by Lisa Plumley
"Mmmm," Dylan moaned against her, still writing. His breath penetrated her thin cotton skorts, searing all the way to her panties beneath. "You smell good. Sweet, like honey and cinnamon. Sweet ... all over."
Stacey gasped, trembling harder. More writing would be hopeless—in her condition, she could barely stand. What was he doing to her?
"Mmmm." The husky rumble of his voice vibrated all the way to her heart and set fire to her senses. Dylan plucked his fingers along her shirt hem as he finished writing, and then he leaned back a little to examine the words. "I like it."
Cool air rushed over her skin. Somehow, Stacey managed to find the ability to speak, even though her brain had probably overheated fifteen minutes ago. "Wh—what does it say?"
He touched his fingertip to one side of her belly. "Smart," he said, tracing the word he'd written there. "Smart enough to have a brilliant career, a brand new life ... and the wisdom to give me another try." Smiling, Dylan looked up at her. "You are giving me another try, aren't you?"
"That's what this is," she whispered, feeling her heart race. "Starting over."
Dear God, that was what it was. Starting things over between them. If it was foolish, so be it, Stacey decided, stroking back his close-cropped hair. It was too late to turn back now.
"Generous," Dylan went on, his fingertips underlining the second word he'd written in a loopy curve above her belly button. "You're generous here, spending your weekend making sure no one in your family gets hurt. Generous to still be friends with your ex-husband, no matter what a louse he really is." He frowned, as though that particular generosity escaped him. "You spend time helping your family, time helping all those pharmacy interns you oversee at work—"
"Enough!" Stacey protested, laughing. Dylan even remembered the details of her work at the pharmacy? She couldn't believe it. "You're making me sound like Mother Teresa!"
"But miles sexier," he said, raising his hands to her waist. He got to his feet and backed her sideways toward the round table and chairs that formed a sort of honeymoon suite breakfast nook near the window. "Miles sexier."
"That's a relief."
Her hip touched the cool, smooth edge of the table. Stacey stopped, smiling up at him. Miles sexier, huh? She felt it, given the appreciation in his gaze as he looked at her. Somehow it infused her arms and legs with unexpected grace, lent her hips and breasts a femme fatale's curvy seductiveness and her voice a siren's alluring huskiness. "I wouldn't want to disappoint you," she said.
"You won't," Dylan said. "There's no way you could."
He smiled and lifted her onto the table as easily as he might have lifted a coffee cup to his lips, and with the same expectation of something good to come. She whooped and grinned, grabbing his shoulders.
"I've got you," he assured her, helping her scoot into position atop the table.
Sure, he had her all right—but for what? Filled with anticipation, she wrapped her arms around Dylan and fingered the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. He smelled good, like soap and musk and creamy zinc oxide, all put together. Nose to nose with him, Stacey looked into his eyes.
What she saw there made excitement sizzle up her spine. Desire. Hunger. And the tenderness that had been her undoing since the moment he'd confessed his broken heart. All of it for her. She held her breath, waiting for Dylan to make his move. Kiss me, kiss me. Any second now he'd cradle the back of her head in his big hand, pull her closer, cover her mouth with his and spin them both into warm, wet, bliss.
Instead, Dylan's hand flattened just below her ribs, easing her backward.
"What are you doing?" she asked, feeling herself falling backward onto the tabletop. Letting go of him, she balanced herself on her elbows and blinked away her visions of long, languorous kisses to gaze, half-reclining, down the length of her body at him.
Rather than answer right away, Dylan fit his palms around her knees, drew her legs apart, and settled himself between them with a satisfied smile. "That's better."
She'd say. He fit there veeery nicely.
"I'm showing you the next reason," he said, trailing his fingertip down to her belly and the last word he'd written. Somehow, he'd managed to hold onto the eyeliner, probably with intentions of torturing her some more. Too bad she couldn't reciprocate; she'd dropped her lipstick shortly after Dylan had dropped to his knees.
