“You’re sure you still—”
“Yes!” She covered his hand with hers when he was about to pull it away. “Yes, Dalton.” She didn’t want there to be an ounce of doubt she wanted this. With her other hand, she palmed his cheek, pleased to see the question in his eyes transform into determination.
The leather seat creaked as he adjusted his weight and came closer.
“I have a surefire way to help you relax,” he murmured, his fingers still tickling along her belly.
“Oh?” The word was a breath.
That smile again, at once both cunning and confident. He pressed his torso to hers and when she puckered to accept his kiss, he aimed for her neck instead. Openmouthed kisses, his tongue thrusting warm and wet against her skin. She arched her head to give him more access. While he painted patterns on her skin, his hand slipped beneath her shirt, the side of his thumb brushing her bra. Then his hand molded over her breast, and oh, God, she might die.
Before she saw the bright, white light, he nuzzled the underside of her chin and claimed her mouth, kissing her deeply. Those kisses intensified, the stubble on his face raking over her lips at the same moment he slipped his hand into her bra and tweaked one nipple.
A keening moan came from her throat as her hips wiggled. Dalton moved to the other breast briefly before sneaking around her back and opening her bra with the flick of a finger.
Damn. He was good.
He drew her shirt up, head angled to watch her watching him. She took a moment to admire his face in the moonlight. Dark angles and planes, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, his full, damp mouth boasting the hint of a smile.
“Should I take off my shirt?” she asked, her breaths coming out in frantic spurts.
A low laugh echoed from his throat.
“You should let me do the work, Hol. Typically, you would be demurely unsure if you’re going to let me go further, and I would nudge you until you let me.” He gave her that grin again. It’d be the death of her.
“Right. Okay.” She’d been too eager. “I’m not used to guys being this forward.”
“Good.” She could see in his determined expression that he meant it. It made her feel cherished.
“Actually, Dalton? I’m not sure I know how to be demure. I think I’m…aggressive.”
He laughed against her neck, the sound delicious in the enclosed space.
“Then why don’t you be you,” he murmured against her skin, his tongue flicking out to taste her pulse. “This is your fantasy.”
So she unsnapped her jeans and pulled down her zipper.
His eyebrows climbed his forehead, but he didn’t slow. Instead, he slid her shirt up until the cool air abraded her peaked nipples, and closed his mouth over one breast. Her hand on his head, she moaned, satisfied, warmth soaking her below. Goose bumps rose on her skin.
“You’re so beautiful.” He closed his lips over hers again, thumbing her breasts as their kisses grew more and more frantic. She bowed, her hips coming off the car’s seat.
“Dalton, please,” came her hushed whisper.
Then the man of her dreams gave her the reprieve she’d longed for. Hand flat, he wedged his fingers into her panties and stroked her wetness. She bucked, tilting closer to his exploring fingers and giving herself over to the best experience of her life.
So far.
Tight, quiet sounds eked from her throat as he continued to stroke her. She tore off her shirt and bra and he wasted no time moving his lips to her bare breasts again. Sparks ignited on the backs of her eyelids as she felt herself grow closer and closer…
A few wet, slick moments later, she came on a cry—one Dalton swallowed with a kiss. His expert fingers slowed, then rested against her while she writhed, her heart slamming against her rib cage. Lazily, she opened her eyes.
Instead of looking smug, Dalton appeared awed. “Wow.”
“Aren’t I supposed to say that?” she said on a breath, her body pleasantly buzzing.
With one hand, he adjusted himself and she could see he was turned on. She reached for his pants and he shifted away.
“Don’t you want me to—”
“No, Hol. We did what we came for.” He didn’t look the least bit upset about it, though he did look a little pained. Slowly, he moved his lips over hers, splaying his hand over her stomach while the other stayed harmlessly entangled in her hair.
When he pulled away from her mouth, she exuded a little whimper.
“Wow,” she whispered, echoing his sentiment.
He smiled.
“How’d we do?”
