Summer Heat

by Carly Phillips

“Sometimes. He has great characters, but Dean Koontz has better romance.”

  She gave him an impish grin. “You like a little romance with your gore?”

  “Exactly.”

  The Ferris wheel groaned, suddenly and loudly. Tamara jumped, her eyes flying to the ground. Instantly, she closed her eyes and took a breath. “What was the last classic you read?”

  Silently, Lance cheered her self-control. She was scared out of her mind, but she was handling it. “Must have been something in college. I don’t do classics.” He chuckled. “I know you’re surprised.”

  She looked at him. “Actually you do surprise me quite a lot.”

  “Do I?” he asked huskily—and snagged a kiss. Just a quick, light one—and like an hors d’oeuvre, it only made him hungrier. “Like that?”

  “No. I’d expect you to steal kisses. I wouldn’t expect you to read much of anything.”

  “Everybody reads.”

  She laughed. “Not hardly.”

  “Well, in my family they do. We don’t read the same things, now. Tyler is the only serious reader—the only one who feeds on literature and all that rot, but we all have our little corners of obsession. I can’t sleep if I don’t read for a little while.”

  “Really?”

  He didn’t know if he should be offended or not. Did he seem that stupid? He decided to let it go—the world was full of stereotypes about construction workers, and it was something he’d learned to live with. “My mother read to us every night before we went to sleep. It got to be a habit for all of us.”

  “That’s great.” Her hand had at last eased a little on his thigh, and she felt brave enough she put both hands on the rail in front of them. “Where did you go to school?”

  “Rice. My dad wanted me to do Harvard or one of those big eastern schools, but I chose to go to Texas instead.”

  “Rice?” she echoed, faintly disbelieving. “I wonder how I missed knowing that about you.”

  This time, he could tease her. “You just think us pretty boys are only good for one thing. You forget about our brains.”

  She didn’t smile. It seemed, actually, to disturb her. “With an education like that, why did you stay in construction?”

  “That’s easy. I love it.” He gestured toward the mountain. “It causes me some conflicts sometimes, but there’s a thrill in building things that I haven’t found in anything else. You build something right and it can stand for centuries. Do it wrong, and it’s an eyesore for even longer.”

  “I never thought about it like that.” She smiled. “That’s beautiful.”

  And even if it was what she expected, Lance couldn’t resist. “So are you,” he said, and kissed her again. This time, she kissed him back, eagerly, and he moved slowly to pull her close to him, cradling her head in the crook of his elbow, putting his hand under her jacket. “I love kissing you,” he said.

  “I like it, too.” She lifted a hand to his face. “It makes me feel alive.” And this time, she drew him close to her and put her lips against his.

  Lance gave himself up to the spell she always cast over him. Gave himself up to the wild moment, trapped high in the night sky with this sweet and prickly woman. He moved his hand on her waist, restlessly, feeling a thick arousal burning through his groin. Slowly, giving her plenty of time to stop him, he moved his hand higher, brushing the lower edge of her breast.

  She only lifted a hand to his chest and tilted her head to give him deeper access to her mouth, and Lance lifted his hand and covered her breast, cloaked as it was in the soft cotton shirt.

  And he didn’t know why he was surprised, but the flesh filled his hand exactly. He made a low sound at the discovery, and rubbed lightly across the nipple that nudged his palm. Her breath caught and she pulled away from his kiss.

  He didn’t move his hand as her gaze and his met, and caught. Feeling unlike himself, he slowly stroked the rigid point through her shirt, watching the reaction in her eyes. Her pupils dilated, and her lips parted on a gasp as he plucked it a little.

  Her hand moved on his thigh, moved upward, barely teasing his erection through his jeans, and Lance kissed her again, unable to let her look into his eyes for fear of what he would reveal. With a soft groan, he moved his hand under her shirt, feeling electrified at the satiny texture of her skin. He explored a little, and moved back up, knowing she was shielded from view by her jacket and the great distance to the ground. He encountered her bra, and hastily tugged it out of his way, letting her breast fall from its case. The nubby flesh touched his thumb, and Lance grasped it.

