The Love Shack

by Christie Ridgway

  His to do with as he pleased.

  Yet her acquiescence suddenly wasn’t soothing. It honed a desperate edge on his need for her as his pulse ratcheted higher and his heart pounded like tribal drums in his chest. Afraid she’d glimpse the hotheaded animal that was his lust, he reared back, turning her body beneath him so her belly lay against the cushions.

  His hands fumbled with her bra fastening and he had to wrench it free. He flung it away, breathing hard as he stared down at the smooth valley of her spine. With shaking fingers, he drew her hair off her neck, baring her to him from her vulnerable nape to the precious dip at the small of her back.

  Lifting her head, she glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes slumberous. Without resistance.

  The sight only further fed his desire.

  Gage’s hot mouth dropped to her flesh, cooling in the open air. He ran his tongue across the wings of her shoulder blades, then traced the delicate ladder of her vertebrae, feeling her tremble beneath his ministrations.

  Reaching the back waistband of her jeans, he paused, sitting up to get control of his ragged breathing.

  “Gage,” she said, wiggling beneath him.

  Her movement panicked him. He couldn’t lose her now! Dipping low again, he ran his whiskered cheeks over her skin, moving upward, along the inward bend of her waist to the resilient curve where her neck met her shoulder. Driven by an impulse he couldn’t explain, he bit her there, gently holding her in place as his hands reached around for the fastenings of her jeans.

  Her voice was music in his ears, a siren’s song of pleasured moans and heated whimpers. He moved his mouth to her cheek as he pushed away denim and a silky scrap of panties, whispering her praises. “You smell so good. Your body is so beautiful.” His hand slid up her sleek inner thigh. “Oh, baby, you’re so wet.”

  She choked out a sound as her arousal flooded his hand, and he could feel her flesh heat in a blush. “Don’t be embarrassed. You don’t know what it means to me, that I can do this to you.”

  “I want you, Gage.” Her voice was hoarse.

  “I know.” He had two fingers inside her now, where she was smooth and giving, but tight enough to make him sweat. “I want you, too.”

  His other palm stroked the round curve of her bottom, and she lifted into the caress, canting her hips and half rising on her knees. The moonlight revealed the glazed petals of her sex and he closed his eyes. It was too good. God, it was so good.

  It had never been like this for him before. He liked women. He liked sex. Hell, he loved sex, but this was a different plane of sex, this was sex-to-the-nth sex.

  Adrenaline was pumping into his bloodstream, as if bullets were flying or bombs were going off, or like that time he’d been mugged in Cairo.

  Only he was suddenly worried about losing more than his passport and piastres now. Maybe he should back away. Make an excuse, climb into his car and speed from the cove. Head for what now seemed like the relative safety of a war zone.

  But then she tightened on his fingers, moaned with sweet urgency, and he was lost—a slave to her needs. Her muscles were clenching on him now, and he was shaking all over, his fingers fumbling with his zipper.

  His cock sprang free, the wet tip caressing her flank. They both groaned, and it was enough to jar him into remembering protection. Cursing, sweating, he found his wallet, searched for the condom packet with one hand, the other still moving in and out of her twitching body.

  “Gage,” she pleaded. “Hurry.”

  “I know, I know,” he muttered, then bit into foil. Finally, covered, he came over her back, shoving up his shirt so that he could feel her bare flesh against his chest. She moved, her hips tilting, her sweet bottom lifting to him.

  He pulled his fingers free, and she cried out in disappointment.

  “It’s okay, baby,” he said against her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat. “Almost there.” Then he fitted the swollen head of him to her heated wetness and pushed inside, her body giving way to his penetration in slow, delicious degrees.

  When he was all the way in, he used his knees to widen hers, and took another decadent inch. She moaned again, low and hoarse, and he brushed her hair from her face. “Okay?” he asked, caressing her face.

  Instead of answering, she turned her head, caught at his thumb and sucked it into her mouth. Shit. He froze as chills broke out across his skin and his cock seemed to expand. Shaking with the effort to remain still, he let her get accustomed to his possession.

