Pocketful of Sand

by M. Leighton

  His words warm me better than the crackling fire that’s blazing in his huge fireplace. “I guess that’s not too terrible,” I deflect, lowering my eyes so he won’t see how much pleasure his words bring me.

  Cole reaches out and hooks a finger under my chin, lifting until my eyes are back on his, unable to escape. “I’d keep you here if I could. I’d memorize you in every room of this house. It would never be empty again. It would smell like you, feel like you. It would hold you.”

  I can’t help the smile that breaks out across my face. “Well, in that case, we’d better get started. Do I get a tour of all these rooms I’m staying in?”

  “I’d love to show you around.” His smile is heart-stopping. God, I almost wish he wouldn’t do that. Especially when I’m not expecting it. It makes my lungs shut down completely. But it fires other organs up to the point of being bothersome. Hot and bothersome.

  Cole turns off the stove and sets the saucepan of cocoa onto a cool eye. “Would you like to see the other rooms, Emmy?” he asks, taking my hand and leading me into the living room where she is. She’s stretched out on the couch now, her head resting against one of the pillows. Her eyes are sleepy when she looks back at him and smiles, shaking her head. She promptly dismisses him by turning her attention back to her cartoons.

  “Gotta admire that kind of focus,” he says wryly, pulling me with him toward a door on the other side of the room.

  The cabin is laid out with the living room and kitchen being basically one big, open room with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean. There’s a rock fireplace on the right wall of the space and a couple of doors on the left. Two hallways frame the kitchen, but I’m guessing we’ll get to those in a minute.

  Behind the first door is an office. It looks well-used yet orderly, and I’m guessing Cole does most of his business from in here. I walk around the chunky, mahogany desk, trailing my fingers along the edge. It suits him. It’s rich and masculine, it’s color dark and sensual. It’s Cole. Down to a T.

  When I round the desk, I look up to find Cole watching me. His eyes are the same intense electric blue as always, but they’re not so unreadable right now. Right now, they’re hungry. The way he’s looking at me…it’s like he’s starving to death and I’m his favorite meal.

  The thought sends a chill racing through me. It lands with a delicious thud right between my legs.

  I almost groan. But I don’t. I hold it in.

  Being alone with Cole again (even though we aren’t totally alone) after being so close to him all day and not really being able to touch him (even though I wanted to so, so badly) is making me feel bold and a little dangerous. I stand in front of his chair, brushing my fingers back and forth over the slick wooden surface.

  I drop my voice low, the blare of the cartoons easily keeping my words from entering the living room. “So, Mr. Danzer, after you’ve memorized me in this room, what will you imagine doing with me?”

  No sooner than the words are out of my mouth, Cole’s pupils explode, swallowing up every bit of his blue irises. “Oh, so that’s how you’re going to play.” His voice…God, it is scrumptious.

  “Who’s playing?”

  One dark blond brow shoots up as he steps closer to the desk. He doesn’t stop until only the expanse of mahogany separates us. “I’d imagine you as my personal assistant, dressed in a slim skirt that stops just above your knees and a silky blouse that buttons up to about right here,” he says, reaching across the desk to press his finger to the space right between my breasts. I feel his touch like a bolt of electricity shooting through me.

  Damn, maybe I shouldn’t have started this, I think when I feel moist heat gather in my panties.

  “That’s very…specific,” I say breathily, wishing he wouldn’t take his finger away. But he does.

  “You’d be wearing high heels and black stockings and your hair would be held up with a pencil.” His words draw me into a scenario. I can all but feel the brush of the skirt against my thighs as I walk into this office to find him sitting behind his big desk.

  “Would I be bringing you coffee?” I ask, getting into the vision.

