Holding the Dream (19 page)

A patient man, Byron De Witt, she mused. One who would enjoy watching those vines grow and bloom and tangle year after year.

And she knew he would experience a quiet satisfaction
when the first bud blossomed. Then he would tend it. The man enjoyed tending things.

Puppies yapped, the sea murmured, and the wind trailed lightly through the fluttering cypress leaves. As the sky deepened from blue to indigo splashed with scarlet, she felt a quick flutter around her heart. There were, she supposed, perfect spots in the world. It seemed Byron had found one of them and claimed it.

And so did he look perfect, she realized, with the wind in his hair, puppies at his feet. That long, mouthwatering, muscular build was tucked snug and sexy into denim and cotton. Her reaction to it, to him, completely unprecedented, was to grab hold and tear in with fingers and teeth. She wanted to taste and take. She wanted to be taken.

She wanted.

With legs less than steady, she descended the short flight of steps to the yard. The puppies dashed up to her, yipping and leaping. Even as she crouched to welcome them, she kept her eyes on Byron.

“What did you plant along the fence?”

“Wisteria. It'll take a little while to establish.” He looked over to the fence line. “But it'll be worth the wait. There was always some growing on a trellis outside my bedroom back in Georgia. It's a scent that stays with you.”

“You've already done a terrific job with the place. It's gorgeous out here. Must take a lot of time to add all these touches.”

“When you find what you're looking for, you take care of it.” He crossed to her. “We can take a walk down to the beach after dinner if you like.” He stroked a hand over her hair, much as he had done to the dogs' fur. Then he stepped back. “Catch this.” He snapped his fingers twice. “Sit.”

Butts wiggling frantically, both dogs sat. He had them offer their paws, and after some confusion, lie down. Though their bodies quivered with suppressed excitement.

“Very impressive,” Kate commented. “Does everyone do what you tell them?”

“It's just a matter of asking often enough in the right way.” He pulled two dog biscuits out of his back pocket. “And bribery usually works.” The dogs took the treats and raced away to feast. “I've got a nice red Bordeaux breathing. Why don't I get it, and you can tell me about this interesting day of yours?”

She lifted a hand, laid it on his chest. Felt the heat, the rhythm. “There's something I think I want to say to you.”

“All right. Let's go inside.” He thought it was best to get into the brightly lit kitchen, away from the sumptuous sunset and seductive night air.

But she kept her hand on his chest and stepped closer. It must have been their color, Byron thought, that made her eyes glow so erotically through the twilight shadows.

“I was going to avoid men like you, on a personal level,” she began. “It was to be a kind of principle, a rule of thumb. I'm very fond of rules and principles.”

He arched a brow. “And generalities?”

“Yes, and generalities, because they usually have some basis in fact, or they wouldn't have gotten to be generalities. I'd decided after a couple of unfortunate experiences that when something, or someone, looked too good, it was probably bad for me. You may be bad for me, Byron.”

“Have you been working on this theory long?”

“Actually I have, but it may need some further adjustments. In any case, I didn't like you when I first met you.”

“Now there's a surprise.”

She smiled and disconcerted him by moving closer. “I didn't like you because I started wanting you the first minute. That was uncomfortable for me. You see, I prefer wanting things that are tangible and that can be acquired through time, planning, and effort. I don't like being uncomfortable, or wanting someone I don't understand, who is in all probability bad for me, and who doesn't fit my requirements.”

“You have requirements too?” He didn't care for the sensation of being annoyed and aroused at the same time.

“Absolutely. One of the main requirements is a lack of
demand. I don't think you're an undemanding man, and that's, undoubtedly, going to be my biggest mistake. One of the other things I really, really hate to do is make mistakes. But I'm working on being more tolerant of myself.”

“Is that something else you're practicing, like doing nothing?”

“Exactly.”

“I see. Well, now that we've established that this fledgling relationship with me is practice for your personal tolerance, I'll start dinner.”

She laughed and put her other hand on his chest. “I irritate you. I don't know why I find that so funny.”

“It doesn't surprise me, Katherine. You have an abrasive, contrary nature and like nothing better than stirring things up.”

“You're right, absolutely right. It's terrifying how easily you understand me. And the more patient you are, the more compelled I am to poke at you. We are so completely wrong for each other, Byron.”

“Who's arguing?” He curled his fingers around her wrists, intent on pushing her hands aside.

