Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (26 page)

Dylan cut her off with a kiss. Fast, hard, deep, and absolutely intended to claim. Both were a little breathless when he lifted his head. “Do you know it's a little terrifying—maybe more than a little—and a lot humbling, that you could actually make me jealous of an eighty-six year old grandfather of nine?”

“Nine grandkids, huh?” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “Sounds like a guy with some serious stamina.”

She let out a loud squeal when he simply hauled her up over his shoulder and carried her down the short hall to the master suite. “We'll see about stamina,” he said, even as her laughter trailed along behind him.

“You're way too easy, you know,” she said, laughter still bubbling. “You should know better than to give me that kind of leverage.”

He slid her off of his shoulder, grinning despite the fact that his desire to claim her as his own grew with every giggle, every little poke or jab. “Let's talk about leverage, sugar.”

He laid her across the wide expanse of his bed, following her down and pinning her into the soft, pillowed mattress with the full length of his body.

“Oh,” she sighed as she sank into the cool linens and soft, cotton-covered duvet. “This is . . . decadent.”

He grinned, and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “You might be the only one who thinks of cotton as decadent.”

“It's just so soft.”

“Let's hope that's the only time I hear you say that, darlin'.”

She laughed, and wriggled under him. “Something tells me you won't have to worry much on that score.” She slid her arms around his neck. “Come here,” she said softly, mimicking his Southern accent and pulling him down so she could kiss him. “Thank you,” she whispered against his lips.

“For?” he asked, lifting his head just enough to brush kisses on the corner of her mouth, then along her jaw.

“All of this. Making it so easy to just be myself.”

“I happen to be very interested in just yourself.”

She beamed at that, and his heart did the oddest little tap dance inside his chest.

“That's really handy, because I feel the same.” She surprised him by rolling him to his back. “It's a very empowering thing, you know. Mutual desire. Makes me feel like being a little”—she circled his wrists with her hands, pinned them beside his head, and grinned—“aggressive.”

“I'm all yours, sugar.”

She laughed, but a brief flicker of something quite . . . possessive flashed through her eyes. And rather than feel trapped—literally or figuratively—he felt triumphant.

“Good to know.” She leaned in and nipped his chin, then his earlobe. “Very, very good to know.”

He groaned as she continued her gentle assault. “It's a damn shame it took this long for someone to get you feeling . . . empowered.” He quickly reversed their positions, laughing when she gasped. “But I'm really glad you waited so it could be me.” He didn't give her time to respond. The teasing, the playing, the exploring, had pushed him past any further hope of control. Next time, he'd be gentle and tender and sweet, and only because she'd already taught him he had that in him.

But for this first time, there was only one way it was going to go. He tugged at her earlobe with his teeth. “I'm going to take those clothes off of you now, sugar. And then I'm going to find out how every last inch of you tastes on my tongue.”

She shuddered under him and his body roared in response. He slowly popped open the row of tiny pearl buttons down the front of her thin sweater, parting it as he went. Her breasts were small, but full, and he teased her nipples through the thin cotton cups. Her sweater had been delicate and feminine, but something about the simple serviceability of the white cotton bra caught at him, too. It all went toward that dichotomy of hers that was handmade skirts, made more flirty and feminine with her own artistic needlework . . . and the no nonsense horn rims, the unadorned, short fingernails, and hands that bore calluses from creating her artwork.

She moaned, arching up against his mouth as he slid his hands under her and unhooked the back and slid the straps down and off her arms. Her skin was pale, soft, her nipples dark, tightly budded, begging to be licked, suckled, teased. So he did, until she was writhing beneath him and he knew if he didn't peel his jeans off sometime soon, he might become permanently damaged in some way.

As if reading his mind, she tugged at his shirt, pulling it up and over the back of his head. He took it and tossed it away. She smoothed her hands over his chest, then lifted her head and teased him the way he'd teased her. No one had ever done that, and it surprised him, the sharp tug, the aching turning to throbbing. She slid her hands down to his waistband, worked at opening his belt, and he found he rather enjoyed being both the aggressor . . . and her quarry, all at the same time. He found the thin hidden zipper on the side of her skirt, unhooked the waistband, and they unzipped each other, then slid out of their clothes.

