The Dare Affair: Summer In Savannah Anth. (Dynasties: The Danforths Book 6.5

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.” He reached for a bowl of fruit. “Didn’t I?”

  Together they stood at the chopping-block island, cut two fresh peaches in half and pitted them. She arranged them on a pan, and Clay sprinkled sugar over the tops.

  He turned on the broiler, and when the sugar was golden brown and the peaches were warm and tender, he removed them from the oven. Next he produced a glass jar from the refrigerator.

  “The crème fraîche,” he said, as he scooped their desserts onto clear glass plates and added the whipping-cream-and-buttermilk topping.

  She tasted the simple delicacy and made a pleasured face. “Perfect.”

  He removed his jacket and loosened his tie, tossing both over a kitchen chair. “Let’s sit on the verandah.”

  The verandah. Her pulse jumped, but she followed him onto the roofed structure. The June air was humid, the view from the fourth floor presenting a square of Historic Savannah.

  They sat on a wooden bench, surrounded by potted plants. A small porch light provided an amber glow.

  He finished his dessert and set his plate on a narrow table. She continued to eat her peach, the creamy topping melting in her mouth. When she licked her lips, he leaned toward her, nuzzling the side of her neck.

  The crème fraîche slid down her throat. He coaxed her to face him, to let him take what he wanted. The kiss was slow, soft and intimate. He sipped from her, and she tasted the sugar in their mouths, the heat of the summer night.

  Katrina liked the dizzying sensation, the warmth, the wetness of his tongue dancing with hers. He made a hungry sound and ran his hands down the sides of her body.

  Before she could grapple with common sense, he broke the kiss and took her hand. But he didn’t lead her inside. He turned off the porch light and guided her to a dark corner of the verandah, pinning her against the wall, trapping her between two tall leafy plants.

  “Someone might see us out here,” she whispered. See the moon-dappled shadows of a man and woman, she thought, pressed against each other.

  “They won’t know what we’re doing. They can’t get close enough to know that I’ve got my hand under your dress.”

  She blinked, nearly bumped her head on the wall. “But you don’t have your—”

  “I do now.” As quick as lightning, he sneaked under her skirt, toying with the waistband of her panties.

  She told herself to breathe, to keep air circulating in her lungs.

  “You’re wearing those sexy hose again,” he said, his hand traveling to her thigh.

  “I always wear them.”

  “We’re going to make love with our clothes on.” He spoke softly against her ear. “But you’ll have to take your panties off first.”

  Could she do something so daring? Here? On his verandah, with strangers milling around on the street below? “I’m not that kinky, Clay.”

  “Yes, you are. You just don’t know it yet.” He pressed his mouth to her neck. “Your pulse is jumping. Your skin is hot.”

  And her knees had gone unbearably weak. She slipped her arms around him, trying to steady herself. “You take them off. You do it.”

  “No.” He nipped her neck. “I want you to give yourself to me.”

  Like a woman on the verge of losing her sanity, Katrina closed her eyes and reached for her panties. Sliding them down her legs, she stepped out of them, leaving them at Clay’s feet.

  “Good girl. Now lift the hem of your dress.”

  Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

  “Do it, Kat. Do it for me.”

  She grabbed the hem and pulled it up. He smiled, just once, before he dropped to his knees.

  She held on, lifting her dress for him, wondering if she were going mad. He didn’t waste any time. He kissed her—there, right there, between her legs.

  The verandah railing shielded him from view. No one would know that he was on the ground, making love to her with his mouth. No one but her, she thought.

  She looked down at him, watched while he seduced her, while he made her slick and wet. She wanted to touch him, but she couldn’t. She still held her dress, clutching the hem with shaky fingers.

  He found her most sensitive spot, and Katrina thought she might die. He tasted her with sweet, steady strokes, making her moan.

  Suddenly nothing mattered but him. Clayton Crawford. Her new lover. The man who’d scandalized her, the man who was scandalizing her now.

