She hesitated for one second, and that was when Ingrid looked up and saw her. Her bee-stung lips compressed, and she flicked her hair back over her shoulder.
It was the hair flick that did it. Dakota’s chin went up. And Blake’s hand was on her hip, his voice in her ear.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Straight on through like the warrior queen you are.”
Dakota did it. She put every bit of assurance she had into it, too. Her legs were long, and she used every inch to glide right past Steve and Ingrid and to the table where the hostess had stopped. A corner table. The best table. When she got there, she sat down, crossed her legs, and shoved her hair back over her shoulder.
I can flick too, she thought. And I’m in the Fischer Gallery. Watch my smoke.
If that hadn’t been satisfaction enough, there was the look in Blake’s eyes. He took care of business first, because that was Blake. “I think we’re going to need a cold bottle of that Reserve Chardonnay of yours right quick,” he told the hostess.
“You bet,” the hostess said with the enthusiasm of a woman who’d been tipped very well in the past and knew there was more in her future. “Coming right up.”
She took off, and Blake made it even better. “I didn’t think I could like you any more or want you worse than I already did. I was wrong.”
“Are they looking over?”
“Yep.” He took her hand across the table and slowly threaded his fingers through hers. “And that woman’s so jealous right now, it’s turning her eyes green.”
“She thought she had the pick of Wild Horse. Turns out she’s got an also-ran.”
“That’s not why she’s jealous. She’s jealous because you’ve got what she’ll never have, and it ain’t Steve Sawyer.”
“Oh, yeah? So you mean, not you?”
“Oh, no. That’s not what I mean. I mean style you can’t buy. I mean strong to the core and kind to the heart and loyal to the bone. I mean more woman than she’ll ever be if she lives to be a hundred.”
She couldn’t breathe. “If you talk like that, I’ll…” And then she couldn’t think what to say.
Blake lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I don’t even need you to finish that sentence. We’re just going to sit here and have our dinner, and we’re not going to worry about what anybody else thinks or what anybody else says. It’s not about them. It’s about us.”
After that, he set out to make her forget that there was anybody else on that patio. He made her laugh, and he looked into her eyes, and when she was sipping at the remains of her second glass of wine and shoving her hair over her shoulder again, he looked at the chain in her ear, sighed, and said, “You know what, darlin’, I think we’d better be heading on home real soon, because I’ve got a long, slow date with your body tonight.”
“Oh?” He didn’t look impatient. He was sitting back, one elbow across the back of his chair, the other hand twirling the stem of his wine glass, his legs stretched out in front of him. “Is your knee all better?”
“My knee’s going to do what I tell it to. And the headboard of my horrible bed is all these branches. You ever notice that?”
A shiver went all the way through her body, and he sat there and watched it happen. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve had this vision ever since I swam with you that first day. Well, you could call it a vision.”
Her eyes were narrowing even as she fought the smile. “Or we could call it a fantasy.”
“Doesn’t sound nearly as high-minded, though.”
“Uh-huh.” She took another sip of the kind of wine that made you think of hot summer days with the buzz of a lawnmower somewhere in the sleepy distance. Of a hammock in the trees and cool, starlit nights. Of lying on a blanket on the grass with your legs tangled up with somebody you loved and his hand drifting up under the hem of your shirt. Or of driving across a lake in the purple twilight wearing a pretty yellow dress, with a man behind the wheel who would take you away from it all.
Or maybe that wasn’t the wine.
“So tell me,” she said, drawing a languid finger around the rim of her glass. “What’s the vision? Make it about me, though, because I’m the jealous type. If you slip up and put a blonde in it, it’s not happening.”
“I’m never going to put a blonde in it. Nobody but you. Starts with me taking off your librarian glasses.”
Well, that was sexy. Not. “So far,” she said, “this isn’t going too well. Not looking too likely, I mean. I’m not wearing the glasses tonight. Maybe you didn’t notice.”
He had that smile in his eyes again. “I noticed. Do you want to hear my vision or just rain on my parade?”
