Mother of God.
Olivia had never been so nervous in her life as she was standing naked before Zach. Sure, he’d seen her up close and personal on more occasions than she could count, but that had been seventeen years ago now.
And sure, she’d obviously maintained her body—hello, professional dancer—but would he still find her beautiful? She resisted the temptation to cover herself, even as he stood there, silent and unresponsive. Just when she thought she’d made a mistake about his intentions, he took a tentative step toward her, hand outstretched.
His warm hand made contact with the curve of her waist, and gooseflesh rippled along her skin. His gaze swept over her from her sandal-clad feet, up her bare legs, past her black lace thong, along her abdomen, then to her breasts, finally landing on her face. She felt every flicker as if it were a branding iron, hot and searing on her flesh.
“There are no words,” he finally muttered. His other hand settled at her hip, and he drew her toward him. With a groan, he captured her mouth, biting and licking her lips. His hands made their way along her ribs and back down to cup her bare ass, where he pressed his rock-hard erection against her.
Lifting his hand from her ass, he placed it over her breast. His growl of desire emboldened her.
“Too many clothes,” she murmured against his mouth. Her hands went to the front of his shirt, drawing it from the waistband of his pants then unbuttoning it. Peeling the shirt from his shoulders, she dropped it to the floor then pressed her hands flat on his bare chest, and he shuddered, his breath ragged against her lips.
Her hands went to work on his belt buckle and fly. When she finally had access to the goods, she wrapped her hand around him, shivering at the heat of him.
He grasped her wrist. “Keep that up, and it’ll be over before we even start.” He tugged her toward the stairs.
“Where are we going?”
He lifted a brow in confusion. “Bedroom.”
“Uh-uh.” She eyed the thick patterned rug in front of the hearth. “Here.” She hooked her thumbs in the sides of her panties and shimmied out of them, pleased to see the effect of her nakedness on his composure.
In two strides, he’d scooped her legs up and around his waist, before kneeling on the rug and laying her back, following her down. He kissed her mouth, a long, hot, wet kiss that left her breathless.
Stroking and cupping her breasts, he murmured words of longing, soft and low in her ear.
Rising to kneel above her, he drew a hand down between her breasts, over her stomach, ending between her legs, drawing a ragged moan from her.
He watched his hand as he stroked her, his intensity both chilling and hot at the same time. “Christ, Olivia.”
He withdrew, and she moaned in despondence.
Making quick work of his shoes and socks, pants and boxers, his erection sprang free, and her mouth watered. But instead of crawling back up her body, he settled low between her legs, and draping them over his shoulders, put his mouth on her. She cried out at the contact and felt him smile against her.
“Mmm. Just as I remembered.” He breathed against her.
She grasped his hair and within moments felt the orgasm build, coiling deep, before bursting into a full-body explosion.
Lifting himself up on an elbow, he winked at her. “Also just as I remembered,” he repeated.
Before the pulses radiating through her body could fade, she reached for him. “Now.”
“Condom.”
She shook her head. “I’m on the pill, and I trust you. Do you trust me?” She wanted nothing between them—just like it used to be.
Without words, he knelt up between her legs then positioned himself at her opening, entering her full and hot.
Home.
The first word that came to her mind.
Then he began to move, slow and deliberate. So unlike their quick, almost violent coupling when they were hormone-crazed teenagers. This was both sweet and sultry. Bending, he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked. He paid the same devotion to the other breast.
The feelings, both physical and emotional, overwhelmed her. Her body knew Zach. Knew his feel, his fit. Knew his scent. He’d refined his lovemaking—a sharp stab of jealousy shot through her at the thought—but he was still the same thoughtful, passionate lover.
“Now, Olivia.” He growled. “Now.”
As her release swept over her, he groaned her name, burying his face in her neck, following her over in his release.
Chapter Eighteen
With Olivia tucked up against him, her head on his chest, a silky thigh draped over him, he could contentedly fall asleep.
He smiled. Here. Where a lifetime ago they’d made love on blankets and sleeping bags, surrounded by the light of camp lanterns, the air thick with the sound of the crickets that had invaded the house through broken windows and cracked walls. There were no crickets now, only the hum of the AC, and lamplight instead of lantern light, but . . . damn, this was good.
Familiar but different, the same but not. His fingers skimmed along her back in drowsy circles, and she sighed, her breath tickling him.
“I had a really nice time tonight. Thank you.”
He rose up to his elbow, looking down at her. “I was worried . . .” He inhaled and tried again, “I was worried that taking you to the ballet had been an insensitive move on my part.”
She reached up, tracing the lines he knew marked his forehead. “No. It was very thoughtful. You know,” she considered a moment, “I can’t remember the last time I watched a ballet—enjoyed the beauty of it—from anywhere other than the wings.”
Her hand dropped, and she closed her eyes, but he continued to gaze down at her. If you’d told him just three short months ago that after seventeen long years he’d have Olivia James back in his arms, he’d have called bullshit.
“I saw you. In Chicago, I mean.”
Her eyes flew open, and she propped herself up on her elbow. “When?”
“Sleeping Beauty.”
