Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (25 page)

She closed the space between them, until their bodies brushed against each other. “That I can do this, walk right up to you like this, and feel pretty much fearless, knowing that even if it triggers a vision, I can trust that you won't cut and run. That's the man you are. To me. I want to know the rest of you, Dylan. Any of it, all of it, whatever you want to share with me.”

She reached up, brushed her fingertips across his cheek, watched his gaze darken, and felt her body respond to him as if he'd put out a siren call with nothing more than a look. “Because you're right. I'm already involved.”

S
he gutted him . . . effortlessly. Reached right in, wrapped her hand and all the rest of what made her so unique right around his heart, and she'd be damned if she'd let go. He'd never felt so vulnerable in front of anyone, which was saying more than he could comprehend, given how vulnerable he'd been most of his life. It wasn't because of what she could see in her mind's eye; it was what she saw every time she looked at him.

She'd meant every word she'd said. He had not a single doubt. Just as he'd meant every word he'd said. They were about to join forces, knowingly, and . . . well, the power of it scared the ever loving hell out of him.

Was that what love was supposed to feel like?

While it didn't make any sense—none of it had—he didn't know what other emotion to name this . . . feeling he had. It was the only label big enough, broad enough, deep enough, to come close. Maybe that's what scared him. Knowing this beautiful, powerful thing, was swimming between them, if they were brave enough to wade out into uncharted waters. Rough waters, ripping, roiling, powerful waters . . . deep waters.

Standing there, looking into those sea green eyes, so steady, so true, the past didn't matter. Not like he thought it would. Yes, he wanted her to know, but it was because he wanted her to understand him, what drove him, what mattered to him . . . and what didn't. And why. Not because he worried she'd consider him unworthy or too big a risk.

Hell, it was just like she said . . . it wasn't about the stuff spinning in orbit around them; the only thing that mattered was what was at the core of it. His throat worked, and a sensation tightened the corners of his eyes, burning with the threat of emotions he'd sworn he'd never let come to the surface again.

“Come here, sugar,” he said roughly, finally feeling confident in putting his hands on her because he knew she trusted him. No matter what.

He pulled her into his arms, wrapped her up tight as he leaned back against the truck, and drew her face up to his. He looked into those eyes . . . and stepped right off into the deep water. “Come with me,” he murmured, the words sounding like rough sand against smooth glass.

And she did.

He took her mouth like a man starved, who'd just been offered the feast of the gods. No holding back, no worrying about what touched where. He felt primal, like he was claiming what was his . . . and yet, when she opened her mouth, took him inside, and held him there, so tightly, so wetly, so warmly . . . it was he who'd been claimed.

If it was terrifying, opening himself up and diving in deep, the utter thrill of it made every second of sheer terror exhilaratingly, stunningly worthwhile.

He hitched her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist, and she followed, without his having to say a word. He turned, pressing her against the side of the truck, moving between her legs, the feel of her sweet softness pressed against him wrenching a guttural groan from somewhere deep inside his chest.

He knew he should pause, make sure she was with him, but oh, she was with him. She gave when he demanded, then demanded her own in return.

“Why in sweet hell do we start these things where we can't see them through to their most amazing, rightful conclusion?” he growled against the side of her neck. Rigidly hard, it was painful to breathe, much less move.

“Because fate has a sense of humor?” she panted, sounding every bit as put out as he was, and it made him laugh. Oddly, it was the thing that tipped him completely over and in.

He lifted his head, keeping her wrapped all around him, and smiled into eyes he wanted to smile into for a very long time. “I did actually plan a real dinner. Lolly is home right now, standing guard.”

“Dinner is at your place?”

“Well, sugar, I admit I've been something of a pain in the ass to deal with this week. Seems maybe I've been missing you. Some.”

“Some,” she repeated, and her smile was a shade smug and a shade thrilled. He loved both.

“So, I didn't want to share you with the good folks of Sugarberry. This time. But I didn't want you to think I was taking you home to show you my etchings, either.”

“You have etchings?” she teased.

“Oh, darlin', you have no idea.”

