Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel

by Virginia Kantra

  The idea that she should please herself, that she could indulge herself, that she deserved to enjoy herself, felt wrong. Wicked. Seductive.

  Shifting her hold, she caught Gabe’s hand in both of hers and sucked his thumb into her mouth, salt and chocolate, rough and smooth, creamy and hard melting together.

  He choked out a curse, moving his hand to cradle her breast, teasing the tip with his wet thumb until it puckered for him, tight and rosy, and then he plumped up her breast and sucked it into his mouth.

  Her body clenched, arching to give him better access as he worked her with soft pulls. Need spiraled deep in her belly. He suckled one breast and then the other, alternating smears of cool, smooth cream with the warm, greedy pressure of his mouth. She grabbed at his hair, like damp silk between her fingers. Clutched at his T-shirt, dragging it up to run her hands over the hot, smooth skin of his back. He lifted her up, her bare bottom on the stainless steel worktable.

  She yelped.

  He stilled. “Too much?”

  She smiled in apology. “Too cold.”

  He laughed. “Right.” Stepping back, he stripped his T-shirt over his head.

  She swallowed. His body was lean and hard all over, his chest lightly dusted with dark hair.

  He caught her staring and grinned.

  Heat scalded her.

  “You are so sweet,” he murmured. “I want to taste all of you. All over.”

  She jerked in shock and arousal. “Um . . .”

  His eyes were bright and devilish. “Not in the plan?”

  “Well . . .”

  His warm hands engulfed her knees. He pushed them apart, making a place for himself between her legs.

  She tried to press them together as he reached behind and over her, spreading his T-shirt over the work surface. His care in protecting her back from the cold metal warmed her as nothing else could have done. But . . .

  “You don’t need to do anything for me,” she said. “I’m a vanilla kind of girl.”

  He stuck his finger in the dessert. “This is chocolate.”

  She snorted before she could stop herself. “Well, yes. But I made it for you.”

  The glint was back. He dropped to his knees. Kissed the inside of her thigh. “I can share.”

  She sucked in her breath, squirming in embarrassment, trying to get away, hitching to get closer. “Okay, that’s nice, but—”

  “You ate my cake,” he said.

  Lowering his head, he breathed her in. Inside, she was melting, burning, her mind and bones dissolving. Spreading her wide, he kissed her in earnest. She moaned. It was good, he was so good, so shameless and delicious, that she lay back, covering her eyes with her arm, sinking into the darkness, letting him do whatever he wanted. What she wanted. His mouth was so hot and skilled, his fingers inside her, twisting, thrusting, making her crazy, making her come. Her dangling toes curled, her muscles clenched. She reached for him, aching and unfilled.

  “Please.” Her body strained. She fumbled, unable to get a grip on his broad shoulders, on his smooth skin. “I want . . .” You. Please.

  He surged upward, moving over her, taking her mouth again, sharing the taste with her, chocolate and sex. She shivered, hungry and shaking. His zipper rasped, his buckle clanked as it hit the floor.

  “I’m here. I’ve got you, baby.”

  The condom package ripped, and he was there, where she was wet and swollen for him.

  Her stomach tensed in a moment of purely feminine doubt as he took himself in hand, as she felt him nudge for entrance. But he eased inside her slowly, in short, shallow thrusts, giving her body time to stretch and adjust to his, kissing her temple, her eyes, her mouth, whispering how good this felt, how hot she was, how sweet, until something inside her softened and surrendered, yielding to his possession.

  He sank deep. The slow, thick slide shuddered through them both. She gripped his back, her hips lifting to him, wanting his weight. Craving more.

  His breath hissed. His eyes blazed. “Jane. Baby. It’s been a while. I can’t . . .”

  Her fever climbed. The rasp of his beard, the scent of his skin, the cold, hard metal and hot, wet friction all blended and flowed together like flavors in her head. She was brimming with sensation. She tightened her legs around him, twisting under him, struggling to take more. Gabe groaned and shoved deeper, harder, faster, and her climax boiled over, flooding her, spilling to the tips of her fingers, the ends of her toes.

