Текст книги "Storm"

Автор книги: Jo Raven

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Chapter Two

RAYLIN

The rain lashes at the windows until late the next morning, and I watch it, sipping at some yucky instant coffee I found stashed in the pantry room. Dry and protected behind the bay windows facing the beach, I’m warm and cozy.

It sucks, because it leaves my mind loose to wander and visit worries, fears, and the memory of a certain muscular guy pressed up close and personal, asking me if I’m okay.

It also brings back the memory of the thug after me, and I feel itchy with nerves.

He can’t have followed me here. What is this, a James Bond film? Nobody knows where I am.

I slide out of the loveseat someone thoughtfully placed there—to watch the rain like I am? I wonder—and think about Storm or whoever he is as I rinse my cup in the kitchen sink.

What was he doing last night jogging in the hurricane? Okay, almost hurricane, and sure, it’s his own business, but only a blind man would have missed the front coming. He was right outside the house whose fence he was fixing when I noticed and went to take shelter.

Instead, he headed out for a run. On the surf.

A little disturbed at the dark suggestions my mind offers as to his motivations, I return to the terrace. Pushing the screen door open, I walk to the end, to the steps where he held me by the hips and asked me who I am. The tiles are cool under my feet, and my toes curl a little at the sensation.

He headed into the storm. Did he want to hurt himself? Put himself in danger?

None of your business, Ray. None of your damn business. Don’t you have enough with worrying about your own little self? Hitmen sent after you not enough trouble for you?

So it makes no sense that I go into the bathroom and fix my hair, pulling the dark strands into a ponytail, and straighten the halterneck top of the only dress I own. Just on the off chance he passes by later.

Pathetic. Seriously.

The rain isn’t showing any sign of letting up. No internet, no TV. It’s like being stranded on a desert island. Some more digging unearths a stack of musty romance novels, and I plop myself back in the loveseat to read. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it, too comfortable to move.

I wish I could stay here forever, in this bubble of warmth and safety. Not having to worry about myself, my family and the debt collectors after me.

Not having to remind myself every day to keep breathing and that life is worth living, even when the people who are supposed to look after you, love you above all, have abandoned you to the wolves—no, worse.

When they’ve set you up as a sacrificial goat and watch from the shadows to make sure you’re caught, so they can go free and enjoy life without complications. Without my complication.

And not a tear left to shed over them.

***

It’s later afternoon, the sun dipping low over the horizon, the rain turned into a drizzle. I’m on the terrace, finishing my crackers and peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches, when he appears, running toward me, his head bowed and the moisture gleaming on his bare torso.

I swear, he’s doing this in purpose. I choke on my cracker and reach for the glass of water I have nearby. Such a body shouldn’t exist outside of romance novel covers.

Such men aren’t for the likes of me.

But as I’m getting up to carry my dish and glass inside, he turns and jogs up the beach.

Toward me.

Crap.

In danger of tripping and falling again, I back away toward the house door. Not fast enough. He bounds up the steps and takes the dish and glass from my hands. He puts them down, and I stare at him, my mouth hanging open.

“What are you doing?” There. Words. Finally.

“Checking on you.” He turns my hands over in his much larger ones and runs his thumbs over my scored and bruised palms.

The sensation does strange things to my body and mind. I mean, we’ve established I’m in lust with the guy, but this? This light caress shoots straight to my core. I’m throbbing so badly between my legs I think I might go over the edge just like that, and there’s a pressure in my chest I don’t understand.

Never felt the need to touch a man’s shoulders, his face, his lips before. Not like this.

Refusing to linger on the thought, I pull my hands back. He resists, I pull harder, he lets go—and I knock into the still closed door. My bruised backside sends a jolt of agony up my spine, and I yelp.

“Dammit, I knew you were hurt.” He grabs me and turns me around, so that I face the door, and I put up my hands to stop from faceplanting into the wood. He tugs me backward just in time to avoid that, and his hands are on my ass.

I repeat, his hands are on my ass. Eep.

