Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel (16 page)

J
ANE
STUDIED
HER
naked body in the door of the big walk-in refrigerator, her reflection distorted by the stainless steel. Probably a good thing. Otherwise she might chicken out. Her breasts, freed from support, looked awfully large, the nipples pink and prominent.

Like a cow
, Travis had told her once, back when she was nursing Aidan.

She shivered despite the heat of the kitchen and the residual glow of the wine. Well, that’s what happened when you took off all your clothes. There was probably a draft somewhere. After a moment’s thought, she undid her braid, combing her hair forward with her fingers to fall over her shoulders. That was better, but she was still all bare below, her pale, soft tummy and the springy patch of hair between her thighs. She squeezed her legs together, as if that would make them look thinner or stop her knees from shaking. She hadn’t had sex in years. What if she was no good at it?

Her pretty dessert sat plated and ready on the counter,
its three-layered glossy perfection mocking her silly hopes and fears.

Jane took a deep breath.
Just do it. Before the chocolate shavings wilt, before you lose your nerve, before Gabe gets tired of waiting and goes home.

She picked up the plate. And then put it down at the last minute to tug on her white chef’s apron, pulling her hair free of the bib, wrapping the ties around her waist. That was better. There was still a considerable draft around her backside, but at least her front was covered.

Positioning the plate at chest level, she turned to face the door. It was highly unlikely that any islanders were standing outside in the dark and the rain, peering through the bakery windows. But she was taking a big enough gamble here without risking flashing her neighbors.

“Gabe?” His name squeaked out like air escaping a balloon. She cleared her throat. “Could you give me a hand in here?”

His chair scraped back. She caught a blur of movement through the portal before the door swung open.

“Sure. What do you—”

He stopped dead on the threshold, his eyes widening to take her in, traveling from her face to the dessert in her hands to her bare feet and back again, slowly. “What’s this?”

She blushed all over. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Chocolate mousse cake,” she said, her cheeks burning. “With chocolate ganache, raspberry sauce, and whipped cream.”

His lids lowered as he regarded the plate. All the necessary components were there: the main, the sauces, the fresh berry garnish. And one more.

Gabe plucked the wrapped condom from the chocolate icing with two fingers and held it up. “Never saw this in a dessert before.”

This was torture. She wanted to hit him with the cake. Or run and hide in the walk-in until her full-body flush faded. In, say, a week or so.

She stood her ground. “I told you, I like to be prepared.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Jane . . .”

He was going to say no. “Don’t say no.”

“Looking at you right now, like this, ‘no’ is not the word that springs to mind. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Jane exhaled. “Well, I thought I was seducing you. But if you have to ask, I’m obviously not doing a very good job.”

He took a step toward her. “The apron’s a nice touch,” he said, an undernote of laughter in his voice.

She closed her eyes in humiliation. “I wasn’t going to wear it. Or anything. Bring food and show up naked, that was the plan. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.”

“Oh, it’s hard,” Gabe said wryly, so close she jumped.

She opened her eyes.

He was standing right in front of her. She could reach out and touch him, except she was still clutching the stupid plate, holding out the slice of cake she’d labored over like a piece of her heart.

He was smiling a little, but his eyes were dark and serious. “This is a really bad idea. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Tenderness welled inside her.

“It’s okay,” she reassured him. “It’s only . . .”

Sex.

But the lie stuck in her throat.

“It is what it is,” she said. “This is what I want. I don’t need anything else.”

Liar
, whispered a small voice in her head. She used to dream of so much more, simple, girlish dreams of a man to love her and share his life with her and build the family she longed for together.

But in this moment, shivering with heat and anticipation, Gabe almost in her grasp, this would do. This was enough. She would make it be enough.

His smile deepened at the corners. “Then I better make it good. Your cake”—he grasped the plate—“looks great.”

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly.

“But right now . . .” He took the dessert, setting it on the counter beside her. “It’s in the way.”

Her heart moved into her throat. She swallowed. “Okay.”

He braced his hands on either side of her hips, trapping her against the counter, within the circle of his arms. Attraction prickled along her skin, rained down inside her like a shower of sparks. Without the plate to anchor them, her hands wavered and then fell. He captured them, pressing them to his chest. His shirt was still damp. She flexed her fingers against resilient muscle. His heart thumped under her palm, hard and strong.

“So, this plan of yours . . .” He stroked her hair away from her face and over her shoulders, dropping soft, tantalizing kisses on her cheekbone, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “How does it go?”

She parted her lips, seeking the pressure of his. “What?”

His breath of amusement against her skin raised tiny goose bumps up and down her arms. “Never mind. We’ll figure it out.”

His mouth caught at her upper lip, stroked at the bottom one, easing her open, sinking inside. She absorbed the warm, delicious friction of his tongue, the taste of him rich and heady as wine. His clothed body brushed hers, all that heat and weight and hardness leashed. Contained. Pleasure sank into her, rich and dark. Under the stiff fabric of her apron, her nipples puckered.

“So pretty,” he whispered against her mouth. He circled the point of one breast delicately through her apron before he lifted his hand away. “In your plan, did I do this?”

Something cool dabbed the side of her breast. Jolted, she looked down. Whipped cream. He spread a dollop through the open side of her apron before tugging the bib down and away, bending his head, licking her clean with one warm, lazy stroke of his tongue.
Oh, my
.

With his eyes on hers, he reached for the plate. He fed her cake with his bare hands, trading bites for kisses.