She waved a magnanimous hand. She might have been the tiniest bit drunk. That tended to happen when you painted like crazy for nine hours straight so you could rush home and get beautiful for your customer before he saw you in your overalls and paint cap and the mood died right there. “Go ahead.”
He looked around, then got up and moved his wine glass over a place, kicked the chair out, and sat beside her. “Now,” he sighed, “this is so much better. Especially since this next part gets a little dirty.”
She expected him to hold her hand. He didn’t. He just bent his head closer and said, his voice so thrillingly low, sending spirals of desire all the way to her core, “In the next part, you’re on your knees on my bed, and I’m taking off your shirt, watching you in that big mirror of mine. Got a couple candles lit, too, and, baby—your skin looks so pretty in the candlelight. I’m pulling that shirt right over your head and going for your bra. When that comes off…” He sighed. “That’s even better. And then I’ve got my thumb on those silver buttons of yours. Those jeans are real, real low, and my hand’s right there. Pop: one button goes. Pop: there’s the second one. And then there’s number three. And all of a sudden, there’s just some smooth, warm, wet Dakota Savage. All for me, and I’ve got my hand exploring all of her, too, because in this fantasy, darlin’, sorry to say, you aren’t wearing any underwear.”
She swallowed, and knew he was watching her do it. “Well, as it happens… you might be right. It’s… ah… more stimulating, you know. And I thought you might want to…”
She saw his eyes go wide for just a moment, and she had to smile. Slow and sexy, and her hand was caressing the stem of her wineglass now. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Because I’ll tell you a secret.” She leaned in and whispered it. “I want to please you. I want to push you. I want to make you lose control.” And then she leaned back and asked, “So tell me. What happens next?”
If she’d thrown him off-balance, it hadn’t been for long. He was running his hand along her arm, which was resting on the table. Just that barest touch along the sensitive skin of her inner forearm, and the shiver was starting somewhere down deep. She could swear he could feel it, too. “Well, I tell you what, darlin’, since you asked so nicely. I’ve got you on your knees on my bed, topless, and I’ve got my hand in your jeans, working you up real good. Your hair’s falling all around your face and down your back, and your mouth’s open, because you’re breathing hard. I’m getting you closer and closer. And then I’m taking my hand away.”
She took a sip of wine and crossed her legs, trying to soothe the ache. And Blake sent his hand along her arm again. Wrist to elbow, the lightest, slowest touch. “And after that,” he went on, his molasses voice rich and dark, “I’m pulling those tight jeans down that gorgeous ass. Right on down to your knees, and I’m pushing you onto your back. Those jeans are coming all the way off. That’s when you find out what the branches are for, because, sweetheart…” He sighed. “I might have to tie you up tonight.”
It was going to happen right here. She was going to have an orgasm at this table. She was squeezing her thighs together, and squeezing everything else, too. She couldn’t help it. “You… might?”
“Oh, yeah, baby. I might.” He drank the rest of his wine and raised a hand for the check. “Corner to corner. You’re
spread out for me, and you look real good that way. I’ve got you all night long. Ready for anything I want.”
That was when the waitress showed up. Blake smiled at her, tucked his credit card into the leather folder, handed it back to her, and said, “I’d sure appreciate it if you’d run that real fast for me. I’m in a little bit of a hurry.’
When they walked through the restaurant again, Blake’s hand was on the small of her back. Right there on the side where her shirt was cut the highest, so his fingertips were grazing bare skin, and those tingles were spreading everywhere. Her hips were swaying, and she knew her pupils must be dilated like saucers. She was living, breathing sexual need.
He opened her car door, then went around to his own side and climbed into the SUV. He started it up and said, “Fasten your seatbelt.”
She stared at him. “That’s it? You’re going to wind me up like that and then not kiss me?”
He was trying to hide his smile, and he wasn’t doing well enough. “I’m saving you up,” he told her, swinging out into the sparse traffic of Wild Horse and heading for the lake road. “I don’t want you to get diluted.”
