by Sarra Cannon
He had locked himself in the bathroom.
“Matthew? I have medicine. Are you all right?”
He groaned, and her chest tightened slightly. What if he’d fallen, what if he’d hit his head?
“Can you let me in?”
“Not a chance,” he mumbled, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Don’t be a proud,” she chastised. “Let me in.”
But all she heard in response was another sickening splash as he vomited again. She waited. The toilet flushed. And then again. Finally, the latch to the bathroom door clicked. She pushed the door open and found him lying on the floor, propped against the wall, head resting on the porcelain edge of the bathtub. His face was sweaty and grey. She filled a glass with water and knelt beside him, holding out the pills and the glass with one hand and pressing the back of her other hand to his forehead. He was hot, close to burning, and his body shuddered at her touch.
“Food poisoning,” she said, as he sipped the water and forced down the pills. “It came on fast. Maybe it was the lobster soup you ate - I didn’t have any of that.”
He nodded silently. “I’m sorry about this,” he mumbled, his throat dry and his voice hoarse. “Definitely not how I planned tonight to go.”
“How did you plan tonight to go?” She let her hand slip into his hair, and he leaned into her touch.
“You, me, the Westie. The beach. Alone. I wanted—” He broke off, shaking his head.
Her face heated. Once she’d gotten over the fears that were eating at her, about Louisa, about being aimless, she’d realized where the night was headed. But the idea that he was planning something as elaborate and romantic as making love on the beach, after what she’d told him about needing more than just a one-sided quickie in the Westie…
He cleared his throat. “I wanted to take my time.”
She melted. Damn him.
“It’s all right,” she said, settling on the floor beside him. “We have time.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Can’t remember the last time I was sick.”
“Maybe we need to slow down. Just a little. It’s been a hectic few days.”
He sipped from the glass of water again. “Maybe.”
He tugged her close and she rested her head on his chest, taking comfort in the steady thrum of his heartbeat. There would be time, later, for all the things he’d planned. They had all of the time in the world—they had forever.
Chapter 24
Hallie woke to darkness and an empty bed. She vaguely remembered moving from the bathroom floor to the bedroom and falling asleep with his arms around her. She breathed deeply and stretched beneath the sheets. She was still wearing her coral sundress, which had bunched around her waist.
Someone was moving around in the dark—zipping up something, maybe a bag, near the door to their room.
She shifted, then sat up, straightening her dress. “Matthew? What are you doing?”
Matthew was quiet. Then he came and sat beside her, the weight of him dipping the mattress by her hip.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said. “I just… couldn’t sleep.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Much. It passed after a few hours.” He stroked his hand along her calf, his touch gentle but firm through the sheets. “You feeling okay, too? Not sick?”
She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was only two in the morning. And God, why did his touch feel like coming home? It settled her, even when she didn’t realize she was unsettled.
She caught his hand where he was smoothing the covers over her knee. “No. And I’m not sleepy anymore, either,” she murmured, into the darkness.
“No?”
“I’m wide awake. And, you know, the beach is probably lovely and quiet at this hour.”
In the silence and darkness, his breathing quickened. His hand slid upward, to her hip and then across her stomach. “I’m sure it is. Want to go take a look?”
Her heart felt fluttery and warm. “I think it’s the smart thing, really. Just to see.”
His lips touched her temple, hot and tender.
“Yes. Just to see.”
— —
They drove the Westie away from town, but they didn’t have to go far to find a secluded, quiet stretch of beach, an enclosed place to park among the dunes. Halle kicked off her sandals and strolled along the edge of the tide, while Matthew propped open the back of the Westie and converted the backseat into a mattress, complete with checkered sheets and soft blankets and the pillows she’d brought from home. She watched him work, enamored by the way he fluffed the pillows and arranged the blankets. For her. For them. When he was done, he sat on the back of the Westie and watched her wade into the water; she waved, knowing how dorky she looked—and knowing he didn’t care.
