Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9) (29 page)

“Done?” he said, his voice low.

“Sure.” She watched him toss it onto the tray that was centered on the coffee table. Uncertain if she should move, Layla remained in an awkward half-raised position until she heard Vance sigh and he pulled her back against him.

But she couldn’t relax at all now, not with the way the walls seemed to squeeze inward. The noise of the baseball game didn’t permeate her consciousness. In her head she heard only Vance’s breaths and her own, a syncopated, unsettling rhythm. Layla’s temperature climbed. Growing up, she’d had a dog, a mutt named Stewart. He’d had the softest ears and the sweetest disposition and had positively craved human attention. When you petted him, he’d warm in that exact location—the pink stretch of his belly, the dip between his shoulders, the top of his head. Layla felt as though she was doing that now, every point of contact with Vance its own singular hot spot.

She cleared her throat, searching for something to say that might ease the strain. “So...Baxter has woman trouble?”

“All men have woman trouble.”

Her mouth curved. “Not Uncle Phil.” The dedicated bachelor stayed
way
clear of it.

“You’re wrong. He worries about you.” There was a hesitation. “
I
worry about you.”

Uh-oh. Slowly, Layla straightened to a sitting position and met his gaze. “Why did you go to Captain Crow’s tonight?” She’d be annoyed if he was playing big brother again. “Were you worrying about me then?”

His expression didn’t flicker. “We’re out of beer. Baxter wanted a drink.”

“Oh,” she said, somewhat mollified. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Why are you worried about me?”

His gaze slanted to the side, avoiding hers. “I don’t want you hurt, Layla.”

More uh-oh. Why did that sound like a patronizing
I don’t want to hurt you, Layla?

She glowered at him. “I don’t want you hurt, either, Vance.”

“We should call it a night.” Pushing off the cushions, he rose to his feet. When she didn’t follow suit, he huffed out a breath. “Look, I’m in a mood.”

Layla raised an eyebrow. “A mood for what?”

For a moment he went still, and then his lips pressed together. “Don’t push me.”

Half thrilled and half wary, Layla found she wanted to do just that. For days and days, he’d been so controlled and polite and...civilized. He didn’t look that way now, he looked bigger than usual, edgy and impatient, as if some force inside him was ready to spring loose.

God, please, spring loose on her. A woman didn’t have to want forever to want that. Because the chemistry between them had never gone away. “Or what?”

He sent her a quick glance. “Or what, what?”

She licked dry lips. “What happens if I push you?”

His electric eyes shot to hers. Held.

The visual contact came with a physical jolt. Then that sexual tether snapped into place, hook-to-eye, the connection made, the two of them engaged in a torrid tango without moving a muscle. Frustration, irritation, caution crossed Vance’s face and he narrowed his eyes at her. “Stop,” he said.

Lifting her hands, Layla shrugged. “Green flash.”

The room’s temperature jacked up another few degrees. Though she held herself still, her nipples contracted to aching points. She glanced down reflexively, worried he might be able to tell, but then she knew he could.

“Layla,” he groaned. A flush ran across his high cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m trying to be noble here, but my temper’s pointing away from white knight and sliding straight toward hell-raiser.”

She shivered at the thought. That restless energy of his, unleashed.

“So...I think you should just head to your room.”

That restless energy of his, wasted. As if she’d sleep, thinking of him down the hall. “What about what I want?” Layla asked, rising from the couch.

His chest rose up and down on hard breaths and his nostrils flared as she came toe-to-toe with him. “You’re in a vulnerable place. You don’t know—”

“I’m not so fragile.” It infuriated her that he believed differently. Colonel Parker’s daughter had a spine of steel and a better understanding of the world than Vance gave her credit for. “All my life I’ve lived with the knowledge that things can turn on a dime. Which means I enjoy the moment I’m in—because I don’t expect anything to last forever.”

His nostrils flared again. She saw his fingers flex beneath that cast. “The other night, that wasn’t the real me,” he warned.

“How so?” Shivering, she remembered a very real kiss he’d pressed to the small of her back. The scrape of his whiskers up her spine.

“I’m not a gentle man,” he said. “And definitely no gentleman.”