She giggled at that, low and throaty. Her eyes were all but drenched with want. Want of him. It was enough to drive a man to his knees.

“I set up dinner aboard.”

Her face lit up. “The sailboat?”

He nodded, privately pleased beyond words with her instant reaction. “It's not seaworthy, still a work in progress, but I thought maybe a picnic with a little candlelight—”

He was cut off by a very exuberant kiss, which had him chuckling when she finally broke off. “I take it you like candlelight?”

“I like that you thought of candlelight. Take me aboard, Cap'n.”

Just like that, his body jerked so hard he winced. “Careful how you word such things, sugar,” he said, his voice somewhat strained.

She batted her eyelashes and grinned. “I was.”

He didn't know whether to be afraid or shout hallelujah. “I think I may have underestimated . . . oh hell”—he laughed—“pretty much everything.”

“I know the feeling.” Still smiling, she leaned in and kissed him again, taking his face in her hands.

It stilled something inside him, bringing peace and serenity to the center of the turmoil he didn't even know he still had locked inside of him.

Her kiss was tender, almost unbearably sweet. He wouldn't have thought himself worthy of such sweet regard, wouldn't have enjoyed it from anyone else, ever before. “Honey,” he murmured, hearing the break in his voice. “You're just undoing me here, sugar.”

“Shh,” she said against his lips. “Kiss me back.”

He'd never kissed sweetly before. Slow, easy, a comfortable slide into seduction, yes. But this wasn't anything like that. Surprisingly, when he brushed his lips against hers, dropped his guard the rest of the way, and let himself express the tumble of emotions in the form of a single sweet kiss . . . the tenderness came quite naturally.

She moaned softly against his lips, and her hold on him tightened. He responded swiftly in kind, but it wasn't that raging thing from before, though it felt a hundred times more primal. His body leaped, but he didn't let it ramp up the connection they were making with their kiss.

“Dylan,” she murmured, her voice so soft he could barely hear it.

“Mmm,” he managed, kissing the corners of her mouth, then tracing a line slowly along her jawline.

She groaned and dropped her head back, allowing him access to the most tender spot just below her ear. “Take me home. Please.”

How a man could want to howl wildly at the moon while simultaneously suckling a woman's earlobe, he had no earthly idea, but damn if he didn't feel the urge. He finally made himself lift his head, trepidation filling him in that split second before their gazes met for the first time since they'd begun this journey. Not because he worried what he might see in her eyes, but because of what she might see in his.

But hers lit up immediately, smiling right into his own, sparking the way a woman does when she sees that thing she wants the most.

He grinned. It was that or howl. “Hold on,” he said, and scooped her up tight so he could carry her around to the passenger side of his truck. He tucked her inside, fighting the urge to follow her down until they were splayed across the front seat. He closed the door before he could change his mind and walked quite uncomfortably around to the other side of his truck, almost tripping over her satchel.

He snagged it up and put it in the flat bed of the truck, then carefully slid into the driver's seat, trying not to unman himself in any way.

He pulled on his seatbelt, sucking in his breath as he worked the clutch and the brake. Damn, but he'd never been so hard in his life.

“You okay?” Her voice was deep and throaty and oh, he wanted to hear what it sounded like after she'd come apart under him.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Fine.”

“Liar,” she said, making the word a lazy drawl filled with smug knowing.

He slid his gaze toward hers as he backed up and pulled out of the alley. She was leaning back against the seat as if it was simply too demanding a task to remain sitting upright. She'd rolled her head to the left, and was watching him.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, but he was already grinning.

Her gaze dropped straight to his crotch, and he winced audibly when his body reacted.

“That does.” She sighed. “That, and the fact that I'm in much the same way. It's a sad, sorry place to be, too.”

He didn't know whether to laugh at the downright forlorn look on her face, or pout right along with her. So he did a little of both . . . and drove perhaps a tad recklessly back to his house.

Lolly trotted down the drive to greet them, and Dylan reached in the console for a biscuit for her, which he tossed a few feet away for her to fetch and munch on after he carefully slid out of the truck. Lolly's hip was improving every day, and Doc Jensen told him he should see that she exercised it more and work on strengthening the muscles. That was all fine and good, but truth be told, he was just keeping the pup busy as he had other plans in mind that didn't include playing fetch.

