Three Southern Beaches: A Summer Beach Read Box Set (18 page)

Somehow, while she’d been napping, they’d come up with a plan to move Turner and her to a different beach cottage.  Frank owned and rented the place out, but it was empty for two days.  She’d argued that if it was too dangerous for her to stay at Frank’s, it was too dangerous for Frank to stay at Frank’s.

The older man laughed and insisted he was going to go stay at a friend’s empty beach house that he helped rent out.  They were supposed to get some rest and regroup later in the morning.

Opening the door to the little one-room cottage, Frank turned on the air conditioner and light switches. 

“It’s not the Ritz, but it’s cozy,” Frank said. 

“It’s great,” said Turner.

Cozy.  Too cozy.
  Reese stood there staring at the one bed in the one-room romantic bungalow.  Her heart started to race. 

Two days ago, she was running away from Texas, hoping to leave her broken heart behind. Now, she was sharing a beach cottage with the guy who’d broken it.  The guy who now said he wanted her to forgive him.  A guy who’d basically said he regretted not sleeping with her.  But what came next?  Do they do the dirty and then he walks away?  Did he want a future with her?  She was too scared to hope.

But how in the hell had her life gone so bonkers in less than twenty-four hours?

How had she gone from wanting to forget him, to feeling as if he was her lifeline?

Since Turner had stormed in after she’d knocked out the would-be killer, he’d practically had her tucked at his side.  She hadn’t complained.  One didn’t let go of their lifeline. 

But was she ready?  Ready to count on someone being there again?  Hadn’t life taught her this lesson before? 

“The refrigerator is stocked with breakfast essentials,” Frank said.  “It comes with the room.” 

Reese shoved thoughts of Turner to the backburner, and noticed her surroundings.  A similar décor that filled Frank’s house existed here.  Turtles and even some fossil-looking rocks that could be coprolite sat on the bedside tables.  Obviously, Frank’s wife had added her personal touch to this place, too. 

“Promise me you aren’t going back to your home,” Reese said.

“Little lady, you don’t see ‘stupid’ written across my forehead.  You get some sleep.”  He patted her on the back and looked at Turner.  “When your friends get here, call me.”  Frank handed Turner a card and started out the door.

“What friends?” Reese asked and tried not to look at the bed.  Tried not to think about curling up there with Turner.

He shut and locked the door and then went to the window and stared out, watching Frank pull away.  “Chase, Jason, and Luke.”

“Luke the Private detective?”

“Yeah.”  He turned around and looked at her with bloodshot eyes as he walked to the other two windows and checked the locks. 

“They’re coming all the way up here?”

“They were on vacation.  Luke’s wife is from Alabama, and Jason’s wife is a writer setting a story on the coast of Georgia.”

Reese remembered him mentioning a friend of his being married to a mystery writer.  Another reason to believe Turner Calder wasn’t a complete liar. 
The only thing I lied to you about was . . . my name, my occupation, and . . . not having condoms that night.

If she believed him, did she forgive him?  She recalled Granny saying Ricky had made his own trouble.  And she knew that was true.  But it had been so easy to lie some of that blame on Turner, if for no other reason, than to get some of the guilt off her own plate.

Take care of your little brother, Reese.
 

Deep down, she knew she’d tried to take care of him.  But the guilt came from failing, and she didn’t give herself any points for trying.

“Why did you really come here?” she asked, wanting to hear him say the words, to say he cared about her.  Yes, earlier he’d told her how he hadn’t forgotten her, that he was attracted to her, but she’d been in his lap at the time.  Guys would say anything when sex was on the table.  Or in their lap.

He looked at her as if he didn’t understand.  “What do you mean?”

“Why did you come here?” she asked again. 

His eyes looked so tired.  It might be unfair asking him questions now, but he didn’t look capable of lying.

He raked a hand through his hair.  “I told you, when I found out two of the other witnesses were killed, I went to your apartment, and then I went to your grandmother’s.”

“So, you’re doing your job?”  That’s why he was here?  Was all that talk earlier about how she’d made him feel nothing more than lies?

“Yes.  No.  My boss is an asshole.” 

“What?”

He moved in and sat on the side of the bed.  His gaze met hers.  “My boss wasn’t convinced something was going on.”  He kicked off his shoes.  “But I was, so I came.”

“So, you’re here just to make sure I’m safe?”

Worry lines appeared between his eyes.  Was it so hard for him to tell her that he cared?

“No. But I . . . I’m so tired, Reese. I can’t think.”

She saw pure exhaustion in his eyes and she felt it, too.

