Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9)

by Christie Ridgway

  He laughed a little, the sound male and indulgent, and then, shifting his hips, he reached down and made the proper adjustments until there it was, his erection lying against his flat belly. Her heart pounding, she stared at it, then kneed closer to take the shaft between her palms. Ah. His power at her fingertips now. Then at her mouth.

  When her tongue touched the soft skin at its head, he groaned, and his long fingers sifted into her hair. She laved him, circling the thick knob, sliding down the shaft, breathing in the scent of his skin and breathing out against his flesh so that their essences merged this one last time. Her hands curled around his denim-clad calves, and she rose higher in order to take him deeper into her mouth. He groaned again, arching against the cushions, and the sound made her nipples tighten to aching, greedy points.

  She started a rhythm, a sexual, purposeful retreat and advance, and her heart took it up, like a military drummer’s beat driving the pace of the march. Vance’s palm caressed her cheek, and she glanced up at him, struck by the keen glitter in his half-mast eyes. It stalled her a moment, and she just held him in her mouth, sucking lightly as she took in the aroused flush on his face, the stark beauty of his features.

  Her heart squeezed in her chest, the rhythm faltering there, too, and she swayed on her knees, dark spots swirling in her vision.

  In a second, Vance had pulled her up, taking her into his lap. “You have to breathe, silly girl.” His fingers gripping her chin, he tilted her face toward his. “Breathe.”

  The air she sucked in made the black spots disappear—and then she was struck by her vulnerability. She was trembling again, and naked, surrounded by a mostly clothed Vance. She made to climb off him—time to gain the upper hand!—but he tightened the arm about her waist. His other hand lifted to cage one swollen breast.

  She moaned.

  “Yeah,” he said, blowing aside her hair so he could press a kiss to the side of her neck. “My turn now.”

  Pinching her nipple, he moved his mouth upward, ignoring her desperate wiggles. “Vance...”

  “Hmm?” he asked, the sound humming against the hollow behind her ear.

  “Please...”

  He lifted his head and his fingers eased up on her breast. “Please harder, softer? Please more kisses? Please more touches?”

  Her mind reeled, thoughts not coalescing. “Just please,” she finally said, aggravated.

  His smile was almost sweet. “Of course.” Then he stood, lifting her in his arms.

  The bedroom was dark, the sound of the ocean bouncing off the walls. He’d left the windows open, she thought, because the air was cool against her skin and smelled soft and wet. He placed her on the mattress, then came down over her a moment later, his elbows on either side of her head. His body was naked now, his skin delicious against hers.

  “Oh, Layla,” he said, framing her face with his hands. “Shall I tell you what you do to me?”

  “Don’t say anything,” she begged. “Don’t talk.” If he did that, he’d ratchet up her desire and she would lose herself in the heat and need, lose her control over her thoughts and her voice and then it would be she who was talking, telling him the truth she hadn’t yet eradicated from her heart. It was only loosely rooted, it had to be, but it was there now, and dangerous to her pride and to her future.

  Instead of answering, Vance kissed her, long and deep and drugging. Yes, she thought, thankfully this wasn’t talking, and reveled in the sensation of his tongue sliding against hers. She sucked on it, open to his flavor, letting the heat and weight of his body sink into hers. Her arms went around his neck and her legs twined his hips.

  More kisses. A thousand kisses. A night of kisses.

  But then he lifted his head to move down her body. Layla panted in the ocean-scented darkness, arching her back as the flat of Vance’s tongue swiped across her nipple. “Look what I’ve found,” he murmured, and then he traveled to the other, greeting it with another wet velvet caress. “You’re hard for me, baby, just like I’m hard for you.”

  Oh, God, yes, she felt it. She felt his length against her thigh, the tip of him wet and that made her wetter, too. One hand tried to find purchase in his short hair, but there was only the silky brush of it against the hollow of her palm. How could that be so sexy? But it was, and even sexier in contrast to the way his thick shoulder muscle bunched against the grip of her other hand.