“My first performance as principal dancer,” she muttered then shook her head. “But I never saw you.”
He felt a flush of chagrin spread over his face. “I came backstage, but you were with some guy, so . . .”
She frowned in concentration. “Oh, Zach. That ‘guy’ was likely John King, my first agent. Tall, slender build?” At Zach’s nod, she continued. “Why didn’t you say something?” She smacked his arm before lying back in a huff. Shaking her head again, she said, “I can’t believe you came all the way to Chicago and never told me.”
“I guess my pride got in the way.”
She snorted.
With his forefinger, he drew her face, first gliding along the arch of her brows then down the curve of her cheekbones before outlining her full lips. She opened her mouth and took his finger between her teeth, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She released his finger, and he tapped her on the tip of her nose.
“I like you, Olivia James. I like the woman you’ve become.”
“I like you too, Zach Ryder.” She rolled to her side and shimmied her ass into the crook of his thighs, settling her head onto her bent arm, and heaved a sigh of frustration.
“What?”
“For as long as I can remember, my life has been about one thing: dance. My entire identity has been ‘dancer.’ I don’t know how to be anything else. If I’m not dancing, I don’t know who I am. And if I don’t know who I am, how can you know who I am? And whether you even like the woman I’ve become?”
He tucked his chin up against her shoulder. “You’re wrong. You’re not just a dancer. You’re Carly’s daughter, Emily’s teacher, Marshall’s unofficial daughter, Jennie’s stepdaughter, Amy’s and Kristen’s friend . . . and mine,” he finished, his voice soft and rough.
“I always knew I would have at least two careers—dancer and . . . something else. And while I had been inching my way toward retirement, I had no idea it would come so soon—or so abruptly. I thought
I had more time . . . time to consider the next logical progression in my career. Now, I have to transition my career with no one to guide me.”
“You don’t need a guide, but if you do, I’m here. So is Marshall—and Amy. Even Kristen and Jennie, for what it’s worth. And when that doesn’t work, there’s always Tyler’s high ABV beer, Firehose.”
Olivia chuckled. “ABV?”
“Alcohol by volume.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You are not a one-trick pony, or dancer, for that matter. There are other things you can do. I’ve seen you with the students, mentoring Emily, bossing around the set crew. You’re a natural. Just like you are on stage.”
“Were.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Where is the Olivia James I once knew? The one who powered through the pain and the disappointments? The one who never let anything get in her way?” Not even me, he thought.
“I’ve lost her,” she murmured.
“No, you haven’t.” He tapped her heart with this forefinger. “She’s here. Dig deep enough, and you’ll find her. And I promise you, whatever you decide to do, you’ll succeed. That’s just who you are. And it’s one of the many reasons I admire you.”
She rolled over to face him. “You admire me, Mr. Chief of Police?”
“I do. And should there be any doubt, let me show you how much.”
He bent to kiss her as his hand closed over her breast.
Zach padded naked across his living room toward the bathroom, and Olivia looked on with pure lustful appreciation. She’d seen some fine male derrières in her line of work, but she’d put Zach’s right up there with the best of them.
They had been teenagers hopped up on hormones when she and Zach first came together. Now, they were adults, with scars, and lives. And experience.
Keenly aware of the double standard, jealousy bit with sharp teeth once more when she thought of the women with whom Zach had gained that experience. One of them being Kristen McKay. Admonishing herself for her double standard, she reminded herself to be glad. His experience had brought her three—no four—incredible orgasms.
Stretching luxuriously on the rug, she felt loose-boned and relaxed for the first time since before her injury. She surveyed the living room, seeing it for the first time since she walked through the door, her attentions elsewhere until now.
Zach had done a beautiful job restoring the house. If she hadn’t known, she would have thought he’d torn it down and started over. Gone were the plaster walls and their tattered and peeling wallpaper, floors with missing and rotted floorboards, and water-stained ceiling.
In their place, moss-green walls with wide stained-wood baseboards, windows trimmed with the same wood, tall built-in cabinets with glass-front doors, and gleaming hardwood floors. The tile-trimmed fireplace anchored the room, surrounded by two comfortable leather sofas arranged in an ‘L’ shape.
The room exuded warmth and comfort. Just like the man who lived in it.
And speaking of ‘the man,’ he returned and sank to the rug to pull her back against him once more.
“Zach?”
“Yes?” His lips grazed her shoulder as he spoke.
“Why did you buy this house?”
He froze then drew in a deep breath before releasing it. Rolling her over, he pinned her with his gaze. “I could never let someone else own this piece of our history.”
Her heart rolled over in her chest, and she realized she’d drifted into the deep end of the pool without a life vest.
Rising, Zach held out his hand to her.
“Where are we going?”
“To bed. Unless you want to sleep on the floor tonight,” he said, a dubious look on his face.
Stay the night?
He waggled his fingers, and she took his hand, its warmth cradling hers, feeling as if climbing into bed with Zach was the most natural thing in the world.
Oh yeah, she was in way over her head.
Zach floated slowly up into consciousness, the smell of brewing coffee luring him into wakefulness, his body and mind relaxed and sated. Echoes of breathy sighs and pleasurable moans drifted in, and he remembered.