When she jogged over to him, he captured her around the waist, pulling her in for a quick kiss. The sensation of his lips on hers made her toes curl, and sand squished between them.
“Do we have towels?” she asked. “For my feet, before I get in…”
He turned, lifting her onto the Westie, and tugged some towels out of the nearest cabinet. She bit her lip to keep from laughing as he cleaned the sand off her feet, then hooked one foot over his shoulder and pressed fluttery kisses all along the inside of her other ankle.
“You’re insane,” she said, as he kissed his way up her calf. She scooted backward into the Westie, over the pillows he’d placed at the opening. He followed her in, dropping her legs.
“Takes one to know one,” he said. And he was right—they were crazy, the both of them. Their lives were crazy and she didn’t want it any other way.
With a deep breath to calm the fluttering in her belly, she turned and lay back against the pillows. The ocean breeze ruffled the hair on her forehead, and she waited for him to lie beside her and resume his teasing kisses. But he didn’t.
She sat up. He was sitting crosslegged in the middle of the van and leaning back, rummaging in the mini fridge.
“What’re you doing?” she asked, feeling a little put-out. Not to mention self-conscious, a tiny seed of nervousness planted and growing in her belly.
He emerged with a bottle of champagne—the one from the hotel. She relaxed a little. He didn’t miss a thing.
“I forgot cups, though,” he said apologetically, and she waited while he removed the cork, then passed the bottle to her. She drank gratefully. Cool sweet bubbles flowed over her tongue, the slight citrus and alcohol flavor melding perfectly with the taste of the ocean air.
They passed the bottle back and forth. But after a couple of sips, her stomach felt sort of floaty and warm, so she stopped and stretched her legs out, leaning back on her palms. Behind her, the waves washed against the shore in a steady, rocking rhythm.
“This is… really nice,” she said, unsure how to proceed. It was so much easier when his hands were on her, when he was kissing and teasing her senseless. But he had dialed things way back. He was waiting for her to make the next move, which sent curious ripples of nerves through her.
He set the bottle aside, then met her gaze, his blue eyes bright in the darkness. Focused.
“You’re really nice,” he said, matter-of-factly. She rolled her eyes.
“Gee, thanks.”
“All right, fine. You’re lovely. Beautiful.”
“Don’t be corny.”
“It’s not corny if I mean it.”
With a great resigned sigh (which made the corners of his mouth twitch), she climbed on her knees and crossed the few inches that separated them. He stretched out his legs, grinning as she straddled him, her heart pounding. Don’t stop. It was her move; she knew that. He was letting her take, this time. Keep going.
His fingertips trailed down her sides, and she tried not to shiver, not to let him distract her, gripping his broad shoulders and pressing her lips to his ear instead.
“Do you mean it?”
He swallowed
hard. “Of course I do, Hallie.” She closed her eyes at the way his voice curled warmly around her name.
“You’re not lying?” she whispered, kissing her way down his clean-shaven jaw, then suckling lightly at the corded muscles where his neck sloped downward. His breathing hitched.
“I’m not lying.”
He tilted his head back to allow her better access, drawing his knees up behind her, boxing her in. He smelled clean, like the ritzy herbal hotel soap, and the hair at the base of his neck was still damp from his shower. She tangled her fingers in it and grazed her teeth along the column of his throat, which drew a warning growl from his chest.
“Hallie.”
His fingers faltered, but stayed their course, stroking up and down her sides, traveling just high enough to tickle before darting downwards again. She kissed her way back up his jaw. And when she finally shivered, when her kiss wavered, he smiled.
“Tease,” she muttered, pulling his shirt up to expose his abdomen.
“I’m the tease?”
She laughed breathlessly and pushed his shirt higher. The ocean breeze swept up her legs. Then he reached back over his shoulders, tugging the shirt forward over his head and tossing it aside in that way only men do… and as he straightened, the sight of his bare torso in front of her, his chest heaving, muscles rippling as he shifted, drew her up short. She bit her lip, hesitating, palms tingling with the need to touch him.
