“It’s actually a romance. Most people don’t know that.”
“Huh. I admit I did not know that.” He sat up and leaned back on his hands beside her.
“Look at them.” Clare pointed to the old couple, walking hand in hand along the edge of the water. The man held out his arm to his wife. Every few steps, she bent slowly, took her time, and came up with shell or coral. Then she dropped her treasure into a paper cup the man held out with his other hand.
Clare imagined they’d take them home, maybe put them in a glass bottle on a windowsill, another memory to go with all their other memories.
“My grandparents were married sixty-seven years,” she told Deacon. “Until my grandfather died a few years ago.”
“That’s a long time. And I’m sorry you lost him.”
“Thanks. My grandmother died two months later. But she was ready. She said it all the time. Not in a sad or morbid way, but just that she was ready. That her Bobby was waiting on her, and she didn’t want to keep him waiting. Can you imagine a love like that?”
“I guess I can imagine it. Did you think you’d have that kind of love with your fiancé?”
She drew in a deep breath, staring out at the ocean and nothing, thinking how to answer that. “I hoped. Not the first time I’ve been wrong.” Many times she’d been wrong. “Anyway…” She nodded toward the couple again. “I’m not sure a love like that exists for everyone.
“Or even if it does exist, maybe some people spend their life looking and never finding it. I’d rather have nothing than something that isn’t real. And I’m okay with that. Coming so close to almost making a mistake has made me okay with that.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“So you’ve given up?”
“Maybe I’ve finally grown up. You have to let go of the fairy tales at some point. I always thought when it was right, you’d just know and that would be it. But how can you really ever know when it’s real?”
“I certainly wouldn’t know.”
She nodded slowly like he’d just proved her point, and she wondered if he was thinking about anyone in particular.
The waves lapped gently over the small, smooth pebbles of the shore. No surf chasing the sand here. She closed her eyes, sighing at the soft sound.
“What are you thinking now? Something creepy?”
“No. I was thinking I was glad you were here. That I’d have been really sad if I never saw you again.”
Smiling, he nudged her gently with his shoulder. “Well, you did say you liked me.”
“You said it, too.” She grinned, and for once, there was nothing else. Her mind quieted and she just was. Just on a beach, just with Deacon. Just happy.
* * *
AFTER THE BEACH BREAK and another bout of snorkeling, Deacon and Clare sat near the back of the boat, the sun warming their faces.
This has been a good day, Deacon thought as Clare leaned against him. One of the best he could remember. If this was what Jax had meant by getting out, spending time with other adult humans, he’d been missing out. Still, he doubted it would have been such a good day with just anyone. It had too much to do with Clare. Smart, sexy, often rambling Clare.
They’d strolled the deserted beach and walked along the pebbled shore through ankle-deep water, just exploring, careless and free. They’d found a starfish in a clear tide pool, and Clare’s childlike excitement delighted him and reminded him of his girls. Part of him wished Margo and Maci were with him, seeing what he was seeing.
He felt guilty for enjoying things without them and wondered if that was normal, or did he have more guilt as a single father, more because his girls didn’t have a mother? He hadn’t thought Natalie was the one. Their relationship hadn’t lasted long enough for him to think they might have the forever kind of love Clare had talked about. But when Natalie had gotten pregnant, he’d been willing to try. He would have done it for his girls. Natalie hadn’t been willing or interested in doing anything.
Since the day his babies were born, he hadn’t had the time or the inclination to get involved with another woman. But if he had been looking, if he had thought about it…
He glanced at Clare leaning comfortably into his side. The warm air whipped over them, and a few loose strands from Clare’s ponytail tickled his cheek.
Yep. A damn good day.
The boat rose and fell with the growing ocean swells, and the newlyweds laughed and cheered as their punch sloshed over the rim of the plastic cups they held. The older couple had opted for a more protected seat under the covered section of the boat.
Clare, who’d been still for so long he’d thought she was asleep, grew restless. She dropped her head on his shoulder then lifted it and sat up straighter. A minute later, she sat forward on her seat. She took off her sunglasses, and he looked at her face.
He angled his head close so she could hear him over the engine. “You okay?”
Without opening her eyes, she gave a small nod. When she rested her head against his shoulder again, he held her closer. A minute later, she pushed against his thigh to right herself. Her fingers gripped the seat on either side of her legs. Her face was pale, her mouth drawn.
He slid a hand up her back to cup her neck. “What can I do? Do you want to lay down?”
He was pretty sure she shook her head no, but the movement was so small, he couldn’t be sure. He scooted closer, keeping a hand on her back. He wanted to pull her tight against him, as if he could lessen the movement she felt, but she seemed better sitting upright.
Isaac looked over, took in Clare’s face, and brought over an empty bucket, setting it at her feet. Giving no indication she even noticed, she remained perfectly still, probably concentrating on not throwing up. He hated it for her. He’d been there.
Just then, she slapped a hand on his thigh and lurched toward the bucket. He did what he could, keeping her from going down on her knees and holding back her hair.
When there was nothing left, she sagged, and he eased her back and into his side.