  His mouth sucked her nipple deep. Layla tightened her fingers on him, riding the exquisite bliss of the pull. Her mouth opened, and she moaned, the pitch of it turning higher as he paid attention to her other breast, too, kneading the soft flesh, rubbing his thumb against the tight tip.

  “I’m thinking about making you come just like this,” he said, lifting his head to blow cool air on her damp flesh. “I’ll just kiss and lick and tug on your pretty breasts until you give it all up for me.”

  No, no. She couldn’t give it all up for him. Alarmed, she thrashed under the weight of his body, but that only brought her more exquisite sensation, her hard nipples abraded by the hair on his chest. Her mouth opened on another cry.

  “Shh, shh,” he said, trying to soothe her by trailing wet kisses back up to her mouth. He took her there once more, his possession slow and sure, sending her mind careening off again.

  Her control spun away with it. Now it was only Vance’s touch that kept her body centered. He swiped his palms down her belly and along her flank. He reared back, lifting one of her legs so he could trail his tongue up her calf, along the inside of her knee, and on to the twitching flesh of her inner thigh.

  He opened her, using his broad palms like blades and then he bent over her, his hot breath the only warning before he was taking her there with his mouth. She jerked at that first velvet stroke and he lifted his head. “You taste so good, Layla, why do you taste so good?”

  But he didn’t wait for an answer before he dove low once more and applied himself to savoring her flesh, to exploring every pleated layer and slick surface. She was thrashing again, but he had her hips in his grasp and it was even better to struggle against his strength, his masculine power an aphrodisiac as potent as the gentle stroke of his tongue.

  The scent of sex mixed with the scent of ocean. The sound of the waves was louder in the room and as Vance took her up and up, she felt herself tumbling in another direction, slipping against sleek surfaces, twisting and turning toward some elemental center.

  Like sliding into a seashell, she thought. The conch, the Buddhist symbol representing the awakening of disciples from ignorance. Because she would never be the same, not with the way Vance was turning her inside out. He flicked his tongue against that most sensitive spot at the apex of her cleft and her skin rippled, every nerve ending responding to the touch. Then he slid two fingers inside her, and they both shuddered. “So hot,” he murmured against her wet flesh. “So soft.”

  He turned his hand, penetrating her with a twisting motion that had her arching again. “Vance,” she cried out, protesting, because it was too much or not enough or just wonderful, and she was sliding faster now, into the heart of the spiraled shell.

  His touch destroyed her, tearing down all her defenses, until she was just flesh and bone and tissue that yearned for his touch, his lips, his penetration. His mouth was greedy on her hot center, eating at her, the edge of his teeth scraping the sensitized flesh, his tongue piercing the wet channel, making her writhe and shake and beg him for more.

  His tongue turned gentle then, soft and adoring on the delicate tissue, licking upward until he could lap at the little bud. She moaned and he lashed it now, holding her still while her voice went hoarse with need. And then...then, he sucked, taking it between his lips and relishing it with a thoroughness that drew all the pleasure from each cell in her body toward that small point. She felt herself sliding again, spiraling, until she was surrounded by soft light and the ocean’s pulsing breath and—bliss...bliss...bliss.

  It was as if her climax unleashed something in him. He went almost fe
rocious, his teeth grazing her hipbones, his mouth burning her belly. His hands were hot, too, cupping her breasts and squeezing her nipples until she was writhing on the sheets again, his wildness contagious. His mouth fell onto hers and the kiss was wet and desperate and she sucked on his tongue again, tasting herself and him, a heady combination.

  Her hand slid down his chest to find his erection but his hips reared back. “God, too close,” he muttered.

  So she let him put on the condom and guide himself into her body, her sex open and welcome. They both groaned as he infiltrated, a sensual assault by degrees, until he was fully inside her. One arm came under her hips, tilting them up so he gained another searing degree. Then he began moving, in powerful and deep strokes from which she had no defense.

  “Layla,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

  She wound her legs around his hips, allowing him everything, her body his, her heart the same. It terrified her, this feeling that she’d unlocked her own doors and thrown them wide for him to ransack. Yet she felt herself rising to meet him again, another climax building.