  And then he had to move, he had to, as unstoppable as the waves on the beach. In time to their rhythm, he retreated and advanced, their bodies as tight as puzzle pieces. The image bothered him a moment—what would happen to his edges when they weren’t bound by hers?—but then the pleasure was just too mind-blowing. She responded like a dream. Impaled on his cock, covered by his much bigger body, she didn’t have much room to move, but her very pliancy turned him on. Open to him, trusting, she accepted his thrusts, and as he sped them up, he felt her rise into them as best she could, her growing tension testament to her nearing orgasm.

  He let his palm stroke over her hip to her belly. The muscles there quivered as he passed, and then he felt her soft hair, her wet flesh opened around him, her knot of nerves, primed for his touch. She jerked as he circled there, but he didn’t let up, rubbing, swirling, even as he thrust with more deliberation, withdrawing to the tip, driving to the root.

  Climax was imminent. His balls were drawn tight, oxygen trapped in his chest. He gave her little clit a gentle pinch and she jolted, bit his thumb, and then it was on her, her hips rolling, her inner muscles clenching, releasing, clenching, pulling him with her into the sweet, dark deep.

  He would never look at death by drowning the same way again.

  * * *

  GAGE DIDN’T KNOW MUCH about wedding rehearsal dinners, but the one at Captain Crow’s for the next-day nuptials struck him as particularly relaxed. Maybe because the “rehearsing” earlier had been kept to a minimum. Beyond being told where he’d stand and not to forget the ring, his responsibilities had centered on helping his mother and father ferry boxes of decorations from their rental car. A party planner was taking care of most of the details, including handling the catering issues, but his mom had a crafty DIY streak and she wanted to be the one to embellish the deck where the ceremony would take place.

  His parents had been staying at a hotel since flying in from Hawaii four days before, but tonight they’d sleep in the master bedroom at No. 9 in order to get an early start on the process.

  Gage would stay with Skye—if she’d let him. He slid a glance at her now, sitting across the table, and watched her fuss with the napkin in her lap as they waited for the plethora of appetizers that had been ordered. It was his intent to keep a close eye on her for the duration of his stay at the cove. As the days ticked by, she’d become increasingly on edge, as jumpy as she’d been when he first arrived.

  That unsettled him, too, an uncomfortable reminder that the mystery of the home invasion hadn’t been solved. Before he left the country, he’d speak to both Teague and Griffin. They’d look out for her.

  Though it wouldn’t be the same as his doing so. The thought made him twitch, and at his involuntary movement, Skye looked over. Their gazes met and he twitched again, the jolt of sexual awareness impossible to tamp down. Her sleeveless, V-necked dress was an amazing two-piece thing, a formfitting aqua sheath topped by a filmy second layer in the same color that acted like a filter over a camera lens. The lightweight fabric moved over her body like water, and the image was reinforced by the small starfish clip she wore, holding back the dark mass of her hair from a deep side part.

  Both brought to mind his mermaid dreams, disquieting him further as he remembered his unrequited yearning. In every one, he never managed to reach her before the tide returned him to shore.

  Well, he’d touch her now, he decided. A kiss, a caress, just a breath of her fresh perfume would calm the jagged edges of his mood.

/>   Half rising from his chair, he saw her eyes widen as she guessed his intent. With a subtle shake of her head, she sent him a pointed message: Not here. Not now.

  Frustrated, he settled back in his seat, delivering his own unspoken memo by folding his arms across his chest. Stubborn woman. He’d barely managed to get her to the table. She’d been present at the rehearsal as the cove’s property manager, on hand to answer questions or help with details, but when it was finished she’d tried slinking away, claiming she had no place at the celebratory meal.

  His parents had overheard her remark and squashed the objection. They’d been delighted to renew their acquaintance with the grown-up version of the little girl they’d remembered. Perhaps they’d picked up on her link with Gage—Griff claimed they lit the air between them like flying embers from a bonfire—but they hadn’t given a sign.