“Hey!” he yelled over the noise. “Can I get a cold rag?”
“Your towel,” Raymond said, holding out his hand.
Clare was sitting on her towel, and he didn’t want her to stand. He gently edged her away from his side and pulled his shirt off over his head with his other hand. He handed it to Raymond, who dunked it in the ice cooler and wrung it out. Deacon took it back and swabbed it over her forehead and the back of her neck.
The young groom made his way over and held out his hand. “Does your wife want to try this? It’s Dramamine.”
Deacon took it, his heart stumbling a little over the word wife. Not that he was in love with Clare—he didn’t know her well enough—but he could imagine this is how it would be, feeling at ease with her and taking care of her. He turned the medicine over in his fingers, studying it closely, making sure it was labeled and the foil wasn’t broken. Isaac passed him a Sprite with a sympathetic smile.
“Clare? Can you take this? We’ve got at least an hour back to the hotel.” He knew the thought of swallowing anything wouldn’t appeal, but if she could keep it down, it would help.
Without opening her eyes, she nodded, and he slipped the pill between her lips. She swallowed it with a small sip of the drink then waited.
He held his breath, hoping it stayed down. Ten seconds. Thirty. A minute. She seemed to be waiting also. Another minute passed, and she relaxed against him. With all of his protective instincts firing, he held her like that the entire way back.
* * *
“I’M SO SORRY,” CLARE said when they reached the door to her room an hour and a half later.
“If you say you’re sorry one more time, I’m going to…”
“You’re going to what?” she challenged him, and even though her face was still a little pale, the gleam in her eyes told him she was on the mend.
“Let’s just get you inside.” Even pale, even with her hair a windblown mess, she was absolutely b
eautiful, and he needed to get a handle on the thoughts ripping through him.
“Are we still on for dinner?”
They’d been starved earlier, after all the sun and swimming. “Let’s see how you feel.”
“Right.” She looked down at herself. “I obviously need to clean up a bit.”
An image flashed of cleaning up with her, soaping up her body, getting clean together before he messed her up again.
Clare stared, waiting, a question in her eyes. God, she’d be appalled if she knew what he was thinking. He cleared his throat. “Come on, my little vomitor,” he teased, making her laugh, then took her key and unlocked her door. “Let’s get you inside.”
Chapter 8
AN HOUR AND A half later, there was a knock on the door. Clare checked the peep hole and smiled. Deacon. She undid the latch, opened the door, and got the breath knocked out of her. Gorgeous didn’t begin to cover it. Tall and dark, he was wearing khakis and an untucked white dress shirt. Open at the neck, it drew her attention to the tan skin there and the hint of chest hair. She forced her gaze lower, which didn’t help the hot tingly feeling creeping up her neck. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his muscled forearms, revealing more tan skin with fine dark hair above a thick watch.
“Hi,” she said nervously and stepped back to let him in.
“Hey.” He moved into the room, leaving the door open. “You’re dressed,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you would be, but I wanted to see if you needed anything.”
“Oh. Yeah. Dressed and actually hungry.”
“That’s good. You’ve got your color back.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek. The note of care and concern in his voice was enough to make her go gooey, then his gaze raked over her, and his lips curved up in a slow smile. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She smoothed her hands over the simple black wrap dress that hit a few inches above her knees. She’d spent more time getting ready than she usually did, outlining her eyes and highlighting her cheeks.
He was still staring, and that mean little voice that whispered maybe there was a reason men seem to fall out of love with her as easily as they fell in went quiet. A beat passed before she gathered herself.
“I just need to get my shoes.” Praying for some semblance of composure, she sat on the edge of the bed and slipped her foot into one black heel.
She fumbled with the latch. He was staring at the enormous tiled bathtub between the bathroom and the bed. Heat bloomed inside her, and she ducked her face and reached for the other shoe. And off in the distance, she heard the clanging of warning bells. She ignored them.
Not wanting to make him wait, she fought to quickly poke the pin through the tiny hole in the crisscrossing leather strap around her ankle.
“Nice view.” Deacon said.
What? Mortified, her eyes flew to her chest, but the dress was snug. No issue there. She glanced up to find Deacon facing her balcony. The outside air blew in through the open sliding-glass doors, making the curtains billow. Oh. “Yeah. It is.” The sun spread an orange cast over the water.
“Want me to close this?”
“Yes. Please.”
Deacon slid the glass door closed and flipped the lock while she continued to struggle with the buckle. The soles of his leather shoes whispered crossed the room, coming to stand in front of her.
“Need some help?”
“No, I can—”
But Deacon was already kneeling at her feet, so close she could smell him. She could only stare at his wide hand circling her lower calf. His long, warm fingers brushed around her ankle, sending streaks of heat up her leg. Add to that, the shirt pulling tightly across the muscles of his back, his head bowed and the dark hair just begging her to run her fingers through it… She took a deep breath and drew in his scent.
“How’s that feel?” he looked up, meeting her eyes.
“So good. I mean—” She wondered if he could hear her heart pounding. She fought for a steady breath. “Good. It’s great. You’re good at that.”