  “I don’t give a damn what you’d be bringing me. As long as you bring it, because I’d meet you at the door and I’d close it behind you. Your big, gray eyes would get all wide and innocent like they do sometimes, and you’d back slowly toward the desk. When you felt it brush that beautiful ass, you’d stop. And when I reached you, you’d stop me with a hand to my chest, telling me not to mess up your lipstick. I’d laugh, and then I’d turn you around and bend you over the desk. I’d ease that skirt up and find nothing underneath. Not a damn stitch of underwear. Because you’re a dirty little vixen that way.” His grin is enough to melt all my clothes off. Right here, right now. I’m practically panting as I wait for him to continue. “I’d drop to my knees and I’d kiss those creamy thighs. That pretty ass. That sweet pussy. I wouldn’t stop kissing…and licking…and touching…until you came for me. And then I’d stand up and eeease into you. Again. And again. Until you came a second time, until all that sweetness was dripping down your legs. Then I’d push your skirt down. And I’d turn you around. You’d slap me, but then I’d kiss you and smear your lipstick anyway. You wouldn’t complain. Because you’d love it. You’d love it and I’d love it.”

  I’m so turned on, I think I’d be grateful if a good, stiff wind would blow between my legs. I clear my throat, realizing I’m way out of my depth in this game that I so pluckily started. I don’t even know what to say, because everything I want to say is totally off limits with my daughter in the next room. I settle for, “Well, I guess I’ll have to buy a skirt the next time I go to Ashbrook.”

  Cole gives me that smile again. It nearly stops my heart, I think, which is not a good thing. At this point, I need all the oxygen to my brain that I can get. All my bloodflow seems to be diverting to…other places. “In that case, let me show you the other rooms, too. You might have a list.”

  Excitement twitters through me. This man might be dangerous after all.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Cole

  I AM SO hard right now, I could probably drive a nail through a cement block with the tip of my dick. I’ve taken Eden into nearly every room in my house and spun her an explicit, erotic tale about the things I’d like to do to her in each one. With each scenario, she’s only gotten more excited. I can see it in the flush of her skin. I can feel it in the flutter of her hand in mine. And I can sense it in the rapid way she breathes, in the throaty way she asks questions when she plays along.

  Hot damn! I never would’ve expected such a sexual creature to be hiding behind those amazing gray eyes. It’s like a bonus–for a woman to be such a good mother, such a decent person, such a pleasure to be around, but to have a dirty-girl streak, too.

  Jackpot.

  I pull Eden behind me into the second guest room’s bathroom. “It’s so spacious,” she mutters in her low, husky voice. I know she’s trying to be quiet so she doesn’t wake Emmy, who fell asleep two rooms ago, but it’s sexy as all hell. I don’t even think she realizes how she sounds, how she could ask me to do anything in that voice and I’d do it.

  “What was that?” I ask, flattening her against the short wall, out of sight of the door. Just in case.

  I feel her shallow breathing. I see the sensual slant of her eyes. She’s on fire right now. Just like me.

  “I said it’s so. Spacious,” she repeats, her eyes falling to my lips as she annunciates.

  “There are so many things I’d like to hear you say right now. In that voice,” I confess, my mouth mere inches from hers.

  “Like what?” she asks, all sex and innocence, spicy and sweet.

  “Say ‘cock’.”

  Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “Cock,” she says softly.

  I bend my knees enough that I can press my hips into hers. Her gasp of pleasure is nearly my undoing.

  “Are you wet right now?”

 
“Yes.”

  “You are?”

  “God, yes!”

  “Show me.”

  Her eyes widen the tiniest bit. I know what she’s thinking. “But Emmy…”

  “One finger. Show me with one finger.”

  She debates for less than a second before she reaches between us, her knuckles brushing my stiff dick, and slides her hand into her pants.

  “Go deep,” I tell her, loving the way her lids get all heavy and her lips part like she’s about to moan. I know the instant she does it. I know when she pushes her finger inside. Her breath brushes my cheek in a quick puff. I figure she’s about as close to coming as I can stand her being without doing something I’ll regret. “Now let me taste.”

  “Ohmygod,” she groans quietly, gently taking her hand from her pants and hesitantly raising it between us. When she stops, I reach for her wrist. Without taking my eyes off hers, I bring it to my mouth and slide her moist finger across my tongue, licking it from base to tip.

