one.”

Right.

No, thank you. December was about survival…not coaxing a lover into my boudoir.

Besides, Hudson obviously had his own issues, and I suspected those issues were what made our unlikely “friendship” possible. I was a seasonal sad sack, and Hudson was, well…undetermined.

At the very least, he was a glutton for punishment.

Knock knock.

I opened the door and gulped at the sight of the sexy beast in a cowboy hat who was bearing the usual gift of soup. “I’m not sick anymore,” I announced.

He squinted, tipping his hat as he leaned closer. “Hey, what do you know? You look good.”

I blushed under the scrutiny of Hudson’s shameless once-over. “Thanks.”

“Vicki’s special today is butternut squash with rosemary bread. I had a bowl earlier and man, it’s delicious.”

“Well, okay. I’ll save it for later.” I ushered him inside and took the container as I pointed toward the living room. “You don’t have to stay, but if you do, don’t change the channel.”

This was where he’d politely bow out. He was too much of a gentleman to admit he’d reached his quota and someone else’s of classic game shows, but no…

“ Hollywood Squares ? I love this show,” Hudson announced, reclaiming his usual spot in the armchair next to the sofa.

We watched an episode of Hollywood Squares circa 1975, chuckling at the blatant innuendo and Paul Lynde’s comedic genius. Family Feud was next. As with every day this week, I figured the first notes of the theme songs would be his cue to bolt, but Hudson grabbed water bottles for both of us, crossed his legs, and settled in for a rip-roarin’ good time of guessing possible answers to questions like “ Name a place with reserved seats ,” and “ Name something you put mustard on .”

“Hot dog,” I shouted at the television. “That’s the only possible response. Oh, and hamburger.”

“Bologna,” Hudson offered.

I wrinkled my nose. “Gross.”

“What’s so gross about bologna?”

“Everything. It’s a substandard lunch meat choice.”

“I know a lunch meat snob when I see one,” he teased.

“Guilty. I’m not a picky eater, but some things are off-limits. Like bologna.”

“ Hmm .” He twisted toward me, setting his hat on the coffee table. “What’s your favorite food?”

“A warm poppy seed bagel with plain cream cheese. You?”

“Steak. Porterhouse, medium rare.”

I raised a brow. “How very caveman of you.”

“Guilty.” He waggled his eyebrows. It wasn’t particularly humorous, but I giggled. It was such an odd sound that I coughed around it and quickly wracked my brain for another topic to cover my curious behavior.

The first thing that popped to mind was…cheese.

“I’m partial to an English cheddar, and I will never, ever touch blue cheese.”

Hudson scoffed. “You’re nuts. Blue cheese is awesome. In fact, all cheese is awesome.”

I explained all the ways that his argument was subjective. Hudson staunchly disagreed. We were both intrigued by the popularity of charcuterie boards, and neither of us was fond of olives.

“They’re very…”

“ Meh ,” Hudson finished.

We shared a smile and resumed watching the next episode as the first question dinged on the screen. “ Name something engaged couples shop for .”

“Uh…let’s change the channel,” I said, faking a yawn. “Or better yet, you should go. I’m suddenly feeling the effects of the antibiotics and?—”

“I’m fine, Moody. And c’mon, if a question on a fifty-year-old game show is gonna make me cry in my beer, I’m in big trouble.”

“Cry in your beer,” I repeated. “Such an odd expression. I wish I knew the origin. It sounds like something attributed to Shakespeare, but it’s certainly a later phrase often used in country songs to evoke?—”

“Moody?”

“Got it. Cease chatter. Message received.” I made a button-lip motion and reached for the remote control. “But game show shenanigans get stale after a while. Let’s watch?—”

“Leave it. Seriously. I’m not sad, Moody. If anything, I’m the opposite of sad. I’m hopeful about the future, excited for a new opportunity. My life is good,” he replied.

I nodded slowly. “I’m glad. In that case, I’ll go first. I’ve never been engaged, but I imagine a married couple would need a house, china, appliances, rings…”

“And furniture.”

“My imaginary beau and I won’t need much. As long as he’s not opposed to holiday madness in this town, I have everything we could possibly need.”

I flung my arms wide and inhaled deeply. Yes, for the first time in days I could breathe through my nose, and my body didn’t ache. It was glorious. I had a passing thought that I should check in at the store, but Hudson was here, and there was no hurry.

“Have you ever been close to getting married?”

I did a double take, pushing my glasses to the bridge of my nose. “Uh…no. Not at all. I’ve dated a hodgepodge of decidedly uninteresting suitors: a waiter who spoke to his mother thrice a day, an accountant with OCD who split every dinner bill to the penny, and a grad student who wanted to discuss his thesis on soil erosion ad nauseam.”

Hudson snickered. “Fun.”

“ Hmph . I tried a dating app two years ago, and my first experience seemed promising. I was paired with a fellow former lawyer who’d started an online consultant firm and?—”

“You’re a lawyer?” he intercepted.