He straightened in front of her, flashing that easy smile. “A lot of practice.”
Her stomach took a dive, and her own smile faltered.
“I meant as a surgeon,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “A lot of practice getting small pieces into place.”
Their eyes met, and she swallowed hard. “Oh. Right.” And just like that, her stomach was falling for another reason. He was so close. The room was quiet but for the fan overhead, their combined breaths, and the pounding of her heart.
“Clare.”
Her name was a low whisper on his lips. His eyes, just seconds ago so full of care and concern, burned hot enough to set her on fire. There was a beat then another. She didn’t know who moved first, but in the next second, his lips were on hers.
The desire that had built in both of them throughout the day surged and crashed. He held her face still with his hands, and for a second, they both breathed in the sensations. Her heart beat, but time stopped as if all they needed was air and each other.
With a little moan, she slid her hands up the front of his shirt, over his shoulders, and into his hair. Her lips parted, and as his tongue stroked against hers, she leaned into the kiss. His taste was rich and erotic, like his scent. It made her head spin and her knees go weak.
One wide palm stroked down her side and slowly back up like he owned her. Like she was his. What would that be like? To be Deacon’s. To be loved by Deacon.
But that’s not what this was. This was desire and lust the likes of which she’d never known. It battered her system and grabbed on as he drew her up onto her toes, holding her hard against him. They battled, tongues and hands, each of them fighting for more. His fingers spanned her ribcage, flexed into the ridges, before sliding higher until he cupped the underside of her breast.
“Clare?”
She could barely manage a coherent thought. Only yes to whatever he might be asking. Yes. Please.
His lips raced over her face, down her throat, and back to find her mouth again. “Tell me you want this.”
His hands, God, they seemed to be everywhere at once, and still, it wasn’t enough. The cool fabric of her dress and his hot hands glided up her thigh then over her hip.
“Clare.”
“Yes.” They’d eaten together, danced, and laughed together. They had held hands and had adventures together, but she wanted more. And this was the more. This moment, with this man. Not a fairytale but a fantasy.
She felt feverish and not quite in her right mind as the dress came up and over her head. She could stop him. Maybe she should.
It fell from his fingers and dropped silently to the floor, leaving her in only lace and heels.
He didn’t touch her, only looked, eating her up with those chocolate-brown eyes until her heart drummed in her ears. He had a dark and dangerous air about him now, and she wanted as she’d never wanted before. He took her face in his hands again, and this time, when his mouth caught hers, it was slow. A brush of lips. A stroke of fingers.
And by the time he laid her back on the lake of white, she’d lost all sense of time, so caught up in the pure delight of kissing Deacon. Of being kissed by him. She hadn’t thought she could want a man to touch her. In truth, she hadn’t been touched in quite some time, and then it was tame. Deacon was anything but.
His mouth skimmed along her jaw, teasing at the corner of her mouth. His lips were soft, persuasive, and patient, as if he needed to coax her. She was like a lump of clay, ready to be molded.
He drew away just enough to gaze down at her. “Look at you.” He traced one finger down her chest and the valley between her breasts. “So beautiful.”
Power radiated from him, yet his touch was gentle. He brushed a thumb over the silk covering her breast, making her breath hitch. She tried to think of something to say, but nothing came.
She was already throbbing, aching for his touch. His eyes roamed over her body in a scorching caress she felt to h
er core. And she felt beautiful, desired, in a way she never had before. She hadn’t realized until that moment how undesirable she’d felt. How unsure.
She wanted to say he was beautiful, too, and to tell him…something. That she’d never done this before, never been driven or dragged by passion to sleep with a man she wasn’t involved with. To go to bed with someone she barely knew. But she did know him. In some inexplicable way, she felt a connection.
“I’ve been dying to touch you,” he said. “Laid awake at night imagining.”
Then he showed her what he’d imagined. Slowly, exploring the swells and curves, taking his time before finally dipping his head and following the motion with his lips.
She tugged at the buttons of his shirt, needing her hands on him.
He stopped her, pulling her hands up above her head, holding them there gently. “Not yet. I’m not finished yet.”
“You don’t have to be finished. I want to touch you.”
“You will. Be patient.”
“No. I’m not patient.” She insisted until she got her way, tugged at his shirt, felt the taut muscles of his shoulders and chest under her hands.
“Slow,” he said against her lips.
“Not that slow.” She continued her work on his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, and felt him smile against her lips.
They rolled in the waning light, one minute laughing, teasing touches, the next so hot, it scorched the skin. They touched and tasted with desperation and edgy need. Her skin hummed under his hands. Long, lazy strokes went from slow and tender to hard and hungry.
He got rid of her bra and swept his tongue over her nipple before drawing it into his mouth. Her heart drummed. Her blood thrummed. She thought she might not survive and didn’t care. She arched up, rocked against him as his hands and mouth tormented her.
It frightened her, this dizzy thrill of being taken. But the fear was overtaken by the man and the moment, leaving a thrill just as dizzying.
Love At Last Page 7