“Let me get some rest and I’ll answer every one of your questions.  I understand you still don’t trust me.  I lied to you, and I’ll take whatever interrogation you want to dish out to prove that . . . that I’m sorry. But I haven’t slept in two days.  I’m the walking dead.  And in about four hours, my buddies are going to be here and we’re going to try and catch this idiot and get you out of here.” 

“Catch him?  How?”  Maybe she shouldn’t be so concerned about the future, but about the present.

He closed his eyes for a second.  “Aren’t you tired?”

“Yes.”  She could hear the waves outside, and felt the need to let them pull her into slumber.  But Turner, sitting on the edge of the bed, lured her in another way.  And it wasn’t even all sexual.  The thought of curling up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, sounded like heaven.  It sounded like comfort.  A place she’d feel safe.  Didn’t that mean she trusted him?  And if she trusted him, didn’t that mean she’d forgiven him? 

“Then let’s sleep.”  He motioned her to the bed.  “Come on.  Just lay down with me.”  He pulled his gun from under his shirt and set it on the side table next to the huge fossil.  Looking back at her, he smiled.  “You can clobber me with dinosaur poop if I try anything.”

* * *

Turner watched Reese take a few steps closer.  Slow, even steps.  And just like that, getting sleep wasn’t the only thing on his mind.  Even when keeping his eyes open took more effort than he thought he had, the idea of them in bed together sent a tremor of pleasure low in his belly. 

So, you’re here just to make sure I’m safe? 

He wanted so much more than just her safe.  But sleep deprived, he didn’t want to mess up that talk.  That would come later, when he had his wits about him . . . and his courage.  And yes, it would take courage.  After two years of swearing never to let a woman close, inviting one to come closer was going to take some nerve.

His tired and heavy gaze moved over her. Before they’d left the house, she’d changed out of her pajamas, and now wore a pair of jean cutoffs, a light blue tank top, and pink flip-flops.  The outfit wasn’t as sexy as the pajamas she’d worn earlier, but he had a feeling he’d find her adorable wearing a tablecloth.  Even more adorable out of a tablecloth.

His mind flashed to the image of her removing the white nightshirt.  The tremor of pleasure inched down south and his jeans felt a size too small. 

Well, hell, if he didn’t get himself in control, he just might be getting clobbered with dinosaur shit.

Chapter Eight

Turner took in a deep breath and tried to talk his libido down from the ledge.  Pressing his hands into the mattress, he watched as she moved to the side of the bed, kicked off her flip-flops, pulled down the comforter and sat.  Her hair, blond and wispy, the kind that flowed through a man’s hands like silk, stirred on her shoulders.  He cupped his fists tighter to keep from reaching out and touching her.

Wiggling ever so slightly, she reached under her shirt and unhooked her bra.  He watched the lacy piece of underwear slip out of her shirttail.  She folded it and placed in on the bedside table.  Then she slipped in between the sheets.  Rolling to the side, her back facing him, he studied the feminine curve of her silhouette.  He wanted to feel her against him.

“Sleep tight,” she said, not looking at him.

Damn it, he would be tight.  He stood up, and turning his back on her, he adjusted himself in his jeans. Then he sat down and removed his shoes and socks and set his phone and wallet on the bedside table beside his gun.  He wanted to strip down to his boxers, but settled on just removing his shirt.  Pulling back the covers on his side of the bed, he slipped in.

Reese shifted to fluff her pillow, but kept her back to him.  “You stay on your side of the bed, and I’ll stay on mine,” she said in a sleepy tone.  “Deal?” 

That didn’t sound like fun.  “Deal,” he agreed.

The cool cotton on his bare back felt good.

He stared at the ceiling and then lifted his head to glance at the door and his gun one more time.  They were safe, he told himself.  He could sleep.

He closed his eyes and heard the ocean rolling in and out.  Sleep had almost claimed him when Reese stirred beside him.  He felt her roll over, breaking the my-side-your-side-of-the-bed rule.

Her head came down on his shoulder.  He opened his eyes.  Her gentle weight against him felt good—like an anchor he needed and had been missing all his life.  He shifted his hand around her and let it rest on that sweet curve of her waist.  Her strawberry scent teased his senses; her soft hair tickled his chest.  But nothing had ever felt so right.  So he closed his eyes, and even with the returning tightness between his legs, he let the peaceful slumber pull him back in.

* * *

Reese woke up feeling a tickle against her brow.  She stirred slightly and her warm pillow breathed.  Her next intake of air caught in her throat.  She forced her eyes open.  Pillows weren’t supposed to breathe.

She blinked until her vision came into focus.  Pillows didn’t breathe, but warm, half-naked men required air. 