  He held still and hard inside her, riding it out, wringing the last, luxurious spasm from her flesh, before he thrust again and again and took his own release.

  * * *

  GABE LAY STUNNED, mind blown, heart pounding, absorbing the shock.

  Like the moment after a bomb went off, when you waited for your senses to function and your breath to return so you could see how the world had realigned around you and check for body parts.

  Except his world felt oddly right.

  And his body parts hadn’t been this happy in a long time.

  He raised himself to look at Jane, soft and round and mostly naked under him, apron dragged down around her breasts and up around her thighs, all of her smeared in chocolate. Beautiful. Edible. His. His body stirred, wanting her all over again.

  He had to get out. Before the condom leaked.

  He’d had no intention when he came over here today of fucking her. Not fucking, he thought, trying to find a word that wasn’t bland or insulting. Screwing? Making love. Anyway, he had no intention of doing it. Doing her. But when he walked into the kitchen and saw her standing there, blushing and brave with her carefully prepared cake and silly apron, her strong bare shoulders, her cute naked feet . . . Hell, he was only human. And male. There was no way he could resist her.

  Not that he’d tried very hard.

  No going back now. So he would improvise. Adapt.

  She hitched one shoulder, wriggling against the table, her neck at an awkward angle. That couldn’t be comfortable, he thought, trying to feel guilty and feeling grateful instead.

  He caught a strand of her hair between his fingers, pulling it away from her lips. “You okay?” His voice was husky.

  Her cheeks were pink, all of her pink and sticky and delicious. “Fine. You?”

  “I’m good.” Great. Never better.

  “Your, um . . .” She tried to sit up. Winced. “Your elbow’s on my hair.”

  “Sorry.” He moved his arm, helped her sit up and slide off the table.

  She wobbled and he had to catch her, which was nice, her body pressed against his.

  He ought to say something. Something smooth and sincere that would convince her that sex with him wasn’t a terrible mistake. Something besides Thank you, God, or How soon can we do this again?

  But looking at Jane drove all the words from Gabe’s head. She was so . . . pretty.

  She tugged at her apron, not quite meeting his eyes.

  “Thanks for dessert,” he said abruptly.

  Her blush flared. “You’re welcome.”

  God, he was such an asshole.

  He had to do better. She deserved more. Some praise or reassurance, maybe.

  “Your cake was really pretty.” He fastened his pants and took her hand, her small, warm, capable hand, in his. “Sorry I messed it up.”

  “That’s okay.” Her head was still bent, watching his thumb stroke over her knuckles. “I liked it.”

  With his free hand, he picked chocolate icing from her hair. “I kind of messed you up, too.”

  Her mouth curved in that small, secret Jane-smile before she met his eyes. “I liked it,” she repeated.

  His chest expanded. He grinned at her like a fool, holding her hand. “Guess you want to go clean up.” Or we could do it again, he almost said.

  He didn’t want to let go of her hand. He didn’t want to let go of her, period. Not now, not ev—

  Ah, hell. He was doing it again. Over-committing. Jumping in too fast, too deep. All he had to offer—all she sai
d she wanted from him—was sex. What was he hoping? That she’d be so impressed by his technique that she’d keep him around long enough to act out all his fantasies? The one with her bending over the counter, for example. Or straddling him in the chair. Or . . . He shook his head, disgusted with the direction of his thoughts.

  But maybe she’d consider coming back with him to his motel room.

  “I . . . Yes, I should,” she said.

  His heart stopped. Had she read his mind?

  She reached for her neatly folded jeans on the counter, and he shook his head to clear it. Dickhead. She was replying to his comment about washing up.

  “Right,” he said. “You do that. I’ll wait.”

  And maybe that was the right thing to say after all, because she smiled at him as she gathered up her clothes and disappeared in the direction of the women’s restroom.

  Nice ass.

  Not that he was going to see it again tonight.

  His T-shirt was hopeless. He balled it up and put it with his jacket in the other room. The candle still glowed on the table, its light flickering over the remains of dinner.

