Hot Maine Men Boxed Set (Hot Maine Men Series, Books 1 & 2) Read online

  I feel a tugging in my gut as I close the door behind me and head to my truck. I don’t want to hurt her, or any of them. I make it clear, going in, that this is how it has to be. Still, they always try to get me to stay. But I don’t.

  And I never will.

  Chapter 1 ~ Jack

  July 10

  Want someone who can screw?

  Drill?

  Nail?

  Pound?

  Look no further than Jackson Decker. I do it all, and I make women happy. Pretty easy to do when you have the right tool and know how to use it.

  So, yeah—I’m talking sex, but I’m also a handyman, although I’m not much into that title. For me, that label always conjures up a guy with a beer gut and his ass crack peeking over saggy jeans, running around fixing leaky faucets. I prefer the term “renovation specialist.” Although James Taylor had a nice angle on being a handyman.

  Like the song says, they’ll come running to me. Business is going well, really well. I’ve been toying around with the idea of expanding, maybe adding a crew, but I’ve only been at this a couple years and I’m not sure it’s what I want to do with my life. I thought I knew before, but things took a detour. I’m okay with detours, because sometimes you find your way when you go off the beaten path. If that makes any sense. It didn’t to my father, but I learned that it’s more important to be happy with my own decisions than to please him.

  Shit, I’m getting too philosophical for a beauty of a day like this one. Perfect Maine weather: clear, bright blue sky with just a few cotton ball clouds here and there, 72 degrees and a hint of a breeze. I’ve got the windows to my truck rolled down, partly because I’m not a fan of AC and partly because I want to smell the salt air. I’m driving to meet a new client in Surry—bathroom remodel. We spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago. First impression (if phone call first impressions count) was that she’s polite, cool, and high maintenance. I sometimes make a game out of predicting what a client will look like, and for Ms. Madeline Callaway, I’m picturing thirty-ish. Tall, thin, pale skin. Dark hair, probably in a bun most of the time. More angles than curves. We’ll see if I’m right.

  I always get a kick out of women’s reactions when they first lay eyes on me. They usually look surprised, almost startled, probably because they were expecting someone who looks like the ass-crack guy I described earlier. Some of them get flustered and have trouble looking me in the eye. They think I don’t see them resting their gaze on my mouth, darting their eyes across my chest or glancing at my crotch and blushing. Jesus, that always gets to me—when women try to hide that they want me. Like they’re back in high school, glowing with innocence but burning with want.

  Being a renovation specialist has some key fringe benefits.

  I’ve taken quite a few of my clients to bed. Single women only—I’m not into parking my car in someone else’s garage. I don’t really have a type—I’m attracted to all different kinds of women: sleek brunettes, spiky redheads, curly blondes. Curvy, tiny, bold, shy. I love getting to know their scents, the feel of their skin under my hands, what makes them gasp. I love the moment when I hook my thumbs in the waistband of their panties, just before sliding them down—the intake of breath from both of us, the anticipation of what her pussy will look like, taste like. One of my favorite things to do is go down on a woman, especially when she’s bare and glistening pink so I can see it all, lick every quivering millimeter of her. It sometimes feels like it’s going to kill me, when I’m eating her and listening to the sounds she’s making, wanting to bury myself deep inside her. But getting high from making her squirm…pleasing a woman like that is the best kind of ecstasy there is. And I don’t care how much a girl might protest my going down there, or act like she’s too pure for it—once she feels what my tongue can do, she’s pretty much putty in my hands.

  Little renovation humor there with the putty reference.

  I can get a sense pretty quickly of who wants to be made love to and who wants to be fucked hard. For most of them, it’s a combination.

  I can do that.

  Jesus. Things are getting a little uncomfortable below the belt. I take one hand off the wheel and raise myself up a little out of my seat for a quick dick adjustment. Doesn’t help that it’s been a week or so since I’ve fucked someone. I’ll have to rectify that soon, or I’ll be taking matters into my own hands, so to speak.