  Still thrusting, Vance slid a hand between them and stroked her, playing over the sensitized knot of nerves. She gasped, and then the orgasm crashed upon her like love had—without permission. Her cry was echoed by Vance’s groan, and he shuddered in her arms, his own crisis shaking the entire bed.

  In the aftermath, his arms gathered her against his chest. Layla’s heart still pumped in an unsteady rhythm, and then, oh, God, and then what she’d been dreading happened. The words whispered into the room. “I love you.”

  Appalled, her mind froze. How could she have let that go? She hadn’t even felt the phrase on her tongue.

  But it was out now, and there was only one thing to be done.

  She’d already known it was past time for goodbye.

  * * *

  THE KARMA CUPCAKES truck was back in its usual spot in Layla’s duplex driveway. The familiarity should soothe her, she thought, but she’d lost all hope for serenity somewhere between Crescent Cove and home two days before. Trying to ignore a churning stomach and a throbbing head, she settled onto a stool and contemplated the bottle of champagne on the countertop beside the mixer. Lost in misery, she almost fell over when Uncle Phil suddenly pulled open the door and stepped inside. He was in his usual counterculture garb: cargo shorts, natural-fiber shirt, braided bracelets, but the expression on his face didn’t look the least laid-back.

  He appeared...determined.

  It wasn’t a familiar Uncle Phil state of mind.

  Layla’s brows drew together. “What’s wrong?”

  “Staring into space won’t get those cupcakes made, you know,” he said, gesturing at the champagne.

  Alarm tickled her again. He’d never been a harsh taskmaster. As a matter of fact, he’d never been any kind of taskmaster. And managing Karma Cupcakes was her baby. His had always been a supporting role. “Uncle Phil—”

  “Don’t you have an order to fulfill? I thought you planned to deliver it today.”

  “I’ve been considering, uh, reneging on that,” she confessed.

  His eyes narrowed. “Layla.”

  He’d never scolded her, but that’s where it sounded as if he was going. “I’m sure no one’s even counting on them,” she said, her voice defensive. “When I moved out of the beach house, the note I left behind said goodbye. Vance will have understood all that it means.”

  She’d written it so fast, and in the dark, she hoped he could read her handwriting. Panicking in the aftermath of those three words, she’d pretended instant sleep. Then, once Vance had dropped off, his slumber heavy, his body boneless, she’d bolted from her place next to him. For twenty minutes, she’d dashed about, packing her things, penning her brief explanation, leaping into her car for the race home.

  Uncle Phil looked dubious. “You really think Vance understands?”

  He hadn’t called her, had he? “Believe me, things are better this way.”

  “What way is that?”

  No longer able to meet his gaze, Layla let hers roam the snug interior of the truck. It snagged on the ridiculous Teddy bear Vance had given her that first day. With a silent groan, she glanced upward, her eyes settling on the statue of a seated, half-smiling Buddha in its resting place. That’s how she wanted to be, a tranquil carving of stone without wants or regrets. Without expectation or disappointment.

  “Layla?”

  “Craving results in suffering,” she suddenly said. “Buddha says so, right? Hurt comes if you want something too much.”

  “How does that relate to you running from Crescent Cove in the dark of night?”

  She frowned. “It was closer to the gray of dawn. And it relates because I departed the cove—” not run from it, she’d left that note, right? “—in order to work on my attachment issues.”

  Her uncle took his own look at the figurine above then met her gaze. “I don’t think Buddha meant—”

  “Look, I need to stand on my own two feet!” She did that now, rising from the stool and crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Why?”

  “Dad’s gone.” The words made her stomach take another unpleasant dip. “And you’ll be taking your trip soon, too. I need to learn to count on myself.”

  “That doesn’t mean cutting yourself off from everyone else.”

  Layla shook her head. “This time, it does.”

  With a sigh, Uncle Phil leaned against the countertop. “So does this independence of yours allow you to avoid situations you don’t like?”

