Giving. Taking. She wasn’t at all sure which she was doing tonight. A little of both, she supposed. But if this did turn out to be her only chance, she was determined to go out in one helluva blaze of glory.
She was amazed she’d eaten, but when she looked down at her plate, it was empty, so she supposed she had. Dean insisted on cleaning up, that she was to sit tight until he got back. What did he expect her to do—make small talk with a palm?
He’d been gone maybe all of three minutes when she carefully pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen, in case Dean might be in its path. The water was running in the sink; already absorbed in his chore, he didn’t hear her at first, giving her a moment to savor the picture of how things might have been. What they might have been even still, had circumstances been different.
He’d removed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves, the white shirt almost luminous against his tanned skin in the incandescent light from overhead. Sarah found the effect incredibly sexy—that hint of muscles rippling from underneath the makeshift cuffs, the light dusting of golden hair on his forearms. It made her want to run her fingers up underneath the cuffs, to unbutton the shirt and splay her fingers across his chest.
Silently, she instead pressed her tingling fingers to her own cheeks, thinking how remarkable she’d never, ever wanted to splay her hands across any other man’s chest. And that thinking such things about Dean seemed so natural and good and right.
But what she found most alluring about the tableau was the comfortable ease with which he assumed the household chore. He wasn’t doing her a favor; he was simply doing something that needed to be done. As if they were a team, like they used to be before life got so damned complicated. And that was enough to make her want to grab him by the hand and haul him upstairs to her bedroom right then and there.
And keep him there, forever, safe in a world in which there were no mistakes.
She momentarily lost her balance in the heels, making her bang into the door. Over his shoulder, Dean threw her a smile. “Thought I’d told you to stay.”
“I’m not a dog, for crying out loud,” she countered good-naturedly, realizing her voice had gone unnaturally high. She cleared her throat and aimed for sultry. “Besides, I got lonely.”
He seemed to assess her comment for a moment, then said, “Well, if you’re that bored—” he threw her a towel “—you can dry.”
She stared at the towel for a moment. This was a seduction?
Then she smiled. No, this was them.
“Uh…okay. But first let me just—” she reached down and pushed the back strap off one heel, then the other, and kicked off the shoes “—return to sea level.” Now barefoot, she joined him at the sink, only to be immediately overwhelmed by the tang of his after-shave, the fragrance heightened by the dishwater steam.
She picked up a dinner plate and gave it a cursory swipe with the towel. “You sure smell a lot better than you did a few hours ago.”
He laughed, then leaned over, his hands still immersed in suds, and sniffed her neck. “Mmm…so do you.”
Certain parts of her body immediately perked up. Especially when he lingered over her shoulder a fraction longer than necessary, his breath causing hers to catch in a rush of anticipation. Then, so softly she almost couldn’t feel it, he kissed the juncture of shoulder and neck, the same spot he’d blown on earlier, in the barn. A sweet promise of what was to come. She let her gaze drift to his, into those eyes she’d avoided letting herself fall into, and fell. Willingly and completely.
He just smiled then, and nodded toward the sink.
She nodded, too, in reply.
They didn’t speak for several minutes as they went about this mundane, everyday job. Dean washed, rinsed, handed the dish or glass or bundle of silverware to her, and she would take it from him as if they were performing some ritual of monumental importance. Over the stream of water, she could hear his breathing, steady at first, then becoming just the slightest bit ragged, the change so minute she wouldn’t have noticed it at all except she was so achingly aware of his presence. She knew he watched her as he passed over each item, knew he was imagining what the next few hours would bring. Knew it, because she was imagining exactly the same thing. And knew that to wait longer would serve no purpose save to frustrate the life out of both of them.
Finally, Dean rinsed off the last of the dishes and set them in the drainer, after which he took the towel from her and dried off his hands, still watching her. Still waiting for a signal she had no idea how to give.