  So you should know that I’m what you might call perpetually aroused. In other words, horny as fuck. Think sixteen year old boy in the back of his daddy’s Benz with his hot little girlfriend. Even though I’m pushing twenty-eight, I have a teenaged cock. Combine that with a pair of very experienced hands, and you’ve got some highly-satisfied women.

  My good buddy Drew says that I’m really just a gigolo in a tool belt—that my female clients are more interested in how I can service them rather than how well I can take care of their home improvement needs. I’m good with that. Maybe it’s really my bedroom technique that’s paying the bills...I’ve had customers whose homes seem to develop an awful lot of issues. I take care of those issues, and I take care of women who need me for more than that.

  Before you start thinking I’m all about fixing broken hearts like Sweet Baby James sings about, let me stop you right there...I’m not. I can be kind of a dick, if you want to know the truth. I subscribe to the four F’s philosophy of relationships: find ‘em, feel ‘em, fuck ‘em, forget ‘em. I make it a priority never to hurt anybody, but I’ve mastered the art of caring without loving, and I try to seek out others who operate the same way—hot chicks who don’t want anything more than a guy with a big cock and a tool belt. The shallower the woman, the better, so there’s little chance of me getting too deep, and because they’re easier to leave that way. We have a good time, I give them everything except my wallet and my heart, and this keeps me out of trouble. At the end, a lot of them have wanted more, but once the job is done, I’m out of there and onto the next project. And the next woman.

  Nice the way that works. A win-win situation, for sure, and I plan to stay with it indefinitely.

  My GPS has brought me to a fork in the road that’s Morgan Bay and Newbury Neck. I turn left onto Newbury. All this deep thinking has resulted in my dick going limp, which I see as a good thing. Wouldn’t want to meet a new client with a huge boner—at least not until I can assess the situation. I do know this, though—I’m going to need to take a woman to bed soon, for my own sake.

  I’m about a half-mile away from the house when I feel an unexpected little jab of anticipation. Not sure what that’s about.

  Madeline Callaway, ready or not—here I come.

  Chapter 2 ~ Madeline

  July 10

  I’ve stubbed my toe, tripped over the cat and just now spilled my iced coffee down the front of my (white) t-shirt, so now I’m smelling like butter pecan and looking like a two year old in need of a bib. My attempts to clean up the beige drips with a wet paper towel results in something resembling nipple leakage, and just as I decide I’ll need to change my shirt, a truck pulls in my driveway. A Ford Super Duty, sleek and black, with a ladder rack and rugged-looking tires just shy of suggesting the driver is compensating for something. Jesus, seriously? An unexpected visitor which further adds to the shit-show of a morning, and I am even more pissed off because Saturdays are usually my best day since I don’t share them with anyone—they are mine, and mine alone. I don’t have a clue who Ford Super Duty is, but I’ll get rid of him. I’ve waited all week just to come down here and relax, after thirteen showings and three closings in a very full calendar—

  Calendar. I am suddenly remembering something.

  I hurry to the kitchen table and pick up my cell phone. There’s no need to tap on the calendar icon; the alert is there for me—an alert I didn’t hear: Jackson Decker – bathroom, set for 9 a.m., a half-hour before he was to arrive. He’s about fifteen minutes early, which for some reason further pisses me off, because I am always, always on top of my appointments,
and here I am forgetting that I was even supposed to meet with him.

  Murphy, my orange tiger, is purring and curling himself around my legs under the guise of actually caring about me. I’m not buying his shit for a second; the cat wants food.

  I step carefully over him and hurry to the bathroom to do a quick maintenance check, chiding myself for caring how I look to what will undoubtedly be a fifty-something contractor with a paunch and dirt under his fingernails. I smooth a few stray pieces of hair away from my forehead and give in to the bun that’s asking to be a ponytail, uncoiling my up-do and tightening the elastic. I’m only wearing sunscreen moisturizer and a little foundation, but I decide I look presentable enough, even in my coffee-marred shirt and faded denim shorts.

  Murphy is arching his back in the bathroom doorway, his tail as straight as an antenna and his eyes squinty with what he wants me to think is love. I bend down to give him a quick scratch behind the ears. His snack will have to wait since the doorbell is ringing.