“See that steam?” He gestured with his head to the windows now fogged around them. She couldn’t see the world outside.
“We did good.” Holly grinned, inordinately pleased.
“No, honey.” With a quick shake of his head, he disagreed. “You did.”
Chapter 9
HE’D DAMN NEAR canceled his plans tonight with Holly.
Last night, he’d had her breast on his tongue and made her come with his fingers and had to practically limp up the stairs to his apartment when he arrived at home. But his blue balls weren’t the reason he wanted to back out.
It was because after having a taste of her, he wasn’t sure he could walk away. And that was the deal. This arrangement included him walking away.
He hadn’t counted on Holly being a sexual bottle rocket once he lit the fuse. He knew where things were heading, knew how they played out. Tonight he was due at her place. She’d admitted her fantasy was cooking a romantic dinner and then she mentioned a surprise second item on her list and he could guess what that was: him between her legs, those luscious thighs wrapped around his neck.
All girls wanted that, and Dalton happened to be very good at it.
Holly had come to the right guy.
“Thomas!”
Dalton jerked in surprise, raking his pencil down the Brownsboro plans before clasping his jackhammering heart through his shirt. Jace nearly fell into the office laughing. The prick.
“What are you so damn jumpy about?” Jace asked with a grin.
If you only knew. Thank God he didn’t.
“Donuts in the break room. Didn’t want you to miss out.” Jace tapped the doorjamb and swaggered out into the fray. Dalton pushed his hands through his hair, and even though he didn’t want a donut, pushed to standing and followed.
He nearly smacked into Holly.
“Hey, Dalt.” She smiled at him, and he wondered if the way she’d purred that seemed obvious to anyone but him. Her eyelids were lowered, her green eyes sparking. “Need a morning pick-me-up?”
“They’re donuts, not sex,” Jace said with an eye roll.
Dalton’s spine snapped straight. Holly’s mouth smiled broader, her eyebrows lifting as if to ask, Can you believe he said that?
Yeah, he could. Jace was an idiot. A lovable idiot, but still.
In the executive break room, there were plenty of donuts in the white bakery box on the table. Next to it, a carafe of coffee, napkins…and Clark Larson.
Fantastic.
“Hey, Dalton,” he said. “What’s new?”
Other than steaming up the windows with your daughter? Nothing. Nothing at all…
“Holly, honey, good morning.” Clark kissed her head. “You look even more beautiful than usual. Sleep well?”
“Like a baby. Must have been the warm bath I took before bed.” She flashed Dalton bedroom eyes, or, at least to him they looked like bedroom eyes. He dove for a donut and napkin, muttering “thanks” before heading out the door.
“Don’t rush off, Dalton,” Clark said, stopping him in his tracks. “I want to brief you on the Brownsboro Fire Department before our construction meeting this afternoon.”
Boston cream sticking to his fingers, Dalton gave him a tight smile. Holly and Dalton had arranged for volunteer firefighters to perform an open burn on a few of the houses in the worst condition. It was good practice for them, and the easiest way to raz
e the older homes. Dalton hadn’t embraced the idea yet. Something about watching his childhood home go up in flames settled about as well as this conversation.
“Do you want me in on this, Daddy?” Holly asked.
“No, hon. I think we can handle the particulars.”
“All right. I’ll take my cruller and go. See you, Dalt.”
He nodded at her and shot a look at Jace, who froze in place as his eyes went from Dalton to Holly, powdered donut in hand. He reached up and swiped some of the sugar from his mouth, then resumed chewing. Hard to tell if he’d picked up on the tension and was being poker-faced, or if he was clueless, his mind lost on work.
“Jace, are you staying?” Clark asked, taking a seat.
“Yes.” Jace watched as Dalton sank into a chair across from him, never ungluing his eyes from his best bud. “I’m staying.”
Chapter 10
THAT NIGHT, DALTON stood outside Holly’s apartment door, flowers in hand. He’d brought pink roses and had the florist tie them with gold ribbon. Her fantasy involved him performing sexual favors for her, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t looking forward to it.
