40-Love

by Olivia Dade

  A wide, two-person wooden lounger had been set up in one corner, its blue cushions covered with a canary-yellow blanket. Within arm’s reach, a little plastic table boasted an ice-filled bucket teeming with water bottles and—

  How the hell had she located that sparkling pear cider? Sure, he’d mentioned it once or twice in passing as his favorite Swedish beverage, but American grocery stores didn’t stock non-alcoholic drinks from Sweden, and neither did the convenience mart in the hotel. He knew that for a fact.

  Her tablet rested on the table beside the bucket. Was she planning to work?

  She followed his gaze. “It’s fully charged, and I downloaded a couple of tennis matches from earlier today. Your friend Nick was playing, and so was that woman from Sweden. Or if you don’t feel like watching tennis, I have a few of Jane Austen’s audiobooks on my phone now, so we could listen to them instead.”

  Foolish woman. As if he wanted to see or hear anything but her tonight.

  “I hope you like the food.” She nodded toward the insulated bags atop the larger table, just inside the entrance. “I had to microwave everything that was supposed to be hot, since I didn’t have access to an oven.” Her shoulder lifted in a small, nervous shrug. “But it’s all from IKEA, so hopefully it’ll remind you of home.”

  Of course. Of course.

  That was where she’d gotten the cider. That was where she’d probably bought—

  “There are meatballs, of course. Lingonberry jam. Gravy. Rosti potato patties. And I got a gooey chocolate cake for dessert.”

  “Kladdkaka,” he said, his voice rusty. “I haven’t had that since my last visit home. It’s my mom’s favorite.”

  “I packed plates and silverware and napkins. A battery-operated lamp too, so don’t worry about eating before dark.” She was speaking quickly, her words rushed and higher-pitched than normal. “The food should be fine for a little while longer. I thought you”—she faltered—“uh, we might want to get in the water now, while…”

  Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. “While it’s still light outside.”

  Because he’d said he wanted to see her naked in the sun. In the ocean. Even though she had so many reasons, completely legitimate reasons, to avoid exposing herself that way.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. Got hold of himself.

  “I didn’t expect this from you, älskling.” Despite his sweaty clothing, he reached out and folded her into his arms. “I didn’t—I don’t—want you to make yourself uncomfortable for my sake.”

  “I needed to do something special for you.” Her voice was muffled by his shoulder, her hands almost painfully tight on his back. “You don’t ask for anything, and you’ve given me so much—”

  He flinched at the bolt of pain. “This is repayment, then? An attempt to balance our accounts before you leave?”

  “No.” She leaned back to meet his eyes. “This is me, trying to make you as happy as you’ve made me, because I…” Her jaw worked. “Because I care about you.”

  His heart unclenched.

  Sweet. She was so sweet. This was so sweet.

  Bending down, he rested his forehead against hers. “Tess, you’re enough for me. No grand gestures required.”

  Her hazel eyes flickered with hurt. “You don’t like what I did?”

  “Don’t like it?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “This is amazing. Thoughtful. Humbling. Thank you for all of it.” His legs brushed against hers as he edged even closer. “I love it. I love—”

  No, he wasn’t going to blurt that out on impulse. Before he said it, he needed to examine his own heart and prepare himself for resistance, because he already knew she wouldn’t believe him. Wouldn’t trust the words, even if she trusted him.

  He chose different words, ones she could accept more easily. “I love how much you wanted to make me happy. Even though I don’t need meatballs or a tent or you naked in the sun for that. I just need you. Full stop.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered down, and she bit her lower lip.

  “What if I want to be naked in the sun too?” It was a whisper, shyer than any he’d heard from her. “I told you that. Remember?”

  He did. The images inspired by that conversation had been looping endlessly in his brain for over a week now.

  “But your work…” His thoughts were muddled now. By lust. By hope. “If you regretted this, if you suffered for anything we did together, it would gut me. We can trust Brendan, but there’s always a chance someone could ignore the sign and go around the barrier.”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. Then she straightened her shoulders, opened her eyes, and met his.