But Matthew didn’t wait. His every movement was fluid and strong, from the way he shifted her in his lap to the ease with which he slid his hands around her waist, curled his fingers in her dress and lifted it up over her head. In comparison to him, she felt clumsy but earnest, and when his hands returned to her waist, his thumbs rubbing over her bare stomach, she froze, unable to think of anything but the pudgy softness he warmed with his touch. Her heart sped up as she forced herself to look up at him.
She shouldn’t have worried. His eyes were blazing, devouring the sight of her in her matching nude lace, his hands sliding upward to cup her breasts and then down to stroke the swell of her hips. He touched her with reverence, so gentle it almost hurt.
Her throat ached, but whether with fear or desire, she didn’t know.
“Matthew, I—”
His hands stilled, and he dragged his gaze back to hers.
“We can stop anytime,” he murmured. “We can stop.”
Her hands shook. With a kiss to her forehead, he resumed tracing his fingers all over her body, turning her into a shivery, sensitive mess of goosebumps. Of course she didn’t want to stop. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t still nervous as hell. It was different, doing this with him. With someone who knew her so throughly, inside and out. To distract herself, she focused instead on his lean, golden brown torso, on the rise and fall of his chest, and she ran her fingers over his pecs, through the dusting of dark hair on his chest that led downward…
Suddenly, she could imagine nothing else but the sight of him moving over her, looking down at her with those penetrating blue eyes, all of his delicious muscles flexing as he slid into her, watching for her reaction…
With a sharp intake of breath, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. She wanted this. Wanted him. All of him. His hard planes against her soft curves. The sensation of falling, of being overwhelmed. The taste of him in her mouth, the feel of him inside her, the scent of him all around her. She wanted to curl up inside him and never leave.
She kissed her way down his neck, then his chest, suckling lightly at his nipples and shuddering when he groaned. The width of the Westie was small; she sprawled herself lengthwise so there was room for them both, for her to hover over his cock while he leaned against the wall. He stroked her neck and back as she moved, then brushed the hair from her face and drew figure-eights down her arm. But the more she kissed him, the less focused his teasing strokes became, and a little triumph stirred in her belly because he was losing it, losing his composure at last, for her. He was becoming the earnest young man who loved and needed love, and this—this was the Matthew she could handle.
And then she was there, at his waistband. She unbuttoned his jeans and tugged impatiently, encouraging him to lift his hips and wriggle out of them. Which he did. Quickly, with his boxer-briefs following after. He kicked them off and settled with his back against the wall of the Westie, his smile easy but his eyes blazing.
For a moment, her mind jammed. Stalled at the sight of him, long and solid and strong, his cock bobbing upward, toward her, over thighs that were broad and firm and flexing. When she’d done this before it had been with boys, but this was a man - a man’s body. She let out a long exhale. God, he was perfect. And all hers. With a deep breath, she slid her hand up his thigh delicately, gently, feeling him tense—and took him in her hand. He exhaled too. Then she stroked lightly, tightening her grip, and he shuddered, his gasp morphing into a desperate moan.
“Angel,” he breathed, his voice lower than usual. He was coming apart. Slowly but surely. The fist curled at his hip flexed as she pumped him, and then he buried his hand in her hair. For one wild moment she imagined him pushing her head down, urging her to take him in her mouth, and—her face flamed. She imagined the taste of him, the feel of this warm velvety flesh against her lips….
With a deep breath, lowered her mouth to him. His loud groan shook her, made her shiver right down to her toes. Yes. She laved a trail of wet kisses along the underside of his cock, tasting the salty smoothness of his skin—nuzzling her nose into the curls at his base, trailing her tongue over the seam of his balls, then tracing the veins roping around his shaft. She hadn’t done this much—once or twice, with an old boyfriend her senior year of high school—but her hunger for Matthew was more than enough to push aside her insecurities. She drew little circles with her tongue around the tip of him, and his abdomen tightened.