His eyebrows climbed as he noted the hand stitched flowers and fairies on her panties. He lifted a questioning gaze to hers.

She lifted a shoulder and smiled. “I lived alone in a barn. I had time on my hands. Besides . . . I didn't think anyone would ever see them.”

“You had a pretty good idea I might when you slid these on earlier.”

Her cheeky grin peeked out. “I did. Better you know all my hidden secrets all at once. Besides . . . it wouldn't have mattered which ones I grabbed.”

His eyebrows rose even higher. “They're all like that, are they?”

“Eight years. Alone. In a barn,” she repeated. “They started my day with a smile.”

“Well, sugar,” he said as he pulled them off, “I'm all for starting your days with a smile. And ending them with one, too.” He tossed the panties on top of her skirt and began working his way back up the curve of her ankles, the flair of her calves, the tender spot on the inside of her knee, the smooth skin of her thighs . . . with his tongue.

She let out soft little gasps, then reached down and wove her fingers into his hair, urging him to where she wanted him to be. He liked that . . . and happily complied. She arched up to meet him as he slid his tongue over her, teased her, taunted her, until she was panting as her hips pistoned beneath each stroke of his tongue. He felt her thighs trembling, and her fingers dug deeper as she gathered up tighter and tighter.

That's it, sugar,
he thought.
Come for me. Come to me.

Her short pants became little whimpers, and she bucked harder. “Dylan,” she gasped. “Dylan!”

He realized, suddenly, that she might be spinning away from him and felt a moment of stupidity for not being more aware of it, being so focused on her pleasure. Then she was shattering beneath him, and he stayed right where he was, seeing it through with her, pushing her along the crest of the wave, helping her find every last ounce of pleasure there was to be had until she was trembling, her breath catching over and over.

He kissed the inside of her thigh, then the soft spot to the side of her hipbone, before sliding up and pulling her against him. “You okay?” he murmured next to her ear.

She opened her eyes to his, and they were utterly defenseless.

“Aw, sugar, I'm sorry—”

She pressed a kiss to his lips, silencing him, then kept on kissing him. There was so much emotion, sweet, tender, and passionate. All her guards were completely gone, and he worried, knowing she was at her most vulnerable.

Her eyes closed, so he let his own drift shut and went along with her gentle, but urgent demands. When she pulled him back on top of her, slid her heels up the backs of his thighs, and wrapped her legs around his waist, he slipped his hands to her hips, lifted her to him, found her, and slid steady, strong, and fully inside of her.

He might have growled . . . or it might have been her. He stayed fully inside of her, not moving, just reveling in every sensation, making sure she was okay with the size of him. Making sure she was with him. He waited for her to move, and when she did, he groaned. Long, deep, guttural groans as they slowly found their pace, the rise and fall of her hips and his body sliding into hers in as age old a rhythm as the sea under his sail. He felt like he'd known her forever even as he understood, on every level possible, that he'd never once known anything like this.

They continued to move together, and she slid her hand to the back of his neck, urging his mouth to hers again. “Dylan . . .” she breathed against his lips; then she opened her eyes, and he fell so deeply into that vast sea of green, he knew he'd drown in them and smile as he did.

She smiled back, even as she gasped when he drove into her more deeply, pulled her up against him more tightly, sinking all the way into her as she kissed him again and again, until he was the one climbing . . . and shattering.

They held on to each other, panting, gasping . . . smiling, while their heart rates slowed and their breathing returned to normal. He rolled to his side, gathering her against him. And she surprised him again, by propping her chin on his chest, and looking up with a happy gaze, eyes dancing.

“What?” he said, already grinning.

“I just . . . I didn't know. I mean, I've read about it, and I'm a modern woman and hardly a prude, so, you know, I've figured it out on my own. But . . . I honestly had no idea.”

“About?” He gently rolled her to her back and pushed her hair from her face.

“How it feels, to be . . . well, to be taken like that, to climax like that. It's so incredibly . . . powerful.”