“Take me to bed,” she said simply, and slid her hands through his loosened grip to his shoulders. “Now.”

He wasn't easily shocked. But her simple demand rocked him back as efficiently as a short left jab. He'd been sure she was ending what had barely begun between them. He'd been prepared to be coldly furious, but to school himself into not giving a damn.

Because it was undoubtedly unwise to touch her, he kept his arms at his sides. “You want me to take you to bed, now, because it's a mistake, because you've theorized that I'm bad for you, and because we're completely wrong for each other.”

“Yes. And because I want to see you naked.”

He managed a laugh, and would have stepped back, but she locked her hands at the back of his neck. “I think I need a drink,” he muttered.

“Byron, don't make me get rough with you.” She moved in, her body bumping his, her arms tightening. “I've been working out. Sort of. I think I could take you if I had to.”

Telling himself to be amused, he pinched her biceps gently.
The tiny muscle gave like putty. “Yeah, you're a regular Amazon, honey.”

“You want me.” She nipped her way up his throat. “If you don't, I'll have to kill you.”

The little blood left in his head shot straight to his loins. “I think my life's safe. Kate—” Her hands raced busily to the snap of his jeans. “Don't—Christ!” And tugged at his zipper. “Hell,” he muttered, and gave in to the animal long enough to savage her mouth with his.

She made a sound in her throat like a cat purring over prey.

“Hold on.” He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back. “Just hold on one damn minute.” He panted out a breath, then another. “You know the trouble with flings?”

“No, what's the trouble with them?”

“I'm trying to remember.” He wanted to rub his hands over his face, but he didn't dare release her. “Okay, I've got it. However momentarily satisfying they are, you end up dissatisfied. That's not the way it's going to be here. This isn't going to be a fling. You're going to have to accept that.”

What was wrong with him? she wondered. Men weren't supposed to complicate sex. “Fine, we'll call it something else.”

“There are strings, Kate.” His hands still on her shoulders, he began slowly backing her toward the house. He could already see her naked and gleaming. “Trust. Honesty. Affection. Once I touch you, no one touches you but me.”

“They're not exactly lined up around the block waiting to get their hands on me.” Her feet bumped into the steps. Automatically, she stepped up, back again. He was looking at her in that way that made her both nervous and eager. As if he were looking beyond, to what no one else had seen, even herself. “I don't sleep around.”

“Neither do I. I consider intimacy a serious business. And I'll have intimacy from you, Kate, in bed and out. That's bottom line.”

“Look—” Her throat was burning dry, her hormones bouncing. “This isn't a business contract.”

“No.” He backed her easily through the kitchen. “It's a personal one. That's much more involved, much more important. You put the deal on the table.” He swept her into his arms. “I'm defining the terms.”

“I— Maybe I have terms of my own.”

“Better put them out here then. This deal's about to close.”

“We need to keep this simple.”

“Not an option.” At the top of the stairs, he turned left, carried her through a doorway and into a room washed with the last vivid light of the western sky.

“We're healthy, unattached adults,” she began, talking fast now. “This is a mutual physical relationship.”

“There's more to sex than the physical.” He smiled as he laid her on the bed. “I guess I'll have to show you.”

He kissed her, a long, slow, lazy meeting of lips that lingered until every nerve in her body was vibrating like the strings of a plucked harp. Eager for more, she dragged him closer so that all the heat swirling through her seemed to center on their mouths.

He could have taken her in one greedy gulp. Knowing it, he eased back. “Honey, where I come from, we pace ourselves.” He linked his fingers with hers so that she couldn't tear down his defenses with those narrow, nervous hands. “Now relax.” He lowered his head to trail nibbling kisses along her jawline. “And enjoy.” Down her throat. “We've got all the time in the world.”

She thought he would kill her with patience, rip her to shreds with gentleness. His lips were soft, smooth, deliciously, devastatingly slow as they cruised over her face. Each time they met hers, he took the kiss just a degree deeper, just a whisper warmer. Her muscles went from hot wires to soft wax.

The change aroused him mercilessly. The sound of her breathing, low and deep and slow, the thrill when a breath ended on a moan, a sigh. Her quivering impatience slipped into mindless pliancy. When he unbuttoned her shirt, revealing the simple white camisole beneath, she did nothing more than murmur her pleasure.