His finger traced the flowing letters he'd written. Stacey squirmed beneath his touch, only half-listening as he said, "Brave. You were brave enough to leave your husband and start over on your own. Brave enough to do a hell of a job of it, too, to hear Richard and Janie talk. Brave enough to stand up to me when—"
"Dylan, enough," she said, trying to push herself into a sitting position. "Enough talking, enough writing ..." Enough teasing, but she couldn't say that aloud. Settling for balancing on one elbow, Stacey spread her hand along his chest, his shoulder, trying to pull him closer, feeling his muscles flex beneath her fingers. "Enough, enough," she whispered as his mouth neared hers. "En—"
His kiss smothered her words, merged their mouths in a union so powerful and it made her dizzy. God, yes—this was what she needed. Blindly, Stacey grabbed for him. Something clattered onto the tabletop and rolled—the forgotten eyeliner, she guessed vaguely—then Dylan held her close as he kissed her, smashing her against the warmth of his chest with one strong arm.
His hand flattened and circled over her back, raising her shirt higher, pulling it taut across her breasts. Her nipples pushed against the cotton, friction-sensitized and taut with excitement. Her thighs strained to bring her closer, trembling to lift her higher from the table and catapult her all the way against him. She wanted to feel every hot inch of him pressing into her skin, wanted to drag him onto the table with her.
The table. They were sprawled on a table, too eager and aroused to wait, and the realization of their position excited her even more. Loving it, Stacey met him greedily, opening her mouth wider, welcoming the bruising pressure of his lips and the gliding, forceful strokes of his tongue. She whimpered in the back of her throat, wordlessly asking for more as she held him tighter.
Taking his lips away for one aching instant, Dylan slammed his hand onto the table beside her hip. "Mmmm, yes," he murmured. Then he lowered his head again ... and gave her all she wanted.
This was no warm-up kiss, no exploratory kiss or make-up kiss ... between them, there was no need, and she felt about as warmed up as was possible to be without bursting into flames. Tongue-sweet and hot with need, this was a hungry kiss. A starving, can't-get-enough kiss.
Jubilant to finally have what she needed, Stacey lost herself in him, pressing hard as he did, giving everything. Triumph surged through her. She'd show Dylan to go on talk, talk, talking ... she'd show him what she wanted, and it wasn't more conversation. Her fingers dug into his shoulder, seeking the hard man beneath and capturing nothing but warmth and a handful of woven polo shirt.
That shirt needed to be gone. Now. It buttoned right over the skin she wanted to feel next to hers, covered up all the strength that cradled her and held her still for his kiss. Arching higher, Stacey took her mouth from his, then planted both hands on Dylan's shoulders and tugged his shirt. The damned thing wouldn't budge.
"What's the matter with this thing?" she complained, frowning at it as though the sheer force of her impatience could melt the clothes standing in her way. "Take it off."
"Mmmm," Dylan murmured, looking at her through half-closed eyes. "You first."
How could he be so calm about it? Stacey felt like ripping his shirt off however she could, leaving him in tatters like the Incredible Hulk. There'd be time enough for her to get naked later. Right now, what she wanted was him.
Naked.
Shivering, she fumbled with his shirt buttons. Brute force finally got most of them through the four or five buttonholes that made up his shirt placket. She whipped her fingers beneath his shirt hem to tug it off ... and the delicious texture of his skin beneath her palms stopped her instan
tly. Heat surged into her hands, emanating from his skin along with the scent of Safeguard and sunshine. Crisp masculine hairs tickled her fingers. She roved higher, loving the feel of him.
"God, you're killing me," he moaned. "Take it off, take it off."
"I am." Stacey spread her palms over him, letting his chest hair tickle her splayed fingers. She found the small, sharp point of his nipple and flicked it with her thumb.
Dylan shuddered and closed his eyes. "Now. Take it off now."
"Mmmm. Maybe I've got a mind to try some body painting of my own," she teased, sliding her hands around to his back so she could press her chest against his. "I think I've got my lipstick around here somepla—"
"Later." He thrust his hand into her hair and used it to tilt her head back. Her scalp tingled as his mouth descended onto hers, taking her breath away. Needy and passionate, his kiss destroyed whatever urge to tease Stacey had left. She only wanted him.
Now.
Dylan ended the kiss. She grabbed two handfuls of his shirt and tugged. His shirt hem slid past toned skin and muscle, bared his stomach, his chest ... and Stacey stopped pulling, temporarily blinding him as she abandoned his shirt to smooth her hands over him. God, he felt gorgeous.