“What do you think you’re doing? Hey!” I twist around and slap at his chest, pushing him away. “Hands off.”

He lifts his hands, and oh God, he’s grinning. So not fair. It’s a crooked, sexy grin that lights up the blues in his eyes and melts me into a puddle of goo.

“You’re cute,” he says, and that sexy raspy bedroom voice will be my undoing, I swear. After his body does me in, of course, and let’s not forget the way his concern touched me.

Ugh. “I’m not cute.”

“Yes, you are.” He reaches for my face and trails his thumb over my lips. “Cute and funny.”

I sputter. That’s not what I want a handsome, sexy guy to tell me. But before I find the right swearword to fling at him, the flare of something darker in his eyes stops me.

“Well, I’m fine, as you can see,” I say, my voice shaky and kinda breathy. Why the hell is my voice breathy?

“Yes, you’re fine,” he agrees, his eyes darkening more, dipping to my breasts. His other hand smacks into the door above my head, and the length of his hard, strong, half-naked body presses into mine. His tongue darts out and licks his lower lip, and now he’s looking at me like I’m dessert.

Right on cue, my stomach grumbles.

Damn!

His eyes flick back up to my face, and his brows arch.

“Sorry,” I say and try to pull away from where he’s got me pinned against the door. This is the mother of all bad ideas. “I just…”

“Come over for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Wait, wait. I blink. He’s still there, waiting for my answer. “No way. I don’t even know you.”

He grins again, and my panties are on fire. “I told you. I’m Storm. And I don’t stay far from here.” He winks. “You saw me fixing the fence. You know where the house is.”

Shit, he noticed me then. “That where you’re staying?”

“For now.”

“You housesitting, too?”

“Something like that.”

Haha. Funny. “And you’ll cook?”

He shakes his head and snorts. “Maybe.”

“Well, I can’t come.” Because I shouldn’t. But I’m hungry. And he’s pretty. Okay, more rugged than pretty. Still. “I really don’t know you. What if you’re a serial killer or something?”

“I promise you, I’m not.”

Yeah, well. “And I don’t know your real name.”

His expression shutters. “Storm is what everyone calls me.” He draws back and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s up to you, sweetheart. I’ll be sitting outside, if you happen to walk by.”

He backs away, a frown drawing his dark brows together, and cold air rushes between us, raising gooseflesh. I rub my hands up and down my arms, missing his warmth, the feel of his body, the brightness of his gaze.

“I’m Raylin O’Brien,” I call after him.

Hell, I have no idea what has possessed me to tell him this. He doesn’t need to know my family name. Doesn’t need to know anything about me—about my past and my involvement with dangerous men and guns.

But as he turns, walking backward, that sexy grin lighting up his face again.

“Storm,” he calls back. “Just Storm. Nice to meet you, Raylin O’Brien. I promise you a good time if you drop by tonight.”

Holy crap. I groan quietly as he leaves, swallowed by the evening gloom. He isn’t talking about food anymore, is he? Or my mind’s gone down the gutter.

You’re not going, I tell myself. No matter how lickable his abs are, how hot he is, and how you’d like to peel those wet shorts off him and see how big he is when he’s aroused.

Cause that’d be the worst idea ever.

STORM

What are you doing, Storm?

Hell if I know. Inviting her over for dinner. Like I do this kind of stuff back home, when things are fine… Which I don’t.

But I want to get to know her—plus, she was hungry. Damn if that little growl of her stomach didn’t grab me by the throat and flipped on all my protective instincts. The need to take care of her is overwhelming. It won’t let me breathe.

And the need to bury myself balls-deep into her is just as strong, eating me from the inside out. Fantasies of her are taking over my thoughts—of me touching her, pleasuring her, of her riding me, bending over for me.

Fucking hell.

I rub the towel over my wet hair and pull on my favorite pair of worn jeans, stuffing my hard dick inside with some difficulty.

