More masculine.
More dominant.
More in control.
And so unbelievably sexy.
The soft leather of his jacket pulls across his broad chest and bunches in his arms as he extends the beautifully wrapped flowers to me.
“These are for you, sweetness,” he rasps in a gruff voice. “You look beautiful.” Pulling my shaking hand up to his lips, he kisses my knuckles, setting a fiery vibration there; one of which I likely won’t be able to rid myself for the rest of the night.
I take them from him and immediately bring them up to my nose. Inhaling their sweet scent, I honestly can’t remember the last time someone bought me flowers. It was more than likely Melanie when she was a little girl, picking bunches of bright yellow dandelions from the yard for me. “They’re stunning, Evan. Thank you so much. Come in.” As he strides past me, the fragrance of the flowers fades away behind the woodsy clean scent that is uniquely Evan.
“I didn’t know what kind you liked,” he tips his chin at the flowers, “so I got you one of everything.” Standing before me, he lowers his face to mine and gently brushes his lips against my cheek, the roughness of his stubble sending shivers across my skin.
It’s only when I lean into his kiss that I realize he’s got a picnic basket in his other hand. “It’s a little cold and pitch black to be going for a picnic, don’t you think?”
“Who says we’re going outside?” He grins, amused at my obvious misunderstanding. Reaching down for my hand, he laces our fingers together and pulls me into the living room. He tosses his jacket on the back of the desk chair revealing a pale grey, button-down dress shirt, which pairs nicely with his dark wash jeans. You know the kind that are loose in all the right places, but oh-so tight everywhere else. Then, he pulls a red-and-white checkered blanket out of the basket. Shaking it in the air, he straightens it out as he lays it down on the carpet. I watch, completely mesmerized by his kind thoughtfulness.
Now this is a date.
Wordlessly, he walks past me, grabs a few pillows from the couch and tosses them on the floor. “Sit,” he commands.
I laugh. “What am I? A dog or something?”
At least he has the good grace to smirk at himself. Shaking his head, he steps in front of me and runs his fingers down my arms. “You are most certainly not a dog. Please sit. I want you to be comfortable.” It’s difficult to resist him when his eyes twinkle the way they do. Some of the awkward tension that was there the first few times we spent time together has eased; it’s almost vanished completely.
As I get myself situated on a cushion, he makes quick work of unpacking the rest of the contents of the basket—a bottle of wine, a loaf of crusty bread, a few hunks of cheese and a bunch of grapes. Of course, he’s also packed all the plates, cups and utensils that we’ll need as well. He even remembered to bring back my travel coffee mug. I guess my plan was effective, after all. After everything is carefully laid out, he heads out to the garage.
He’s back quickly, logs for the fireplace in hand. “I saw these in there last week and I knew that there would be no better way to spend the night with you than in front of a fire, sharing a meal together. I hope that’s okay with you?” Cautiousness colors his words, and I melt for him even more, thinking about all of the effort he put in to tonight.
“It’s perfect,” I assure him.
He makes extremely quick work of starting the fire. Flames dance and twirl in the hearth, making the sparkle in his eyes more pronounced now. After he washes his hands, he comes back into the living room. He sits next to me and I hand him a glass of wine that I just poured.
He makes us up plates of food and we enjoy the simple peacefulness of eating together. The crackles and pops of the fire add to the romantic ambiance. The wine goes down smoothly—almost too smoothly, as I realize that in less than fifteen minutes, he’s already refilling my glass.
“Rough day at work or something?” he jokes as he tops off my glass.
“No. Actually it was terrific.” I go on to tell him all about the charity work I’ve just started and he follows intently, seemingly hanging on my every word.
“How was your day?” I ask when I’m done telling him about princesses and cancer patients.
“Nothing exciting. And definitely nothing as meaningful as your day.” When he pops a grape in his mouth, I notice how perfect his lips are − the soft curve of the upper bow and the plump fullness of his lower lip are hypnotic.
