Downhome Darlin' & The Best Man Switch (17 page)

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Authors: Victoria Pade

BOOK: Downhome Darlin' & The Best Man Switch
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And he did because only moments passed before he tore his mouth from her breast and finally rose above her, nudging her knees apart with his own, easing his much greater weight onto her, searching, seeking with his body for the opening of hers. That same opening that was craving it so desperately.
He was careful—almost too careful—as he found his way inside her, easing in so cautiously she thought she might scream before he'd completely joined them.
But join them he did, deeply, deeply embedding himself within her.
For a moment that was how he stayed. As if it felt too good to alter.
Yet as good—as glorious—as it felt, neither of them could wait long for more.
At first he only pulsed inside her. Almost as though he were teasing her. Then another. And another. Each slightly stronger than the one before, slightly more forceful, more powerful.
Abby's muscles flexed around him involuntarily, bringing her hips along for the ride to push up into him. And when she drew back, so did he, just before easing in again. Then out. Then in. In what were gentle thrusts. At a measured pace that promised more, that gradually built anticipation, desire, need...
Then it increased as if he couldn't control himself any longer as that desire, that need mounted.
Or maybe that was only how it seemed to Abby because that's how it was for her.
Each drawing out, each plunge back in again, was another flicker of what was to come, each one brighter, sharper than the one before.
Brighter, sharper and more intense until the flicker caught flame and burned in a white-hot explosion that wrenched her upward. She clung to Cal's back as high-pitched groans sounded in her throat with each of his thrusts into her until she couldn't so much as breathe, couldn't so much as make another sound, couldn't do anything but give herself over to wave after wave of pleasure. Pleasure that seemed to lift her up, to leave her suspended in midair as he stiffened above her, exploding within her, driving in so deeply that it was impossible to tell where her body ended and his began, truly becoming one with her in a way that melded more than their flesh; it melded their spirits, maybe even their souls.
And then he relaxed from the rigid power of his own climax, breathing hard into her hair, the weight of him a parachute that helped her float back down to earth very, very slowly....
He held her tightly until taut muscles eased and flesh became pliable again. Then he rolled them both to their sides, their bodies still joined, and pressed her cheek firmly to his chest.
She could feel him relaxing all around her, inside her. She could hear his breathing deepen. She knew he was falling asleep, and she was too spent to stay awake herself.
But even as she was drifting off she couldn't help thinking about something he'd said earlier—he'd never been a one-woman man.
And she had to wonder suddenly if that had been a warning.
7
N
O MATTRESS ON THE FLOOR of anywhere had seemed as much like heaven as the one Cal was lying on when he woke up the next morning just after dawn. There was only one reason for it. Abby was in his arms. Her small body was curved perfectly to his side. One thigh rested over his. He could feel the pillowy warmth of her breast against his rib cage. Hear each even breath she took. And with just the flex of his arm around her, he could press her closer still, hold her firmly enough to give himself the sense that he could keep her.
Yep, heaven.
Especially when it all came after a night full of lovemaking. Wild, abandoned lovemaking. Soft, slow lovemaking. Quick, playful lovemaking. Twice downstairs on the pillows in the living room. Again up here in his room, on the mattress. And still he didn't feel as if he'd had his fill of her. As if he would ever get his fill of her...
He didn't understand what Bill Snodgrass had found wrong with her. No one else could hold a candle to Abby, as far as Cal was concerned.
He was crazy about the way she looked—all fresh faced and wholesome. He was crazy about the sound of her voice, her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she did.
How could that not have been enough for the other guy?
For himself, Cal could talk to her for hours on end, and listen to her for just as long without being bored. She was fun and funny in her own understated way. And she had a smoldering, just-below-the-surface sexiness that was a lot more powerful than any of the up-front, flashy versions he'd encountered. A sexiness that was held in reserve for just one man. Just one man she chose to share it with.
Cal recalled that shy and quiet had also been on her former fiancé's list of flaws. But that seemed like so much bunk to Cal, too. She wasn't shy and quiet once a person got to know her. What had she said that guy had been drawn to? Loud, flashy, brash and brassy?