Her mouth was opening, and she snapped it shut. “Excuse me? You’re saving me up?”
“Now, sweetheart,” he said, “this is where you’re just going to have to defer to the master, trust that I know a little bit better than you how to do this. If you’re going to be putting yourself under my control and all.”
“Did I say I was going to be doing that?”
He got the green on the last stoplight and started around the lake. “Didn’t you? Or was that somebody else getting those shivers? If you’re not going to be showing me how you’re feeling, darlin’, you really shouldn’t wear such a skimpy little bra.”
“You are…” She was still turned on beyond belief, but she was working up some outrage, too. “Where does my part of the deal come in?”
He sighed. “Now, see, I thought I made that clear. Your part of the deal is in offering up all of that pretty body of yours to me. Your part of the deal is those little whimpers you do, and the way you squirm. As much as you’re going to be able to squirm when your wrists are tied to my bed and I’m holding you that hard, because you’re going to spend a long, long time tonight with my hands on your thighs, spreading you open. Your part of the deal is to come hard for me and turn over when I tell you to. That’s your part of the deal.”
He was pulling into his driveway, swinging around the turns, hitting the button for the garage. She said, putting all her sweetness into it, “Are you sure about that? Sure that’s what you want?”
“Oh, yeah, baby,” he said, closing the garage door behind them. “I’m real sure.”
“Then,” she said, “you should think about one thing.” She was unfastening her seatbelt, and so was he.
“What’s that?”
“How fast you can run.”
With that, she was tumbling out of the car, running for the garage door. She could hear the explosion of his curse behind her and the sound of his car door slamming, and she laughed. “Kinda slow, aren’t you?” she said over her shoulder as she headed into the house. “Shame about your knee.”
Then she took off. Through the laundry room, then into the kitchen. She could hear him coming through the door behind her, and she picked up the pace. It wasn’t easy to run in platform heels, but she did it. She swung around the kitchen island, then hung onto it and watched him.
“Not fast enough,” she told him, and she was in the dining room now, across the expanse of all that stone and into the living room. Past the antler-legged coffee table and the giant couches to the stairway. Up the first flight to the landing. The sound of his breathing behind her. Getting closer.
He caught her halfway up from the landing. A hard arm around her waist, and she was turning, twisting. Being tackled.
“Got—” she began to say. Got me. But she didn’t get the chance. She was sliding down one step, then two, on her hands and knees. One of Blake’s hands was still around her waist, the other one pulling her shirt up. Yanking it over her head, then unhooking her bra with one deft hand and shoving it down her arms.
She started to turn, to say something. Let’s go upstairs, or Slow down, big boy, or something. He said, “No,” and he was shoving her back down. Then both his hands were on her breasts, and his mouth was in the hollow of her spine, between her shoulder blades, kissing her there, making her weak.
He pulled her down, and she went. Bumping on her knees, one more step, then two. She was on the landing, her hands still two steps above her, braced against the edge of the step. And he was unbuttoning her jeans, yanking them down her legs. All the way to her ankles. His hand was there, then, so hard and so urgent, and she was lost.
Dakota. Hanging onto the carpeted step, her jeans pulled all the way down. He was shoving her knees apart with one hand, had the other one diving between her legs, rubbing hard.
No teasing this time. Nothing but now. She was pushing into his hand, panting, starting to call out. His palm was on the curve of her ass, urging her to open up more, and she was going. He had to… he had…
A hasty hand to unbuckle his belt, pull down his zipper, free himself. And Dakota on her hands and knees, rocking back and forth, asking for him.
He entered her hard, and she cried out. He was past hearing. He was hauling her hips back with one hand, the other hand on her again, driving her up with him. Higher and higher. Almost… there.
“Come on,” he got out. “Come on, Dakota. Give it up. Give it to me.” And she was going up, spiraling. Her sweet hips pumping, her hands shoving off like she was the one riding him. Like she was going to swallow him down.