He catches me staring, but my desire quickly morphs to concern over the tone of his words.
“What do you mean ‘meaningful’?” I fold my legs and lean on my arm, angling toward him.
He takes a sip—or a gulp, depending on your definition—of his wine before he speaks. “I guess you could say I’m not really one for retirement. There’s not much to do all day.” A lamely shrugged shoulder accompanies his response.
“So what do you do with yourself all day? You don’t seem like one to sit around and watch TV.” I find myself absentmindedly tracing my fingers over his forearm, which is revealed from beneath the cuffed sleeve of his dress shirt.
“No, definitely not a huge TV watcher,” he chuckles dismissively. “I usually get up early and run a few miles and work out for a bit.” That explains his physique—broad and sculpted, muscular and smoking hot. “After that, I really don’t have a set plan.” Brushing his hand over his face, he seems uneasy about something.
“And it’s killing you to have nothing to do?” It’s clearly written on his face, but he nods nonetheless.
“I don’t know what I was thinking getting a condo. I mean the place is all finished, except for the painting, which I’ve managed to knock out in less than a week. Getting a fixer-upper would have been more my style. It definitely would have kept me busy.”
“This place could keep you busy,” I puff out a sad laugh as I scan the less-than-up-to-date state of the home I’ve always loved. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, you know. We had so many dreams when we bought this place, but then ‘real life’ happened and here I am—a lonely forty-three-year-old widow.”
As I sip my wine, I feel his fingers lock together with mine. “Tell me about it. The ‘real life’ part is for shit.” His calloused thumbs traces roughly over the inside of my wrist and goose bumps dot my skin.
“Jimmy was an architect so he had so many plans to make this place into something really special. We were only living here for a few months before he died.”
He smiles sympathetically at me, not a trace of judgment or jealousy in his face as I talk about Jimmy.
“I could help you with some repairs.” He pauses, gauging my reaction. “I already said I don’t have much to do during the day, so it’s not like I don’t have the time.”
“Really?” Suddenly the prospect of doing some work around here seems a lot less daunting. When he nods, laughing softly at my happiness over his offer, I bounce in my seat a little. “That would be . . . I don’t know, like a dream come true. I’ve never known where to start around here and I feel like this house is the one area in my life where I’ve failed. Jimmy wouldn’t have let it get this way.” The tone of my last words holds more sadness than excitement.
“I’m sorry.” His face is twisted in emotion, true compassion for my loss rings out loud and clear. I can hear the anguish of his losses hanging heavily on his words, but I don’t push. I’m ready to open up now, but he might need some more time.
“Thank you. But it happened a long time ago and I’m okay with it now. I’ll never be over him; he’ll always be a part of me, but I guess recently I decided that I needed something that would make me happy.”
“Loss never leaves you, but I’m happy that you are ready to move on.” He cups my jaw and the thumb that was just passing over my wrist is now gently stroking my cheek. Leaning into his touch is impossible to resist—a true force of nature. Even though he hasn’t verbalized it, the look on his face screams that he’s also ready to move on.
Propped up on one elbow, he combs his other hand through my hair, relaxing me despite my racing heart. As he lowers his face to mine, I watch him lick his bottom lip and it makes my breath hitch in my throat. The feel of his body pressing me into the floor as his lips seal over mine ignites a spark I thought was long gone. Grabbing onto his upper arm, I pull him closer to me—impossibly so. Our legs tangle together and the roughness of his dark jeans scratches against my legs deliciously.
His tongue licks into every dip and curve of my mouth and lips, like he’s trying to taste every last inch of me, seeking out every surface of my warm and willing mouth. When I lace my fingers through his soft hair, his chest rumbles in a sound that’s a mixture of pleasure and pain.
“God, Lucy . . . you’re so sweet, so beautiful.” He pulls back from me and stares into my eyes for a few long moments, stroking the flushed surface of my cheek as my fingers dance over his arms and chest.