“Wait.” She grabbed his thick wrist. “I can’t eat all your cake.”

His slow smile weakened her knees. “You went to all this trouble. You deserve to enjoy it.”

She trembled. She didn’t cook for herself. She fed other people.

The idea that she should please herself, that she could indulge herself, that she deserved to enjoy herself, felt wrong. Wicked. Seductive.

Shifting her hold, she caught Gabe’s hand in both of hers and sucked his thumb into her mouth, salt and chocolate, rough and smooth, creamy and hard melting together.

He choked out a curse, moving his hand to cradle her breast, teasing the tip with his wet thumb until it puckered for him, tight and rosy, and then he plumped up her breast and sucked it into his mouth.

Her body clenched, arching to give him better access as he worked her with soft pulls. Need spiraled deep in her belly. He suckled one breast and then the other, alternating smears of cool, smooth cream with the warm, greedy pressure of his mouth. She grabbed at his hair, like damp silk between her fingers. Clutched at his T-shirt, dragging it up to run her hands over the hot, smooth skin of his back. He lifted her up, her bare bottom on the stainless steel worktable.

She yelped.

He stilled. “Too much?”

She smiled in apology. “Too cold.”

He laughed. “Right.” Stepping back, he stripped his T-shirt over his head.

She swallowed. His body was lean and hard all over, his chest lightly dusted with dark hair.

He caught her staring and grinned.

Heat scalded her.

“You are so sweet,” he murmured. “I want to taste all of you. All over.”

She jerked in shock and arousal. “Um . . .”

His eyes were bright and devilish. “Not in the plan?”

“Well . . .”

His warm hands engulfed her knees. He pushed them apart, making a place for himself between her legs.

She tried to press them together as he reached behind and over her, spreading his T-shirt over the work surface. His care in protecting her back from the cold metal warmed her as nothing else could have done. But . . .

“You don’t need to do anything for me,” she said. “I’m a vanilla kind of girl.”

He stuck his finger in the dessert. “This is chocolate.”

She snorted before she could stop herself. “Well, yes. But I made it for you.”

The glint was back. He dropped to his knees. Kissed the inside of her thigh. “I can share.”

She sucked in her breath, squirming in embarrassment, trying to get away, hitching to get closer. “Okay, that’s nice, but—”

“You ate my cake,” he said.

Lowering his head, he breathed her in. Inside, she was melting, burning, her mind and bones dissolving. Spreading her wide, he kissed her in earnest. She moaned. It was good, he was so good, so shameless and delicious, that she lay back, covering her eyes with her arm, sinking into the darkness, letting him do whatever he wanted. What she wanted. His mouth was so hot and skilled, his fingers inside her, twisting, thrusting, making her crazy, making her come. Her dangling toes curled, her muscles clenched. She reached for him, aching and unfilled.

“Please.” Her body strained. She fumbled, unable to get a grip on his broad shoulders, on his smooth skin. “I want . . .”
You
.
Please.

He surged upward, moving over her, taking her mouth again, sharing the taste with her, chocolate and sex. She shivered, hungry and shaking. His zipper rasped, his buckle clanked as it hit the floor.

“I’m here. I’ve got you, baby.”

The condom package ripped, and he was there, where she was wet and swollen for him.

Her stomach tensed in a moment of purely feminine doubt as he took himself in hand, as she felt him nudge for entrance. But he eased inside her slowly, in short, shallow thrusts, giving her body time to stretch and adjust to his, kissing her temple, her eyes, her mouth, whispering how good this felt, how hot she was, how sweet, until something inside her softened and surrendered, yielding to his possession.

He sank deep. The slow, thick slide shuddered through them both. She gripped his back, her hips lifting to him, wanting his weight. Craving more.

His breath hissed. His eyes blazed. “Jane. Baby. It’s been a while. I can’t . . .”

Her fever climbed. The rasp of his beard, the scent of his skin, the cold, hard metal and hot, wet friction all blended and flowed together like flavors in her head. She was brimming with sensation. She tightened her legs around him, twisting under him, struggling to take more. Gabe groaned and shoved deeper, harder, faster, and her climax boiled over, flooding her, spilling to the tips of her fingers, the ends of her toes.

He held still and hard inside her, riding it out, wringing the last, luxurious spasm from her flesh, before he thrust again and again and took his own release.

*   *   *

G
ABE
LAY
STUNNED
, mind blown, heart pounding, absorbing the shock.

Like the moment after a bomb went off, when you waited for your senses to function and your breath to return so you could see how the world had realigned around you and check for body parts.

Except his world felt oddly right.

And his body parts hadn’t been this happy in a long time.

He raised himself to look at Jane, soft and round and mostly naked under him, apron dragged down around her breasts and
up around her thighs, all of her smeared in chocolate. Beautiful. Edible. His. His body stirred, wanting her all over again.

He had to get out. Before the condom leaked.

He’d had no intention when he came over here today of fucking her.
Not fucking
, he thought, trying to find a word that wasn’t bland or insulting. Screwing? Making love. Anyway, he had no intention of doing it. Doing her. But when he walked into the kitchen and saw her standing there, blushing and brave with her carefully prepared cake and silly apron, her strong bare shoulders, her cute naked feet . . . Hell, he was only human. And male. There was no way he could resist her.

Not that he’d tried very hard.

No going back now. So he would improvise. Adapt.

She hitched one shoulder, wriggling against the table, her neck at an awkward angle. That couldn’t be comfortable, he thought, trying to feel guilty and feeling grateful instead.