“Yes. I specialized in complex litigation. Our clients were high-profile banking institutions who required assistance with compliance and regulation matters, acquisitions and mergers, and treasury management.”

Hudson whistled. “Sounds important.”

“It was stressful and demanding. I worked eighty hours a week, never saw my family, and rarely had time for amorous affairs of the heart.”

His lips twisted and his eyes sparked with humor. “That’s no good.”

“No, I was exceedingly competent at my job, but…it wasn’t for me. I’m happier now, though my love life is still a barren wasteland. I can tell you’re trying not to laugh. Please, don’t hold back on my account.” I shrugged, hiding a smile. “As I was saying, my most recent paramour was an online hookup. His name was Christopher. He was tall and skinny, and he enjoyed stamp collecting, soap making, and the opera.”

“Sounds like a good time,” Hudson snarked. “How was the sex?”

“Vanilla.”

He hooted merrily. “Oh, yeah? Tell me more.”

I rolled my eyes. “There’s nothing to tell. We dated for two months, which was long enough to ascertain that he preferred blowjobs to anal. When he occasionally acquiesced, he preferred missionary sexual intercourse in a dark room.”

He was still grinning. “Did Christopher top, or did you?”

“Oh, are we getting into the nitty-gritty?”

“You started this conversation…not me,” he singsonged.

“ Hmm . Well, I don’t top. Ever.”

“Why not?”

“Too many ways it could all go wrong. I might go too fast and hurt my partner…or worse, go limp. I’ve read all the how-to-have-good-sex self-help books, and they say communication is key. I’ve just never been with anyone who was willing to discuss the joys of rimming or hitting one’s partner’s prostate for maximum pleasure. Which isn’t to say I’ve never had good sex. I simply haven’t had enough of it.” I shifted uncomfortably and gestured to the flat-screen. Why was I still speaking? This had to stop…posthaste. “I enjoy classic sitcoms as well. Do you? I believe I Love Lucy is on now.”

“Let’s take a TV break.” Hudson turned off the television. “This conversation is much more interesting.”

“No, it’s more embarrassing. This incessant jabbering must be a side effect of my medication. I’m not usually such a blabbermouth.” I briefly squeezed my eyes shut and snapped them open a moment later. “What about you? Are you experienced in the gay side of your bisexuality? Have you had male lovers? I think that’s a yes, since you seemed to know what to do when we…”

“Had sex?” he supplied with a wry smile.

I cleared my throat and squeaked, “Yeah…that.”

His eyes were still twinkling. “I’ve had boyfriends and girlfriends. I came out in high school. The guy I had a crush on asked me to prom. I was seventeen and let me tell you, I was nervous as fuck. Part of me was screaming that it was a bad idea, but the louder voice in my head said, ‘Do it. Do it now. Say the words, kiss the boy, and be true to yourself.’ I’ve never regretted that decision once.”

“No one in your manly circle of cowboy cohorts took issue with your sexuality?”

He shrugged. “The only one whose opinion mattered was my dad’s. He had some archaic views about what constitutes being a real man. Honestly, that wasn’t easy…but he came around.”

“That’s good. Now you might be surprised to know this, but I’ve been out since birth. Or at least since I was seven years old and asked Santa for a Holiday Hostess Barbie. The cat was out of the bag and out the door then.” I snickered at the memory, straightening my legs on top of the blanket in my little nest on the sectional. “I don’t think my dad was surprised, though. He never asked if there was a girl I liked at school. Not once.”

“So…hold up.” Hudson held up his hand like a stop sign. “You used to like the holidays?”

“Oh, gosh, yes! Of course, I did.”

“What did you like the best?”

“Everything. I grew up outside of Pittsburgh. We had plenty of snow, bright lights on every house in the neighborhood, and big faux reindeer on our lawn. My dad and I always chose a tree that was far too big for the living room, so it was a hassle to get in the house and ladders were required to decorate it. My mom would always fuss about it. But we had music and hot chocolate and a fire in the fireplace and…” I sighed wistfully, lost in an old memory, adding, “It was fun.”

“Holidays are fun.”

“ Meh .”

“I bet you were a cute kid,” he commented, nearly blinding me with his sexy dimples.

I fluttered my eyelashes like a lovesick fool. It was involuntary, I swear, but I was instantly annoyed with myself. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

Hudson barked a laugh. “If it makes you feel any better, most kids love the holidays. I know I did. We had hayrides with Santa, caroling in the park, and…lots of other activities.”

“As you might have guessed, Christmas Town is rife with cheery pastimes.”

“What would you say is the best?”

“It’s all…blah. Terrible.”

“But if you had to name something…what would it be?” he pressed.

I shot a suspicious glance his direction. “Well, I don’t hate baking and decorating cookies, so the gingerbread house competition is passably fun. It’s something I’m fairly good at too. Or used to be.”

“Ah, good to know. How do you feel about Christmas trees?”

I used to love them , I thought to myself.

“I think they’re a waste of time and timber,” I replied.

Hudson put his hat on and stood abruptly. “Cool. I think I want one.”