  And now her hand moved higher, moved to stroke him, as he ached to have her do. She, too, was stealthy and mindful of the crowd far below, so her movements were slow, firm—excruciating.

  Just then, the Ferris wheel moved. It didn’t grind or jerk, but simply started a smooth, slow descent. Lance jerked his hand away, as Tamara did. They lifted their heads.

  And laughed. “Typical,” Lance said.

  Tamara grinned. The grin was edged with a hazy eroticism and genuine humor. “Curses.” She shifted away from him as the car came to a stop at the bottom.

  “Sorry about that, folks,” the operator said.

  Tamara stepped out and her knees nearly buckled. Lance grabbed her hand. “Come on,” he said.

  She made no argument.

  Chapter Ten

  As they walked away from the carnival, Tamara was aware of her heart racing a little in anticipation. Lance took her hand in his, and brushed against her, close, sending the aching sense of awareness up another notch. His hand was big and callused. He stroked her thumb restlessly.

  They didn’t talk. The only sound was gravel crunching underfoot, and the fading music of the carnival, and yet it didn’t feel awkward to her. Her nerves hummed with the imagined pleasure of touching him, as much of him as she could—and letting him touch her in return.

  He had parked his car between two semitrailers behind the grocery store. “Odd parking space,” Tamara remarked. But it wasn’t, not for their purposes.

  “I don’t like to leave her out anywhere. The trucks hide her.” He let go of her hand to unlock the door, and a thread of reason wound through her sensually hazed brain. Was she really going to neck with a man in a parked car?

  The heat between them was vivid as a bonfire—Tamara knew they wouldn’t get out of the parking lot, not with each of them in such an aroused state.

  She hesitated, her hand on the door. “Lance—”

  He kissed her. His hand clasped her head, holding her close for the heady, fierce onslaught of his mouth. It left her dizzy when he raised his head, his eyes burning dark. “Ladies first,” he said. The raw need in his voice was the last straw.

  Without a second thought, Tamara slid in, aware of a heady, almost drunken dizziness, and a roaring in her ears.

  Lance climbed in beside her and locked the door with a strange deliberation of movement. Then he slid from behind the steering wheel with purpose, making a low, warm sound of anticipation, and kissed her—full mouth, full heat, full desire.

  His passion sent her heart pounding into overdrive, and she clutched his shoulders, gasping for breath, her nerves clamoring for the feel of him, for his hands, his mouth, his body against hers. All night she’d been feeling aroused as he held her, as their bodies brushed and crushed and rocked together. All night she’d been wanting to kiss him, to feel his hands on her, to feel his body with her own hands.

  And now she had the chance. As he thrust his tongue hungrily into her mouth, as she met those furious, deep kisses with a fierceness of her own, she found the buttons of his shirt and quickly released them so she could put her hands on his skin. On his broad, strong chest.

  Supple flesh, lightly dusted with almost silky hair, met her questing fingers. She explored the planes of collarbone and the curve of ribs and the powerful netting of muscles over his flat stomach. Feeling stymied when her fingers tangled in the shirt, she made a sound of frustration and tugged the fab
ric from the waistband of his jeans, then plunged her hands under his shirt again.

  A deep noise rumbled from his throat at her actions. His hand on her thigh gripped tight and his tongue plunged deeper, his other hand cupping her skull. He kissed her as if he were drowning, and her mouth the lifeboat, with a kind of desperate and mindless need that sent thrilling jolts of excitement through her body.

  He felt so good, so right—the muscles of his waist, the sleekness of his flesh, the soft hair on his chest, the pinpricks of his nipples against her palms. She moved slightly, to kiss his chin, and his neck, and his chest. It smelled deeply of night and sin and promise—a man’s smell. Never in her life had she felt this kind of mindless, pure hunger for a man. Never.

  He gripped her head in his hands. “You’re making me crazy, Tamara,” he said in a growling voice. “Crazy,” he repeated. “I want to feel you.”

  Tamara let go of him. “I want you to,” she said, amazed and aroused by her own boldness. She began to struggle out of her jacket, and while her arms were trapped in the sleeves, he covered her breasts with his hands.

