Since he’d been turned it was as if someone had upped the amp level in his brain. He heard everything—the snores of an old couple several houses down, the obnoxious voice of the host of some infomercial blazing from a nearby neighbor’s television set, the rustling of cans and paper as a raccoon clawed through a trash can, the steady shhhhhhhhh as someone took a whiz in their john.
He fixed his gaze on the house surrounded by a white picket fence and overflowing flower beds. A large wraparound porch spanned the bottom level. A swing sat at the far corner. The second level had a wraparound balcony filled with potted plants and white wicker patio furniture.
It was far from the small log cabin Meg had shared with her father before his death, but then Dillon knew that was the idea—to bury the past and forget. This place had lots of windows and French doors and bright yellow trim. It looked as feminine as the woman who now lived inside it. Her car sat in the driveway, the brand-new yellow Mustang convertible, a far cry from the old brown Chevy pickup she’d driven her junior year of high school. The car was flashy, sexy, exciting.
Just like Meg.
He’d always thought so, even way back when she’d driven the truck. He’d just never had the courage to tell her, particularly after those disastrous first kisses.
The house was one of the oldest in town, built sometime back in the 1800s before central air and heat. A portable air-conditioning unit sat in the window near a set of French doors on the second story. The engine purred steadily until Dillon narrowed his gaze. He felt the heat rush through his body as he sent the silent command. The motor coughed and sputtered. The purrrrr turned to a distinctive whine.
The minutes ticked off one by one, as he waited for Meg to appear in the doorway.
She was yards away, the room where she stood completely black, yet he saw every detail. She wore only a pink T-shirt and lace panties. Sweat dotted her brow and beaded on her skin as she threw the lock. Hauling open the doors, she stood there framed in the double doorway, the sheer curtains billowing behind her as she drank in the fresh night air. She took several deep breaths and her frustration mounted.
She needed more relief than the cool breeze whispering through the trees.
She’d been sleeping alone with the exception of a bright red vibrator she kept in her top nightstand drawer and she was desperate. She needed a real man, and she needed him soon.
The thought carried on the breeze, through the trees and across the pavement. It slid into his brain where he stood yards away.
Watching.
Waiting.
Wanting.
Hunger gripped him, a fierce ache that started in his gut and spread through his entire body, making him tremble and shake. And suddenly it didn’t matter who came on to who. He wanted to touch her. He needed to.
He was going to.
Right. Now.
6
SHE NEEDED TO DITCH THE failing window unit, take a bite out of her savings and invest in central air-conditioning.
Meg came to that conclusion as she stood in the doorway and welcomed the faint rush of wind that whispered over her flushed skin. She’d been tapped out after paying the down payment on her dream home, and rather than replace the major appliances, she’d tried to get away with repairing and refurbishing.
In the five years since buying her place, she’d fixed the upstairs unit not once, but four times now.
The air conditioner grumbled and growled.
Make that five.
She made a mental note to call Mr. Abel, the air conditioning guy, first thing in the morning and moved on to the next window in the room. A few seconds later, she had all three of the room’s windows wide-open. Air filtered through the space, relieving some of the stifling heat that had pulled her from sleep.
Then again, it hadn’t been just the heat that had kept her from nodding off. She’d spent the better part of the past hour tossing and turning, trying to push Dillon Cash completely out of her head.
So what if he was sexy now? And handsome? And—with the exception of his clothes—had the whole hot-guy thing going? He was still just Dillon. Her buddy. Her pal. The guy who’d given her the worst kiss of her entire life.
Sure, he appeared convincing, but she knew better. She wasn’t the least bit hot and bothered by his new image.
She wasn’t.
Ignoring a sudden ripple of awareness that drifted down her spine, she walked back over to the bed. She cast a quick glance at the open doorway. Moonlight spilled onto the balcony, illuminating the potted azaleas, the small white wicker table and matching chairs, a swaying wind chime. The soft ting ting echoed in her ears. Everything looked and sounded the same, yet she couldn’t escape the sudden inexplicable feeling that something was different.