  He had never in his life had a meal like that before. Steak and potatoes, sure, but not a five-star gourmet restaurant meal with candlelight. And cake.

  He blew out the candle. The smoke curled up in the quiet room.

  She’d done this, all of it, for him.

  His throat tightened, a funny pressure in his chest. This went way beyond a sandwich and a cookie in a brown paper bag.

  It is what it is. I don’t need anything else.

  Then why go to this much trouble? Not out of charity or just to say thank you. Not only for sex. Hell, if she wanted him for sex, all she had to do was ask.

  Which meant . . . Damned if he knew what it meant. But he was smiling as he stacked the plates and carried them into the kitchen.

  * * *

  OH. DEAR.

  The mirror in the women’s room provided a clearer reflection than the door of the walk-in. Jane winced. Much clearer.

  Puffy lips, raccoon eyes, beard burn on her throat, chocolate icing in her hair . . . and in other places that were much harder to wash in the tiny room’s only sink. She looked like she’d been to a rave at Willy Wonka’s.

  She retrieved her panties from the pile of folded clothes. Still clean. She spared a guilty thought for Gabe’s T-shirt.

  Seriously? demanded her inner Sunday school teacher. You had sexy times with a near stranger on the kitchen prep table and you feel guilty about some chocolate smears on his shirt?

  She hushed the voice. She was a capable, fully grown woman. She’d even bought condoms. Yes, okay, she’d gone shopping at the Piggly Wiggly on the mainland where no one would see her and talk, but she took responsibility for her actions. She could have sex with a man she wanted.

  Fabulous sex, her seldom-used girl parts reminded her. Her reflection blushed and smiled in agreement.

  Jane gave herself a mental shake. The point was, she was almost thirty years old. She’d read those books Lauren loaned her. She knew about the rush of chemicals released in the brain during sex. She was old enough not to mistake sex for love. Smart enough not to look for something that wasn’t there. She could handle a no-strings hookup with Gabe Murphy.

  He’d warned her. I don’t want to hurt you.

  It is what it is. Thrilling. Tender. Fabulous.

  She tugged her shirt on over her head, sneaking another glance in the mirror. Her eyes were soft and dreamy. A sappy, satisfied smile curved her lips.

  But she was realistic. She was not going to romanticize a onetime kitchen encounter intended to relieve her sexual drought. She yanked her hair into a ponytail, fastening it with the band around her wrist. Chemistry be damned. Everything would be fine as long as she didn’t lose her head.

  Or her heart.

  She returned to the kitchen. And gaped.

  Holy chore-gasm.

  There he was, standing shirtless at the wash sink, scrubbing baked-on crust from a casserole dish. No doubt about it, he looked . . . Well, he looked amazing, okay? Male perfection, all bare muscled back and chiseled arms and testosterone. And a tattoo on his left shoulder blade—helmet, rifle, and boots. The battlefield cross.

  Her heart contracted painfully, like it was trying to squeeze its way out between her ribs. All the lies she’d been telling herself about being practical and sensible went flying out the window.

  Here was a man caring enough to protect her back with his shirt and wash her dishes. To take care of a stray dog. To take time with her son. To carry his losses with him, inked into his skin.

  He wasn’t a stupid chemistry experiment or a handy way to reawaken her sleeping inner slut.

  He was himself. Gabe. And beneath his tough-guy façade, he was vulnerable, too.

  He glanced over his shoulder and caught her staring, and, oh, the look in those eyes . . .

  A quirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, making her insides quiver. “What’s the matter? Never seen a guy doing dishes before?”

  She stuck out her chin. “I worked in a restaurant kitchen. I’ve seen lots of guys wash dishes.”

  His smile deepened. “Should I be jealous?”

  Up close and personal, he looked even more like a seductive fantasy brought to life, from the bad-boy stubble and the glint in his eye to the happy trail that ran down his ridged stomach and under the waistband of his jeans. Unbuttoned, she noticed. Well, she couldn’t help looking, could she? Bubbles slid down his corded forearms into the water.