No matter how awkward it would be to work with Jace tomorrow.
This morning in the break room with Clark, Dalton had been sweating bullets under Jace’s watchful eye. Later, he’d practically sprinted away from his best friend when Jace had asked what time the construction meeting started. After another meeting with Jace, Wendy, and Clark, Dalton felt skittish about his evening with Holly. Jace had to elbow Dalton every so often when Dalt spaced out.
Freaked out was more like it. He was irrationally worried everyone could guess what he and Holly had done in his car. Hell, the moment he’d laid eyes on her this morning, he could see her residual satisfaction. The way her cheeks flushed when she caught his eye, and the spring in her step communicating far and wide that she’d had a really awesome orgasm.
Warm bath, his ass. He was the one who sent her home to have the sweetest dreams imaginable.
He knocked on the door and when it opened, he held up the bouquet. Holly was halfway to the vision he’d expected. Tight red dress, slender gold chain around her neck, tall, sequined red high heels—check, check, and check. However, her waving a dish towel in the air and coughing, her blond hair in disarray, was definitely off script.
“What the hell?” He swiped the dish towel from her hand and rushed into a cloud of smoke. Quickly, he unlatched and opened the windows in her living room. “Open the ones in the bedroom, too!” he shouted over the now bleating smoke detector. She ran off, doing as he suggested as he punched the fan button on the range hood over a pan of charred…something.
Fish, if he could guess by the smell.
A few minutes later, he’d slid the pan from stove to sink and turned on the water full blast. The smoke had cleared from the air and Holly, hair smoothed, walked back into the shared kitchen/living room area looking sheepish.
“What the hell happened?” Dalton asked again, dropping the dish towel on the counter.
“I was trying to cook for you.” She frowned at the pan of ruined…tilapia? swordfish?…whatever it was, and moved past him to the fridge. A plate of prawns ringed a cup of fire-red cocktail sauce. “At least I can’t screw up the shrimp. Just thaw and eat.”
“Seriously?” he couldn’t help asking.
“Yeah, why?” She peeled a layer of cellophane from the dish. “You don’t like shrimp?”
“I’m allergic to shrimp, Hol.” He moved to the stove and clicked off the whirring fan.
“Since when?”
“Birth.”
Her teeth stabbed her lower lip. Too damn cute.
“I’m screwing this up.” All of a sudden she looked hurt. He was quick to go to her, palming her delicate jaw.
He tipped her chin and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Hi.”
Her moss-green eyes closed, and when they reopened were transformed to lust-blown jade.
He kissed her again, this time slipping his hand over her bare back, his fingertips gliding down her spine. Her hands fisted his shirt and the kiss deepened, her teeth raking along his lips like she wanted to maul him.
He could use a little mauling. The soldier in his pants stood and saluted and he backed his hips from hers. Sex was on her list, but not until later. He respected her timing. Or, well, parts of him did.
“In the years since my first playground kiss, Dalton Thomas,” she whispered against his mouth, “no one has ever kissed me like you do.”
He blinked, but before he had a chance to digest her confession, her eyes and mouth popped wide.
“Oh! I have escargot.” She brightened, turned him loose, and went to the fridge. She returned with a plate of snails and slid them next to another platter he hadn’t noticed until just now. “And caviar and those crisp soda crackers you like.”
More like those dry, bland crackers he didn’t like.
“So there’s a sea life theme tonight.” He hated seafood. But after the fish and the shrimp incident, he wouldn’t break her heart by telling her that. She was trying to make this special, and he didn’t want to take that from her.
“I’ve seen you eat a million of these at my parents’ parties.” She lifted a cracker to his mouth and he swallowed in preparation for the worst taste ever. He had eaten a million soda crackers and caviar for one reason: He hadn’t wanted to be rude and turn down the food the Larsons had served. A guy from Brownsboro wasn’t much on caviar. Or fish, unless it was beer battered.