Dammit, I’m hard as a diamond just from having been near her, from feeling the softness of her cheek under my fingertips and the scrapes on her palms. It’s getting to be a common occurrence these days. I’d be working out in the gym room, swimming in the pool or in the sea, fixing something in the house or watching TV, it doesn’t matter what. The image of her, the sound of her voice, her subtle scent of vanilla follows me everywhere, stuck in my mind, priming my body for her.

God, I wish she comes over. Raylin. I need something to take my mind off the chaos of this past year, get out of this funk, and she’s… interesting. Fascinating. Full of contradictions.

Pretty. Damn hot. Fiery.

Fuck, I want to push through the flames and hold her. Have her under me, pound into her as I eat up her pretty mouth, take her from behind against the sofa, in the shower, in the pool… everywhere. Lick her where she burns, break down her every wall, make her scream.

Make her mine.

Shaking off the thought, I head into the kitchen to busy myself with dinner. Oh yeah, glorious food. I debate ordering take-out, then say fuck it, and dig out a deep-frozen lasagna. This is good stuff. Mario special, my uncle’s favorite.

Dammit, last thing I want to do is think about my uncle now. I turn on the oven, then pour myself a Jack on the rocks while waiting for the oven to heat up and lean against the granite island. The whiskey burns pleasantly as it trickles down my throat, warming me up from the inside, and my head drops forward as my muscles start to relax.

God, I don’t know what to do with this life, this stress. I ran away from it, and I was wrenched right back into it. Death always drags me back to a business I don’t want and people I despise. I was supposed to find my own path and, dammit, I was halfway there.

At least that’s what I thought. Working construction and behind the bar, sleeping wherever I could find probably isn’t everyone’s idea of the path to enlightenment. But I wasn’t looking for any deep wisdom, any answers to the purpose of life and the universe.

No. I wanted answers to the purpose of my life, my existence. I never liked the world where my parents lived and died—their business, always at the intersection between legit, shady and downright criminal. Often I wonder if the accident that took their lives was really that, an accident. If the memories I have are real or a figment of a dream.

Dammit. I rub at the roses inked in my side, the scar curling over my ribs. If only I could remember more, understand what the images in my head mean…

Doesn’t fucking matter, though. Too late for answers to that.

What matters is I didn’t find my purpose in life by leaving. I didn’t find happiness. But I also didn’t find bullets and blood and pain, as I did the moment I returned home. Being away was a peaceful time, and it didn’t last nearly long enough.

I yank the oven door open with more force than necessary and stick the lasagna inside, smacking my hand into the hot tray.

Ow. Shaking my head, I grab my drink and head out before I punch something. I should’ve jacked off, taken off the edge.

What if she doesn’t come by?

I chug down the whiskey as I walk around the pool and wonder why my heartbeat is pounding in my ears. I trace again the scar on my side and swallow down bile.

What the hell’s happening to me?

Chapter Three

RAYLIN

Worst idea ever. We’re already established that, and yet here I am, walking down the beach in my worn sandals and the same dress I had on this morning to meet a man I’ve only exchanged a few words with. For dinner.

It’s the hunger, I tell myself. Canned pears and boiled noodles in tomato sauce can only do so much for you after being on the run for so long.

Not that I want to see him again. Storm. Or smell him. Touch the ropey muscles in his arms, trace that square jaw, feel the dark stubble scrape my fingers. Feel the heat of his tall body and hear his raspy, deep voice.

Nope. I’m going for the food, and that’s all there is to it. A girl’s gotta eat, and maybe I want to know more about him. That’s safe, right? As long as he doesn’t find out more about me. And I’m curious.

Is his name really Storm? Is he really housesitting, unlike me? Why would a guy who looks like a cross between a supermodel and a grungy rock star be fixing fences and cleaning the pool?

Yeah, and why not? I kick at a pebble. Stupid questions, Ray. Storm is a perfectly fine name, and maybe you can lay aside your eternal suspicion for one evening and have some fun. Not like you can’t defend yourself if the need arises. God knows you’ve been trained well and can hold your own in a fight.