He shouldn't feel so pleased with himself to discover that he was the first one to show her that kind of pleasure. But he was. Ridiculously so. And he wasn't ashamed of the pride he felt, because he knew she could share in it. No one made him feel so . . . hell, he felt
invincible
with her. “Well, sugar, I can honestly say I felt everything you did. I'm glad to know I can do that, be that, for you.” He grinned. “Of course, I'm not saying there isn't always room for improvement. Practice makes perfect, after all.” “Practice just makes for perfect practicing,” she said, then sighed. “And I'm all for that.”

He chuckled and couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. He touched her hair, traced her lips. “You hungry?” He reached past her and found her glasses, then slid them back on for her.

She slid them right back off again, and smiled at him as she dropped them back on the bedside table. “Not for dinner.” She pushed him to his back. “My turn to do a little exploring.”

He groaned and surrendered without so much as a whimper.

“My, my,” she said, moments later on a giggle. “I was right. Stamina isn't going to be a problem. Eat your heart out, Mr. Hanson.”

H
oney blinked open her eyes and took a moment to let the blur settle into a slightly more distinct fuzzy picture. She slid her hand out from under the duvet, found her glasses, and quietly slid them on, careful not to disturb the man presently in deep slumber beside her.

It was just as well. If he could see her quite decidedly Cheshire-like grin at the moment, he might be a little concerned. She was feeling rather smug, and didn't much care who knew it. If she could dance on top of the bedspread and shout to the world how happy she was, she could easily have done so.

Who knew falling in love could feel so good?

It should have been scarier, or at the very least, had her making long pro and con lists and worrying over all the tiny things that could go so disastrously wrong. While she still had lots of trepidations about her life on Sugarberry, about opening up her own business; getting back to work and wondering how all the changes were going to affect her creativity; wondering if her online customers would come back, because she'd need them to make ends meet for a long time to come and possibly forever . . . the only thing she didn't have any worries about was her feelings for the man beside her.

He hadn't left her guessing. The very best thing about Dylan Ross was that he held nothing back. Good or bad, he was entirely open with her about whatever he thought, whatever he was feeling . . . and most deliciously, whatever he was wanting.

He was far from perfect. He was demanding in wanting what he wanted, not huge on patience, and could be moody when he was worried about something or someone. She'd seen all those things in him . . . but all she had to do was look at him, smile at him, maybe poke a little, and all those walls came tumbling down. Leaving them simply open and honest, at least with each other. She felt she had the most powerful secret weapon on the planet. She had Dylan. On her side. At her back. And he'd made it quite clear he intended to stay right there unless she booted him off.

She had no intention of doing that. She wasn't perfect, either. She worried about things, had crazy visions when she least expected them, then worried about how to figure out and fix what she'd seen. She got distracted all the time and often made jokes as a way to appear more confident than she really was.

And he wanted her anyway, flaws and all. In fact, it was possible, just maybe . . . that he thought she was his best secret weapon, too. He held on to her, cared for her, yet respected her and even admired her.

She had no idea how two cave dwellers like themselves had ever stuck their heads out long enough to find each other, but she felt incredibly lucky they had. Knowing she could turn to him when she needed to was enough. She didn't need him to fix things or take care of things. Her family had been behind her, supporting her, but she'd never had anyone who'd wanted to do it willingly . . . because they cared for her.

She rolled her head to the side and watched him sleep. Maybe, just maybe, he might be falling, too. At least as much as a man like him was able.

They had eventually made their way out to the boat and dined on cold fried chicken, the most delicious coleslaw she'd ever had, reheated biscuits along with homemade rhubarb jam, and Miss Alva's mini apple pies for dessert. They'd lain on a blanket, Lolly sprawled at their side, and watched the stars wink in and out. Dylan had held her hand and told her all about his childhood. About his mother taking off, his father sinking into deep despair, and even more deeply into the bottle. He'd told her about his abusive brother, also a substance abuser and addict, and how helpless he'd felt against the tyranny Mickey had reigned down. How angry he was at his father for not standing up and doing what fathers should do, and how equally guilty he felt because he couldn't protect his father from the abuse.