Olivia.
He reached out a hand to find the space next to him empty. But the long dark strand of hair on the pillow told him it hadn’t been a dream.
A pan clattered from the direction of the kitchen, and he sat up, glancing at the clock. Nine-oh-eight—fuck!—then remembered that he wasn’t on duty until twelve thirty.
He grinned. That meant more time with Olivia.
As he drew on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, his gaze landed on the bed with its rumpled sheets. That bed had seen more action last night—and this morning—than he’d seen in years. Truth be told, it was the only action that bed had seen. Zach hadn’t brought a woman into this house since he bought and renovated it.
Giving his teeth a thorough brushing to dispel the morning breath, he recalled with pleasure the last bout of lovemaking.
In the wee hours of the morning, he’d rolled over and snuggled Olivia’s back up against his front then coasted his hands along the curves of her body until she moaned with pleasure. Then, slow and easy, he’d entered her from behind, taking her in slow, lazy strokes, their mingled sighs the only sounds in the room.
When they’d both achieved bone-melting satisfaction, Olivia had clasped his hand to her breast and whispered his name. “Zach?”
“Yeah?”
“Sex with you is better than Kristen’s cookies,” she’d murmured, her voice raspy with sleep.
“Good to know,” he’d muttered. He still didn’t know what she’d meant, but he’d take it. Kristen’s cookies were damn good.
They’d both drifted back to sleep, legs tangled, hands clasped.
Now his woman was in his kitchen, right where she belonged. Then winced. Not that she belonged in his kitchen, barefoot and pregnant—although there was a certain appeal in the idea—but that she belonged in his home. It’s where she’d always belonged. In the place where she lost her virginity to him. The place where he told her he loved her. The place where he’d rekindled his relationship with her.
As he padded across the hardwood floor, the scent of frying bacon and cooking eggs assaulted him, and he realized he was ravenous.
Turning the corner into the kitchen, he halted. Olivia stood at the stove in one of his T-shirts, her long, muscular legs bare to his perusal. Her hair hung down her back, messy and slept-in, and an image of his hand fisted in that hair as he drove into her flashed through him like a lightning bolt.
He must have groaned, because she whirled toward him with a start, the spatula in front of her face like a weapon.
“Sorry,” he said, a grin splitting his face. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
She scowled. “You have a bad habit of doing that.” Then her face flushed, and she looked away as if everything they’d done the night before—and earlier that morning—had flashed through her mind. “Breakfast is almost ready if you want to make yourself a cup of coffee.”
Forget coffee, he’d like to brush that hair aside and nibble the tender flesh where the graceful curve of her neck met the slope of her shoulder. Instead, he settled for stepping up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. “Smells good. I worked up an appetite.”
“You’re not the only one,” she muttered.
He watched in fascination as heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “Maybe after breakfast, we can tackle our appetite for lunch.”
Olivia leaned her head back against his shoulder, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her delectable mouth. “You’re insatiable.”
“Only where you’re concerned.” He turned her to him and captured her mouth with his as he moved the frying pan off the burner and shut it off. Breakfast could wait.
In her quest to sort through her mother’s things, Olivia had found a box of journals. Nothing fancy, just the canvas-bound notebooks people used for a
variety of tasks.
She’d often seen her mother write in the notebooks in the evenings, never really giving them much thought. She just assumed it was notes on the studio, choreography ideas, promising students, and the like.
Her body ached in the way of one who’d been thoroughly—and pleasurably—used. She couldn’t help but compare last evening with Zach and the ill-fated evening seventeen years ago. Last night is what her eighteenth birthday should have been. Well, without the four-hundred-dollar dinner and the ballet. Oh, and the Maserati. But it had been sweet and romantic. Then hot and sexy. And waking up next to Zach had been . . . pure bliss.
God! She was in deep trouble.
Shaking her head, she sighed as she crawled into bed.
Propped up against the headboard, Olivia opened one of the journals and began reading. The entries appeared to be reflections, scattered thoughts, rather than daily reports, written without any sense of connectivity between them. Most weren’t dated, but maybe . . . just maybe, there was something about her father in them.
The first entry in the notebook was about her:
I hope she knows I’m not pushing her for me—but for her. If she gave it all up today, I would be disappointed, of course, but it’s her life after all, not mine, and she must choose for herself.
But, I told her, if this is what you want, don’t let anything or anyone stand in your way.
For better or worse, Olivia hadn’t let anything or anyone—not even Zach—stand in her way.
She’d been called to dance. There was no other way to describe it. From the moment she was old enough to reach the ballet barre, she had danced. It was in her blood. At the age of sixteen, she won a gold medal in the USA International Ballet Competition, the Olympics of ballet. At nineteen, she’d been featured in Dance Magazine’s “25 to Watch.”
Only one percent of ballerinas made it in the elite international companies, and her success with The Joffrey had been beyond her wildest dreams. In fact, her career had been meteoric. And just like a meteor, she’d flamed out. Joining the corps de ballet at eighteen, becoming a soloist at twenty-four and a principal dancer at twenty-eight. Then, at thirty-four, blowing out her Achilles tendon.
A Season to Dance Page 15