  What if the verandah railing wasn’t shielding him? What if someone saw what he was doing? What if a stranger saw her, rubbing herself against his mouth?

  Too aroused to care, Katrina raised her dress even more. She liked the idea of being wild and free, of feeling his tongue inside her.

  He kissed her deep and slow. So deep her body trembled. Still sandwiched between two plants, she swayed on her feet. Leaves brushed her arms, heightening the sensation, the wicked pleasure, the breathy little sounds spilling from her throat.

  Fire flooded her veins, melting into liquid, bending her to his will. And then she climaxed, hot and wet, right against his mouth, all over his tongue.

  He sipped her like wine, and she wondered if she were drunk again. Her mind was spinning.

  Clay got to his feet and rubbed against her, showing her how aroused he was. Katrina wanted to devour him, to climb all over his body.

  She unbuttoned his shirt, then unzipped his trousers, sliding her hand inside. He was hard and thick, warm to the touch. When she stroked him, he brushed his lips along the column of her throat.

  She heard the pounding of music, blues coming from the club. Or was it the rhythm of her heart?

  He removed a condom from his pocket. He was ready for her. He’d made sure he was prepared. She liked the idea of making love with their clothes on, of groping each other in a dark corner. It made their affair seem more daring, more dangerous, more forbidden.

  “Maybe I am kinky,” she said.

  “You are,” he whispered back. “And so am I.” He sheathed himself and moved even closer.

  Katrina kissed him, and when he entered her, when he thrust full hilt, she lost her breath.

  He made love to her like a man possessed, a man feeding an addiction, a man who couldn’t live without a hot, sexual fix. He tugged on the neckline of her dress, just a little, just enough to expose the front of her bra.

  A line of perspiration trailed between her breasts, but she craved the heat, the hard, pumping rhythm.

  He kept his eyes on hers. Even in the dark, their gazes locked. Her dress was bunched around her waist; his shirt billowed in the air.

  She ran her thumb over his mouth. Moonlight slashed across his face, then disappeared, like a mysterious shadow.

  Suddenly, she wanted to push the boundaries of their affair, to slide her hand between their bodies.

  “You’re corrupting me,” she said.

  He breathed against her ear. “My Kat.”

  Yes, she thought. His Kat. For now, she belonged to him. Giving into temptation, she touched him, then stroked herself, making them both half-crazy.

  Clay moved his mouth all over her, kissing her neck, her chest, making her nipples press achingly against her bra.

  And then it happened, pinwheels exploded beneath her eyes, bursting in a prism of need. Clay lost the battle, too. Her release triggered his, and when it was over, he swept her into his arms and carried her inside.

  Chapter 4

  Clay carried her to his unmade bed, placing her on top of the rumpled sheets. She was still warm and damp between her legs, still wearing high heels.

  Had she actually hiked her dress to her waist? Rubbed against his mouth? Made love outdoors?

  Coming to her senses, Katrina discarded her shoes. Clay did the same, then climbed into bed beside her.

  “Look what I’ve got.” He removed her panties from his pocket. “And I’m keeping them, too.”

  Was he teasing her? Making a silly joke? Or did he collect souvenirs from his lovers? Mortified at the thought,
she lunged for the trophy. He laughed and let go, and for a moment she considered flinging them at his head.

  Clayton Crawford had grown into a decidedly wicked man. And, she thought, the most incredible lover a woman could want.

  She slipped on her underwear, securing the lace-trimmed cotton to her body, and he raised his brows.

  “You think that’s going to stop me?”

  “For now.” She reached for the remote control on his nightstand and turned on the TV, flipping stations, trying to keep her mind off the dampness between her thighs.

  “What are we watching?” he asked.

  “This.” She came across a classic movie channel, settling on the middle of Casablanca.

  He didn’t argue. Instead, he propped some pillows, offering her a cozy spot beside him. She scooted a little closer, and he took her hand and held it. Suddenly, she felt young and inexperienced. Like the teenager she used to be, the girl who’d had a heart-stopping crush on Clay.

