And Babushka said men didn’t grow on trees. A life lesson imparted to Anja, followed by her grandmother lecturing about how Anja was too picky and it shouldn’t matter who he was. Status meant nothing. So long as he can work and doesn’t hit you, what more do you want?
How about a little respect? Someone she could feel equal to. A man who wouldn’t be intimidated by her blunt manner of speaking. Who wouldn’t find himself put off by her freakish height and wide hips. She gave new meaning to the word “voluptuous.” Babushka said she was big boned and perfect.
Anja happened to agree, which was why she wouldn’t settle when it came to a man. Then again, saying no to men wasn’t that hard. For some reason, she attracted the wrong kind, the kind who wanted to climb her like a tree or lick her big feet. She’d also met clumsy idiots, such as this guy in the tree. Well, more like the guy on the ground. He apparently wasn’t the most agile of fellows.
At least he’d managed to recover before hitting the uncompromising earth face-first. This time of the year, the ground around the roots proved unyielding, hard with the first glimmers of frost. A face-plant would have hurt, and she would know. In the past, this particular arboreal specimen had once dumped her harshly too.
I’m pretty sure this oak hates me. Which was really shortsighted of the tree, given she owned an ax.
Eyeing the guy, she had to wonder if a face-plant would have hurt him much. “He’s a freaking rock,” she muttered aloud, an old habit of hers from tending animals over the years. They at least listened to the farm girl.
Yes, she did something as old-fashioned as farming because her babushka insisted only fresh would do, especially when it came to milk and eggs. “In the old country,” she’d say as she started her lecture, “we used to milk the cow every morning to make fresh butter and cheese for dinner that night.”
“In the old days, you also married first cousins to keep it in the family.”
“Be proud you are descended from an almost pure line.”
“I’ll be happier when I birth some kids with no horns or tails or three eyes.”
Her babushka spat on the floor. “There is nothing wrong with birthing greatness.”
“Unless you’ve watched The Omen.” The creepy movie had left its mark.
Her grandmother didn’t see the world the same way as Anja. In many respects, her babushka had never left the old country. A few decades since she’d come to this country and still her grandmother clung to old ways. Old ways meant sending her granddaughter out with a gun to confront the guy hanging around in their tree. The guy who was about as bright as a rock. In a cave. That was covered by vines.
He didn’t have a clue. “Who’s a rock?” asked the fellow with the granite-edged face.
“You are.”
“I am? Why?”
As if he had to ask. He saw that rocky visage in the mirror every morning. Hard planes set his jaw square. Piercing brown eyes were framed by the darkest lashes, so dark he almost appeared to wear eyeliner. It provided a nice sultriness that went well with his tanned skinned and thick dark hair.
Totally doable. But given his lack of brightness, she worried about him being clingy. Best to pass on this one. “From what I’ve seen of you, you’re either a dumbass or a rock. Take your pick.”
He bounded to his feet, a simple leap of his body that appeared deceptively easy. She knew better and remained steady, the barrel of her gun pointed right at him. He might seem benign, but appearances meant nothing.
For example, most people thought she was just a dumb farm girl. They didn’t know about her left hook or that she’d won the state spelling bee four years in a row. Funny how the fist left more of an impression with folks.
“What kind of rock do you think I am?” he asked, appearing utterly at ease. His gaze never once strayed to her gun.
She didn’t like it. “Does it matter what type?”
“Of course it does. What if I’m a diamond, shiny and hard? Very hard. A diamond you could fondle. Give a gentle roll between your fingers. Perhaps rub me over your lips.” The sinfully thick lashes fluttered in a wink.
Dirty talk? The fun didn’t stop with this guy. Did he seriously think he could seduce her with those raunchy innuendos? “How about I use your diamonds for target practice?”
“Big words for a little girl.”
Little? She could have snorted. She stood six foot, most definitely not petite, and had often been compared to a Viking babe of old during her college years. Actually, she was of Russian descent, which was just as vicious as a Viking maiden. Maybe even more dangerous. Look at her babushka. No one fucked with her. The cable guy brought her coffee when he came to fix the outages. And he’d been five minutes early for the appointment each and every time since the “incident.” Then there was the cashier at the grocery store who’d tried to refuse some coupons. Babushka still cackled when the girl made the sign of the cross upon seeing her.
Most people feared Anja’s grandmother. Except me. Anja lived to bug the woman. Which meant she had brass balls when it came to baiting people, even those who might be dangerous. “Come a little closer and we’ll see who’s little.” She let a grin curl the corner of her lips.
“A challenge? I accept.”
Accepted what? What did he mean? A tingling anticipation shimmered through her body, leaving her energized and focused. Not just focused, but intent on him. She couldn’t seem to look away, not with so much to catalog—and admire. The stranger bore a neatly trimmed beard, enough to cradle his chin and upper lip with a lush pelt that went on to slash across the bold lines of his cheek.