That someone—or something—was there with her.
For a split second, she saw a tall, muscular figure standing near the rails, the broad shadow edged in moonlight.
Her heart kick-started and she blinked. Just like that, the image disappeared.
She ignored the sudden drumming in her chest, walked back over to her bed, stretched out on top of the covers and clamped her eyes shut. Her hormones were definitely getting the best of her. She was so wound up, so desperate for some male company that she was starting to imagine it.
A man on her balcony.
If only.
Forcing a deep breath, she focused on the steady rise and fall of her chest. Up. Down. In. Out…Soon, the tension in her body slipped away. Her muscles went lax and her mind grew fuzzy.
She was this close to dozing off when a sudden gust of wind rushed through the window and the curtains billowed and snapped.
Her eyes popped open and her skin prickled. Goose bumps danced along her arms. She reached for the lamp and a blaze of light chased away the shadows. Her gaze ping-ponged from one corner of the room to the next, but there was no one there. Just a dresser overflowing with cosmetics, a stand-up mirror, a pile of undies she hadn’t had the time to fold and a stack of new fall fashion catalogs from various distributors.
She killed the light, wiggled her way under the sheet and clamped her eyes shut again. She forced aside the sudden image of Dillon that popped into her head—his bright gaze green and blazing, his mouth crooked into a killer smile—and concentrated on mentally reciting tomorrow’s schedule.
She had the Weatherby twins for a prom fitting at ten. Elise Harwell and her youngest daughter at eleven. Melissa Sue Jones and her four bridesmaids at noon. Melissa Sue’s mother at one. Old Mrs. Cromwell at two-thirty…While she had an idea what she was going to show the twins and Melissa Sue, she was at a loss for Elise. While she’d seen the woman’s youngest daughter around town, she’d never actually met her face-to-face. She had no clue what colors the girl liked or what sort of styles she might be interested in. At the same time, she couldn’t be all that different from her four older sisters who were the spitting image of their well-groomed, fashion-conscious mother. Elise lived for the latest trends and hottest colors.
By the time Meg had mentally rifled through her newest selections and narrowed them down to a handful of the most chic possibilities, her heart had slowed and her nerves had calmed. Peace seeped through her, pushing away consciousness and muffling the whine of the failing air conditioner, the tick-tock of her bedside clock, the occasional snap and pop of the window sheers.
She was this close to conking out completely when she felt the faint pull and tug on the cotton sheet.
She cracked open one eye in time to see the sheet slither south, down her legs, to puddle around her ankles. The wind whispered over her toes. The sensation crept higher, feathering over her calves, her knees, her thighs. The edge of her T-shirt lifted and the hem slid upward, baring a pair of silky pink panties, several inches of pale skin, her navel, more skin, the undersides of her breasts. Her nipples tightened. The material snagged and caught on the ripe tips.
Her breath caught, her chest rose and her breasts strained against the fabric. It was a
highly unsettling sensation. Erotic. Forbidden.
Impossible!
Her other eye opened and she watched in stunned amazement as the material lifted, easing over her nipples, exposing the throbbing peaks. The edge of the shirt bunched as if invisible fingers tugged at the thin covering—
She clamped her eyes shut as her heart started to pound.
The wine. It had to be the wine.
She’d never been much of a drinker, which was why the bottle had lasted her over a year. She’d used it primarily for cooking and had indulged in the occasional glass with dinner. But never right before bed. And with a Twinkie chaser.
Sugared and sloshed. That was the problem. No wonder she was imagining things. The sheet. The T-shirt. The man framed in the doorway—
Wait a second.
She blinked and for a split second, she saw the familiar green eyes and sensuous mouth, but then the image blurred and faded.
