abc prompts; k+s: bad romance novel

[fishie]

Kirsten slipped her bra out from beneath her tank top, an old locker-room trick that had stuck around over the years. The fabric was damp, like everything else around here. These Louisiana summers were nothing to joke about. It was nearly ten p.m., and it must have still been eighty degrees outside. The place she was staying had a single old room-unit air conditioner here in the bedroom, which kept the room bearably cool. The only relief downstairs was open windows, screen doors and as many fans as she could plug in. Even now, as she was getting ready to turn in, the front door was open to the night air. Sure, it wasn't the most secure, but she'd rather take her chances with a burglar than turn this little shack into an oven while she slept.

She stepped out of her jeans and tossed them onto the foot of the modest bed. If she could find someplace to buy clothes, she'd be getting herself some shorts tomorrow.

The mirror mounted on the back of the dresser was like something out of an old movie, the gold filigree faded and worn, a crack in the bottom corner of the glass. When she stood in front of it, she could see herself from the thighs up.

Her hands smoothed over her petite hips, and she raised her shirt to admire her reflection. She'd always thought herself pretty, though she wasn't voluptuous or elegant. She was petite, with a flat stomach, modest curves and perky breasts, which she cupped in her hands now. Her nipples were a lovely dark pink and crowned them perfectly.

Far and away her best feature, however, was her hair. The rich dark auburn locks fell in subtle waves around her face when it was down, providing a striking contrast to her lightly tanned skin and marble-grey eyes. The red tresses were clipped up at the moment, held in place by a single clear jaw clip.

It was too hot to wear her hair down here, but she couldn't sleep with the clip in, either. She'd have to put it up in a bun on top of her head, where it wouldn't bother her.

Just as she reached to take out the clip, there was a knock on the rickety screen door downstairs. Kirsten froze. Should she grab the pepper spray from her purse? Wait, shit, her purse was downstairs.

Don't be stupid, Kirsten. Burglars and rapists don't knock on your door first.

Fears somewhat allayed, she pulled down her shirt and headed down the creaky wooden stairs, sans pants. Whoever was at the door, they could deal with her red-and-white star-spangled panties. She wasn't about to put those sticky jeans back on.

By the bottom step, she could make out the silhouetted figure beyond the screen door, tall and clean-cut and holy shit gorgeous when the flickering porch light caught his face. It was Shane Thompson, the dark-eyed Cajun boy she'd seen in the voodoo shop earlier that day.

He leaned against the door frame with one arm, peering through the screen at her, and she hesitated. Maybe she did want pants on, after all.

"You gonna make me come in and get you, cher?"

Kirsten made up her mind to be bold. When had she ever been anything less? Surely Shane Thompson would appreciate an eyeful.

Descending the last stair, she came to the door and leaned her shoulder against the jamb, folding her arms over her chest.

"It's ten at night," she said, trying not to roam her eyes over his lean figure. "This better be good."

"Teagan wanted me to bring this by," he answered, holding up a small satchel. It was big enough to hold a golf ball, maybe, and tied closed with a long, worn leather cord. Kirsten studied it as she moved to push open the door.

Shane slipped past her into the house, palming the satchel as he went. The smell of smoke and herbs followed — the voodoo shop clung to him. He must have spent a lot of time there.

"What is it?" She reached for the satchel and he turned, keeping it out of her reach.

"Gris-gris," he said, his own eyes roaming down her bare legs. "It's a talisman to ward off evil."

She probably shouldn't have laughed, but she did. The voodoo shop, and Shane's cousin who ran it, seemed harmless enough. She figured people were entitled to their hobbies, and she was entitled to think their hobbies were bullshit.

Shane didn't seem to think it was funny. He stepped closer, raised the talisman and slipped the cord over her neck, using it to draw her in. Suddenly, she was far too close to him, looking right up into those dark eyes, even darker in the dimly-lit house. Her fingers wrapped around his wrists unconsciously, as if preparing to wrench his hands away, but she made no effort to escape.

Her breathing was moderated, careful, in the silence that stretched between them. Finally, quietly, he said, "You might think it's funny, cher, but you ain't seen voodoo yet."

It was much harder to laugh when he sounded so serious and leaned so close. Kirsten swallowed against a dry throat.

"So, what, am I supposed to wear it?"

He let his fingers slide down the leather cord, but didn't let her go. "All the time."

Only then did she notice her hands on his wrists. She curled her fingers, felt his pulse against her fingertips. It was fast, heavy. Like hers.

"In the shower?"

"Keep it in reach and don't let it get soaked."

Kirsten nodded, wetting her lips with a quick flick of her tongue. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she thought she saw his eyes follow the motion.