  “You taste better than ice cream, Eden Taylor,” I tell her. And then I give in to the urge to kiss her. It’s quick and violent and full of all the insane things that she makes me feel. And then I let her go. Because that’s the responsible thing to do. Her kid’s in the house, for chrissake.

  Reluctantly, I release her mouth and rest my forehead against hers. “Damn you, woman! Damn you for making me feel this way.”

  “I’m pretty sure this is all your fault, Mr. Danzer.”

  When I raise my head, she’s smiling up at me. I’ve never wanted something, anything, anyone, so much in all my life as I want this woman right now.

  I push away from the wall and take her hand again. “Come on. If we don’t get this over with, your daughter’s liable to get an education that she’s too young for.”

  Her smile tells me she knows I’m kidding.

  Mostly.

  The last stop on the tour is the master suite. It takes up the majority of the west side of the house. I stop at the double doors and gesture for her to go first. I just stand back and observe.

  It’s as I watch her walk through the room, touching the ice blue comforter, dragging her fingers along the edge of the dresser, that the reality of having her here, of feeling the crazy way I do about her, hits me. She belongs here. With me. In this room. In this house. In my life.

  “This is amazing,” she whispers in awe when she reaches the floor-to-ceiling windows across from the bed. They’re framed by nothing and filled with the snowy beach beyond.

  Most people find the beach soothing–the waves, the horizon, the endless stretch of sand. But I don’t care about most people. I care about this woman. And for some reason, it pleases me that she’s reacting this way.

  I don’t approach her. For some reason, this moment has taken on a different feel. It’s not sexual, despite the things we’ve done and talked about doing. This moment is real. The jarring kind of real. The earth-quaking kind of real. And I feel it in numb places that I never thought would be able to feel again.

  She turns abruptly and pins me with those incredible eyes of hers. “What are you thinking? Right now?”

  I start toward her, loving the way she looks both nervous and excited the closer I get. Her face is so expressive. I doubt she could hide what she was feeling if she tried. I’ve known from day one that she was attracted to me. I love that I can read her so easily.

  Even though I can see how she feels, written right there on her face, I still don’t tell her what I was really thinking.

  “I love that, even though you’re a good mother and a lady right down to the way that you fold your napkin in your lap, you took a naughty tour of my house and said ‘cock’ in the guest bath. You realize that officially makes you every man’s dream woman, right?”

  “Are you saying you dream about me?”

  “More often than you know.”

  “Care to tell me about some of those dreams?”

  “I think I just did, but I’d be happy to show you later if you’re that interested.”

  “Oh, I’m interested alright.”

  I’m so close I’m practically pressing her back to the cold glass of the window. It would take so little for me to get her out of her pants and wrap those luscious legs around my waist. Just a flick here and a zip there.

  “You’re dangerous. Did you know that?” I tell her.

  “Funny, I was just thinking that same thing about you a few minutes ago.”

  “Stay with me, Eden,” I say impulsively. I’m not even sure what I mean, what I’m asking of her.

  Again, her transparent eyes tell me what she’s going to say before she says it. “I can’t. Emmy…”

  “She can stay, too, of course. I meant both of you.”

  “She needs her room, her things. She needs that stability. We move so much, it’s the only thing I can give her on a consistent basis. Other than me. I, uh, I guess you’ll just have to come to me,” she adds with a sexy twist of her lips.

  I smile down into her face. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Eden

  THE LITTLE COTTAGE we’ve called home for almost three months feels empty tonight. Cole got a call from Jason about a renter who lost hot water, so Emmy and I came on home while he went to fix it. He didn’t know how long he’d be, so we didn’t make any set plans to see each other or talk to each other later. Maybe that’s the reason I feel off.

  Emmy seemed to notice the quiet when we first got here, but she’s lying on the living room floor, coloring happily now. We played a game and read a story, so determined was I that she not notice his absence. Or my reaction to it. Whatever else happens in my life, it’s imperative that Emmy not be affected by it. And the melancholy I’m fighting has me wondering if having Cole in our lives was such a good idea.