She reached forward and crumpled his T-shirt in her fist. Yeah. This felt right. “I can handle whatever you dish out, soldier boy.”

And on her next breath, he yanked her close.

Be careful what you wish for,
her head said. Her blood just sang.

* * *

V
ANCE DROVE HIS MOUTH
against hers. Their teeth clacked and he pushed between hers to bury his tongue deep in her wet heat. His heartbeat was unruly, his blood rocketing through his system. His control was unraveling.

She melted against his chest and it almost calmed the beast in him. He’d gone a little crazy when he’d heard Layla was hurt, and then even crazier when he’d seen another man’s hands on her. A primitive compulsion had surged from the depths of his belly once again.
She’s mine.

He speared the fingers of one hand in the hair at her nape, guiding back her head so he could taste the line of her jaw and the smooth, tender skin of her neck. She moaned and the sound spoke directly to his animal lust. He sucked on the tender flesh, wanting to taste more of her, wanting to mark her.

Maybe he should feel ashamed—but he’d warned her, hadn’t he? There wasn’t anything of the soulful lover in him tonight. She could run if she wanted, he’d let her go the instant she balked, but until then she was getting Vance, full throttle.

“No softness for you tonight, baby,” he murmured as he ran his mouth back to hers.

She shoved her hands under the hem of his T-shirt. Her touch on his bare skin made it jitter and his cock jumped in his jeans. “I didn’t ask for soft,” she said against his ravaging lips.

He angled his head to deepen the kiss, surging into her mouth at the same time as he caught the tight jut of her nipple between scissoring fingers. She bowed into the little pain, her hips pushing hard against his. He caught one round ass cheek in his other hand and held her to him as he ground his shaft against her, not trying to be pretty about what he wanted.

This is who I am,
he was telling her. The man in the tea shop, the sensitive lover who coaxed instead of demanded that first time was a facade. Vance’s training made him a warrior first, a medic second and, before that, he’d come out of the womb restless and ready for action.

He released her nipple, only to pinch it anew, her needy moan gasoline to his fire. She tugged at his shirt and he managed to let go of her long enough to strip it off. With a little noise, she moved into him again, her mouth pressing here, there and everywhere.

Jesus. He felt like a tuning fork, vibrating in short jerky waves, each of Layla’s kisses a new strike.

He buried his face in her hair and breathed in her scent. Shampoo, salt air and baking notes: vanilla, cinnamon, a hint of lemon.

She found his nipple and licked the scrap of flesh. Vance shuddered and his fingers shook as they reached for the skinny straps of her top. Time to get this off. Time to get her naked.

He stripped off the stretchy cotton. She was naked beneath it, but there was a faint red line below her perfect breasts where the shirt’s elastic liner had pressed her skin. With a flick of his hand, he tossed the fabric away. “Don’t wear that again,” he muttered. “It hurt you.”

“No—” she started, but then her mouth and eyes closed as he bent to trace the stripe with his tongue. He followed it to the side of her body, lifting her arm to not miss an inch of it. Layla was breathing hard, her fingers curled around the waistband of his jeans. “I’m going to fall,” she whispered. “You’re making my knees melt.”

He straightened to pull her close then, groaning at the goodness of her soft breasts and hard nipples meeting the hot plane of his chest. His arms held her tight, and she pushed her hips into him again, ratcheting up the crazy.

“Bedroom,” he said, suddenly remembering Baxter and Addy. They could have company at any moment.

Their fingers tangled, he drew her toward the hallway and the master bedroom. At the threshold, he hesitated. The room was unlit, and he imagined them in that darkness, bodies writhing on the bed. His blood was pulsing close to the surface of his skin, the head of his cock was beating as if it had its own heart. When he got her flat he was going to be all over her.

“Are you sure?” he whispered. Even to his own ears his voice sounded smoky and hot, like his desire. A dragon wanting to devour.

In answer, Layla pulled up their linked hands and rubbed his knuckles against her swollen breast, over her beaded nipple. Vance squeezed shut his eyes, waiting for the words. “Sure,” she said. “Very sure.”

He didn’t remember getting her to the bed. But she was on it, her back to the mattress, his fingers already fumbling on the clasp of her jeans. He muttered a curse, the cast always in the damn way, so she took it over herself.