Cal couldn't fathom the appeal in that. To him those seemed like just the flaws he'd had his fill of. He was glad none of them showed up in Abby. Just as glad as he was that she had pride. And dignity. And self-possession. That she had that substance and respectability that had drawn him to her in the first place. If those things made her seem shy or quiet, then okay. Fine. There wasn't anything about them to find fault in.
What else had Snodgrass called her? Steady. Provincial. Predictable.
Cal thought about all of that, too.
To him steady meant he could trust her. After knowing too many women he couldn't trust as far as he could see them, that was another thing he considered only an attribute.
And what about provincial?
So she was a country girl. Great! To Cal that was like swimming in a clear pond rather than in a murky pool. He couldn't think of anything that was wrong with that. Not a damn thing.
And predictable?
Sure, she lived an ordinary life in a small town where she'd grown up. And yeah, she kept a schedule to work by. Dressed pretty conservatively...on the outside anyway. But predictable?
How predictable had she been when they'd met in that bar? Or when she'd indulged in that fantasy in the tub in the hardware store? Or when she'd sneaked out with him to watch the sunrise? Or on the football field?
Nah, he wouldn't call her predictable. Not when she could surprise him with things like the sexiest, laciest, sheerest underwear in the world hidden beneath a denim dress.
But apparently that other guy hadn't looked beyond the surface. He hadn't bothered to pull back the curtain a little and peek behind it. Because when Cal did, he was never too sure if he was going to find the good girl or a simmering spice of a woman.
For my money I think you just missed out, pal,
he thought.
You should have pulled back the curtain a little and taken that peek behind it.
But Cal didn't want to miss out on anything. Not on a single minute with Abby. He wanted to be able to keep on peeking behind that curtain for as long as he lived.
That thought gave him pause.
Something was going on with him that he didn't quite understand. Something that flooded through him at that moment and left him trying to analyze what it was.
It wasn't mere infatuation. He'd felt infatuation with other women, and this was more than that. He'd experienced schoolboy crushes, and this was definitely more than that. He'd gone through plenty of lust. And lots of like—because he truly did like women. But none of it compared to what he felt for Abby.
This was a deep, all-consuming passion that seemed to saturate every inch of him. That made him hungry for her again within minutes of being satisfied. That made him incapable of thinking about anything but her every time they were apart. That made him so driven to be with her that he couldn't concentrate on anything but plans for how to accomplish it. That made him wonder how he could ever again sleep without her here in his bed, in his arms...
So what the hell did it all mean? he asked himself.
He looked down at Abby's head resting on his chest. The rich mahogany curls of her hair spread out against his skin. Her long, thick eyelashes shadowing high cheekbones. Her pale, pale lips parted just slightly. And he was filled with a rush of something rich and warm. Something he'd never felt before.
Was it love? he asked himself, bowled over by the feeling and by what it might mean.
Was it possible that he'd fallen in love with Abby?
He took a deep breath and watched her beautiful face ride up and down with the rise and fall of his chest.
Hell, a person would think he was a greenhorn when it came to women—that was how het up he felt at that moment.
Het up and confused.
And none too sure what he was going to do about any of it.
 
CERTAINLY ABBY WAS no stranger to early-morning hours and could ordinarily face them rested and ready to take on the day. But today was no ordinary day. Not when strong male arms tightened around her, when warm lips kissed the top of her head, when Cal's deep voice softly called her name to nudge her out of sleep. Not when she'd spent a long, incredible night of lovemaking with him. She was not ready to wake up.
She groaned her complaint, snuggled against the exquisite comfort of his big body and drifted back under the wonderfully heavy weight of sex-induced exhaustion.
“Abby... It's mornin'....” Cal called softly into her hair, running a smooth palm up and down her bare arm.
That was all it took to remind her—and her body—of the delights the man could bestow. And sleep suddenly lost its allure.
This time her wiggling against him had nothing to do with getting comfortable to nod off again. She raised the leg she had slung over his thighs to a slightly higher level and rubbed a small circle around his nipple with her cheek, sneaking a kiss to the ridge of rib just below.
“I'll take that as a sign that you're awake,” he said with a rumble of a chuckle.
“What time is it?” she asked between more kisses of his broad chest.