Uh, yeah. Because he’s not real. No way is Dillon Cash standing on your balcony. You’re sloshed and hallucinating, end of story.
No more wine, she vowed, tugging her shirt down and yanking the sheet back up. She clamped her eyes shut. A dream. That’s all it had been. A crazy, bizarre dream brought on by too much sugar and alcohol.
A crazy, bizarre, semi-pleasant dream, she admitted several minutes later, her body still buzzing from the sensation of fabric gliding this way and that. She drew a deep breath. Her nipples rubbed against the cotton of her T-shirt and her breasts tingled.
Okay, so maybe there was something to be said for a good Chardonnay and a couple of Twinkies right before bed.
On that stirring thought, she drifted into a deep sleep, not the least bit alarmed when the sheet started to glide down and her T-shirt started to inch its way up.
Again.
HE COULDN’T ACTUALLY touch her.
The truth crystallized as he stood in the open doorway and tried to step over the threshold. An invisible wall barred his way and refused to give him access to the tempting woman stretched out on the bed. Her T-shirt was up under her arms, her luscious breasts full and flushed, the sheet bunched down at her feet. Her skin was pale and soft looking against the pastel green sheets. His gaze went to the skimpy panties she wore. Not even a wisp of hair pushed through the scant lace and he knew the skin beneath was as smooth and as bare as the rest of her.
His mouth watered and his hands trembled. He could feel the need vibrating from her lush body. It called to him, begging him forward, tempting him until he shook with the force of it.
Wake her up, a voice whispered. She’ll invite you in.
If she were every other women in town.
She wasn’t. She was the one woman, the only woman who’d managed to resist him. That was why tonight wasn’t about sating his own hunger.
It was about stirring hers.
He held tight to the thought and stiffened against his own urges.
Focusing his attention on the nearly empty wine bottle, he narrowed his gaze and sent a mental command. The bottle lifted, floating from the nightstand until it hovered over her full breasts. He gave the slightest motion of his head and the bottle tilted. A trickle of wine splashed over one nipple and her eyes popped open.
Panic chased confusion across her expression as her gaze darted between the wine bottle and the open doorway where he stood. Her gaze collided with his.
Relax. He sent the mental command and hoped that she would be too exhausted, too half-asleep to refuse. Her eyes widened, her lips parted and he had the fleeting thought that she was going to scream.
It’s just a dream. He sent the silent thought and she caught her bottom lip. Her eyes glazed with need. A fantasy, he added. So sit back and enjoy yourself.
Her eyelids fluttered closed and her body relaxed.
He shifted his attention back to the wine bottle and watched as the glass tilted again. Another trickle splashed over her nipple and dribbled down the side of her breast to dampen the sheet beneath her.
The tip pebbled, responding to the sensation, begging for more. Her body arched, seeming to strain for more of the sensation, but she didn’t open her eyes this time.
Because it was just a fantasy to her.
A very vivid, very erotic figment of her imagination.
The realization sent a rush of relief through him—he wasn’t in a hurry to blow his cover and dodge a lynch mob—followed by a wave of irritation. Because as much as he liked being the star of her erotic musings, he wanted her fully awake and conscious when she gave herself to him.
The thought plagued him a full second before she drank in a deep breath and her chest lifted. Her nipple quivered and his gaze went to the faint blue vein barely visible beneath the translucent skin near one areola. Pain splintered his head and he felt the sharpness of his teeth against his tongue. His cock throbbed.
From the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection and saw the deep purple glow of his gaze. He stiffened, fighting against the emotion whirling inside of him until his eyes brightened into a rich vivid green.
Easy.
The command whispered through his head and he held tight to his control. He shifted his attention back to the wine bottle. The glass dipped until the edge grazed one of her ripe nipples. She gasped. The sound sizzled across the open space between them and slid into his ears, stirring what lived and breathed inside of him. A rush of longing pulsed from her flushed body and suddenly he knew beyond a doubt that she hadn’t been with a man in one hell of a long time.