She stared at her hand resting low on his stomach.  Make that . . . warm, half-naked,
aroused
men required air.  The bulge in his jeans confirmed the aroused part.  The up and down of his warm bare stomach, with that treasure trail of hair disappearing into those jeans, confirmed the breathing part.

Hadn’t he agreed to her stay-on-your-side-of-the-bed deal?

Then, she instantly became aware of her exact position.  Unless he’d pulled her over, he hadn’t broken the deal.  She had.

And in just a few seconds, she planned on correcting this situation.

She blinked again.  Because he’d closed all the blinds, the room was mostly bathed in only filtered light.  But around the windows, sprays of sunshine were sneaking in. 

She took in a slow mouthful of air.  The masculine scent of spice filled her nose.  Her gaze followed the trail of hair into the opened snap of his jeans again.  Her fingers itched to chart the course of that soft brown hair and explore what caused that bulge beneath his zipper.

Ever so lightly, she smoothed her palm over that bare tummy, feeling the ripple of muscle and the crinkle of hair beneath her hand.  She stopped herself before running her finger around the tiny dimple of his belly button.

Almost ready to slip away, away from all his male warmth, she felt him tense.  His quick intake of air filled the soft silence.  With her cheek still pressed against his chest, she heard and felt his heart pick up pace.  Then she heard him swallow. 

Oh, crap!  He was awake.

Right then, without more than a quick thought, she knew she was going to do what any red-blooded, single girl would do.

She feigned sleep.

* * *

Turner lifted his head and saw her hand, splayed open on his lower abdomen—just a few inches away from his hard-on pressing against his zipper.  Just a little lower, he wanted to whisper in her ear.  Every muscle in his stomach tightened with the thought of her fingers wrapped around him.

His gaze shifted to her face.  Eyes closed.  Her hair fanned across his chest.  He lifted his head up an inch more, closed his eyes, and breathed in the scent of her shampoo.  Opening his eyes, he caught sight of her scooped tank, offering him a breathtaking view of her breasts. 

His mouth watered with the need to taste those soft pink nipples.  To bathe them with his tongue.  The hardness between his legs got harder.

He dropped his head back.  Took deep breaths.  “Reese,” he said her name quietly.

She didn’t answer.  Didn’t move.  Well, her hand did.  Her fingers wiggled.

The ache in his jeans throbbed.  “Oh, hell, this is sweet torture,” he said to himself.

She stirred, shifted just enough to make the mattress crinkle.  Her hand slowly slipped off his abs.  Slow being the key word.  The sweet feel of the touch, silky soft, had things in his southern region scraping painfully across his zipper. 

Unable to stop himself, he lifted his head slightly and tucked his hand inside his jeans to reposition the problem.  And wouldn’t you know it, that’s when he saw her eyes open, staring at his hand inside his jeans, holding a firm grasp around his hard Johnson.

He jerked his hand out so fast, it was amazing he didn’t bring his dick with it.

“Sorry, I was . . . It was . . . I had to . . .”

She burst out laughing.

Laughing? 

She put her hand over her mouth.

He leaned up on his elbow and studied her smile.  Alert.  Wide.  So damn beautiful, his breath caught.

“You were awake,” he accused, but he was a hundred degrees away from even being slightly annoyed.

Another sweet sound escaped from behind her hand. 

“You think it’s funny?” he asked and reached for her.  He sure as hell did.  Feeling a lightness in his chest, the one he always felt after hearing her laugh, he pulled her on top of him.  “It’s quite painful, you know.”

She dropped her head on his chest and shook with laughter.

Her pelvis met his at just the right spot and the pressure felt like heaven.

Suddenly, she stopped laughing, raised her head, and met his eyes.  The sweet smile on her lips had him forgetting to breathe.  The look in her eyes had his head lifting and he pressed his lips against hers.

There were reasons he shouldn’t do this, that didn’t even involve the case, but had everything to do with the fact that they should talk first.  “Reese,” he said and pulled back just a bit.  “I want this, but—”

“Me, too.”  Her mouth met his again, and her tongue slipped inside his mouth, making him forget what he was going to say.

* * *

Reese moved up his chest to deepen the kiss.  There were tons of reasons to pull back, to slow down. And only one not to.  She wanted this.  That little voice in her head warned her they needed to talk first, but they could talk later.  Right now, she wanted this more than she wanted to fear the future.

She slipped her hand up his side, loving how it felt to touch.  Loving how it felt to be touched.  One of his hands glided under her tank top and moved up and down her bare back.  His other cupped the curve of her neck, his thumb stirring in her hair.