“A tree?”

“Yeah. Where should I go?”

“To the forest.”

He raised his brows and leveled me with an expectant look. “Moody…”

Fine. I’d never been quick with snappy comebacks anyway.

“Dalton’s Farm,” I blurted.

“Where’s that?”

I reluctantly followed my guest to the door, spouting directions as I unbolted the lock. “Have fun.”

“Thanks, but I’ll never remember all that. You’ll have to show me.”

I frowned. “I’m not showing you squat. Find your own tree.”

Hudson widened his eyes mischievously. “Someone is gonna get a lump of coal and a spanking for Christmas.”

“If I’m lucky,” I quipped. Okay, that was a nifty comeback.

“ Mmm .” He leaned on the doorjamb and casually let his gaze roam my body. “Well, you know…I’m thinking you kinda owe me one. Who’s been bringin’ you soup all week, Moody? Who’s been watching your favorite game shows with you?”

“I didn’t request your company.” I glowered.

“No, you didn’t,” he conceded, raking his teeth over his bottom lip.

My eyes snagged on his mouth and stayed there. I’d kissed that mouth, and I’d really, really liked it. He was good with his hands and gosh, his penis was gorgeous—long and thick and?—

Stop it, Moody! You’re turning into a scurrilous, sex-crazed horndog.

“Are you attempting trickery?”

Hudson smirked. “Who me? Never.”

“Well, I’m not going to shop for a tree or…”

What was I saying? I couldn’t concentrate. My brain was stuck on the memory of that night. The weight of his big body on mine, his tongue in my mouth, my mouth on his cock.

“Hey, you okay?” He dragged his forefinger along my jaw.

No, I was not okay. I was lost in a sensual haze, unable to tell up from down, right from wrong. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be. I should have been at work, and Hudson should have been at a ranch in Colorado or somewhere far away. But he was here and his touch was so tender, so seductive.

I stared at him impotently, wishing my top-notch education had prepared me for moments when lust rendered me incapable of stringing together a logical thought. I didn’t want anything to do with Christmas trees, but I didn’t want him to go. Not yet.

“I—” I licked my dry lips, nodding and then shaking my head. Before he could ask what I meant, I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and crashed my mouth over his.

Hudson stumbled sideways, no doubt surprised by my enthusiastic onslaught. But he didn’t pull away. He hummed into the connection, tipping his hat and angling his chin as he easily took command. Suddenly, his hands were in my hair, gliding under my T-shirt, slipping past the elastic of my sweatpants while he stoked a fire to life with every talented thrust of his tongue.

Yes, we were making out on my front porch in broad daylight. Mrs. McKenzie was probably getting an eyeful as she raked her leaves across the street. The whole town would think their resident cranky bookseller was a rapscallion. I didn’t care. Not one bit.

I wanted his lips and his hands and his tongue and more, more, more.

“Inside,” Hudson growled, closing the door behind us.

We stood, panting in the foyer, sizing each other up. I couldn’t speak for Hudson, but I was buzzing with desire. For him. For us.

I curled my fingers under his belt buckle and met his eyes. “May I? Please.”

“You want to get on your knees for me again, boy?”

Oh, dear. I was going to faint.

I nodded like a puppet, grateful when he unbuckled and unzipped himself, freeing his erection in a theatrical swoop. It bobbed between us, steel and velvet and…yes, I was sinking to the floor. I had the presence of mind to wiggle my sweats and boxer briefs out of the way so I could stroke my cock while I reacquainted myself with this perfect specimen of masculine beauty.

You think I’m exaggerating? Oh, no. The view from below was stunning. I gazed up at Hudson, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes as he unbuttoned his plaid shirt, revealing a smattering of hair on his toned, muscular abs. His body was a masterpiece and his cock…perfection.

I opened up wide and swallowed him to the root. He grunted above me, sliding his fingers in my hair. Good. I wanted him to use me, take what he wanted. I yearned for rough and dirty. No coddling, nothing gentle, nothing sweet. Just…sex.

I dug my fingernails into his flesh in a silent command to fuck my mouth…now, please.

Unfortunately, Hudson didn’t get the message. He flattened his palm against my forehead and pushed.

“Wh-what’s wrong?”

“Slow down. I don’t want to hurt you.” He pulled me to my feet, cupped my chin, and searched my face for clues. “You’ve been sick for a week. Fuck, I don’t know what got into me. I’m sorry. I?—”

“Don’t you dare apologize. I want sex, Hudson. I’m dying for it. Look at me!” I pointed at my rigid cock, then set my hands on my hips. “You’re responsible for this, and the only polite thing to do is provide aid and…and…release.”

He flashed another one of those lopsided, naughty smiles as he closed his fist around my shaft. I whimpered and moaned, and it only got worse when he stroked me from base to tip…slowly.

“Invite me to your room, Moody.”

“Okay, yes. This way.” I hooked my thumb behind me.

Hudson nibbled my bottom lip and slapped my rear end…hard. “Show me.”