He took her hard. He took her deep. She took it all.
It was like she’d been struck by lightning. She was wrecked, her breath coming in shuddering gasps as the remains of the tremors rippled through her body. And she was sprawled under Blake with her jeans around her ankles, hobbled in every possible way.
“Uh…” he said at last, then swore. “Wait.” He was working on the straps of her sandals, taking off her shoes, pulling her jeans the rest of the way off her, then standing up and taking her with him. “Come on.”
He had all his clothes on, and she was naked. He had his arm around her, taking her up the stairs, into his bedroom. He switched on the light by the bed, then fell onto the bed with her, wrapped her up tight, and kissed her, long and slow and sweet.
“OK?” he asked, brushing her hair out of her face. “Sorry. I didn’t… I shouldn’t have… That was too rough.”
She smiled. She couldn’t have done anything else. “Wow. You’re so much more than I bargained for.”
He laughed, and it wasn’t very steady. “It was the running. You flipped my switch all the way to ‘linebacker.’ That was a sack all the way, and it felt so good to be the one doing it. You OK?”
“Yeah.” It was barely a breath. She had a hand on his cheek, was kissing his mouth. “I’m OK. You probably killed your knee, though. And you know what you do for me? You push my buttons. Every single time.”
He sighed, rolled onto his back, and pulled her to lie on top of him. “That’s because I love your buttons. But darlin’.” His eyes, his voice were sober now. “I messed up on the condom.”
“Oh.” A low, sickening lurch of fear. “Uh… I’ve been checked. But you…”
“Nah.” His hand was stroking over her back, now, soothing her. “I’m all clean. Nobody gets tested more than an NFL player, and lately, seems I’ve been waiting for you. But what about birth control?”
Her heart had long since begun to pound. “No. I’m not… I haven’t been on anything. I haven’t been… it’s been a while since I’ve needed it. I was planning to go to the doctor soon, once I finished your house. I should be all right, though. It’s… I’m past the midpoint of my cycle. So I should be all right.”
He rolled them again, braced himself on an elbow, and brushed the back of his hand over
her cheek in one of those tender gestures that devastated her. “You’re all right no matter what. Just tell me. It was my fault.”
She nodded, suddenly too close to tears. The residue of the evening, of too much emotion and too much sensation.
Too much Blake.
Dakota spent the night, which was nice. Or necessary. Blake didn’t want to admit how much he’d missed her the past couple nights. How could you get that used to somebody in such a short time?
It was the life change, he decided. In his playing days, he’d never been around enough to get into that kind of habit.
And then there was breakfast out on the deck on Saturday morning, with her wearing one of his white dress shirts and absolutely nothing else. That was good in a whole different way.
He said, “I had a thought, darlin’, about that problem of yours.”
She smiled lazily at him and adjusted her legs a little more comfortably across his lap. Which meant that he had to adjust his hand a little more comfortably up her leg, too. A polite man kept his left hand off the table. She asked, “What problem is that? My orgasm deficiency? Good news. I’m cured.”
He gave her a slap on the thigh. “It’s a miracle. But we’ll keep after it. Complacency is the enemy of consistency.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you make that up?”
He thought about it. “I guess I did. I’m getting smarter every day. And here’s the problem I was thinking about. You want to get my house finished before you start up on the art, because you’ve got this annoying stubbornness about you.”
“Yep, I do like to fulfill my contracts. Call me crazy.”
“So how about if I help? Here we are, got the weekend. We could have a paint date. It’s probably a thing.”
“Except that you’re paying me to do it, and that’s what’s paying for my Glass Vacation.”
“Call it an apprenticeship. You know you’d love to boss me around.”
Which she did. Who knew that there was a right way and a wrong way to paint? He did, pretty much in the first hour. He got a whole lot messier than she did, too. His sole source of comfort was heading over to her ladder at noon and lifting her right off it. Which made her squeak, which was fun.
Silver-Tongued Devil (Portland Devils Book 1) Page 31