  They watched the movie in silence, treating Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman like old friends, appreciating the memorable moments, the familiar lines, the emotion.

  When it ended, she hit the remote and the screen went blank. She turned to look at him, and he smiled.

  “Will you stay here tonight?” he asked. “I bought an extra toothbrush.”

  That girlish feeling came back. “You did?”

  He nodded. “And you don’t have to worry about what to wear to bed this time.” He moved closer. “We can sleep naked.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve got this all figured out.”

  “I’m just trying to find a way to steal your panties.” He paused, grinned. “I used to spend a lot of time fantasizing about your underwear.”

  Properly embarrassed, Katrina shook her head. She used to fantasize about him, too. But the images her teenage mind had conjured weren’t quite so primal.

  “You wouldn’t believe how many times I considered walking in on you during one of your fittings,” he said. “But my mom would have killed me.”

  “Your mother is an amazing seamstress. I don’t know how we lost touch.”

  “You got too old for debutante dresses, I guess.”

  And it had become increasingly difficult to be around Clay, she thought, to want a boy who didn’t fit into her social circle. “How is your mom?”

  “Good. Fine. I bought her a condo.” He shifted his weight, stirring the mattress. “Do you want to have dinner with us on Sunday?”

  She met his gaze. “Us?”

  “My mom, my sisters, their husbands. We get together every Sunday.”

  The invitation struck a nostalgic chord. She’d always admired Clay’s family, the closeness they shared, even if they’d been working-class poor. “Yes, I’d like that very much.” She paused, looked into his eyes. “I didn’t know your sisters were married.”

  “They have kids now, too. I’m the only one who hasn’t settled down.”

  “You’ve been busy with the club.” Busy building a successful business, she thought. Busy seducing socialites. “How long is this going to last, Clay?”

  “This? You mean us?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. A few weeks. A month. Does it matter?”

  “No.” They both knew they still lived in different worlds, that nouveau riche and old money rarely progressed beyond sex, beyond quick, heated affairs.

  “Andrew is already getting territorial,” he said.

  “Because I lied about you. Because he thinks you took advantage of me while I was drunk.”

  “Maybe so. But sooner or later he’s going to try to win you back.”

  Her nerves tangled, twisting like confused vines. “I don’t want to think about that right now.” She wasn’t ready to forgive Andrew, to consider reconciling with him, not while she was in Clay’s bed.

  “Then what do you want to think about?”

  “You,” she said automatically.

  He smiled at that. “What about me?”

  “I used to check out library books about your heritage.”

  “Really?” Clay found himself intrigued. He hadn’t expected her to bring up something from the past. He touched a strand of her hair, flattered that he’d made a lasting impression on her, that her crush had been as deep as his. “Which part of my heritage?”

  Her voice turned soft. “All of it. I read about Scotland and Portugal. About the Choctaw Indians.”

  Clay’s mother was second-generation Portuguese and his father was half Choctaw and half Scot, but he had no idea that had mattered to Katrina. “I have something important that belonged to my dad.” A man who’d died when he was still a boy, a man Katrina had never met. “A family heirloom, I guess.”

  “What is it?”

  “A beaded Choctaw sash. I’ll show it to you sometime.” When he wasn’t caught up in teenage sentiment, he thought. When their affair wound down. “I have an old rosary from my mother’s side.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”

  “She’s going to be happy to see you, too.” But he hoped his mom didn’t make too much of his relationship with Katrina. Kat, he corrected. He liked calling her Kat. When they both fell silent, he cuffed her chin, teasing her. “So, do you want something to drink? Maybe a bottle of wine?”

  “Very funny. I’m never drinking again.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You get wild even if you’re not all liquored up.”

  She glanced in the direction of the verandah, then back at him.

  Clay couldn’t help but smile. His patio would never be the same. “Just for the record, that’s the first time I’ve had sex out there.”