Still. I slow down, suck in a deep breath. He doesn’t look like a bad guy, right? The way he held my hands and spoke to me was… gentle. Concerned. If he wanted to harm me, he had his chance, twice. He could easily have done so on that terrace, but instead, every time he only made sure I was okay and walked away.

No two ways about it. I want to see him again. Can’t hide it from myself.

So I walk faster, before I change my mind, my feet sinking in the sand, small pebbles getting into my sandals. The tiny pinpricks of pain center me. It’ll be okay.

Lights illuminate the gardens of most of the grand houses on the beach. They’re beautiful. So many of them. After a while I start to think I won’t be able to remember which house it is.

And then I see him.

He’s standing by the pool inside the garden of a huge mansion, the blue light from the water outlining his tall form. I’m sure it’s him because he’s shirtless and turned sideways, giving me his back, and his tattoo is visible.

Plus, I just know it’s him. I feel it deep in my bones, feel the hot energy of him that jolts me like live current.

The wind is blowing, cool and humid, lashing my long hair on my back. I hesitate at the gate by the dark green hedge and look at him. In faded, worn jeans and nothing else, his torso bare, all tanned skin wrapped around taut muscle and sinew, he’s beautiful.

He turns around, as if sensing me there. His eyes find me, and time stops. Something flashes across his face, and tension leaches out of his shoulders. His mouth twists into that sexy, panty-dropping grin that takes my breath away as he walks toward me.

Bare-foot, bare-chested, muscles rolling in his chest and the powerful thighs stretching his jeans.

My gaze latches on to the ink on his sides. Barbed vines and flowers. It’s the tattoo on his back, curling its way around to the front of his body, enveloping him in thorns and red roses and blood.

“You came.” His dark hair falls in his eyes, and my gaze drops to his mouth, reading his beautiful lips. “Raylin.”

He reaches for me, and I lift my hand, placing it in his. His left hand, I think dizzily. He’s left-handed. Every little thing I find out about him gets me excited. This is ridiculous.

His long fingers wrap around mine and squeeze lightly, enough to let me feel the coiled strength in them. He smells spicy and musky, a little tangy and sweet.

A shiver goes through me. My breasts ache, and heat spreads between my legs.

Oh my God. Never gotten wet at a man’s scent, at the fragile sky blue of his eyes, the power in his hands. I’m dizzy, and I want to close my eyes, but I can’t look away from him. Can’t break away.

I’m not exactly new to this game, I think, my mind fizzling out as he tugs me closer to him. But I sure am more familiar with breaking into houses than attraction to a man. And this… this is new. This is a first.

It’s a matter of frequency, and the rarity of it is killing me.

He pulls me until our bodies touch, lighting up a line of fire between us, hip to shoulder. My breathing is shaky, unsteady. This is crazy. How can he affect me so much? I feel like I’m treading water, and he’s my lifeline.

“You’re warm,” I whisper, my mouth dry, my brain on shut-down. “So warm.”

“That’s because of you,” he says, and that makes no sense.

No sense at all, and I’m way out of my depth.

Move away, Ray.

So I do, taking one step back, and it’s like walking through glue, my feet reluctant to lift off the ground. I try, though, taking one more step back—and he follows.

His hand lifts to my face and I shiver at his touch, rough and hot as I remember it. “Shit, you’re cold. Let’s go inside.”

“So you’re warm because I’m cold?” He’s still holding my hand, pulling me behind him around the lit-up pool, and I hurry to keep up with his long strides. “How’s that logical?”

“Does it have to be?” There’s a smile in his voice, and I shake my head, my mouth twitching. “Here.” He opens a glass door and stands back, waving me inside. “Please.”

I debate briefly with myself whether I should take off my sand-covered sandals, then just toe them off and step inside. Cool tiles under my feet, a huge space with high ceilings and white walls opens around me.