He told her how he'd felt when his brother had finally landed in prison and how, even then, he'd hoped Mickey's hitting rock bottom would change things. His father had passed by then, leaving Dylan conflicted—deeply—about his feelings on family and what it should mean. When his brother had been killed, he'd felt a flood of relief, knowing Mickey could never victimize him or anyone else again . . . and shame for feeling that relief.

He talked about the islanders thinking, for a long time, that it was his father who was abusive, and later on, when it became known what the situation really was, how he'd hated the pity they'd shown him, and how long it had taken him to realize their attempts to help him were motivated not by pity, but by honest concern. He told her how he wished he'd come to that realization sooner because he hadn't always been kind about how he'd pushed folks away, and was shamed and humbled further when they forgave him for that, too.

She understood now, the fierce loyalty he felt for his island and its people, who were, essentially, his extended family. Certainly the closest to a real one, a healthy one, he'd ever had. He'd shown her his home, which, from the front, looked like every other little beachside cottage—painted, weathered clapboard and pitched, cedar shingled roof. The dunes rising up behind it, and the waves crashing just beyond made it all the more rustic.

Behind his house, he'd developed the expanse of property that ran back to the dunes, building a U-shaped structure with short wings extending off either side of the back of the house. All one story, and almost all made of glass, it was a calm, serene oasis.

His kitchen filled one wing and was surprisingly state of the art. The man liked to cook. He'd explained that he'd had to learn to feed himself at a very young age, and when he was finally old enough to afford more than bare scraps, he'd decided there wasn't any reason not to make things he'd actually enjoy eating. So he'd taught himself, discovering a certain rhythm to preparing and cooking food that fed his soul, much as sailing and the water and fixing things did.

Two walls of his bedroom were entirely glass. Louvered vertical blinds ran floor to ceiling and could be closed against the sun or opened fully, creating the appearance that the bed he'd built was almost sitting in the dunes. He'd bartered for the custom mattress in exchange for providing service for the local manufacturer's small fleet of trucks until they were even. He still serviced the trucks, only now under contract.

She hadn't been wrong about his being far shrewder and far more successful than he gave the appearance of being. But then, he honestly didn't care what anyone thought. He lived decently and conducted himself the same way . . . and that was all that was important for anyone to know.

His home was minimally furnished with pieces that were inviting, warm, and comfortable. What little decorating he'd done had been with items that meant something to him personally. A photo of him standing next to the first car he'd ever fixed, his grandfather standing behind him. A piece of a carburetor from his first successful salvage. Nautical bits and bobs she couldn't name were from his many searches for sailboat parts. He'd found things he couldn't use on his boat, but couldn't pass up for their artistry or history. The collection was odd, eclectic, and decidedly masculine . . . and yet it all lent to the atmosphere, to the world he'd created for himself.

She understood why serenity meant so much to him. And wondered why he wanted to tangle himself up with someone who would very likely bring drama, vibrancy, and unpredictability—at the very least—to his carefully constructed world.

She'd told him about her own childhood, about her parents and their eccentric lifestyle and equally eccentric circle of friends. She talked about what dealing with what she called her curse was like, and how, even though her parents loved her unconditionally, and meant well, they never really understood the kind of alienation she felt every time she had to leave their farm and go somewhere. She told him about her aborted college attempt, and more wonderful, happy stories about learning her love of carving from her father, falling in love with sculpting, and with creating her own world of happiness. She told him about her special relationship with Bea, and her guilt and sorrow for not being with her, for not pressing her for more information about her situation, for just not knowing what had been going on.

She'd even told him about her dreams—about wanting to teach others to find their inner artist, and how she saw her shop not just as a place for folks to come and buy cute and eclectic yard and garden art pieces, but as a place where the islanders could gather and explore their own creativity. She wanted life, and noise, and people, and all the colorful things that went along with being entrenched in a community.

She smiled as she recalled the look of... well, not exactly horror . . . on Dylan's face . . . but certainly disconcertment. He was perfectly happy hiding under a car or on his boat, and that wasn't going to change. Nor did she want it to. He did understand her passions and why they mattered to her, just as she understood his desires. As long as they supported each other's dreams . . . she couldn't imagine a better, more fulfilling, and well-balanced partnership. It was certainly far, far beyond the scope of anything she could have ever imagined having.