  “I’m glad. I mean…I’d hate to think you did that all the time.” She fidgeted with a corner of the quilt. “Why’d you do it with me?”

  “I don’t know.” Maybe it was his way of making love to her in public. His way of proving to Savannah that he was good enough for her. “I guess it was the risk of getting caught.”

  She toyed with the quilt again. “Are you sure no one saw us?”

  “It was dark. We could barely see each other.” But he could still taste her, still feel her climax, hot and wet, against his mouth. He leaned over her. “You really are the best lay I’ve ever had.”

  “Clayton.” She shook her head and swatted his shoulder.

  “What?” He grinned and tickled her.

  She laughed and struggled to get away. In a mock fight, they rolled over the bed and started peeling off each other’s clothes, tossing them onto the floor.

  And then they kissed. Long and slow, deep and seductive.

  “Proper Katrina,” he said, as he straddled her. “Naughty Kat.”

  She skimmed his chest. “Dangerous Clay.”

  “It’s just sex.” He removed a condom from the nightstand, held the foil up to the light, watched it shine.

  “I know.” She rolled the protection over his body. “But it feels so good.”

  “To break the rules?” He knew she needed to rebel against her upbringing, to step outside her social circle. But Clay didn’t care if he was her rebound lover, if they were playing a short-lived game. For now she was his.

  She arched her back and he plunged into her, thrusting hard and deep. Her hair, as rich as autumn, feathered across the pillow. She closed her eyes and he rode her, taking possession, claiming her.

  When she opened her eyes, they locked on to his, as blue as sapphires, as bewitching as enchanted stones. Breaking the spell, he buried his face against her neck and inhaled the scent of her skin, the orchid note of her perfume.

  She wrapped her legs around him, and his heartbeat hammered his chest. He’d imagined this moment for over half his life—the hip-grinding sex, the breathy pants, the incredible pressure between his legs.

  “Fantasies,” he said.

  She clung to him. “Mine or yours?”

  “Both.” They rolled over the bed again, licking each other’s skin, kissing, tasting.

  She thra
shed beneath him, and he linked his fingers with hers, holding her arms above her head, imprisoning her, taking what he’d always wanted. She bit down on her bottom lip, almost making it bleed. He lowered his head to kiss her, to soothe the pain, to feed the hunger, to push her toward the climax burning between them.

  She broke free and dragged him closer, rubbing her body all over his, clawing his back, driving him deeper.

  Making everything but her disappear.

  Katrina awakened at dawn. Clay slept beside her, his hair falling over his forehead, one arm slung across a pillow. The sheet draped around his hips, drawing her attention to his stomach and the line of hair below his navel.

  He had a long, lean body, with rangy muscles. He wasn’t bulked up from weights, so she suspected swimming was still his exercise of choice. Clay had always enjoyed water sports.

  She smoothed his hair, moving an errant strand from his eye. He stirred, swatted her away like a fly, then squinted, realizing what he’d done.

  “Sorry.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m used to waking up alone.”

  She moved back, keeping her distance. “That’s okay.” She was used to waking up alone, too. Unless she’d spent the night with Andrew, but she was familiar with his habits.

  Clay scratched his head, making his hair stick up at odd angles. He looked delightfully boyish, dark and rumpled.

  “What’s the first thing you do when you get up?” she asked.

  He stretched, dragging his arms heavenward. “It depends on what I’ve got going on that day.”

  “You don’t have a routine?”

  “Not really. No.”

  The opposite of Andrew, she thought. No matter what, her former fiancé showered at 6:00 a.m. every morning, then read the paper in the formal dining room, eating two poached eggs and lightly buttered toast.

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  “I usually make a pot of coffee.”

  “Then go ahead. But you’ve got to do it in the buff.” When he sat up, the sheet fell below his hips. “I’ll bet you never made coffee at Andrew’s house without your clothes on.”

  “Who said anything about Andrew?” She clutched her pillow. “I wasn’t thinking about him.”