He went around the back of the truck to the passenger side, but Honey was already sliding out of the cab. He jogged the last few steps, willing to pay the price so he could get there in time to deftly scoop her into his arms before her feet hit the ground. She let out a short squeal, and he spun her around, making her laugh. He handed her one of the biscuits he'd stashed in his pocket when Lolly came trotting up, barking playfully at their antics. They tossed the biscuits into the front yard, then smiled at each other when she trotted off.

Honey looped her arms around Dylan's neck. “Well, now that the children are busy . . . what about those etchings?”

“I thought we were having dinner?”

“Will it keep until later? Maybe as an après snack under the stars?”

“It will keep, but après what?”

She rolled her eyes, then undid the top button of his polo shirt. “Your turn.”

He grinned. “Ah, that kind of après.”

She batted her eyelashes. “Unless you'd rather dine first, for fortitude. I must say though, it didn't appear that stamina was going to be an issue.”

He chuckled and felt a little heat climb up his neck at the same time. “You say the damndest things, sugar.”

“We all have our strengths.”

His chuckle was deeper, and he had the pleasure of watching her pupils slowly swallow up that sea of green. “That we do, darlin.” He let his palm slide around her waist until his thumb grazed alongside the swell of her breast.

He heard her swift intake of breath, and felt her fingers reflexively dig into the back of his neck. Oh yeah. He wanted to feel her dig in, tighten up, and hold on . . . all over him. But he knew if he so much as brushed his mouth over hers, they'd never make it off the driveway, so he swung her up a little higher in his arms. “Hold on to me, sugar.”

“My pleasure,” she said, her voice a little throaty again as she pressed her cheek against his shoulder.

He tucked her up more tightly against him, liking the way she fit. She liked it, too, and started nuzzling the side of his neck.

He growled a little at the skittery sensations her touch sent racing all over his skin . . . and the further tightening of the front of his jeans. He all but kicked down the front door of his beach cottage and carried her straight to the back of the sprawling structure. “Tour later,” he murmured, ducking his chin to intercept her clever little tongue, capturing it in his mouth.

She was the one to moan, and even though he was mere steps away from his designated goal, they made it only to the short span of wall that separated the kitchen and breakfast nook area from the master bedroom he'd built onto the back of the house. He pinned her against the wall, and used the last shred of restraint he had left to capture her gaze. “The last time for you, it triggered a vision?”

She held his gaze, and when she realized he was talking about the last time she'd had sex, he saw emotion rise swiftly in her eyes until they grew a little glassy.

“Aw, sugar, I'm not trying to stir up bad memories—”

“No, I know. You're trying to keep me from adding to them.” She slid a hand to his cheek. “Thank you.”

“You sure you're ready?”

“For the risk? Or for . . . taking this step?”

“Both.” He framed her face with both palms. “If something happens, it just does. I won't go anywhere, understood?” His lips twitched. “And I won't take it personally.”

She let out a short, watery laugh. “That would be a nice change.”

The simple little joke broke his heart. To have to go through something every time she got sent reeling off was bad enough. To have it happen during the most intimate of moments . . . he couldn't even imagine. Then to have her partner be indignant and abrasive about it? Well, he wasn't one to cling to the past, but he wouldn't have minded tracking down her past partners and spreading a little
enlightenment
their way.

“There's something else you need to know,” he said, brushing his thumbs along the tender skin beneath her eyes. “I wasn't raised to play well with others. In my world, it was all about protecting your own. And I have to admit, I still don't like to share what's mine.”

She surprised him by smiling, and the sheen of emotion finally shifted to one of dry amusement. “So, you're saying you wouldn't respond in a positive way if I thought I wanted to test out my new ability to take . . . certain risks with other island residents of the male persuasion? I'm pretty sure old Mr. Hanson was giving me the eye when he came by to drop off those tools you asked him to loan me. Thank you for that, by the way. Of course, it's also doubtful he'd even be aware if I was having a vision because he'd be too busy trying not to die of a heart attack—”