Wow. The sitting area is round, set in a sunken area of the enormous room, with multicolored cushions making a splash on the light beige sofas. To my left I can see a kitchen, and to my right a dining area with huge bay windows set in a semi-circle letting in the night. A low lamp illuminates the round, polished table and the high-backed chairs covered in dark cloth.

He gestures at the table.

I hesitate. I pinch my arm, and ow, the pain tells me this is real. It looks like a magazine spread. Or a fairytale, and I don’t do fairytales.

Never have.

“What’s the matter?” He’s watching me intently, and his full mouth tightens. “If you’d rather eat outside…”

“No, that’s fine.” I move in the direction of the dining area, my steps dragging, although they’re getting lighter. “This is…”

Incredible. Like a dream.

And I don’t believe in dreams, either. But I wouldn’t mind living in one for a little while.

***

The table is set for two. White dishes, stark against the bare mahogany, fluted wine glasses and shiny silverware. Cloth napkins, folded on the side, and a ceramic hot pot holder. Spotlights hidden over the bay windows highlight the corners of the room, casting a warm, soft glow on the scene.

“On today’s menu is lasagna. Hope you’re not vegetarian.”

“That’s fine.”

He approaches the table leisurely, that slight roll in his gait reminding me of some sort of big cat. Maybe a panther, dark and dangerous—and the way the jeans hang off his lean hips, God. A fine trail of hair leads from his navel into his pants, and a deep V cuts from his hips down. Mouthwatering.

He comes to stand beside me, and I can’t help but stare at the red scar in his side. Recent. Surgical. I give in to the urge to touch it. It’s smooth, glassy.

He jerks back, knocking into the table and rattling the silverware. He lifts a hand to his side, dark brows knotting over his eyes. “I’ll be right back.”

Crap. I wipe my sweaty hands down my sides.

What am I doing here?

Can’t breathe. I move to the bay window, needing fresh air. I turn the handle and push the window open. Wind rushes inside, whipping my loose hair around my face and my dress against my legs. I inhale, tasting salt and gritty particles of sand on my tongue.

My chest aches. I feel… shaken. Overcome. As if all that has happened in my life so far is coming back, rushing me, crushing me.

I miss my mom. I even miss brother and my dad, that bastard. I miss having a home where I can feel safe, protected. Where I don’t have to worry constantly about the things I say or do. Where I can let my guard down. And this man… he’s not safe, I can tell. Not for me.

Neither am I, for him. He’s got it good, housesitting this mansion. Spending his vacation doing the odd job in the garden, cleaning the pool. Meeting girls and inviting them over for dinner. Living a summer dream.

He doesn’t need my shit, especially if it spills over here.

It won’t, I tell myself. It fucking won’t. Relax.

A noise behind me has me spinning, hand going for a gun, heart in my throat.

So much for relaxing.

“Raylin?” He’s standing beside the table, a hot pot in his hands. His oven-mittens are a deep blue, like his eyes which are currently narrowed to slits. His hot gaze rakes over me, leaving a trail of sparks. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.” I look away, hating the heat rising to my chest and neck, the way my body betrays me when I’m trying to appear cool and unaffected. “This smells good.”

“It does.” He leans over, places the pot on the holder. “Haven’t had it in ages. It’s Mario’s specialty, and it used to be my favorite back when I—”

I wonder why he stops, eyes wide as if he’s seen a ghost, one gloved hand resting on the tabletop. A flash of emotion goes over his face. Confusion, fear or pain—not sure.

What’s going on?

“Hey, Storm…” I push away from the window, reaching for him.

He blinks and straightens before I make it, recovering quickly, but that flash of something I glimpsed bothers me like a thorn under the skin and hooks me like a fish on a line. I want to know more about him, find out what thought cut him so deep.

Dammit, no. I came here for the dinner. I’m famished, and the lasagna does smell delicious.

He does, too, an irritating voice pipes up inside my head, and I grit my teeth. He smells like pepper and cinnamon, sugar and salt. Like power and sex.