"Okay," she said.

"You gonna let me go?" he asked then, arching a brow.

She disengaged slowly, and he released his hold on the talisman. He didn't put any distance between them, though, and she found she didn't care for him to. His looming presence was a comfort, almost, behind the open doors of this tiny shanty, in this town with its hauntings and its disappearances and its eerie folktales. It didn't make much sense; he was as much a stranger as anyone else she'd met, but she felt safer with him here.

Which she guessed was why, when she finally broke the silence, it was to ask tentatively, "Headed home?"

"Guess so," he answered, and shifted his weight, but before he could step back, she spoke again.

"Don't."

His eyes returned to her, the porch light glinting yellow off of them, and he searched her gaze. "What?"

Oh, God, Kirsten, this is a bad idea.

"Don't go," she clarified. "Stay. Please."

He seemed to study her, sweeping his scrutiny down the length of her body and back up. She wondered if he thought she was inviting him to bed. She wondered if she was inviting him to bed.

"You barely know me, cher," he said, but he still hadn't left. "You sure that's a good idea?"

It's a terrible idea. "No. Will you stay anyway?"

She could tell he was tempted. He lingered, looked long at her, and she could feel her skin heating under his attention. Finally, he asked, "Why?"

"I want you to." Wasn't that obvious? Did there have to be another reason?

"And you always get what you want?" His tone turned dry, mocking, like it had been when they'd first met in the voodoo shop. "A regular Yankee princess."

"I'm from California," she protested. The words didn't have the bite they'd had earlier that afternoon. "And I don't, actually."

"No?"

"If I always got what I wanted, you'd have kissed me by now."

This time, he didn't miss a beat. "That's definitely not a good idea."

"Will you do it anyway?" She moved closer, leaned in, and he put a hand on her shoulder, ostensibly to stop her where she was. She put a hand on his chest.

If he was planning to stop her, he wasn't quick enough. She leaned up against the light pressure on her shoulder and pressed her lips to his. His mouth opened to her, and his hand on her traveled up, taking the back of her neck to pull her into the kiss.

He tasted faintly spicy, a taste she couldn't quite name, and it only added to the fever sweeping through her — the hot Louisiana air, the flush flooding her skin, the warmth growing fast in the pit of her stomach. Kirsten heard herself whimper into his mouth, and as if in response, he circled an arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

They broke apart sooner than she'd have liked, leaving her panting in the humid air.

"This is a bad idea," he repeated, breathless. "You're a bad idea."

"That makes two of us," she answered, and pulled him back in.

This time, he didn't seem content to simply react. He caught her mouth before she could give it to him, pressed his tongue inside and kissed something into her. It was hot, seeping into her skin and simmering, heating her through until her fever got to be too much, and she broke away again, gasping.

"Shane," she breathed, enticing him to kiss her again. It was brief, rough, and left her hotter than before. She pressed a hand to his chest, pushed against him. She knew she couldn't stop him if he were of a mind not to listen; she wasn't very strong and Shane certainly was. The ease with which he'd been hauling those crates around at the shop hadn't escaped her.

But somehow, she wasn't afraid. Inexplicably, Kirsten knew that this man, this stranger wouldn't harm her. She knew that despite the desire telegraphed through his fingertips and lips, she still held the cards. One word from her and this was over.

"Stop," she said shakily.

Her theory held water. The instant the word left her mouth, Shane's grip on her eased and he drew away. She immediately regretted it.

"No, come back. Don't stop." She curled her fingers in his shirt and tried to draw him in again, but he held firm this time.

"Excuse you, cher. Those are some pretty mixed signals you're sending."

Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead on the warm, firm span of his chest. His heartbeat was so close, she could hear it.

He's right, you know. You're like a faulty traffic light.

So what did she want? That heat, that fever? It was tempting, without a doubt, but where would that leave her? Covered in the spicy scent of Shane Thompson, tangled up and wet in her sheets, and alone again.

She didn't want to be alone again.

"I want you to stay," she murmured, sliding her hand up onto his shoulder before retreating.

He met her eyes, and her fingertips dug into the muscle of his shoulder. "Why?" he asked again.

"Because I feel... safer, with you around." It sounded stupid when she said it aloud. Why should she feel safer with a stranger in her house? Why should she feel so secure in his hands? Just another Arcadian mystery.

"I'll stay," he said at last. "On the couch," he clarified, and surrendered his grip on her entirely.

Suddenly, Kirsten could breathe again. "I'll get you some ice water," she said, backing away.

"Just ice'll last longer," Shane replied. "It's gonna be a hot night."