She flexed her fingertips, sank her nails barely into his flesh, and felt him shudder beneath her palms. It was heady stuff to have such power over a man like Dylan. Maybe she'd leave him like this for a while, just long enough to satisfy her urge to—
"Hey!" His hands came up, grappling for his shirt. Evidently, he had other ideas besides letting her ogle him.
Stacey tickled his underarm.
"Yeow!" Laughing, Dylan doubled over sideways, wrenched off his shirt, and came up facing her with the promise of retribution written on his face. He bunched up his shirt. Threw it over his shoulder.
And grabbed her T-shirt instead.
She stopped him with a kiss that started out hard and fast and only got hotter. Hooking her fingers into the waistband of his shorts, Stacey hauled him back between her thighs and went on kissing him. He tasted hot and clean ... he felt even better than that. Past reason, past anything but wanting, she took his hand and pushed it flat against her body, making his palm skim past her hip, her waist, her ribs. Guided by her hand, his fingers closed around her breast and squeezed gently. Oh, God, he touched her as though he couldn't get enough. His other hand came up to cover her other breast and she pushed herself into his palms, needing that contact more than she needed breathing.
Stacey moaned into his mouth as he caressed her, her nipples peaking hard against his hand. More, more ... groping, fumbling, she worked one-handed at the fly of his shorts, using her other hand to keep herself from falling backward. Her thumb found his shorts' first riveted stud and pushed it through the buttonhole.
Breathing hard, Dylan stared down at her hand, watching her unfasten the next stud, and the next. She watched too, thrilled by the erotic sight of her slim, pink-manicured nails against his darker skin, by the contrast of her hand on his rough clothes and the smooth flare of his dark hair vanishing beneath them. His erection strained against his khaki shorts, its hard length exciting her into working faster.
He kissed the nape of her neck, nipped and suckled and made her wild with teasing love bites that trailed up the side of her neck. He nuzzled her earlobe, sending the heated rasp of his breath against her sensitive skin. "God, you feel good," Dylan whispered against her ear. "Mmmm ... so soft."
Feverishly, Stacey twisted the next button on his shorts. She wanted to see him, to feel him ... she dug her other hand into his waistband for leverage and finally got two more buttons free. Almost there.
Dylan's hands slid beneath her shirt, letting in cool air and then sweet, dizzying warmth as he unfastened her bra clasp and cupped her bare breasts in his hands.
Quivering, she bucked against him. "Ahhh, Dylan ... yes. Please, touch me ..."
He caressed her, stroking his thumbs over her nipples, sending heat and pleasure shimmering through her. "Please, please," she begged, hugging her knees to his hips to keep him close. His rough shorts rubbed against her thighs, exciting her even further.
Slowly, so slowly, Dylan eased her T-shirt higher. Stacey bit her lip, trying to keep from screaming as he pulled it over her head and trailed the bunched-up fabric over her shoulders, her breasts, and finally dropped it onto a chair. There was no way she could wait for him to take off the rest of her clothes, not at this pace. Eagerly, she slid off her bra and dropped it beside her shirt, then reached for him.
"Wait," he whispered, catching her wrists in his hands and holding her arms at her sides. "I want to see you. I have to see you."
His eyes flashed, dark with need. His gaze devoured her, moving hungrily over her body. "Beautiful," he said. "Oh, God ... you're so beautiful."
He cradled her face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks as he kissed her. He pulled her close enough that her breasts rubbed sensuously over his chest, driving her wild with the need to have more ... more of this, more of him, more love.
Moaning, Stacey arched against him, pushing her knees harder into his hips. Her hands roved across his the hard, muscular span of his back, searching for a way to bring him closer still. His hands, trembling and impatient, worked at her waistband. She needed him too much to wait. Raising her hips from the table, Stacey scrambled to push off her skorts. Fabric rustled as Dylan whipped them down her legs and onto the floor, leaving her dressed in only her panties.
He shoved off the rest of his clothes and pushed them aside with his foot, dragging her into his arms again. Their bare skin touched everywhere, warm and sleek with sweat. His erection pushed against her thigh, silky and hard and incredibly hot. Stacey wrapped her fingers around him, loving the feel of him pulsing with life against her palm. Groaning, Dylan dipped his head and kissed her.