“You’re pretty stunning too.” I cup his jaw then trace my pointer finger sensually down his neck to the opened collar of his shirt. Pressing my lips against the pulse beating wildly there causes him to growl yet again. His rigid hardness presses into my stomach and I lift my hips to rub against him, needing some kind of friction for the fire he’s started in my body.
Lust and passion take over, and before I realize it, I’ve got the top three buttons of his shirt opened, exposing the light dusting of hair that sweeps across his muscled chest. Planting lush kisses across his collarbone and back up his throat, he thrusts his hips into mine, finally conceding to whatever restraint he thought he needed to keep in place.
Evan glides his hand up my skirt, gripping my upper thigh. His hands are so strong, so deliberate, but also delicate and almost reverential when he touches me. “Your skin is so soft.” His rough grip relaxes as his fingers dance across the flesh of my thighs.
I can’t manage more than a breathless pant and a whispered, “More.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t need to be asked more than once. Removing his hand from my thigh—which leaves me bereft and cold in the wake of his touch—he unclasps the snap at the ruching on my dress and pulls the fabric to the side, leaving me completely exposed, save for my black lace bra and panties.
I feel his eyes roam ravenously over my body, before he gazes into mine. “Is this okay?” His seeking permission makes my insides tremble. “I don’t want to rush this.”
“No . . . please . . . now. Please touch me. I want this. Please don’t stop.” I’m not above begging and I’ve been waiting for this, this intimacy, this heated passion for far too long.
His fingers ghost over my flat stomach and out to the soft flare of my hip, and then dip into the waistband of my panties. A disappointed gasp comes of out my mouth when he moves his hand. “Shh, not yet. I just want to touch you, feel your skin under my fingers. I want to enjoy you.”
He drives me crazy, touching every inch of exposed skin, skimming along the lines of my bra, but never letting my breasts fall free despite the heaviness of their arousal. The confident way of his touch, the sure sound of his words—it all makes me feel like we’ve been here before, like this isn’t new for us, but in so many ways it is.
His lips work their magic following the same pattern his fingers just did. Before kissing the upper swell of my breast, he seeks permission, scanning my face for the slightest nod. The scratch of his stubble reddens my skin. Hot, sweet, wet licks glide along the lace of my bra before his tongue dips under the fabric. Dangerously close to the painfully erect tip, I nearly groan in pleasure, but I bite my lip instead.
His thumb skirts over my chewed-upon lip, pulling it from the grips of my teeth. “Let go, Lucy. Let me just take care of you,” he coaxes gently.
With painstaking precision, he works his way down the rest of my body, stomach, hips, and thighs—making an extra stop to run his nose oh-so closely to my panty line. He takes his time to rub and massage my calves and feet, settling back on his haunches to do so.
I lay there, boneless and completely immobile, the sounds coming out of my mouth just short of groaning. That’s when he settles his solid, jean-covered thigh in between mine. The pressure of his hard muscle creates a forceful and delicious pleasure that I haven’t felt in longer than I care to admit to. Shamelessly, I grind myself against him—and beg.
“Please, Evan. I need to . . . please let me . . .” Never having really developed a sexual openness, I can’t say the word, though “come” is on the tip of my tongue.
He stares at me longingly, cupping my cheek and then stroking his knuckles down the long expanse of my neck, before lightly strumming them over my lace-covered nipple. “Tell me what you need. Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”
“I want you. I want you to make me lose control.” Arching my hips up and grinding against him again, I stare directly into his storm-grey eyes. “Now,” I say, on one last grind.
He mumbles, “Anything for you,” against my lips as he kneads my breast. I arch my back and he unclasps my bra with skill. When my breasts fall free, the warm air of the fire bathes over them, puckering the skin there.
“So beautiful,” he whispers as he nuzzles a hardened point with his nose before latching onto it. Pulling my nipple deep into his mouth, I cry out in pleasure, as I hold his head in place. While his mouth works its magic, his thumb and forefinger pull and twist the other nipple, building a beautiful ache between my legs.