Soft or bristly?
Would it tickle if he put that head between her legs?
And, most importantly, how long could he go without breathing?
Some women might have been appalled at the direction of her thoughts. Lusting after a perfect stranger, what was wrong with her? And not just any stranger but one hiding in her tree, spying through binoculars and bearing a gun, a weapon currently tucked in its holster.
Dangerous.
And tall. Taller than her.
Panty wetting.
Given my boring life, I don’t think there’s anything about this scenario that doesn’t turn me on.
The man oozed suave confidence. He bore the look of a slick warrior. A gun might be pointed on him, but he exuded cool.
Funny how that very chill made her only hotter.
She never saw him move. One moment, he stood before her, hands spread, attempting to look benign—epic fail—the next, he tried to tear the gun from her hands.
Her fingers curled tight around the stock and barrel, very tight, and she growled through clenched teeth. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
The old country might be a mythical place that Anja heard about at bedtime or when her babushka hit the homemade potato liquor made in the laundry sink, but her elderly relative had made sure Anja could defend herself and gave her the strength as well.
Farming wasn’t gentle work. Just ask her grandmother, who’d done it for the last twenty-five years, taking on double duty when her beloved husband died in the same accident that had taken Anja’s mother when she was only months old.
The head-on collision that killed Helga had left Anja alive but parentless, her daddy abandoning her before she was born. The jerk. A good thing she already lived with her babushka full-time. It meant she wasn’t alone. Nor was she useless. Once she learned to crawl, her babushka started to teach, her first task being to collect eggs.
Back then, her grandmother didn’t yell when her chubby fists crushed the thin shells and spilled yolk. But once she started tossing them at her grandmother for calling her a slow, lazy cow, all of a sudden, her beloved babushka claimed Anja was going to starve them out of house and home.
“I should be so lucky as to move somewhere with a decent signal,” she’d yelled back.
Collecting eggs and caring for chickens wasn’t all Anja did. Milking the blasted cow was another hated chore. The bovine despised her; she knew it did. She could see it in its giant brown eyes.
The animals were only part of her chores. Anja had built up much of her upper-body strength tossing hay, mucking out stalls, and, in general, doing all kinds of manual labor that left her strong. Stronger than all the other girls she knew, and most of the men.
And why was this important? Because when her tree climber dared to grab her gun, he didn’t manage to pluck it from her hands. He barely budged it at all because she tightened her grip along with her determination.
“You don’t want to mess with me,” she muttered.
“Why?”
“Because.” She pressed her lips mulishly together before adding, “Because people who mess with me don’t end up in a good place.” At least so she assumed. Her grandmother never did say what happened to them.
“Here’s the weird thing, though.” He stopped pulling and leaned close. “I kind of want to.” And then he kissed the tip of her nose before licking it. It startled her, and her trigger finger tightened.
Bang. She fired, the spatter of rock salt and metal filings spraying the air. The recoil shifted them off balance, and their gazes caught. Enjoyment lit his.
Let’s see how long that lasts. Her lips curled in mockery as she brought up her knee, and missed, hitting his thigh instead of his jewels. The man had quick reflexes and an odd sense of humor because he laughed.
“A wild one. You can’t imagine how much that excites me. And you play dirty. Even more fun. The gun, however, has to go.”
A gasp left her when he showed just how little strength he’d applied before. This time, when he exerted himself, he wrenched the gun from her hands with ease. Immediately, it went flying as he tossed it before wrapping his arms around her. For the half second she allowed it, it felt good. Great. Here was a man who had the size she craved. A size to make her feel almost petite.
A size meant to intimidate.
He chose the wrong girl.
He might want to give a hug, but she did not remain still. She pulled away from him, straining against his arms, to no avail. She couldn’t budge.
A wave of incredulity arched her body. It did not free her. Her body undulated in a harsh snap, and yet he did not loosen his grip. He reeled her closer.
“Let me go.” She cranked her head sharply to the rear and hit him in the lower part of his face, a firm blow to his jaw. She’d sent idiots who got a little handsy to the hospital with broken bones before.
Of course those guys weren’t made of stone.
“Fuck me, that was a good shot.”
Did he sound … impressed?
“Would you like another?” Wouldn’t her babushka be proud, showing manners to the enemy?
Her elbow jabbed back and stopped cold when it hit a brick wall. Her foot stamped down onto steel-toe shoes.
It was like fighting a bloody rock. Big, heavy, and unyielding, which meant gravity would love him.
She turned into a limp doll, hanging from his grip with all her weight—a size built on years of Russian cooking, the only kind of cooking that really counted. She let all her muscles relax as she let gravity do the work.
It pulled her down, but was it enough to throw the man off balance?
“If you insist on lying down, then let me oblige you.”