"Make love to me," she whispered, feeling him throb eagerly in her hand as she spoke. "Here. Now." His fingers touched the lacy edge of her panties, then dipped lower to fondle her through their silky fabric. It clung to her body, warm and wet with her arousal. "Please."
"Mmmm. Forever," he promised.
His smile for her was a hungry man's, all appetite and anticipation of the pleasure to come. Dylan eased off her panties and then slowly, slowly, found every private place needing his touch. Stacey writhed beneath his hand, clutching his shoulder for support against the storm of pleasure he created inside her. Tighter and tighter her need wound, spiraling almost out of control.
Dylan moaned with her, taking in every tremor and cry, every aching plea she made. His harsh, honeyed whispers swept past her ear, sweet suggestions of the loving, erotic things he'd make her feel. Now. Later. Forever. She whimpered, drowning in pleasure and greedy for more.
"Yes," he whispered, giving her everything her shivering, aching body needed, touching her with endless, loving strokes. "Yes, Stacey, ahhh ... you feel so good," he moaned as she bucked against his hand. "Mmmm ... come for me now. Let it go. Ahhh ..."
Her orgasm exploded through her. Fierce waves of pleasure made her clutch him blindly, a creature of sensation alone. She hadn't dared open her eyes before she heard the tiny sound of tearing foil. Yes. That meant soon he'd be inside her. She helped with the condom, watching their hands mingle as they worked together, panting, to put it on.
Their gazes met. Stacey smiled, silly with eagerness and discovery and love. Dylan smiled, too, his a crooked grin that vanished as he pulled her closer across the table. She reached for him, kissed him. "I need you," she whispered.
"You've got me." He dragged her close, holding her hips in his hands, and entered her with one smooth, powerful stroke. Bliss. Nothing had ever felt this good. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she met him, mindlessly, thrust for thrust. Tremors shook her, made her grasp at his back, his waist. He held her bottom in his hands and raised her higher, gliding inside her, thrusting harder. His hands clenched convulsively on her buttocks, squeezing and releasing her as their lovi
ng urged him closer and closer to completion.
Dylan buried his face in her shoulder. Hoarsely, he panted against her skin, calling her name. She met every thrust of his hips, needing and breathless as another orgasm shook her. Her body squeezed around him with exquisite release, drawing him closer.
Suddenly, he stilled. "Ahhh," he cried out, thrusting again. Again. His body rocked against her, and his arms tightened hard around her. His teeth sank into her shoulder, sending a fresh wave of pleasure spiraling through her.
"Ahhh, Stacey. Oh, God," he cried, slumping against her. Dylan's breath whooshed past her shoulder, and his hands eased. Cracking his eyes open, he gazed at her, still breathing hard. His fingers brushed her tangled hair from her face, then he lay his forehead against hers. "You're incredible," he whispered, a crooked smile lighting his face. "What a woman I picked to love."
She couldn't speak, too overcome with emotion and their frenzied lovemaking to form any coherent thoughts. Smiling, Stacey caressed him, then kissed his shoulder.
"Next time," she heard him say, "we'll take our time."
He wiggled slightly, and her smile turned wicked. "Hmmm ... feels like you're already ready for next time," she said.
"Noticed that, did you?" Dylan gave her a teasing, gliding thrust, just enough to remind her of all they'd shared. "Mmmm. I'd hoped you would," he said, bending to cup her breast in his hand. His tongue encircled her nipple, sending ripples of new, raw pleasure through her.
"There are some places I haven't quite paid enough attention to," he murmured, suckling gently. "I'd better start remedying that right now."
Stacey could hardly wait.
Chapter Nine
Hooked. That's what he was, Dylan decided the next morning as he scrubbed at a swirl of Pomegranate-lipsticked love words on the inside of his thigh. Hooked. And he loved every minute of it.
Standing alone in the steamy shower, he scrubbed a little more, then realized ordinary soap and water wasn't going to remove the Lovetiger on his thigh—or the King of Love on his shoulder, or any of the other, spicier words Stacey had branded him with last night. Her lipstick, as she'd informed him too late with a saucy grin, really was new, expensive, and famously indelible. He guessed he'd just have to get used to wearing her sexy opinions all over his body.