  My bare feet are silent as I cross the oak floor. This meeting hopefully won’t take long. I can get a quick estimate, send Ford Super Duty on his way and get back to enjoying my Saturday morning. Alone.

  I arrange my face to convey Polite and Pleasant as I flip the deadbolt and pull open the solid maple door. And.

  Holy.

  Fucking.

  Shit.

  “Ms. Callaway?”

  He is speaking, and I am trying to simultaneously take in the rich timbre of his voice at the same time my eyes are filling with the unexpected sheer gorgeousness of him. As in, magazine cover/L.L. Bean model/hearing doves cry/hotter than Channing Tatum on his best day gorgeousness.

  I don’t even know where to begin in describing him. He is, first of all, huge—maybe six five—and this, plus his looks, make it very difficult to take him in. My eyes seem to have developed a will of their own, flitting from his mouth to his shoulder to his other shoulder to his waist to his crotch to his mouth to his abs to his crotch. It is utterly ridiculous that I am looking at him like this. Because I’m not looking, I’m gaping, when I am absolutely not the gaping type.

  But I can’t help it. He is absolutely the most delectable piece of eye candy I have ever seen. Dark, thick, wavy hair that fingers could get lost in. Masculine, just-right brows arching over thickly-lashed, startlingly-blue eyes, the kind of eyes that you just know change color with his clothing or mood. The kind of eyes full of promise and desire, eyes that pin a woman down, render her helpless, make her do things.

  Bad things.

  His nose is perfect, and by perfect, I mean the slightest bump in the bridge, which indicates he may have broken it. Which indicates he may have gotten in a fight with someone, probably protecting a woman. Or maybe he had a fight with another hockey player, when their helmets came off and they went at each other, swinging, fueled by their own testosterone and the appreciative roar of the crowd. He very likely is, or at least was, an athlete. His mouth is beautiful yet masculine, with a very suckable lower lip. And of course, the stubble, like on the faces of all the men in romance novels. Check. He’s got that.

  He’s got it all: the fitted t-shirt pulling across his broad chest and flat stomach, the bulging biceps, the sinewy muscles of his forearms, the (clean!) strong-looking hands holding his iPad, the snug, dark blue jeans, the leather belt accentuating his trim waist, the big work boots and consequently big feet. Which is often indicative of something.

  I’m raking my gaze over him again.

  Eyes-lips-chest-hips-crotch-crotch-crotch.

  A man like this needs to be seen to be appreciated. Seen. Heard. Smelled. Touched.

  Tasted.

  My God, what. The fuck. Is wrong. With me?

  “Ms. Callaway.” A hint of amusement honeys his voice, and mischief lightens his eyes. Fuck me till Tuesday, those eyes—they’re like the stones in mood rings, changing. I was right. God damn it.

  He is aware that he’s gotten to me. And I am aware—painfully aware—that I am in a stained t-shirt and no makeup and bare feet in need of a pedi.

  My hand self-consciously stabs at the pieces of hair that seem to be conspiring against me. I tuck them as neatly as I can behind my ear, willing my fingers not to tremble.

  “Yes—I am. I am she.”

  I am SHE?!

  His eyebrows lift slightly, and a slow, excruciatingly-sexy half-smile crosses his face, revealing perfect teeth. White, white teeth. Add toothpaste commercial actor to his credentials.

  “Hello. I’m Jackson Decker of Decker Renovation. We spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago.” He extends his hand, and even though it’s just a handshake, I realize I get to go skin-to-skin with him.

  His fingers close around mine. They are cool, and I cringe as I realize how clammy mine must feel to him.

  I clear my throat, raise my chin and decide to look at his nose rather than directly into his eyes. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Decker.”

  “Please—call me Jack. That’s what my friends call me.” He’s grinning broadly now, his teeth virtually sparkling.

  So he wants us to be friends. “All right. Jack. I’m Madeline.” I have a shortened version of my name, too, but I’m going to try like hell to keep this as formal and businesslike as I can. “Please—come in.”

  I have to consciously un-scrunch my shoulders as he follows me into the house. It feels as though his eyes are burning into the back of me. It occurs to me that I care what he thinks of my ass.