“What the fuck!” The curse expelled from her as she found herself hitting the ground, not hard, the man who took her there somehow cushioning the fall. But he did nothing to cushion the hard weight of himself atop her, pinning her with his body. His hands manacled her wrists. He manhandled her as if she were just a girl. And, for once, she was.
“Let me go,” she begged like a commoner.
“Later.”
“Now.” She wiggled underneath him. “Unhand me at once.”
He cocked his head and stared. “Why move when I find myself most comfortable?”
“I’m not,” she retorted with vehemence even if she lied. Her body very much enjoyed the fact that she lay under him. He provided a solid presence atop her, all male, all delicious. If he didn’t hold her hands, she’d probably let them roam his body. Was his ass as taut as the rest of him?
A shiver went through her. She wanted to know. It had been awhile since her body showed an interest in someone. For the past few years, she’d noticed most men left her bored, so bored she’d not been with one in a long time. And longer still since she’d allowed a man to be on top of her.
Usually, Anja sat in the seat of power, riding her way to nirvana, ignoring the, at times, terrified and yet ecstatic looks of her lovers. An ex-boyfriend had likened her passion to watching a storm sweep in, all power and beauty but, at the same time, deadly if not careful.
Boys could be such fragile things. Not so the man atop her. He squirmed. On purpose.
Her eyes narrowed. “That better not be an erection, you bully.” Yes, a bully who made her think of a bull who just charged ahead and did as he pleased. With her.
Her panties got a little wetter and, as if sensing it, he shifted his hips, pressing himself even more firmly. And she meant firm.
“Yes, that is an erection. For you. Which, I will admit, is really not what I was planning to deal with today. For one thing, it’s not been that long ago since my five friends here”—he waggled his fingers—“took care of business.”
“Do you pay them well for servicing you?”
“In a sense.” He smiled. “I lotion every day so I don’t get too many calluses.”
A disparaging noise left her. “A vain man concerned about hiding the proof he works.”
“Not vanity. Practicality. If you let them get too rough, it’s like jerking off with sandpaper.”
She almost laughed. “You speak as if from experience.”
“I am a man who is open to new ideas. Especially in the bedroom. You’re a farmer. Don’t tell me you never tried it with vegetables?” He arched a brow.
“If I said no, is this where you try to convince me I should eat my daily dose of cucumber?” She smirked.
A tilt of his head brought a boyish look to his features. “You are clever.”
“For a woman?”
“No, just clever in general. Most people are stupid, no matter their sex.”
“On that we agree.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what.”
He frowned. “Make yourself so likable, which leads to me wanting to fuck you, or at least fuck you more than I want to fuck you already, which is fucked-up because you are not my type. Yet suddenly you are.”
The words spewed from him, and despite their roundabout nature, she grasped the gist. “It is not my fault you find my big, ungainly body utterly fascinating. Your body obviously recognizes greatness, whereas your brain is too stupid to see it, probably due to a lack of size on account of your thick skull taking up most of the room.”
“Calling the man who has your life in his hands stupid is not very smart. You should be kissing me instead. But not on my lips. I prefer kisses in other places.”
“Put that other place anywhere close to my lips, and I will bite. Hard.” She smiled. “I will also chew and swallow.”
“You have a very bloodthirsty side. I like it.”
He what? He said the most deranged things, and yet, the more he opened his mouth, and the more he teased her with his weight, the more attractive he got. So she tried to force herself to dislike him. “I think it’s time you got off me.”
“I’d like to get off with you. But I really shouldn’t. You’re a distraction I don’t need. A witness I can’t afford.” His fingers released her wrists, only so they could circle her neck, the tips pressing into her flesh. “Given you caught me, I should choke you and then be on my way. Never leave a witness behind.”
She couldn’t help but mutter, “Sounds like something my grandmother would say.”
“A smart woman, then. So let me ask you, what would she do? I must rid myself of you, and yet, what method should I use? If I choke you to death, it appears as assault, and it might leave DNA. I could toss you from a tree, make it appear an accident.”
“There’s also a river nearby.” If he threw her in, she could swim.
“It might make a good dumping ground because, if I kill you, do I hide the body or leave it to be found? Do you have a preference?”
She rolled her eyes. “Just like a man to prattle on and on instead of getting the job done. Would you get on with the hit already? Kill me. Don’t kill me. All I hear is a lot of talk. Do something.”
“I will act when I am ready.”
“I hope this isn’t how you approach sex, because you must leave a lot of your partners disappointed. Hell, I’m disappointed. A man tackles a woman to the ground with brute force and then”—her lip curled—“he wants to talk. Is this how you want to kill me? Are you waiting for me to expire of boredom?”
Both his brows rose in surprise. “I am many things, but I wouldn’t say boring is one.”
“Apparently you are a man of clichés.”
His lips quirked. “Cliché would be me quieting you with a kiss. Or leaping off you and running off, exclaiming, ‘We will meet again.’ But, instead, I shall—”
“Get off my granddaughter slowly, or I will blow you a new zalupa.”