  All telltale hints of shyness banished, she cast him a chiding look. “This isn’t an impulse or moment of folly, Lucas. I considered the potential problems, and I took steps to control as many variables as I could.” Gently, she detached herself from his embrace. “The remaining risk, I’m willing to accept. So I can have what I want. What we both want.”

  With steady, careful hands, she removed his soaked tee, his shoes and socks, his loose shorts, his boxer-briefs, until he was bare. Entirely, willingly exposed to her.

  Then she reached for the hem of her sundress and tugged it over her head as he gaped at her. She stripped off the swimsuit beneath and tossed both items onto the blanketed lounger.

  Chin tipped high, her round body framed by the tent’s open flap, she stood there naked.

  Espresso hair dancing in the fitful breeze, defiant hazel eyes, lips bitten to lush pinkness, tan nipples crowning pale breasts, a dark brown triangle between ivory thighs. Behind her, the blue, blue ocean rushed to shore, green palm fronds rustled, and the setting sun bathed the sand, her skin, with rosy warmth.

  Colors. He didn’t remember colors ever being this vivid. So bright they stung his eyes.

  She turned on her heel and left the tent. Left shelter in exchange for the open beach, bare feet sinking into the sand. Her dimpled, adorable ass jiggled as she strode toward the water without hesitation, without any attempt to shield herself from his stare or the unforgiving gaze of unseen strangers.

  He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe in the presence of such beauty.

  She glanced at him over her shoulder, one supercilious eyebrow cocked high. “Coming, Lucas?”

  Stripped naked, he followed.

  Of course he did.

  Twenty-Four

  In the end, they didn’t have sex on a blanket outdoors.

  Not so much because Tess was worried about random lookie-loos with cell phones—although she was, if only a little bit, and she’d privately wondered whether she’d be able to relax enough to climax under those circumstances—but because Lucas was worried about her joints.

  When she offered, he shook his head. “You need more cushioning and support than that. I won’t have you in pain when we leave here.”

  “You wanted to see me naked in the sun,” she protested as he led her out of the ocean and back toward the tent.

  “And I have.” His grin turned wicked, and his dimples popped. “I saw you naked in the water too.”

  Oh, she knew where this conversation was going.

  A more decorous woman would blush, but she’d left decorum behind about fifteen minutes ago—around the same time Lucas had used the water’s buoyancy to hitch her upwards, guiding her until her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms wrapped around his neck. Then he’d taken her mouth in a hard, hot kiss before biting at her neck, palming her ass, and moving her exactly the way he wanted.

  In the water, the rock of his hips was so fluid, so easy, as he rubbed his cock precisely where she needed friction. He’d teased her for so long, never quite giving her the speed and firm pressure she needed. Not until she was begging for it, trembling and gasping.

  The sun on her face, the lap of water over her flesh, the caressing breeze had all sharpened the sensations. They’d all made the experience glorious and unbearable in equal measures.

  In the aftermath of
pleasure, her legs were watery and trembling. She was relying on Lucas’s arm around her shoulders for support as they walked in the sand.

  When they neared the tent’s entrance, he ran a possessive hand over her butt. “Best of all, I saw you naked in the sun and water as you came apart, and it was the most gorgeous fucking thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  Yup. She’d known he’d end up bragging about her orgasm eventually.

  He was so damn smug, radiating intense satisfaction from every pore despite his still-hard dick. She should find that annoying. Would find that annoying, if only her legs weren’t still shaking beneath her from the violence of that orgasm.

  He’d earned his smugness, and she wouldn’t puncture it.

  That said, he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. He didn’t understand gorgeous. He couldn’t, unless he located a mirror and saw himself right here, right now.

  In the falling light of dusk, he was beautiful enough to break her.