“A quarter to seven.”
“Mmm. I don't have to be at the bakery for an hour yet.”
“I know. It gives us a little time to—”
She'd kissed her way up to his mouth by then and ended his sentence prematurely by meeting his lips with hers to let him know that no more need be said. She was willing. After all, during the night he'd awakened her to joys of lovemaking that she'd never known before, and she had no qualms about having just one more taste of it before leaving him this morning.
“You're not making this easy,” he said when she abandoned his mouth to trace his stubbly chin with the tip of her tongue.
“I thought I was making it hard,” she joked in return, raising her leg higher still to rest over the object of her intentions.
Cal reached a hand to her thigh to hold it more firmly against himself as he flexed that long, steely thickness and took his turn at groaning.
Abby's nipples turned instantly into two tiny, sensitive knots, straining for the touch they'd come to know so well and making her arch her back so they could press more insistently into his side.
But rather than doing any of the things she thought he might do from there—any of the things he'd done before, the things she wanted him to do—he let go of her leg, jammed his hand through his hair and said, “We need to talk.”
There was an ominous undertone to his voice, and she stopped short, dropped her knee, quit kissing his shoulder and opened her eyes to the light of day. In more ways than one.
Cal Ketchum was not a one-woman man—that thought flashed through her mind like a neon road sign. They'd just had a terrific—an incredibly terrific—night of lovemaking. But she'd gone into it knowing it wasn't likely to be more than that. Knowing that she was only indulging in a moment's rapture—and that that moment's rapture was probably going to be all she was ever going to have with him.
And this,
she thought,
is where he lets me know the score.
She ignored the cold, clammy fist of dread that tightened around her stomach, summoned every ounce of courage she had and swore to herself that she was not going to let him see how really provincial she was by waiting around to be told their night of lovemaking, their few days of seeing each other, had come to its inevitable end.
“You know what?” she said in a hurry. “I just remembered that I have another special order due out to-day and I should have been at the bakery an hour ago.”
“A few more minutes won't hurt—”
“Oh, but it will.” In fact it would hurt her a lot to hear him tell her he'd had fun but that was all it had been for him.
Abby bolted out of his arms, out of bed, saying, “No kidding. I need you to take me home right now!” And off she went at a jog down the stairs to snatch up her discarded clothing to take with her into the bathroom.
She was only halfway dressed when the sound of Cal's voice came from just outside the door. “I had something important to talk to you about.”
“Not as important as this order. It could make or break the Ladies' League luncheon, and I gave my word I wouldn't let them down.” She pulled on her dress and buttoned it as quickly as shaking fingers could manage, slipping her feet into her shoes at the same time. Then she threw open the door, finding him leaning one shoulder against the jamb, his arms crossed over his bare chest, a pair of jeans pulled on, zipped but not fastened at the waistband.
“Honest. I'm in a terrible hurry,” she said. “Can we just go?”
He frowned down at her, his brows drawn so close together that they met over the bridge of his nose. “When can we talk?”
“Oh, you know, there'll be time,” she said as breezily as if she were well accustomed to leaving a man's bed without a backward glance or a single expectation. Then she made a beeline out the front door and got into his car.
Cal didn't follow her immediately. In fact he kept her waiting there for what seemed like an eternity to Abby. Long enough, at least, for him to put on a shirt and the cowboy boots he'd worn the night before.
And when he finally got into the car behind the wheel, his chiseled features were marred by deep lines that made him look troubled.
She didn't explore it, though. She was too busy keeping up a ridiculous monologue to expand her lie about why she had to rush home, trying at the same time to hide what was really going through her mind—that deep down she was as provincial as she could possibly be and that, after a night like the one they'd spent together, a night during which she'd lost her heart to him, it was killing her not to have any hope for the future.
And then her house came into sight, and he pulled up to the curb in front of it and stopped the car.
“Thanks,” she said like a ponytailed high-school girl being dropped off from a sock hop.
And before Cal could so much as answer with a
You're welcome,
she opened the door, got out and nearly ran for the house.
All the while trying not to notice the part of her that was imagining him following her inside to tell her he'd turned over a new leaf and was ready to be a one-woman man after all.

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