The zipper was loud in the quiet, and he was already yanking the material down her long legs. Then he crawled between them, the denim of his pants sliding against the silkiness of her panties. He stroked there, a teasing rhythm, as he bent to take her mouth again.

She wound her hands in his hair and opened for him. Their tongues tangled, eager friends, and then she sucked on his, her fingernails tight against his skull. Vance pushed into that sweet heat at the juncture of her thighs, grinding hard into her softness as she continued to feed on him.

He broke away from her mouth, needing air, and sucked in oxygen, staring down. The darkness was so absolute she was just a deeper shadow in the shadows, but he didn’t need to see her to
see
her. Like the scents of this summer month, she was etched in his brain. There would be no freedom from the memory of her frilly lashed brown eyes, her oval-shaped face, that mouth with the upper lip just made for sucking.

He did so now, finding it with his own and tugging at it rhythmically. It had her pressing her hips to his, her whole body writhing when he gave that lip a delicate bite. The friction against his cock made heat flare up his spine.

“What do you like?” he heard himself demand. The beast was clamoring for action, and it certainly didn’t want to pause for direction, but Vance suddenly needed to make her feel the crazy as bad as he did.

Her hands clutched his shoulders. “You...” she moaned. “Your skin, your mouth. Your voice.”

His voice? He smiled, and it felt feral. Did Layla Parker like a little dirty talk in bed? His skin shivered at the thought, then tightened against his bones, making it that much more sensitive. He licked her bottom lip and felt her quiver.

“I thought you were sugar and spice and everything nice,” he said, then kissed his way down her neck. She turned her head to give him easy access and she undulated as he sucked on her again. “But maybe you have a naughty side.”

Her body stilled, but under him he felt the temperature of her flesh spike. He chuckled against her throat, the sound almost devilish in the heated darkness. “Let’s see if I can find it.”

Her breath was ragged, and her breasts rose and fell against his cheek as he rubbed his evening whiskers across them. “I love your nipples. They’re such a pale pink but they blush to red when I suck them into my mouth, when I tongue them all shiny.” He touched the tip of one, lapping at it until she made a frustrated sound and buried her hands in his hair.

“Greedy girl,” he whispered, then opened to take a soft bite of her areola, his teeth pulling up to scrape the jut of flesh.

Layla groaned and he did it again, the lap, the bite, the scrape. Her lower body pushed against him in slow rolls, and her taste, her body, her need, they all enticed the beast, teasing it without mercy. But Vance held on and moved to the other breast, playing with that one, too, listening to her little cries.

Finally, he needed something more. “Greedy girl probably wants something hard inside her,” he said. “I’ve got it pulsing and ready right here.”

And she stilled again, shocked, he thought, then aroused, because her hands shot down to his pants to divest him of the confining denim. He laughed, low and uncivilized, and rolled away to take care of the issue.

She made another of her frustrated noises, an appetizer that fed his animal as he struggled with the jeans. His erection wasn’t making things easy.

“Vance,” she breathed, anxious.

“Shh,”
he said, and rolled his head on the pillow to kiss the warmth of her cheek. “Settle down. I’ll fill you up soon enough.”

Her mutter sounded like a curse and a plea.

Vance threw his pants over the side of the bed, then yanked at his boxers. Again, the cast and his cock made the process more labor-intensive than it should be. Suddenly Layla’s hands were on him, and she was tugging at the material, too, shoving it down his legs.

Then he was naked and Layla was on her knees beside him. “Oh, I like this,” he whispered, touching one flank with his knuckles. “Straddle me, sweetheart. Put your breast to my mouth.”

Her breathing hitched, but then she obeyed. With a knee on each side of his hips, she leaned toward him. He lifted his head and caught her nipple, feasting, suckling, hard and deep. His hands found her hips and he held her there, drawing her in to slake his hunger.

“Vance,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Now the other,” he instructed, and she shifted her weight. “Offer it to me, Layla. Let me have you.”

She was shuddering as he pulled on her second breast now, and her glorious bottom dropped so that the juncture of her thighs kissed his cock. She was wet there, hot and wet, and the moisture bathed his shaft.