  With every step, the thrust of his rampant cock preceded him. The growing shadows only emphasized the bulge of his bicep, the taut swell of his ass, the rhythmic bunch and release of his thigh muscles as they walked.

  He slicked his hand down her arm, and the controlled grace in even such a small, meaningless movement literally took her breath away.

  He ran a distracted hand through his wet thicket of hair, and it fell into place like magic.

  He smiled, and those heavy-lidded olive-green eyes went lambent, his dimples appeared, and she turned liquid enough to pour onto the sand below.

  His face was handsome, of course. It was always handsome.

  With her, it was also soft.

  Muscles alone wouldn’t shatter her, but that stubborn, intent, beautiful softness could.

  And it did, as he spread her out on that blanket-covered lounger, rolled on one of the condoms she’d packed, knelt between her legs, and made love to her. God help her, made love, because there was no way she could call it fucking, and only a fool would term it casual sex. There was nothing casual about it.

  He stroked her thighs with his hands and traced her collarbone with his tongue as he moved inside her. He moaned her name. He nuzzled into her shoulder and whispered to her about how much he loved her body, her eyes, the way she held him tight inside and out.

  His hands on her breasts were reverent, his eyes on her face gentle. He was attentive to every sign of pleasure and eager to give more. It was all slow and deliberate and tender, the near-violence of their desire secondary to the unspoken emotions between them.

  She’d never, ever wept during sex before. But when she came again with a long, low cry, her voice shook from more than just intense pleasure. His face buried in her neck, his gentle fingers still caressing her clit, he came too. His hips jerked, and his groan vibrated against her still-wet skin.

  Afterward, eyes dry once more, she produced the bottle of edelweiss-scented oil she’d found at that odd Alpine spa and put the massage lesson she’d taken that morning to good use.

  After the group class, she’d asked the instructor about wrists. Specifically, the best ways to relieve pain in that area without causing further damage. Still, before she started, she made Lucas promise to tell her if she was hurting him.

  She must not have done too badly, because he didn’t say a word. Instead, he simply sat beside her quietly as she rubbed and rotated his wrist and gave him the sort of attention, the sort of care, he needed.

  All the while, he looked at her steadily, his face set in solemn lines.

  Since it wasn’t an expression she’d ever seen directed her way before, she didn’t know how to interpret it. So she avoided his eyes and focused on his battered joints and made certain she was giving him absolutely everything she could in this moment.

  Because in less than seventy-two hours, once she returned to her daily life, her daily routine, she was pretty sure whatever she had to give him wouldn’t be enough. Not for a man who deserved the world. Not for a man who deserved a woman who could hand him that world.

  The right partner for Lucas would do so without hesitation. Without a job that sometimes took all her available energy.

  Without half a lifetime of baggage, of intimate failure, tripping her in the attempt.

  She rubbed his wrist and tried to forget the future and made love to him again in the gathering darkness of the tent. And this time, he couldn’t see her cry.

  At some point in every competitive, high-quality rally, the moment of decision arrived.

  If sloppy, unforced errors didn’t end the point prematurely, both players generally focused on keeping their shots within the court and biding their time. Waiting for their opponent’s shot to fall short. Waiting for that opponent to move out of position. Waiting for a small mistake.

  Sometimes, though, a mistake never came. If so, a decision had to be made.

  One way or another, the rally would end. The only question was who would force the issue. Who would be the aggressor. Who would take the risk.

  Lucas hadn’t minded that risk, that responsibility.

  In fact, his career had thrived on it.

  Sometimes he’d choose a drop shot, one landing as close to the net as possible. If the other player didn’t get to the ball in time, the point was over. If the other player did get to the ball in time, if he used his new position by the net to angle his next shot far away from Lucas—too far away—the point was still over.

  Other times, Lucas would aim down the line and whack a backhand hard enough to shake the fuzz loose from the ball, the shot so fast the man across the net couldn’t get a racket on it. If Lucas judged the depth and trajectory of his shot correctly, the point was over, in his favor.