It was different, wasn’t it, kissing and sucking the cock of the man who loved you, making him groan and grunt in pleasure. Each sound he made, every labored breath, reverberated down her spine, straight to her core; each moan was a little reward that drove her higher, spurred her on. She looked up at him, delighting in the way his chest heaved, the way his blue eyes grew heavy lidded and his hand fisted gently in her hair, unwilling to force her deeper but unable to pull her away.
Inhaling through her nose, she tried to relax her nerves. She mouthed the head, licking beads of come from the tip, then sucked him as deep as she could, moaning along with him as he slid over her lips, filling her. She set up a slow rhythm, drawing him in and out, and his hands grew restless, caressing her wherever he could reach, making her squirm as she sucked him. He was smooth and hot and hard, his flesh delicate and pulsing against her tongue, the flavor of his skin mingling with the scent of wet sand and ocean air… She wondered if her own taste was this intoxicating to him, and her mouth watered—she couldn’t swallow—
And then his grasp tightened in her hair and he urged her up, off of him. His face was flushed, his eyes dark and endless.
“You’re going to make me lose it,” he growled, crushing his lips to hers in another drugging kiss. He kissed her hard, furiously, before softening his touch and pulling away. She panted, her mind paralyzed with arousal. He pressed his hands to either side of her head and looked at her, exasperated.
“You’re killing me, Hallie. Give me my turn.”
She licked her lips, irrationally hungry for more of him. “Yes,” she replied breathlessly, “I think you’ve had enough.”
He laughed, kissing her again, pressing her back against the pillows. She tried to tug a blanket over her, but it had caught under them; she held the corner to her chest instead, trying to steady her breathing. But he brushed it aside as he settled over her, leaning on one forearm and arranging her splayed hair so he wouldn’t accidentally lean on it. She giggled at his focus, and he tapped her on the nose, raising one eyebrow.
“Are you laughing at me?”
Damn, his grin was pe
rfect. Devilish, maddening. He didn’t wait for her answer.
She sighed as he lowered his lips to her neck, nibbling over all the sensitive spots he’d already learned. His tongue tickled and teased; he nipped and soothed his way up her jaw, then suckled on her earlobe and peppered her forehead and cheeks with kisses as he worked his way to the other side. She stroked over his back and sides, the way he had done to her so many times before, and when she caressed the small of his back he jolted—the hum in his throat rumbling against her ear as he kissed her, sending shivers down her own side. A chain reaction of erotic pleasure. She wanted more, needed his hands everywhere, needed him to soothe the heat at her core and aching sensitivity of her breasts.
As she arched toward him, he slipped his hands behind her, still sucking at her bottom lip, and unhooked her bra. He tasted so good - sweet and intoxicating, like the champagne—but it didn’t compare to the way his roughened palms felt as they swept over her breasts, warming and stroking her until the gentle pleasure was both too much and not enough. She cried out, breaking their kiss, but he didn’t stop, didn’t falter, merely kissing his way down her neck and through the valley between her breasts, then down to her stomach, where she stiffened, tangling her hands into his hair and trying to urge him back up to her breasts.
Matthew stopped, pulling back with a look of reproach in his eye. She stilled, biting her lip, frozen and anxious under his steady gaze. Then he reared back to kneel between her thighs and gathered up her legs, resting them on his shoulders, like he’d done before when he cleaned the sand from her feet. She tried to steady her breathing—but then he leaned forward, hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties, and pulled them off, and she gasped. The cool air washed over her, where she was so hot and wet. Without prelude, without pretense, he rubbed his finger through her folds, that single touch both soothing and electrifying. He dipped inside her ever so slightly, coaxing a whimper from her lips. Then, with a smile, he kissed her ankle, and she thought she might cry, so exposed and vulnerable did she feel beneath his gaze, at the mercy of his touch.