  Servers arrived then, bearing plates of sashimi, coconut shrimp, fried calamari and hummus with pita. A waitress had mixed drinks on a tray, and the guy who was usually behind the bar followed, a wine bottle in each hand, topping off glasses of red and white. He lingered behind Skye, and Gage narrowed his eyes as she turned around to exchange a few words with him.

  Something tickled the back of his neck and he glanced right, at his mother, seated beside him. She was leaning over, whispering in her husband’s ear. Noting Gage’s attention, she straightened in her chair and threw him an innocent smile.

  “What was that about?” he asked. “You know gossip is bad for the soul.”

  “Gossip is speculation,” his mother pronounced as she lifted her martini. She was a Tess prototype, with dark, unsilvered hair and ageless cheekbones. “Facts are a balm to the heart.”

  He sent her a suspicious look. “Exactly what ‘facts’ are balming your heart?”

  “I’d love to see all three of my children settled,” she said.

  Gage groaned. There were facts, and then there were false hopes. “Look, Mom—”

  “A toast!” his dad’s voice boomed down the table.

  Since there’d already been several when the first round of drinks had arrived, each focused on wishing the bride and groom good health and long happiness, they were all practiced in raising their glasses. “To my second son...” Alec Lowell said, this time directing his focus on Gage.

  Hell. He swallowed his second groan. Following on the heels of his mother’s whisper, this didn’t bode well.

  His father lifted his glass higher. “Wishing him much success and a safe return to those who love him.”

  Across the table, Skye jumped as if she’d been jabbed with a bamboo skewer. Gage noticed, but everyone else proceeded as normal, hear-hearing and then tipping back their beverages.

  Gage took a healthy gulp of his own, while assessing the damage of that “safe return” on his siren of the cove. He didn’t think she’d spill his secrets, but there was her steadily rising stress level to take into account. And that stress wasn’t only because he was leaving in three days. Polly was on the move, as well. Skye’s best friend had already transferred most of her things from the little beachside dollhouse to Teague’s larger home in the suburbs.

  The ping of fork on glass drew the table’s attention to Tess, sitting at the opposite end from Gage, between both of Jane’s brothers. They didn’t appear to be chatty types, but his sister took her matron-of-honor duties seriously and had been coaxing conversation from them. Most everyone had given up on getting much out of Griffin’s future father-in-law.

  Tess tapped her fork again, then stood up, her gaze directed at Gage.

  Crap, he thought. Since she’d already aimed words of wisdom at both Jane and his twin, he could guess her next target.

  “To Gage,” she said. “Who will promise right now, in front of witnesses, not to go incommunicado again!”

  The sound of shattering glass punctuated her line. All heads turned from Tess to focus on Skye, who was standing, her chair pushed back, shards of her broken goblet at her feet.

  Gage didn’t think. Perhaps he jumped over the table. All he knew was that he was beside the siren, his hands on her shoulders as he looked her over from head to toes bared by strappy sandals. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “Are you hurt? Did you get cut?”

  “No.” She flushed. “I’m embarrassed.”

  Beneath his hands, she trembled, and he could feel her ready to bolt. “You’re okay,” he said, then nudged his brother, who had the chair beside hers. “Griff, switch with me.”

  Already a busboy was there with a broom and dustbin.

  In moments, Gage had taken Skye’s seat—in case there were errant glass slivers—she was in his twin’s, and Griffin was across the table. An awkward quiet lingered, however. He tried thinking of some comment to ignite new conversation, but hell, he wasn’t the wordsmith.

  His gaze shot to Griffin’s.

  His twin instantly cleared his throat. “Uh...” He threw a look toward his bride. “Jane? Weren’t you telling me something interesting about, uh...?”

  It wasn’t panic, exactly, that clutched at Gage’s gut, but even with inches between them he could feel Skye’s mounting strain. She was keeping his secrets—the kidnapping, the way he did his job, the dangerous aspect of his next assignment—and each passing moment made it harder for her to remain quiet about them.

