Craving Caden
She’s the only one who can untangle his tongue
“Another winner from Jessica Lemmon!”
“...the perfect confectionary amuse-bouche.”
WHAT KIND OF LAWYER CAN’T TALK?
My plans of becoming a hotshot attorney have gone up in flames thanks to a street race that landed me in the hospital and rattled my brain. My physical injuries have healed, but my voice hasn’t bounced back. I’ve all but given up…until Tasha Montgomery reawakens every competitive bone in my body.
I have to have her, but none of my usual tricks are working. Every time I try to speak, my formerly silver tongue trips over my palate and collides with my teeth. You try to sound smooth with a stutter. Tasha insists on helping me, saying I’m “lucky” to be alive. I’m not so sure.
Then, during a session, she kisses me and every word rolls off my tongue perfectly. Turns out going a round or two with her fantastic mouth and I’m as good as new. I could get used to this kind of “therapy.” Tasha in my bed is healing my voice, but she’s also healing a part of me I’ve been ignoring for years: my heart.
Series Info:
Lost Boys series, book 2, featuring Caden Wilson & Tasha Montgomery
Awards:
TOP PICK from Harlequin Junkie. “With Ms. Lemmon being one of my must-buy authors, I couldn’t wait to read this opposites attract trope encompassing story, and I’ve got to say that it was everything I’d hoped for and more.”
The Lost Boys series
Extras
Excerpt
Tasha
“Good afternoon!” I chirped. The wrench sound ceased for a few seconds before starting up again. “Are we doing your session in the garage today?” There was an open toolbox and a few grease-covered rags on the ground. “The change of scenery is nice.”
No comment from my captive audience. I sighed.
Most of the time I felt like I was failing miserably, but I continued to show up and try, try again. At first I’d told myself it was a favor for Paul, and then later I’d told myself it was my own never-say-die attitude, but now I knew why I continued showing up and pushing him.
I did it for Cade.
We were running out of time. Soon I wouldn’t have a choice of “should I or shouldn’t I.” Graduation would lead to a state board exam which in turn would lead to a full-time-plus position. I’d be too busy to come over here and listen to myself talk.
I lifted one flat and kicked the sole of Cade’s shoe like Devlin had, backing up quickly when Cade rolled out from under the car on one of those low, wheeled carts mechanics use. The second his light brown eyes locked on mine, I froze.
He might be a royal pain in the ass, but it didn’t keep him from being the most gorgeous guy I had ever seen. I’d thought so since I first laid eyes on him at Ridgeway University. Despite our mutual dislike for each other, my appreciation of his fine-tuned biceps, tattoos cascading down one arm, and firm, wide shoulders hadn’t gone anywhere.
His lips compressed into a line as he stood, snatching up a rag and wiping his hands. He continued scowling at me. I think. I was no longer looking at his face. My eyes had ventured over his biceps as they clenched beneath a well-worn T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
“This is new,” I said. Meaning the car and the fact that he was standing outside. In the sunshine. “I thought you’d turned vampire. I’ve never seen you in the daylight.”
He grunted as he bent and put his tools away. That was his typical response. I tried not to admire the way his faded jeans clutched his backside, but failed. Cade had a nice ass.
When he stood, I averted my eyes from his well-built physique to his short, shaggy mass of sandy brown hair, and my heart stuttered in my chest.
Every inch of him was hot. From a pair of midlength sideburns to the holes in his ears where the piercings had closed because he no longer wore the studs. Tattoos snaked up his left arm, intricate designs, some colored, some not. An array of animals and symbols, metaphors for what I had never found out. Not that I had asked. There were lines we didn’t cross, and his tattoos were one of them.
When he smiled, a dimple dented one cheek, and if he really smiled, you could see rows of white teeth—not too white—he wasn’t battling a coffee addiction with Crest Whitestrips like I was.
In the case of my wayward attraction to Cade, the culprit was my ex-boyfriend, Tony. If Tony hadn’t been such a dickhead, we could be looking for an apartment together and planning our engagement. He was going into sports medicine, I into physical therapy. We had similar upbringings. Similar goals. Similar interests. Well, save one. Tony Fry was most interested in seeing how many women he could date without the others finding out, and I was more of a one-guy type of girl.
That was where our paths had ultimately veered.