His hands skim my waist, stopping at the thin string of my panties. Slipping his thumbs into the material, he pulls them down my hips, over my thighs and off me completely. I feel the roughness of his hands the entire time—a softly abrasive touch that brings me close to the edge of my sanity.
“My God, you’re gorgeous,” he chokes out as he devours me with his eyes.
“And you’re wearing too many clothes,” I somehow manage to joke through my lusty hunger. His shirt is already most of the way unbuttoned, so he makes quick work of the last few buttons and sheds it. On its own will, my hand immediately goes to his chest; the need to run my fingers across it is overwhelming.
I trace through his chest hair, following the darkening line that falls behind the waistband of his jeans, which hang low on his narrow hips. My hand goes to his side, to that deeply etched V of his abs. “I thought these were fictional. I’d only read about them in books up to this point.”
Shyly, he cants his head to the side as I stare unashamedly at his sculpted body. A few ragged scars mar his six-pack abs—the only imperfection on his otherwise perfect body. His hips jerk when he feels my fingers unsnap the clasp of his jeans. “Is the rest of you that perfect?” My words are coy but bolder than I thought they would be.
“I guess you’ll just have to find out,” he challenges and then wiggles so that his jeans slide down a little lower. He has to stand to take them off all the way, which is perfect for me. Standing completely naked before me, his beauty is mouthwatering. Everything about him is virile and alive, completely masculine and strong. He palms what I assume is a condom before sprawling out next to me.
Laying side by side, curled in each other’s arms, we explore one another with our mouths and hands. He toys with my breasts and nipples as my fingers travel dangerously close to his erection.
“Fuck. If you don’t touch me soon, I’m going to lose it,” he rasps out in a gravelly voice that transforms into a low groan as I wrap my fingers around him. Shoving his full length into my palm, he loses himself to the slow, rhythmic motion. When my thumb passes over the wide crown, spreading the moisture there, he grits out a loud, “Fuck,” before his mouth crashes into mine.
His hand falls to my sex, tracing through the swollen flesh. “I need to t
ouch you,” he mumbles before his finger plunges inside of me. “God, you’re so hot . . . so wet . . . so fucking tight.”
I think I try to speak, but all I can manage is some mumbled combination of groans and moans. When he adds another finger, massaging and readying me, I can barely contain my pleasure. “You, please. I want you.”
He rips the condom opened with his teeth and rolls it over his length, before settling between my spread legs. Sliding his arms under my shoulders, he holds me close to him as he nudges at my entrance. “It’s been so long . . . too long.” I angle my hips up and add, “But I want you so much.”
“I want you too, baby. No more waiting for either of us,” he whispers against my lips as he gently slides into me. It’s a beautifully slick and delicious friction, feeling every rock-hard inch of his length slide into me.
Evan swipes away tears I hadn’t even realized I’d shed as he props himself up on his elbows at either side of my head. “Are you okay, baby?” he asks when he’s completely inside of me.
My palm scrapes against his stubble and my fingers lace into his hair, pulling his lips to mine. “I’m perfect, absolutely perfect,” I reassure him before attacking his lips with my own.
He moves with deliberate slowness, pulling all the way out before sinking back in. As his motion picks up in speed and intensity, he grips my thigh and throws my leg up, hitching it over his hip. The change in the angle hits that sweet spot deep inside. I feel so full that I’m sure my eyes are rolling back in my head.
Through my haze of desire, I feel him shift slightly, wetting the pad of his thumb with his luscious tongue. When he presses it against the throbbing tip of my clit, fireworks ignite in my belly. “Evan . . . oh . . . I can’t . . .”
His thumb moves in alternating patterns of slow circles and rapid flicks. “Yes you can and I’ll take you there. Let go. Let go for me, sweetness.”
The Love Series Complete Box Set Page 99