  He stared at his brother. Come on.

  “The article!” Griffin said, triumphant. Smiling, he looked around the table. “There’s an article coming out in tomorrow’s paper about the cove. It details the love story of the founders, and the mystery of a missing priceless piece of jewelry.”

  The dude with the wine bottles was back, carrying a new glass for Skye. Gage watched as he placed it near her hand and filled it with the white she preferred. Then he stepped back, yet still hovered, taking his wine-replenishment duties seriously.

  The table conversation—thank God—had been successfully manipulated by his brother. Jane chimed in, too, and together they related the history of Crescent Cove to her family, as well as the rumors about the jeweled necklace known as the Collar. The information appeared to intrigue the Pearson clan. Jane’s father and brothers, all scientists, tossed around hypotheses as everyone enjoyed the appetizers.

  Skye explained that the Collar had never shown up in a bank or in a memento box. No mention of it had been made in any last wills and testaments. The only record was the old rumors and the letter written by Edith Essex in which she claimed it was safely put away where she and her husband wouldn’t have to think about it or look at it again.

  Edith and Max’s former house was the natural presumed repository, of course, but Skye explained it had never shown up there—not in the past eighty-five years, not during the search they’d just conducted days before.

  “However,” Corbett Pearson—Jane’s father—said, forefingers tapping his chin, “it could be that a later renovation changed the lines of the original house, concealing old nooks and crannies. Are there architectural records?”

  “Well, yes,” Skye said. “In the property management office. I actually do have plans for many—maybe all—of the cottages.”

  Tess scooted forward in her chair. “Oh, fun! We should get them, look them over. What if we found the Collar tonight?”

  “I think there’s enough excitement on the agenda as it is,” Gage said. Beneath the table, he found Skye’s hand, squeezed.

  But she was slipping her fingers from his, and on her feet in the next breath. “There’s no harm in me looking through my files,” she said, moving toward the exit. “It won’t take long—I’ll be back before dinner is served.”

  Gage started to get up. “I’ll come—”

  “Of course you won’t leave your family,” she said, shaking her head. “You only have a short while with them left.” In a blink, she was nothing but a flutter of color going out the exit.

  He stared after her, wincing as the little barb of her last line sank into his skin. It didn’t make him feel any better to understand
exactly why she’d grabbed at the opportunity to run off. She needed to escape the pressure cooker of the situation for a short while.

  Or a long while.

  Perhaps it only seemed that way to him, but when he started drumming his fingers on the tabletop, his twin sent him a sharp look. “I’d think she’d be back by now,” he said to Gage. “You’re just going to sit there?”

  “She needs some breathing room,” he confessed, murmuring to his twin under the general conversation at the table. “The situation has her a little...wound up.”

  His brother shook his head, expression disapproving. “I told you—”

  “You don’t know anything about it.” His hot rejoinder didn’t alleviate the guilt simmering in his belly. Yeah, Griffin wasn’t aware of all that was bothering Skye, but the blame for that did sit squarely at Gage’s door.

  Still, he believed it was the right way to handle things.

  But it was wrong to leave Skye alone for so long, he decided. Hadn’t he promised himself he’d keep an eye on her? What if something had happened—

  He was out of his chair before completing the thought. Then he leaped down the steps to the beach and ran toward the property management office, a quarter-mile dash that he made in record time. What if she needed him and he arrived too late?

  Shit. She should at least be able to count on him now, while he still lived at the cove.

  The office door was propped open and the room brightly lit when he sprinted over the threshold. There. There she is, he thought, relieved. She stood at her desk, yellowed papers strewn in front of her, a handful of old black-and-white photographs scattered on top of them.

  “Skye?”

  She glanced up, barely noting his presence before she redirected her gaze to the plans and photos. It was as if Gage were a stranger to her.

  At best a former friend, already half-forgotten.

  With souvenirs of the past surrounding the siren of the cove, Gage caught a glimpse of his future.