Cade crooked a finger, motioning for me to come closer. I took one cautious step. Then another. He smelled of motor oil, which wasn’t bad. Not on him. It mingled with the scent of his soap and gave him an earthy yet dangerous quality. Plus, Cade looked damn good with oil on smeared on his shirt and across one cheek.
His eyes dashed to my lips, and back up, and then . . .
I was looking at his back as he walked away from me. Not into the entrance to the house on the right of the garage, but through a door on the left. Curious, I followed.
The door opened to a flight of stairs.
Okay.
One foot after the next, I followed, then at the top I peeked around the doorway. I blinked, stunned.
“Whoa.” I had no idea this room existed. The Wilson house was large, and I always assumed that behind the windows over the garage stood some sort of attic or storage space. Maybe they used to be, but now the space resembled an apartment. Not as big as mine, but much bigger than the bedroom Cade had formerly occupied.
His bed stood in one corner, the mattress bare. A kitchenette was on the far wall, outfitted with a small sink, microwave, and refrigerator. Open boxes were stacked in the room, along every wall, and flanking an attached bathroom.
“Nice place,” I commented, meaning it. And an improvement from sleeping across the hall from his father.
Cade brushed by me and walked into the kitchenette, then stood with the refrigerator door open and took a few slugs out of an orange juice carton. My eyes flickered over one rounded muscular shoulder and down the curve of thick biceps, then got lost in the maze of ink swirling over his flesh.
His hair was damp with sweat, one droplet trickling down the side of his neck. I watched it slide down his throat and disappear into his T-shirt, all the while reminding myself that sweaty guys dashed with motor oil were not attractive.
Parts of me listened. Other parts of me did not.
Cade Wilson looked like no other law major I had ever seen. I liked boys in khakis. Oxford shirts did it for me. Well-groomed, well-spoken. Those were qualities I didn’t only admire, I required. But with Cade my response was off the grid. Carnal. Basal. Against my better judgment over the last few months, I had become inexplicably attracted to his shaggy, messy, never-styled hair. I liked the dangerous quality of the ink on his body. I liked the way he eyed me through that light brown stare of his, with a combination of spite and curiosity.
I understood because I’d been looking at him much the same way for a long time.
We had a history. It wasn’t a good one.
“You’ve gained muscle,” I commented. It wasn’t a flirty comment, more a professional observation. Improving bodies was my job. Noticing his went with the territory. His broken arm had hampered his weightlifting until the bone healed, but he had more than regained the muscle he’d lost.
He licked a droplet of juice off his lips and I dropped my backpack on the couch, unfazed by his tongue or his attitude.
Mostly, anyway.
“This is a great space.” I sort of repeated. “Now that I’m here and you’re here, I think we could do actual work today instead of you ignoring me and me doing my homework.”
His bland gaze said what he didn’t: He didn’t like my suggestion.
Part of me fantasized that he’d give in and cooperate. That I’d have my own moment of personal triumph by helping him progress from a stoic, silent statue into a proper chatterbox.
His face scrunched.
Maybe not.
“The kind of therapy I’m proposing would be more like a workout.” I folded my arms and gave him a smile. “You like to work out, right?”
No response. Just the same bland stare.
“Only we’ll be working out your face instead of your arms. Think of it as bench presses for your lips. Curls for your tongue.”
One brown eyebrow arched in suspicion. Then the side of his mouth flinched. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but interest stirred in the depths of his eyes. I thought about what I had said and scowled.
“That wasn’t a sexual comment. So don’t take it that way.” What I didn’t need was Cade thinking I was flirting with him. I knew he was bad news—that any attraction between us was due to proximity.
The hint of a smile vanished from his face. I wish I could say it satisfied me to see it go, but Cade had an amazing smile. He used to smile often. Before the accident, he’d been a grinning idiot most of the time. The problem with this godlike, grinning specimen was that he’d had a big mouth and a sharp tongue. He’d flayed me once with it. I hadn’t forgotten.
“We may as well do something while I’m here,” I snapped.
He returned the juice carton and slammed the fridge.
“Cade.”
“What!” He spun on me.
Stunned, I blinked at him. He lifted that same eyebrow in challenge.
He spoke. One syllable—one very frustrated syllable—but still, Cade parted those lips and spoke.
. . .
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“A very sexy and adorable romance about two lonely people trying to find their place and their voice in life. Run to your nearest Amazon!”