His body felt hot and hard under hers.  And she wanted to get closer.  She wanted to shed the clothes, feel skin-to-skin.  Then bam, she remembered the last time she’d wanted him this bad.  She pulled back and sat up, straddling him and the wonderful bulge pressing against some sensitive areas.

“Do you have . . . ?”

“Yeah.”  He smiled.  “In my wallet.”

He reached up and traced a finger over her lips.  “You don’t have any idea how beautiful you are, do you?”

“You make me feel beautiful.”  Slowly, his touch moved down the front of her tank top.  She glanced down and watched him draw soft circles around her tight nipples.  She inhaled and let her head drop back, submitting to his sweet touch.  

He leaned up off the pillow.  The six pack of his abs became more apparent as he caught the hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head.  His gaze went to her breasts, followed by his hands.  She had just enough to fill his palms.

His hooded gazed moved up to her eyes. “I want to touch and taste every inch of you.”

He flipped her over.  Her back melted against the mattress, the cool feel of cotton sent a shiver through her.  Not from cold, but from anticipation.

He reached down and unsnapped her jean shorts.  As he slipped them from her hips, he took her panties, too.  She heard him inhale.  His blue gaze seemed to brighten.  After the two pieces of clothing glided off her feet, he tossed them on the floor and stretched out beside her.

His gaze moved up and down her naked body.  She should have felt embarrassed, or timid, but all she felt was beautiful and a bit powerful.  She could see how badly he wanted her.

But she wished she could see more.  She reached over to the snap of his jeans.  “Are you still uncomfortable?”

He smiled and reached down and unzipped his jean.  Standing, he pushed them down his legs, gray boxers and all.

But not everything stayed down.  His sex popped up with such force it made a slapping sound when it hit his lower abs.

“See what you do me?” he said and put one knee on the bed.

“Shame on me,” she said and giggled. All she could think about was touching him, and feeling a bit brazen, she felt her face grow hot.  Not that the prickle of warmth stopped with just her face.  The heat headed south.  The slow ache, low in her belly, throbbed.  She felt the hotness between her thighs grow moist.

He stretched out beside her again, but he didn’t touch.  She ached to feel his hands on her.  She ached to put her hands on him.

Then, feeling more eager than timid, she reached out and pressed her hand on his chest.  She could feel his heart thumping against his breast bone.  Slowly, she inched her hand down.  Followed the treasure trail of thin, dark hair.  The side of her hand touched his sex. 

He took in a sharp breath.

She wrapped her hand around all that hard heat.  When she glanced down, she saw a pearl-white drop of moisture appear on the top of the organ.  He shifted his hips and moved in the tightness of her fist.

“Okay, we have to stop that,” he said in a tight voice, but continued to shift in her hand.

“Why?” she asked innocently and looked down at his thick shaft.  “I thought Mr. Peabody liked it.”

“Mr. Peabody?” he asked and almost choked saying it.

She grinned.  “You didn’t tell me his name, so I had to guess.”

He dropped his head back and roared with laughter.  After a few minutes, he looked at her.  “He does like that,” he said.  “But there’s someplace else he wants to go.  And he’s not going to be up to it if you keep doing that.” 

“I’m not doing anything,” she teased.  “You’re the one moving.”

He laughed. “Not my fault,” he said, and shifted up and down a few more times.  “That’s an involuntary body reaction.  Like blinking.”  He pulled away and dropped his hand on the curve of her waist.  Then slowly lowered it down to her hip.  Between her legs. 

When his fingers touched the waiting moisture, he inhaled again.  “Damn, you are so wet,” he whispered.

She let out a moan of pleasure.  Without meaning to, she shifted against his hand.

“See,” he said.  “You’ve got some involuntary movements, too.”

“I guess I do,” she whispered, almost unable to think, much less talk.

He slipped one finger inside her.  “So tight,” he said, leaning down and taking her nipple in his mouth.  She moaned again and her back arched up with the pleasure of feeling his fingers shifting between her legs and his mouth on her breasts.

Then his mouth moved south.  He shifted and settled himself right between her legs.  Eyes closed, she pressed her head into the pillow, waiting to feel his mouth on her.  Wanting it so bad, she hurt.  So bad, she opened her legs a little more and lifted her pelvis, hoping to find relief.

“Look at me,” he said.

She lowered her chin, opened her eyes.  She felt like a complete wanton seeing him there.  The brazenness of it was too much, she dropped her head back.

“No,” he said.  “If you want this, you watch.”

The sound of his voice, his command, had the sweet ache becoming intolerable.  “Do it,” she said.

He grinned.  “Say please.”

“Please.”