It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t ache to rub my nose over his skin, breathe him in, lick a trail down his muscled chest and flat stomach, all the way down to—

“Have a seat,” he says, his voice low, gliding over my skin like rough silk. “I’ll be right back.”

Mouth dry, I slip into one of the chairs and stare down at the fine china and elegant silverware. Odd that they’d let him use all that. Unless it’s their picnic set, or something.

I snicker at the thought—because, hey, china and actual Bavarian crystal, man—as he appears from the direction of the kitchen once again, carrying an open bottle of wine, condensation running down the green glass and sparkling in the light from the spotlights.

Okay, so that’s not what I’m ogling right now. No, I’m staring at his bulging pecs and biceps. Again.

Totally his fault for not putting a shirt on.

“Wine?” I nod, and he pours frothing, sparkling wine into my fluted glass and his. He sets the bottle on the table and grabs a spoon. “Lasagna?”

As if I’d say no. I lift my plate, and he dishes out a steaming piece, béchamel sauce pooling around it. Saliva pools in my mouth, and for the first time tonight my attention isn’t on him.

I wait until he has served himself a piece—because politeness and manners, duh—and then I dig in, unable to hold back a second longer. My eyes all but roll up in my head in pleasure as I take the first bite of spicy-meaty-and-creamy goodness.

Oh God. I stuff my face with it, barely chewing before I swallow. Maybe it’s rude, but I couldn’t care less about that right now. I inhale my lasagna piece and surface only to see if I can have some more.

He’s watching me under dark, lowered lashes. His own food is still untouched on his plate, though his wine glass is almost empty.

My cheeks flame.

“Would you like some more lasagna?” he asks. “Don’t be shy. Told you it was good.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not? You should always do the things you want to do. Don’t let etiquette and others’ opinions hold you back, Raylin.”

“Ray,” I mutter, my thoughts stumbling over one another. “Call me Ray.”

“Ray, then.” He pulls the pot closer to him and digs the spoon inside. He arches a brow at me. “Plate.”

Bossy. I lift my plate, and he places another lasagna piece on it. He flashes me a quick grin. Bossy, and sexy.

It’s a killer combo—so hot I squirm on my seat, throbbing between my legs. It shouldn’t excite me. But it does, like everything about him. The whole package makes me burn—the bad boy look, the gruff, polite manners, the mystery about him, the blue eyes.

I’m a sucker for blue eyes, and that’s all there is to it.

Right.

Trying to bring my mind back on track, I realize he still hasn’t taken a bite. Weird. Didn’t say it was his favorite dish?

He tilts his head to the side. “So you said you’re housesitting for the Bells?”

Shit. Here we go.

“Yes.” My last mouthful is stuck in my throat, so I grab my glass and gulp some wine to wash it down. “Just for a few days.”

He pours himself some more wine. “You’re not from around here.”

Not a question this time. I poke halfheartedly at my food, appetite gone. “Neither are you.”

He glances up, those pretty blue eyes widening for a second. Again he recovers quickly, a smirk pulling at his lips. It’s as if he’s used to bad surprises in his life, and I wonder why that makes my heart ache for him.

Life sucks. It’s a well-known fact.

“I’m from Baltimore,” he says at last, twisting the stem of his wine glass between long fingers. “And you?”

Might as well tell him. Telling him about myself isn’t the issue. The issue is being here, with him. Possibly putting him in danger.

“Detroit area. Ann Arbor.”

“Ann Arbor.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “And what are you doing, all the way down south?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

He takes a sip from his wine. “The owners… were people I knew.”

“Were?”

He winces. “Are.”

I stop poking at my cooling lasagna and drink some more wine. It’s fruity and fresh, gliding easily down my throat. “Family friends, then.”

“Something like that.”

He keeps saying that. Whatever it means. “Who are the owners?”

“You sure are curious.”

“So are you.”

He chuckles, but that flash of fear and pain crosses his face again. A wince. A tightening of his mouth. “The Jordans.”

Jordans. I feel like I’m supposed to know the name. Then again… Rich people. Their lives must be splashed all over the tabloids.