The realization sent a strange rush of satisfaction through him and made him all the more determined to resist his own damned hunger and satisfy hers.
The bottle tilted, drip-dropping wine over her bare stomach. The rosy liquid pooled in her navel, slid decadently toward her lace panties and turned the white edge a pale pink.
She moaned and he moved lower, dribbling a little more here, a little more there, until the bottle was completely empty and her panties were damp with wine and her own need.
He trailed the cool edge of the bottle down the outside of one bare leg, up the inside of her knee, her thigh, building the anticipation until he reached the lacy barrier between her legs. He rubbed the mouth of the container up and down against the already drenched material. She gasped and wiggled her hips for more.
He felt his own gaze burn as he willed the scrap of lace down her legs until it tugged free of her ankles and feet and collapsed on the bed beside her.
Her thighs fell open, giving him an unobstructed view of the slick, pouty folds that begged for his attention.
At the first touch of the cool glass against her soft, tender slit, her eyelids fluttered open again.
She gazed first at the bottle between her legs and then at him. There was an instant of confusion and panic, and then the feelings eased into a glaze of passion as she smiled and mumbled, “No wonder Babe likes Twinkies.”
He rubbed her with the bottle as her heavy gaze drank in his face, burning a path over his shoulders, his chest, down to the prominent erection that threatened to bust out of his jeans. Her attention lingered and the urge to step inside the room, shove his zipper down, spread her legs and sink into her wet body nearly overwhelmed him.
He couldn’t and so he stared at her, into her, willing her eyes shut again. Finally, she complied, leaning her head back into the softness of the pillow as she gave in to the rush of sensation.
He continued the stroking, up and down, side to side until a drop of warmth spilled from her slick folds and slid down the neck of the dark glass. Her back arched and she came up off the bed. A breathy moan sailed past her lips as a wave of ecstasy crashed over her.
Watching her body tighten and pulse was almost as satisfying as relishing it firsthand. He could practically feel the rush of warmth as she milked him.
His erection throbbed and he felt the bubbling warmth that pulsed along its length, along with something else. A prickling awareness at the base of his spine that told him his time was nearl
y up.
Gathering his last shred of control, he drank in one last look at her and forced himself away from the doorway. Without a sound, he scaled the waist-high rail and dropped to the ground. In the blink of an eye, he covered the distance to his bike.
A faint glow tinged the horizon as he straddled the seat and gunned the engine. A few minutes later, he sped through town and hit the county road that led to the ranch.
He reached his destination just as the first rays of sunlight topped the surrounding trees. His boots started to smoke as he strode toward the house. Heat sizzled through the soles of his feet and sent spurts of pain up his calves.
He hit the front porch and stumbled inside. While he was out of the direct sunlight, there was still light filtering in through the windows, sucking at his strength as he wobbled toward the back hallway and the door that led to the wine cellar. He fumbled for the handle, tugged open the door and fell down the first few steps. The wood creaked shut behind him and the darkness quickly swallowed him up. He found his footing and took the steps two at a time until he reached the bottom of the staircase and another hallway.
Garret had spent an entire month breaking the cellar down into two large living areas. A single hallway divided the two sections. The door to the left was shut solid. A powerful presence emanated from inside and Dillon knew Garret had been wise enough to get his ass in bed at a decent hour.
Dillon reached for the second doorknob. A few seconds later, he yanked off his smoldering boots, stretched out the king-size bed that sat in one corner of the massive room and tried to calm his rapidly beating heart.
In the two months since he’d turned, he’d never stayed out past daybreak. He knew better. He closed his eyes and tried to welcome the all-encompassing blackness, but he was too worked up.
Not because he’d nearly gotten himself roasted.
Rather than the sharp odor of melted rubber and blistered skin, he smelled the intoxicating aroma of sweet wine and warm, aroused woman.
Drop Dead Gorgeous Page 6