She looked up at him, swallowed, then swallowed again. And noticed he’d come to a complete standstill, his hands motionless in the towel.
Somehow, she’d given it. The signal.
She couldn’t believe how scared she was. And how much she wanted him. And how scared she was of wanting him this much.
Heart hammering, she twisted around to pick up the champagne glasses to put them away; one slipped out of her hand, shattering around her bare feet. Her lips parted, but no sound made it past the lump in her throat.
“Don’t move,” Dean instructed, disappearing into the pantry. But by the time he got back with a broom and dustpan, she was squatting, gingerly picking up the larger pieces with hands shaking so violently the shards were a blur. He crouched in front of her, placing a steadying hand on her wrist. “Why are you doing that? Just let me get it.”
Eyes stinging, she shook her head, even though she had no idea what she was objecting to as she stared at the broken glass sparkling like frost over the floor. She felt fevered, her senses raw, tattered, oversensitized. The rasp of the broom against the floor, the tinkling glass, even the still-lingering scent of the dish liquid, throbbed inside her, around her, until it was all she could do not to clamp her hands to her ears.
Dean tidily swept up the mess, set the full dustpan on the counter, then lifted her up by the elbows to stand in front of him. One finger, then two, touched her cheek, his fingertips burning a trail of heat where they stroked. With a soft cry, she leaned into him, seeking surcease from the onslaught.
And…forgiveness.
“What?” he whispered.
Never had one word, spoken so gently it hardly seemed to be formed by vocal cords at all, said so much, or had so much power.
But she couldn’t answer, couldn’t admit her own lack of control, whether from fear or pride or whatever balled-up reason, she had no idea.
“Shall we skip the dancing?” he asked, tucking her chin in his fingers.
He, too, she realized, sought forgiveness. Pleaded for it.
Demanded it.
Her nod was barely perceptible.
In one motion, he swept her into his arms and carried her upstairs.
It wouldn’t be her old bedroom, with its frilly trappings and white French provincial furniture; that, he knew, had been given over to Katey when she was born. But the instant Dean set Sarah down just inside the doorway of the darkened room, the fragrance of line-dried linens and lilac potpourri and talcum powder told him he was home.
His breath lodged painfully in his throat.
A sense of unfulfilled longing slammed into him when, not surprisingly, she slipped out of his arms, the dress rustling with each step she took to her dresser to click on a small lamp. The sudden light, dim though it was, made him blink as he watched her then cross to her window, closing lace curtains which a sudden breeze almost immediately billowed back into the room. He expected—willed—her to turn, but she remained in front of the window, the curtains rippling at her back like an overdone bridal veil, as her fingers idly skimmed the sash. Deep in his belly, desire and patience clashed.
Damn near shaking with restraint, he came up behind her—slowly, carefully—pushing the curtains aside to thread his arms around her waist. The satiny material of her dress was warm, slick against his hands; her skin cool, smooth, fragrant beneath his lips. He let his mouth graze her shoulder, drift to the base of her neck, enjoying her fluttering sigh, enjoying the
sharp bite of arousal even more.
“It’s cloudy again, so there’s not much moonlight,” she said unnecessarily, pinning his arms in place with hers. Her head dropped back against his shoulder, allowing him an unimpeded view of the swell of her breasts over the neckline of the dress. “So I turned on a lamp so we could see.”
“And what is it, exactly, you’d like to see?” he whispered, bringing his hand up to tease one breast through the gleaming fabric.
She hesitated, then covered his hand with hers, assenting, encouraging. “What I thought had been taken away from me for good.”
A battalion of emotions screaming in his head, he spun her around, fighting to remain calm, the one in control, when in fact his wasn’t sure how much longer he could remain standing. He brought his mouth down on hers, hard, nothing held back, his only goal to convey all the sorrow and frustration and regret of those lost years from his mouth to hers. She opened to him, her own kiss just as hard, just as demanding, and giving, and—dared he hope?—accepting, even as her arms snaked around his neck, clinging to him with a rapaciousness only matched by his own.