  I turn around just before we reach the kitchen. “Can I get you a bottled water, or maybe a cup of coffee?”

  He’s looking at my breasts. Typical male. My cheeks begin to burn as I fold my arms across my chest.

  “Water would be great, thanks.” He leans against the counter, gripping the granite behind him. His arm muscles flex. Is he doing this on purpose? Do I care? No.

  He gives me a slight nod. “I see you’ve already had your coffee this morning.”

  Oh. The stain. So maybe he wasn’t looking at my boobs. I don’t know whether I’m more relieved or disappointed. “Yes.”

  “Let me guess...one of Dunkin’s ice cream flavors. Iced, regular cream, one sugar.”

  Whaaat? He knows this? How could he know this? Pulling open the refrigerator door, I take out a bottle of Poland Spring, wishing I could press it against my face to cool the flames in my cheeks, but instead handing it to him. Again I feel his fingers wrapping around mine, and hesitating. He did not need to hesitate. He could have just taken the bottle, skipped the lingering-fingers thing—

  “You left some evidence.” He nods at the kitchen table and my plastic Dunkin cup, ice cubes melting in the bottom. “I guessed on the rest—although I do pride myself on knowing what women like.”

  Jeee-sus. I realize my mouth is open and I close it. I am completely, totally flustered. And I never get flustered. Not by men, not by anything, really. This is absolutely ludicrous.

  “You have a really nice home, Madeline.” His gaze sweeps around the kitchen. “I’m assuming you live here year-round?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. A place like this, you should—unlike some of the out-of-state folks around here, who only see the beauty in a summer ocean.”

  I watch as he tips the water bottle toward his mouth. His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows, and for some insane reason, I find this tremendously sexy. While he drinks, I scan him head to toe. He is incredibly attractive in his work clothes, and I can only imagine what he would look like dressed up. Or undressed.

  I need to get ahold of myself. Jackson Decker is here for one reason, and that is to remodel my bathroom.

  As though reading my mind, this man in my kitchen sets the bottle down on the counter and flashes me a dazzling smile. “So...your bathroom. Want to lead the way?”

  “Yes, of course. Follow me.”

  So he’s in back of me again, and I realize that my shorts are actually quite short and we’ll be going upstairs, but I can’t do anything about
that now. Thank God I’ve shaved my legs and have a tan, but still. Never has climbing stairs posed such difficulty. I feel like I need to either ascend quickly and hope he stays a few steps behind, or slow my pace and keep him just a stair away, so there’s no danger of his face being directly behind my ass.

  Christ, I’m pathetic.

  And just after I survive the stair dilemma, another cringe-worthy crisis presents itself: I remember the box of tampons I left on the counter. I am just about to turn around and tell him I need to clean up a few things when it’s too late. He’s already scanning the ceiling, the walls, the floor, in a very carpenter-like way, while the bright pink box is practically screaming from beside the sink. He tactfully pretends he doesn’t see it, while I vow not to make a scene of grabbing the box, as if menstruating is a perfectly natural and acceptable event in a woman’s life.

  “What are you thinking that you want?”

  I’m thinking I want you to pull off that t-shirt. Let me run my hands over your chest, trace the outlines of your pecs. I want to feel your mouth on mine, taste your tongue, put my hands in your hair and press my body against you so I can feel your—

  “I want an en suite, if you’re familiar with that term.”

  “I’m familiar with it. But we could just dispense with the aristocratic label and call it a master bathroom.” His eyes are dancing, like he’s enjoying himself.

  “Um, all right. Master bathroom, so you can get to it directly from my bedroom. I’d like a complete remodel...get rid of this old fiberglass thing and put in a tile shower.”

  He’s nodding, holding up his iPad and snapping pictures. “So you’re basically talking about gutting this out, taking it down to the studs and starting over.”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “How big of a shower are you thinking?”

  “What size would you recommend?”

  “I’d do forty-two by sixty. Do you want a bench in it, or are you thinking corner seats?”

  I excuse myself to go into my office for the folder of printed bathroom pictures I’ve been saving. I am sweating, and this annoys me because I’ll soon be adding pit stains to complement my coffee splotch.