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"This is the most elaborate excuse a guy has ever used to touch my boobs," she informed him. His eyes were concentrated on his task, his firm lips curved in a far too appealing way. The faint resulting smile was controlled enough to give them a sexy intensity. "If there's not really a spider on me," she added, "you better pull a big one out of your ass, or I'm going to sock you in the nuts with a broom handle."
He stepped back then, showing her a dark brown spider the harrowing size of a silver dollar running over his fingers as he turned them to coordinate with the creature's alarmed movement. "It's just a wolf spider. Hand me that cup on the stage, love. Unless it still has coffee in it."
It didn't. She'd left it there after she'd finished her morning dose of caffeine. "Just put him on the ground and stomp him."
"Uh, no. I did say I wanted you two to part as friends."
"I'll feel very friendly about him if he's dead." But she handed him the cup, with a PTSD shudder. Bug control was the next place she was calling. She envisioned the audience entranced, silent, absorbed in a dramatic scene on stage...right before the man in row three leaped up shrieking like a girl and flailing, inciting a panic as he tore off his pants to deal with the spider crawling up his leg. He'd of course be a reviewer for the most-read local entertainment blog.
It was ludicrous for her to be squeamish, since she often encountered bugs even in the cleanest old theaters. But to her way of thinking, spiders were a whole different classification from the rest of the bug world.
The roofer dumped the spider in the cup, putting the lid over it, the small sip spout too small for escape. Maybe. "I'll put him back out when I go." He extended his other hand. "So I'm Desmond Hayes, your roof guy. Logan said you might want me for some other small jobs, since I'm also licensed for electric and plumbing."
A godsend, though she wasn't surprised. Anyone Logan sent her way was reliable and skilled.
Thinking about how she could use this guy professionally was being derailed by other ways she wanted to use him, though. Which, nice voice and provocative tattoos aside, was puzzling. He'd simply rested the side of his hand against her chest, providing the spider a ledge. From the warm tingling in her skin, it was obvious she'd been without the touch of a lover for too damn long.
"I'm also a rigger," Desmond said. "A rope guy? I don't perform, but I mentor other riggers. Logan thought you might want my expertise for tips on staging a rigging scene, since he said you'll have a couple in your upcoming performance."
She shoved herself back into her theater role. "It's a shame you don't perform. With your voice, you'd do well on stage." His lean, intriguing body would be easy on the eyes as well, but she didn't add that.
"I did it a couple times." He shrugged and hooked a thumb in his jeans pocket, drawing her eye to the undulating Marilyn and the corded forearm she was draped over. "Then someone wanted me to do a suspension under a waterfall. Using blue rope and a bunch of fancy lights. I did it, but it was bullshit and took away from the main point, so I decided that was the end of my stage career. I have a sandwich for lunch. Want to share? I assume it's past your lunchtime, too."
She was able to roll with most topic changes, but that one was abrupt. "We can talk about your roof while we eat," he added.
When she hesitated, he gave her a bland look. "I'll even share my carrot sticks."
"Carrot sticks?" She snorted. "Did your Mom make your lunch?"
"I like carrots. Don't mock a man's food choices, woman."
She grinned. She was hungry, and she really didn't want to waste the time to seek out lunch. "What kind of sandwich?"
Moving to the edge of the stage, he pulled a small pack off his shoulder and set it down. "I have a PB&J with homemade blackberry jelly, a chicken salad, a grilled cheese and one hummus wrap."
"Just a little light lunch then," she said dryly. "Or do you usually pack to share?" She swept her gaze over his slim form, head to toe. "If you tell me that's your normal lunch, I'm going to break you in half like the pretzel stick you are."
"You can try, love." He curled his hand around hers and drew her over to the stage, the gesture so smooth and relaxed there was none of the discomfort she should have felt at having a stranger touch her with such familiarity. Though she did experience an unsettling flutter in her stomach as he set his hands to her waist and boosted her onto the stage.
Her mouth dropped open at the sensation of being weightless, as if he'd picked up a helium balloon. His eyes glinted, registering her reaction, and that little flutter expanded into something else as he lingered between her knees, bracing his hands on the stage on either side of her hips. He was decently tall, so despite the height of the stage, his face was still in her line of sight without a significant dip of her chin.
"I'm way stronger than I look," he said. "Now, which of those sandwiches do you want? Or, since they're quartered, you can pick and choose."
He moved to boost himself on the stage next to her. If he'd lingered between her knees, she would have had to decide if it was in the realm of inappropriate, but instead she was left with a nice little surge of adrenaline that came with harmless flirting. Though harmless might be the wrong word, since Des was obviously very accomplished at it and comfortable with making a woman feel womanly.
Not in a sleazy way, either. The pushy male vibe that said "I want to have sex with you right now," was easy enough to shove away or ignore. No, his danger was he coaxed that reaction from the female recipient of his charms. She could picture having him right here, right now, on the stage. Or him having her.
She was back to being baffled with herself. Yeah, she might be sex-deprived, but he was skinny and...well, a roofer. One who seemed to think what they were doing here was bullshit. Well, she'd get to the bottom of that idiocy, and his answer would break this hormone-induced spell he was spinning over her.
"Why do you have the attitude about erotic performance art?"
"Sorry, didn't mean to come off that way." His flash of chagrin showed he was sincere. "I don't mind people watching what I do, like in a club or dungeon, or doing a demo for them in that environment, but the focus has to be on the connection between me and my sub. I want her to be lost in things, caught up in the power of the restraint, my control of her. Knowing she's safe and yet subject to my desires in all ways. You put too many props into it, fireworks and crap, you lose that music."
His gaze slid to hers. And held.
In the BDSM world, there were differences between a top and a Dom. She'd assumed, incorrectly, he was only a top. A top might enjoy taking the upper hand during BDSM play, and get into the mechanics of it, like the rope work. It didn't mean he was a Dominant, a nature and distinction hard to describe but felt by those who reacted to it. Like her.
The way he held eye contact told her he'd detected the involuntary tells of her body language, the response to his words. That confirmed he was a Dom, as did the shift in his body language, the tone of his voice and the laser look from his eyes.