  If he didn’t, and the ball landed outside the line: Again, the point was still over.

  Lucas warmed up on the practice court near the clubhouse, waited for his first client, and thought about Tess, still asleep in his bed after a night when he’d woken her again and again, desperate and hungry and afraid. For the millionth time, he counted the hours until her departure, which—as of that morning—had crept below forty-eight. He considered his future. Hers too.

  The inexorable tug in his gut felt familiar. Welcome, in a stomach-churning sort of way.

  The moment had arrived.

  He was taking the risk.

  He was ending this point, one way or another.

  Twenty-Five

  That evening, Lucas was…off. Distracted. Fidgety in an unfamiliar way.

  Maybe he’d simply had a long day, although all his days seemed to be long days. Maybe his wrist was sore, although he denied it when Tess asked. Maybe he was tense because this was their next-to-last night together.

  Or maybe he’d already decided to let her go and was struggling to tell her. He wouldn’t want to hurt her unnecessarily. She knew that for certain, if she knew nothing else.

  For once, he didn’t cajole her into the shower with him after his lessons ended. Instead, he kissed her on her cheek, pointed out the cupcakes—vanilla bean, with passion fruit buttercream icing—on the counter, and excused himself.

  How he’d procured them when he’d either been working or with her all day, she couldn’t say, but he definitely had his ways. The cupcakes looked delicious.

  Her stomach was churning too much to eat one.

  During dinner, they watched his friend’s tennis match from the previous day. Lucas kept his hands to himself, his eyes on the TV, and his mouth full of leftover meatballs. By the time they worked together in silence to clear the dishes, she was ready to call it.

  He was over this, whatever this was. He was over her.

  Blinking hard, she took one final sidelong look at him, a lengthy one. Admiring his looks and body, sure, but also his grace. The alert intelligence in his eyes, and the laugh lines at their corners. The scars indicating pain suffered and adversities overcome.

  His dimples were nowhere in evidence, but she could pinpoint exactly where they’d appear at s
ome point in the future, for someone who made him grin. Someone who wasn’t her.

  One more look, as he dried his hands on a dishtowel. Another.

  Then she braced herself and got ready to make things easier on both of them. Got ready to go. “Listen, Lucas, I should probably—”

  “We need to talk,” he said at the same moment, still not meeting her eyes.

  So he wasn’t going to do this the easy way. The cowardly way. She should have known.

  “It’s okay.” She tried to smile. “I understand. You don’t need to say it.”

  His forehead pinched. “What do you mean, you understand?” He finally looked directly at her, moving a step closer. “What exactly do you think I want to say?”

  After a hitching breath, she steadied herself enough to speak. “All night, you’ve looked really uncomfortable, and I get it. You don’t want to hurt me, but it’s fine. You haven’t made me any promises, and I wouldn’t hold you to them if you had.”

  He braced his fists on his hips, head cocked, the picture of befuddlement. Then his brow cleared, and confusion turned to exasperation. No, more than that. That was anger in the set of his jaw, pain in the way he flinched from her.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  She’d screwed up. Hurt him somehow, when she’d been trying to spare them both pain.

  “You think—” He took a visible deep breath. Another. His lips silently moved, and she got the sense he might actually be counting. “Please tell me you didn’t just assume I was breaking up with you.”

  “I…” She stared at the linoleum beneath her feet. “Yeah. I did.”

  Her cheeks aflame, she wrapped her arms around her middle and waited for the hammer to fall, for his rightful anger to lash at her.

  This time, she could actually hear him mumbling to himself. It was almost definitely numbers, but ones she didn’t recognize. Swedish numbers.

  In her peripheral vision, she could see the moment his shoulders dropped. His chest deflated in a long exhalation. Then his hand appeared in her line of vision, strength compressed into tendon and bone and muscle, capable of incredible tenderness and power both.