Dylan mumbled something drowsily in his sleep, and shifted, reaching for her, pulling her close. But instead of seducing her—which she was more than willing to go along with—he drifted back to sleep . . . but not before sliding his hand down to find hers and linking his fingers through hers.

For all they'd come to know each other as intimately as two people could, emotionally and physically, during the past ten or eleven hours, it was that single, instinctive action, subconsciously made, that need to connect with her, palm to palm . . . that tipped her heart over the edge into the last free fall.

Smiling, she traced her fingertips over his knuckles, liking the heat and warmth of his palm against hers . . . and was unprepared for the edges of consciousness to begin shimmering, and suddenly tug and jerk her sideways. Her first instinct was still to recoil, by sheer force of will to try to prevent the vision from manifesting itself. Of course, she couldn't. Never had.

She squeezed Dylan's hand, reaching instinctively for him to help her fight it or at least to see her through it. Even as she tumbled headlong into the vision, she recognized how wild it was that in such a short period of time, after never relying on anyone, much less turning to someone, how instinctively and earnestly she turned to him.

Then she was in it, and everything else faded to the background. Her heart was pounding and she braced herself for God knew what. She wanted to scream that it wasn't fair. She'd finally found someone and the last thing she wanted was to see some sad or horrifying thing that was going to happen to him. They'd spent a significant amount of time being as physical as two people could get, without another trigger, and she'd begun to believe the feelings she had for him, the emotional connection she'd made, was going to keep her from ever having another vision about him. Like with her parents. At least, that's what she'd hoped.

So having another vision was doubly crushing. She tried to settle herself, calm herself, get in the mindset that if something was going to happen to him, then at least she could give him a fighting chance. It took a lot of focus and a lot of concentration because her heart was beating wildly and she was so afraid of what she might see.

The mists began to part . . . and she realized where she was. She was rocking again on the sailboat! Her relief was so profound she felt dizzy with it. Her racing heart began to calm, and other elements began to surface, faster and more clearly. The pitch and roll . . . the heat of the sun . . . the salty brine in the air . . . the breeze . . . a child's laughter.

The sound brought her head around, and there was Dylan at the wheel, again. She had a fleeting thought that this idyllic scene was merely the beginning of something bad happening . . . but there was not so much as a ripple of that kind of sensation teasing at the fringes of her awareness.

A cascade of infectious giggles filled the air and was joined by Dylan's deeper, resonant chuckle. Honey could feel the sun seeping into her skin, making her feel relaxed, drowsy almost, but she tried to keep her attention on the happy sounds. They did make her happy. In fact, was that . . .? That was her laughter!

In that odd purgatory of being in the moment, and observing it, she watched Dylan steer the boat, taking in his strong stance and how easy he made it look. Wait, his hands were on the wheel, but they were covering other hands. Smaller hands. Tiny hands.

Her face split wide in an exuberant grin as she realized the child she'd heard was standing in front of Dylan, his small feet propped on top of Dylan's much larger ones as they steered the boat together. She hadn't seen him before, because Dylan's body blocked her view.

She opened her mouth to call to them, the child's name right on the edge of her awareness. But then the sun was fading, the pitch and roll smoothed . . . and a moment later, she was opening her eyes back in Dylan's bed in his bedroom. She shifted her head to find him lying next to her, his head propped on a folded pillow, watching her with a steady, sober gray gaze.

He was stroking her arm and squeezed her hand still joined with his. “You okay?” His voice was gravel and grit . . . so deep.

She loved the sound of it, still sleepy from the night they'd spent together, except she didn't like the worry she heard in it. “Very okay.”

“You want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “It wasn't anything bad. I was on your sailboat again.”

She debated telling him about the child. Last time, she'd thought it was an existential version of Dylan reliving his childhood. But she realized it was an actual child. Someone he knew or was going to know. They'd been happy, though, so it wasn't something she needed to get involved in. “It was more like a nice dream. A really, really wonderful dream.”