  She rolled her eyes. “Like you have anything to worry about. You must know you’re perfect.”

  He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “No. Don’t make me into something I’m not.”

  “I won’t. I can’t. I did that with my ex,” she explained. She had believed she loved Travis. She’d really thought he loved her. She had wanted so desperately to make them a family that she’d lied to her father. Worse, she’d fooled herself. “I meant, perfect physically.”

  “Right.” A flicker of something in his eyes, gone before she had a chance to identify it. “And you’re beautiful.”

  A puff of disbelief escaped her. “You don’t have to say that.”

  “It’s true.”

  Pleasure warmed her from the inside out. A blush washed up her face. Unable to hold his gaze, she ducked her head and grabbed a dish towel. “Here, let me dry.”

  They stood side by side in front of the triple sink, close enough that she could smell his skin overlaid by the clean scent of soap. He smelled delicious. Jane could feel her resolve and her dignity dissolving. She wanted to bury her face in his neck and just inhale him.

  And those muscles . . . The lovely way they slid under his skin as he reached for a pot . . .

  She cleared her throat. “I guess you had to stay in good shape in the Marines.”

  Gabe slanted a look at her, a wry twist to his mouth. “I got out of the Corps almost three years ago. I used to work out in my cell. There’s not much else to do in jail except read. Or watch TV in the common room, but that gets old fast.”

  “I like to read,” she offered. “Not that I have much time for it.”

  “What do you read?”

  “Whatever Lauren gives me. Self-help books, mostly. Cookbooks.” Her blush deepened. “Romance novels.”

  But Gabe, to her surprise, nodded. “They had those in the jail library.” A pause. “Some of them were pretty good.”

  She goggled. “You read romance?”

  He shrugged. “I told you, not a lot to do. There was this series about Navy SEALS, Troubleshooters or something, that I liked a lot.”

  She nodded eagerly. “Suzanne Brockmann. I like those, too.”

  Because whatever struggles the characters endured, whatever mistakes they made, the heroines were strong women who fought back, who found their happy ending.

  It almost gave Jane hope.

  Huh. Maybe that’s why Lauren gave them to her.

>   Standing beside Gabe with the sound of the rain on the roof was almost unbearably domestic. The brush of his wet arm against hers made her knees wobble.

  She held her breath, afraid to say anything and spoil the moment.

  Gabe voiced what she was thinking. “This is nice.”

  She turned to him, driven by desperation, the words rising from deep inside, spilling out. “Gabe . . . why are you still here? What do you want?”

  He met her gaze, his eyes dark and steady. His body tightened. Her heart pounded to the rhythm of the rain. So serious, that look. What was he thinking?

  He exhaled, the tension leaving him suddenly, or maybe it was still there, transformed. His mouth gentled, smiled. “Got any more cake?”

  Thirteen

  THE RAIN DRUMMED on the porch roof of Marta Lopez’s little bungalow, almost drowning out the noise from the television inside.

  Marta’s gaze lifted from the cellophane-wrapped bouquet in Hank’s hands to his face. “Very nice.” Her lips curved in a warm smile. “Maybe there is hope for you after all.”

  Hank cleared his throat, pleased with his forethought in stopping by the grocery store. His ex-wife used to complain he wasn’t the flower-buying kind. But when a woman invited you over for dinner and—what had Marta called it?—adult companionship . . . well, he figured he shouldn’t show up empty-handed, that was all.

  Should he kiss her?

  But she stepped back out of the doorway, and the moment—if it was a moment—was gone.

  “Come in.” She took the flowers. “You know my sons.”

  Hank stopped in the act of wiping his feet. Her sons?

  “Tomás, Miguel, say hello to Officer Clark.”

  Well, hell.

  Two young men sprawled in front of the television in the living room. The one on the couch got reluctantly to his feet and kicked the sole of the younger one’s shoe until he got up, too. From their expressions, they were about as glad to see Hank as he was to see them.

  He nodded. “Boys.”

  “Hi, Officer Clark,” said the shorter one. Miguel, still in high school.

  The older one, Tomás, jerked his chin in greeting.