Blood-curdling panic and heart-swelling joy, both, raced through him, preventing him from relinquishing her mouth, even for a second, for fear in that atom of time she’d change her mind, pull away, run away. He backed her to the windowsill, bracing her against it, almost sobbing in relief when her legs entwined around his waist—
She jerked away, substituting her trembling fingers for her lips against his.
What?
Their off-sync, frantic breathing brutally shattered the peace of the room as Dean’s gaze locked hungrily into Sarah’s. And through the desire—and no, this time, his imagination wasn’t even a player—he thought he saw…
Ah.
He smiled, shakily, smoothing her bottom lip with one trembling finger. “I’ve got that all taken care of.”
She backed up. An inch, maybe. But she clearly understood. “You do?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She studied his face for a second or two, then burst out laughing, shaking her head, the diamonds winking in her earlobes. “Nothing like playing your hunches.”
He captured her face in his hands, hell-bent on making her understand. “I really had no idea what, if anything, might happen tonight. But I wasn’t about to take any chances. Not like last time.” He nuzzled her forehead, needing to shut his eyes against the fierce, almost unbearable wave of tenderness that enveloped him. “We were damn lucky nothing happened.”
Everything stilled.
The silence roaring in his ears, he gathered her close, swearing softly. “That probably was not the best subject to bring up right now. Sorry.”
Her hair tickled his chin as she shook her head. “It’s not that. Exactly.”
He waited a few seconds, then said, “You can change your mind, you know—”
“No!” Her head flew up, amber flames flickering in the depths of those bourbon eyes. “I want this as much as you do.” The smile that followed was as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s. “Maybe more.”
He searched her face, realizing what her admission meant. Hope, and a foretaste of triumph, surged through him as he kissed her, softly, knuckling her silken cheek. Then he backed away, skimming one hand down her arm until their fingers linked. She smiled for him, and his heart constricted, exploded. He wordlessly led her to the bed, feeling almost drunkenly romantic.
Romantic? Never before had Dean thought of sex in that connotation. Except once, a long time ago. Sex had always been a purely physical endeavor, pleasant and fun and sometimes even ego-building. But, while he had been attracted to all of his partners, and infatuated with a couple of them, love had never been a part of the picture.
Except with Sarah.
Dean stumbled over a slight ridge in the rug, sat down hard on the edge of the bed, laughing as he tugged her into his lap. She laughed as well, a sweet, low sound he caught in his mouth as she melted into his kiss, her arms looped around his neck.
Love. There had to be a better, bigger, more all-inclusive word to describe what he felt for the woman in his arms. How could a word with just four letters possibly be adequate to contain the myriad emotions flooding his heart and brain at this moment?
He wanted her. Needed her. And not just in bed, despite how much he ached for her. Funny how he’d chalked up the…magic of that first time to the fact that it was the first time. No scale of comparison and all that.
Yeah, well, just goes to show.
As they clumsily, greedily, crawled over each other to the center of her bed, he was nearly overcome with an almost savage desire to protect her from whatever might make her sad or frightened or angry, even though he knew that, one, she would really pop him one if she knew he felt that way, and, two, that he was actually powerless to keep her from ever being hurt. But tough. That’s the way he felt.
This was home, Sarah was home, and nothing or no one was ever gonna make him leave again.
She let herself drift, as if in a dream, drugged with the joy of a moment she’d thought she’d never have, knew she’d never have again. Dean’s kisses were unhurried, sensuous, excruciatingly gentle, his tongue inviting hers to dance with his as she felt his hands roam over her arms and shoulders, teasing the top of the zipper, raising goose bumps of anticipation along her skin. Giggles drowned in gasps when the next kiss upped the ante, his mouth now possessing hers—possessing her—in a manner that brooked no argument.
Not that arguing was on her agenda.