  It’s too late now, though, and the thought of giving him up is becoming increasingly distasteful.

  I’m sitting quietly in the chair, watching my daughter draw and listening to her hum, when she throws down her crayon and climbs to her feet. She races the short distance to me and throws herself into my arms. She puts her little hands on either of my cheeks and squeezes, giving me “fish face” as she loves to do.

  She’s smiling at me when she observes, “You laughed a lot today, Momma.”

  “I did?”

  “Uh-huh.” The expression on her face is that of someone who has uncovered a wonderful secret. “You like him, don’t you?”

  Hmmm. How to answer that carefully…

  “I think he’s very nice. Don’t you?”

  She nods enthusiastically. “He makes good French toast. And he dances funny.”

  She wrinkles her nose and I do the same, nodding in agreement. “He does, doesn’t he?”

  Emmy giggles. “But I like it.”

  “I do, too.”

  “He makes you happy, right?”

  “You make me happy,” I skirt.

  “But he could make you happy if I’m not here, right?”

  “Nothing could make me happy if you weren’t here. I love you too much, doodle bug.”

  Her smile melts into a disappointed face. “But you’d try, right?”

  I try not to make a big deal of her odd questions and her concern with my happiness. I figure it has to have something to do with her emotional scars from what happened. I don’t even pretend to know the way a child’s mind works, but it worries me when she starts this stuff.

  “Emmy, why do you worry about me being happy without you?”

  “Because I might not always be here.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  She shrugs, letting her hands fall away from my face to rest on my chest. “Sometimes angels go to heaven. And you said I’m an angel.”

  “You’re my angel, but that doesn’t mean you’ll go to heaven anytime soon. Most of the time, God lets mommas and daddys keep their angels for a long, long time.”

  As she ponders this, she pooches her li
ps out over and over, like she’s kissing. “But Mr. Danzer didn’t get to keep his angel.”

  “No. But you shouldn’t let that worry you, sweetie. I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.”

  I know I shouldn’t make promises I can’t keep, but as long as I’m alive and able, I will keep her safe. And I’m hoping my promise will ease her mind. Emmy has enough to deal with in her life without worrying about death and what will happen to her mother if she were to die.

  Just letting that thought drift through my mind is enough to clog my throat and tie my stomach in knots.

  I push aside my rising emotion and send a comically suspicious sidelong glance at my daughter. “Is this a stall tactic? Are you trying to get out of taking a bath?”

  “No,” she answers. And I don’t think for a second that this had anything to do with her bath, but I need to take her mind off it.

  I dance my fingers down her sides, eliciting a squeal. “Are you suuure?”

  “I’m suuure!” she laughs, trying to wiggle away from my tickling fingers.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I’m sure!” she says again through her smiling lips.

  “I guess the only way to prove it is to get this little body in the tub. Let’s go, little miss,” I say, scooping her up into my arms. “And then…ice cream!”

  Her eyes widen. I try not to let her eat after her bath, and I control her sugar intake as much as I can, but tonight…well, tonight I think maybe ice cream is a good idea.

  ⌘⌘⌘⌘

  I didn’t hear from Cole last night. Now, it’s time for Emmy’s bath again, yet I still haven’t heard from him. I’ve picked up the cell phone at least a dozen times, thinking I’d text him, just to see if he got the water heater fixed. But I don’t. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours telling myself that maybe it’s for the best if I don’t hear from him again. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing for Emmy.

  On the one hand, she seems to really like him. From that first day on the beach, she seems as taken with him, as inexplicably drawn to him as I am. Only in a different way, of course. Even though she hasn’t talked in front of him other than to call to me that first morning, she’s opening up around him, and that makes my heart soar with happiness. Plus, she seems to be fixated on me being happy with someone in life. Maybe that’s a natural concern for a child, but I think she’s a bit young to be getting started with thoughts like that.