  She went still, electrified by the sensation. As he stroked her breasts, dizziness swirled through her mind, and a pulse beat in her lips and breasts and between her thighs, at once urgent and slow. He bent his head with a growl and put his mouth over one nipple, soaking the cloth of her shirt and her bra with enough heat that she gasped. With his teeth, he gently seized the aroused point and nibbled lightly. Tamara cried out, and without letting go, Lance shoved the jacket from her arms, nibbling and nudging until she thought she would scream in pleasure.

  The jacket went flying into the back seat. Lance pushed her against the far door. It was dark but for a single ray of light cutting a path over the top of one of the trucks, and very quiet.

  His hands, both hands, covered her breasts, as he lifted his head and kissed her. Lightly this time, with that devastating, exquisite talent. His hands, too, moved with expertise. He slid his palms over her flesh, spreading his fingers to caress and weigh and gauge. He stroked her nipples as Tamara had stroked his, with his open palm, and Tamara moaned softly against his lips, plunging her hands under his shirt to feel his skin, to touch his back and his hair and his beautiful face.

  He spread kisses over her face, pressing to her eye, her forehead, her chin, her cheeks, her lips again. And his thumbs and fingers splayed over her aching breasts, teasing and kneading ever so gently.

  And then he made a deep groan, and reached for the hem of her shirt. Tamara didn’t think, she only moved forward, away from the door, and let him pull it off of her, lifting her arms so he could tug it from her body. Carelessly he tossed it over his shoulder, his face sober with intent.

  He lifted his head, and Tamara felt her breath go still and deep and very far away as he looked at her in the dimness. With the tips of his outstretched fingers, he skimmed the flesh over her bra, tracing the curves from her shoulders to the edge of the utilitarian undergarment she wore, then pressed a trail of nibbling kisses to the path his fingers had taken. A lock of his hair brushed her chin. He kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth, and lifted his head to look at her.

  Pausing, as if to give her time to tell him to stop.

  Tamara gazed back at him and touched his face, put her fingers on his mouth. “All I wanted, all night, was to touch you, and have you touch me,” she whispered. “It’s even better than I imagined.”

  He did not smile, but only shifted his gaze, and moved his hands to her shoulders. Very slowly he slid her bra straps down over her arms, stripping the fabric from her breasts an inch at a time, until she was unveiled to his gaze. She trembled as he unhooked the garment and flung it, too, carelessly over his shoulder.

  It was not cold, but she shivered when his hands rose again, when his bare fingers touched her bare breasts, flickered over the tips. When he opened his palms and took the weight of her into his hands.

  A quiet, mildly profane curse stained the air, and suddenly, Lance moved, capturing her by her waist, turning so he could settle her in his lap, her legs straddling the fierce, pulsing heat of his arousal.

  “Tamara,” he said, moving his hands over her back. His breath grazed her nipples and she shuddered violently against him, pressing the ache between her legs against the ache between his. “You’re so beautiful and warm.”

  His voice, gravelly with need, slayed her. She kissed his head, and touched his ears. And Lance, beautiful, skilled and wild, opened his mouth and suckled her breast.

  She would die of the pleasure. It was fierce and bright and almost painfully erotic to be with him like this, his thick hair under her fingers, his beautiful mouth skillfully nibbling and nudging and suckling, as if it were the finest thing he could imagine to taste, as if he could do it all night, as if there was nothing, nothing he would rather do than lavish that minute, perfect attention upon her breasts. Upon every inch of the longing flesh, the aching tips.

  All night. She rocked restlessly against him and heard him make a deep, yearning sound. Against her, he moved his hips. She clutched his shoulders fiercely, wanting it to never end, to never cease.

  A wild pulse pounded through her veins, rocketing from her breasts to her groin, jolting higher and higher with every touch of his mouth or hands, and the lost, rough, pleased, sounds he made. Her body trembled deeply and she found her hands moving restlessly over him, into his hair, over his shoulders, on his arms. He moved beneath her, his hips creating a relentless, rocking pressure.