Desire, sweet and achey and just this side of salacious, exploded in tiny, brilliant starbursts in her heart, her head, in places so secret and deep, she barely remembered their existence. Oh, mama—she was already so aroused, just from his kisses, she wanted to scream Just get on with it, already! His leg wrapped around her thighs, trapping her, drawing her closer with each kiss, clearly showing her he was every bit as ready as she was. And heaven knew, he could have entered her right then and there and they both would have been grateful for the release, she was sure. But she was determined to make it last.
Or die trying.
Her breath coming in short, frenzied pants, she pushed on his shoulders, shoving him onto his back on the bed, and straddled him, delighting in his startled expression.
“What are you doing?”
“What I’ve been wanting to do for the last week,” she replied, unbuttoning his shirt with fingers surprisingly deft, considering both her nervousness and lack of experience at undressing men. She wrenched the shirt free of his pants, shoved it aside, claimed her territory. Now the heat burned brighter, hotter at the sensation of chest hair snagging her fingertips, at the way his breath caught when she skimmed his flat nipples. At his lazy, crooked, wonderful smile. She leaned over, placing a leisurely, lazy kiss on a boyhood scar along his collarbone.
“I was right,” she whispered against his skin. “You are more developed than you used to be.”
A second later, she heard the rasp of a zipper, then sighed in relief as her breasts tumbled free of the boned bodice. Another breeze found its way into her room, the sensation of the moist air caressing her exposed flesh absolutely delicious. Almost hesitantly, Dean touched one nipple, which instantly sprang erect and hard and wanting. She sucked in her breath at the piercing sensation, which trickled like a swallow of brandy from the tip of her breast down her belly, settling into a coiled, blazing knot at her core.
“So are you.” He smiled back, cupping both breasts in his palms, thumbing her nipples until she couldn’t catch her breath.
But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. She had no idea her desire could be this great, that she could ever ache for a man’s touch this much.
He knew, lowering his hands to her ribs and pulling her forward in one motion to court her with his mouth. His tongue was so soft and warm, so incredibly wonderful. She felt her skin warm, smelled her own scent of perfume and dusting powder and female heat and wanted to be bare before him, completely open
to him so that he could perform such magic on other parts of her body. Tonight, she was completely hedonistic. Tonight, she would not withhold anything from the man she loved.
Impatiently, frantically, she leaned back, yanked the dress over her head, then stood in her childhood room—the room whose walls had heard her whispered fantasies as well as her soul-wrenching sobs of betrayal, disappointment, sorrow—naked except for her cotton bikinis, and wordlessly offered solace.
Never let it be said that Dean Parrish was slow on the up-take.
His gaze never leaving her face, his expression an almost frightening mixture of tenderness and craving, Dean quickly shed the rest of his clothes, then pulled himself upright to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for her.
And with a silent fiddle-de-dee, she went.
Incredibly, he still seemed to be in no hurry, taking his sweet time exploring, kissing, stroking every inch of her bare skin, from her arms to her ribs, her thighs…belly…breasts…oh! She cried out at the sensation he managed to stir with the lightest touch, his fingers so gentle, so adept, circling and skimming and dancing… And she thought, on a soft laugh, how there just was no lighting a fire under a Southern boy, now was there? even though he sure enough was lighting hers.
Then he knelt before her, his dawdling kisses tracing a southern route from her navel. She heard herself humming, almost keening, as she let herself float beyond reality, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush when she felt his thumbs hook underneath the elastic waistband of the panties and slide them slowly, oh, so slowly down.
She thought her heart might stop.
“You are one gorgeous woman, you know that?” he whispered between kisses, his breath hot now, torturing, promising, as his palms whisked over her hips, her thighs.
She choked down the laugh at the line. “It’s a little late for flattery, don’t you think?”
“Oh, baby…believe me, this isn’t flattery.” He stroked her backside, tugged her closer. “This is a revelation.” The kisses became softer, if possible, each one a little lower than the last, then lower still…
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