“So you’re housesitting and fixing stuff? Like the hedge?”

“I like fixing stuff.” He tilts his head to the side, studying me, as if I’m something he can fix, too.

But he can’t. He can’t fix my past, or my present.

Two million dollars. The sum flashes in my mind erratically, like a broken shop sign. Holy shit. Who could pay that back? My only way to survive is running and hiding.

Forever—if I’m lucky and they don’t kill me to make an example out of me.

“I gotta go,” I say, and push my chair back. “Thank you for the dinner. It was great.”

His eyes are on me, and I see a shadow pass through their blue depths. It looks an awful lot like sadness, and my breath catches.

Then it’s gone, and his brows lift. “No dessert?”

I lick my lips as I take a step away. He looks like dessert, with his dark hair tousled and all that gorgeous muscled body slumped back in the chair.

Bad, bad idea. “No… Thanks.”

He nods. “Then I’ll walk you out.”

***

Tripping over my own feet in my haste, I cross the living room and step out of the house, onto the patio. He follows, his bare feet whispering on the tiles. The blue light from the Olympic pool floods the air. I rush around its rim, my breathing echoing in my ears.

“Ray,” he calls out from behind me. “Raylin.”

I don’t want to turn around and see him. If I do, I may not leave. I may stay, and then all bets are off.

“I’m sorry!” I shout over my shoulder. “I have no manners, I know. Dinner was delicious. Thank you!”

“Slow down.”

“No, sorry. I have things to do. Dishes to wash. Cans to check for expiration dates. You know. Important stuff.”

“Hey, Cinderella. Your sandals.”

Oh shit. I turn around slowly, cursing myself. “Um… thanks?”

They’re dangling from his fingers. He’s stalking toward me, a slight limp to his gait I never noticed before. A crooked smirk pulls at his lips, his eyes twinkle at me, and I lose my train of thought.

God…

See, I knew this would happen if I turned. Butterflies somersault in my stomach, my mouth is dry and my pulse is beating everywhere—at the base of my throat, in my wrists, between my legs. I need something, I need him, and my hands clench helplessly at my sides.

He comes to stand in front of me, and I want him to kiss me. I want to taste his mouth and kiss my way up that square jaw, wrap my arms around him, feel the power in his body.

I gasp when he goes down to his knees and taps on my foot. “Lift.”

Automatically I lift my foot, and he growls in the back of his throat, startling me.

“Good girl,” he says as he pulls my sandal on, then lowers my foot, his fingers trailing over the arch, stroking. Sparkling pleasure shoots up my leg to settle where I’m burning. “Now the other.”

My mind blank, his scent wrapping around me like a vine, I lift my foot, and this time he takes his time, massaging the sole with strong fingertips before slipping the sandal on.

He glances up at me, the heat in his gaze scorching. He wraps his hands around my ankles, and I suck in a sharp breath as he runs his palms up, under my dress, the calluses on his palms catching on my skin.

He stops right at the edge of my panties and licks his lips.

What is he going to do? I want to ask him, but then I’m afraid he’ll stop. I don’t want him to stop. His touch is electrifying.

“Ray…” The rasp in his voice is stronger, his eyes darker. His thumbs dip under the elastic, under the thin cotton—

He grabs my hips and pulls me down, onto his lap.

I squeal, flailing, my knees folding. His hands support me, easily lowering me on top of his thighs where he’s kneeling by the pool, then move up to my waist, steadying me.

Throwing my arms around his neck, I hold on for dear life, waiting for my heart to stop hammering. “You’re crazy.”

He grins, a slow, lazy grin that robs what little breath I have left in my lungs. “And you’re beautiful.”

Beautiful. He finds me beautiful, I think, and then his mouth is on mine, soft and warm, salty and sweet and spiced with his scent. I part my lips for him and his tongue thrusts inside, stroking me. I moan, sinking my fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, like I’ve been wanting to do since I met him, and it’s softer than I imagined.