  With a shock, she realized she was very close to orgasm. With a cry, she froze, but at that instant, he caught her flesh lightly between her teeth, and grasped her buttocks tightly in his hands. She made a soft whimpering noise, unable to stop the rising crescendo, not when he touched her like this, when he rocked against her like that, not when—

  “Let it go,” he said in a raw voice. “Please, let go, Tamara. Let me feel you come apart.”

  With a sob of release and mind-shattering pleasure, she did. She let him thrust against her, his fingers tight on her buttocks, his mouth slowing as if he knew. And when the spasm slowed, he pulled her close and held her, kissing her shoulder, stroking her back, his own need still raging and fierce against her slowing body. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his neck. “I didn’t—”

  He grabbed her head and kissed her into silence, his mouth as sweet and deep as a stream. “Never apologize, ever. It pleases me to please you.”

  “But—”

  The sudden sound of glass breaking crashed into the still night. Tamara and Lance froze. A flurry of shouts could be heard.

  “Damn,” Lance said, moving quickly. “Get down.”

  Flung aside, Tamara crouched on the floor of the car, hearing the brutal sound of a fight spilling very close. Lance urgently started the car and backed out just as a bottle crashed into the side window. “Sorry, Tamara,” he said, “hang on.”

  For a moment, she was too stunned, too awash in the lingering haze of sensual pleasure, to even think. She simply stayed down, crossing her arms over her naked breasts. Lights flashed over the ceiling of the car, over Lance, his hair disheveled, his shirt open down the front. She was riveted by the sight of him, driving wildly, a frown on his face.

  The car came to a stop. Lance glanced down at her, and a wicked grin broke on his face. “Traffic light,” he explained and grabbed her hand. Devilment sparked in his eyes as he leaned the slightest bit to brush his fingers over her breast. “This is a high-water mark for me, erotically speaking,” he said with a slow grin. “How about you?”

  Tamara ducked her head as the reality of the situation crashed in on her. “I’m mortified!”

  He fell sideways. “Kiss me and you’ll forget about it.” Without waiting for her, he kissed her, his tongue sliding inside wickedly.

  A horn honked, and Lance popped up again, chuckling softly. “It’s only for another minute or two. Hold on.”

  The laugh tipped her off. She raised her head. “You’re enjoyi
ng this!”

  “Hell, yes!” He glanced at her, eyes glittering. “A gorgeous, passionate, half-naked woman in my car? What do you think?”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m embarrassed!”

  Again his rich laugher filled the car, a heady sound that made Tamara wish she could enjoy it as much as he did, that she could overcome her sense of shame long enough to let down her guard.

  “Here,” he said, and braced himself to shuck his shirt. “I’ll be half-naked. You be covered.”

  Gratefully, Tamara grabbed the shirt and put it on. “It isn’t the same,” she said.

  But it was. There he was, naked to the waist, all that supple golden skin gleaming in the streetlights, his chest glittering with palest gold hair. He shoved a hand through his unruly hair, and impossibly, Tamara’s stomach flipped again.

  When he pulled out of the intersection, Tamara jumped up into the seat, trying covertly to fasten the buttons with her unsteady hands. The scent of his skin wafted out of the cloth, and the fabric felt like his hands on her. And she discovered, to her chagrin, that she had torn one of the buttons in her haste to touch him. The shirt gaped open in the middle, and Tamara tugged it closed, furious embarrassment flooding her like molten lead, burning away every second of pleasure she had known with him.

  The litany of her sins spilled through her with painful humiliation: necking in a car like a teenager, riding through town half-naked, tearing his shirt like some wild woman—and worst of all, coming apart like that when he touched her.

  Faintly, she was aware of him next to her, aware of his body and his scent and the unfulfilled need that still hung between them. But she couldn’t look at him—she was too desperately embarrassed.

  The car came to a stop, and Tamara realized he’d pulled over next to the park, deep in the shadows. “You can put your clothes on here,” he said, his hands on the steering wheel.

  His expression was closed as he reached over the seat, scrambling in the back seat for her turtleneck, which he handed to her without a word, then her bra. He settled back in front of the steering wheel, face forward. “Go ahead and get dressed. I won’t look.”