  “Such as...?” she asked, wary.

  “Doing your job, Layla. Taking orders for cupcakes and then delivering them.”

  She glared at him. Uncle Phil was supposed to be always laid-back! Not incisive. Not probing. “Don’t you have an excursion down the Amazon to plan?”

  “I’ve never tried to be your father,” he said, ignoring the jab. “I’ve never thought it was my job to form your character.”

  Her anger faded in an instant. “Oh, Uncle Phil—”

  “But I do know your character. You might be on your own two feet, but you won’t be able to live with the woman in the mirror if you break your word on this.”

  “C’mon.” Her chest felt tight. “It’s just cupcakes.”

  He raised a brow. “Is it?”

  On that first day at the cove, she’d wondered if her uncle had hatched his own secret matchmaking plan, and the suspicion now rose again. “Uncle Phil,” she said, pinning him with her stare, “did you actually go along with this whole Helmet List vacation in the hopes that Vance and I might pair up?”

  “Would I interfere that way?” His expression turned pious. “Buddha said, ‘Three things cannot be long hidden. The sun, the moon and the truth.’”

  Layla frowned. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning bake the cupcakes,” her uncle replied, and turned to leave.

  Layla reached for the bottle of champagne, resigned. No one could dodge the tough questions as successfully as Uncle Phil. Fine. She’d bake the cupcakes. Vance’s family had been kind to her. Vance himself had been generous in so many ways. She was obliged to see this through, despite her discomfort.

  Fiddling with the metal cage at the top of the bottle, she promised herself she’d keep her own cork tightly seated. Every emotion would stay inside until the damn desserts were delivered.

  The door shut behind Uncle Phil, then it opened again and he stuck his head back inside. “How long have I been planning my around-the-world expedition?”

  Surprised by the question, Layla glanced over at him. “I don’t know...all my life?”

  “And longer.” A rueful smile curved his lips. “If I was ever really going to leave the west coast, would I have waited until I have arthritic knees and an addiction to Storage Wars?”

  She stared. “But...but why all the guidebooks?”

  “There’s more than one way to enjoy a journey, Layla. You’ve got to decide if you want to
do it my way—only on paper and in dreams—or if you actually want to step onto the plane and fly.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  AFTER LAYLA’S ABRUPT DEFECTION, Vance spent the days alone at Beach House No. 9, brooding over why she’d gone and concocting plans to get her back. Oh, he’d considered accepting it for the rejection it seemed to be and forcing himself to move on. Time would expunge the pain, right? He’d get busy in the groves and losing her would no longer feel as if winter had descended five months too early.

  But the stubborn, hardheaded part of him wasn’t ready to surrender. And he found her early morning escape highly suspicious. If there wasn’t something profound going on, he figured, she’d have had the decency to say goodbye to his face. So he curbed his innate impatience and listened to his instincts. It would be better if she returned to him.

  When the knock came on the door around 7:00 p.m. of the third day, the evening before his brother’s engagement brunch, he knew who stood on the other side. Schooling his expression, he crossed to the entrance, determined to remain calm.

  His heart stumbled, however, when he caught sight of her on the doorstep. Her hair in a ponytail, she wore ancient jeans, a sweatshirt and a pair of flip-flops. Two oblong pink bakery boxes were balanced on her palms. She looked determined, but so exhausted that he wanted to snatch her up and hold her close.

  His own sharp yearning startled him. Somehow she’d dug herself deep, and without her in his life he’d been left empty and aching. Never again, he whispered to her silently. I won’t let you run from me ever again.

  She didn’t appear to notice her effect on him and just shoved the cartons forward. “Here,” she said, her low-pitched voice huskier than usual. “Best wishes to Fitz and Blythe.”

  “That’s it?” Despite his effort to stay cool, his temper sparked, and he deliberately stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at her. “You’re not even going to come in?”

  A huff of breath ruffled her bangs. “Why?”

  “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  She frowned, her arms still upraised, offering the cupcakes.