He choked the cracker down, chewing as quickly as possible and turning for the fridge when his eyes watered. No beer, but there was a bottle of champagne. It’d have to do.
He twisted the cork while Holly protested that was for “later.” He only shook his head, trying to keep the caviar down, and finally she caved and proffered two slender flutes. A mouthful of champagne later, Dalton drew in a breath, secure the caviar would not make an unwelcome reappearance.
Holly sipped her own sparkling wine, then pressed her lips together.
“You don’t like caviar.” Her eyes went to the other tray. “And escargot?”
He shook his head ruefully.
“Totally screwing this up,” she mumbled.
No, she wasn’t. He wouldn’t let her.
“If anyone is screwing up, it’s me. I’m an unrefined pig. How about pizza? My treat.”
He should never be allowed to have dinner with this kind of girl. But then she laughed and he remembered this was Holly. The same girl who’d had a Mountain Dew–chugging contest with him. The same girl who pelted him with Smarties when he bet her he could catch ten in a row with his mouth.
He’d caught eleven.
That same girl looked at him now with mirth dancing in her eyes, sexy and easygoing, even when she was bedecked in elegance. “Pizza sounds perfect.”
Chapter 11
SCENTED CANDLES FLICKERED on the stovetop and end tables and Dalton had taken out the trash holding the burned mahi-mahi. The air smelled less of fish and more like vanilla, so Holly reasoned the evening wasn’t a total bust. Her cat, Samosa, dove under the bed the second Dalton knocked on the door. Given the smoke alarm and lit flames, Holly doubted he’d come out anytime soon.
True to his word, Dalton had ordered two pizzas: one with double cheese and pineapple for her, and one with pepperoni and mushrooms for him. She’d sneaked a pepperoni off his slice as they watched a movie, and an exchanged heated glance reassured her that while the romance may have been murdered, the evening had been salvaged.
Item number two awaited…
He’d swapped the champagne for cans of beer found in the back of her fridge, left over from the day he and Jace had moved her in. Dalton finished his beer now, putting a fist over his mouth to swallow a belch.
“Shit. Sorry. Told you I was a pig. I guess I’m supposed to be your Don Juan DeMarco.” He pointed to the television screen. Johnny Depp’s sorrowful brown eyes had nothing on Dalton’s penetratin
g blues.
“You’re not supposed to be my Don Juan.” She rolled her eyes. It was enough for Dalton to be himself. For him to be here with her.
He rubbed his hands together and turned toward her where she lounged on the couch. “Okay. Let’s hear the next item on your list.”
“Maybe we should try a different night? Things have gone a little less than perfect.”
“But I can guess what you want. And lucky for you, I’m excellent at it.” He took the pillow from her clutches and tossed it to the floor.
She believed it. He was excellent at everything she’d done with him so far. He came over her, hands pushing into the cushions at either side of her hips. His mouth covered her pulse point and she tugged at his T-shirt.
“Wait,” she said, her throat tight.
He paused and backed his face away so he could focus on her.
“Item number two on my list is something I want to, ah…”—she cleared her throat—“try for the first time. Ever.”
“No one’s ever gone down on you?” Confusion colored his features.
She erased it by palming his crotch. She found a stiff ridge beneath the rough scrape of denim. He grunted, mouth dropping open.
“I want to taste you, Dalton.”
He grew harder against her palm.
“Hol,” he rasped. But he didn’t move her hand, and he didn’t argue. He froze over her like he didn’t know what to do next.
“It’s on my list,” she said. “And I want you to teach me how.”
God Almighty.
He couldn’t let her do it.
Could he?
No, no. Definitely not.
Shit.
Oh, he wanted her to do it, wanted to watch her blond head move down his body, catch those moss-colored eyes watching him while he thrust into her m—
“All right,” he said, the words propelling him away from her. He stood from the couch and blew out a quick breath to cleanse his terminally filthy mind. Then he picked up the pizza boxes and the beer cans and started…cleaning.
50 Hidden Desires Page 4