Fascinated by the simplicity of her form, he traced his fingertips over the soft cotton, then up over softer flesh. The most subtle of curves, he mused as her breath began to quicken again at his feathering touch. Linking fingers again, he nuzzled the cotton aside, flicked his tongue over her nipple.

She arched in response, biting back a groan. So small, he thought, so firm. So sensitive. He swept his tongue under the cotton, moistening her other breast, and felt her quake beneath him.

So he suckled slowly, gently, darkly pleased with the way she writhed under him, with the quick, helpless whimpers that sounded in her throat as he increased pressure and speed.

When he felt as if he might die if he didn't plunge into her, when her hips were pistoning as if she would explode if he didn't fill her, he drew back and slipped out of bed.

“What? What?” Dazed, desperate, she sat up.

“The light's going,” he said quietly. “I can't see you. I want to see you.” There was the abrasive scratch of a match striking, the flare of light that softened as flame was touched to the wick of a candle, then a second, a third. And the room was suddenly rich and romantic with wavering light.

She pressed a hand to her breast, shocked to realize that the hot, quivering nerves inside belonged to her. What was he doing to her? She wanted to ask, but was afraid of the answer.

Then he tugged the T-shirt over his head, tossed it aside. She let out a breath of relief. Now—it would be now. And all these twisting sensations would smooth out into the understandable.

He stepped out of his shoes. She was only mildly surprised when he slipped hers off as well, slid his hand up her leg to just under the hem of her rucked-up skirt.

“Would you take your top off?”

All but hypnotized, she blinked at him. “What? Oh.”

“Slowly,” he said, laying a hand on hers before she could yank it free. “No rush.”

She did as he asked because her limbs were so heavy. His gaze took a lazy journey from her face, down her torso and
back again, before he took the thin cotton from her, set it aside. His eyes stayed on hers as he eased her back.

“You keep looking at me,” she murmured. Her skin trembled when he slid his hands further under her skirt, when he curled his fingers around the waistband of her panty hose and began to draw them down. “I don't know what you expect.”

“Neither do I. I thought we'd find out together.” He lowered his head and pressed his lips to her inner thigh. “Now I know why you always walk as if you were ten minutes late for a five-minute appointment. It's all this leg. All this long leg.”

“Byron.” She was burning up. Good God, couldn't he feel it? “I can't take this.”

But she would, he thought, and unhooked her skirt. “I haven't even started yet.” He slipped the skirt off and quivered himself at the sight of that slim, angular body in his bed. Resting a bent knee on the bed, he cupped her. She bowed back, pressing desperately against him.

His eyes darkened dangerously as he watched her face, the play of sensations and light, the helpless trembling of lashes and lips. Then the utter surrender to self and to him when the orgasm rippled through her.

Wanting more as wildly as she, he closed his mouth over her breast and built her relentlessly toward peak again.

“I can't.” Nearly terrified at what he'd pulled out of her, of what he seemed to create inside her, she dragged at his hair. “I'm not—”

“Sure you can.” He gasped out the words before his mouth fused with hers. Heat was pouring out of her, all but pumping out of her pores. He'd never known a woman to be so responsive and so resistant at once. The need, the drive to show her he was the one, the only one who could bring that response and break that resistance made him hold off that final pleasure for the tortured maze of sensations between.

It seemed he owned her body. She had no control, and had lost the will to find any. His hands, his lips were everywhere, and each time she thought he would rush to finish it, he would
cause her to erupt again, then move patiently on.

She was painfully aware of her body, and his, the melding and the contrasts, the race of pulses. Candlelight flickered over his face, those sleek, slick muscles, making it all almost too beautiful to bear. The taste of him was potent, like some dark, slow-acting drug that had already seeped into her blood to addict her.

He braced himself over her, waiting for her eyes to open and focus on his. “I didn't want you,” he said in a voice strained to the edge of control. “Then I wanted nothing else. Understand that.”

“For God's sake, Byron. Now!”

“Now,” he echoed and plunged into her. “But not just now.”
 

The warm red haze over her mind cooled slowly. She became aware of the world outside of her own body. The candlelight continued to flicker against her closed lids in soft, surreal patterns. The night wind had risen, causing the curtains at the windows to whisper. She could hear the music again, the low throb of bass from the stereo downstairs, the answering wail of a tenor sax. The smell of hot, pooling wax, and sweat, and sex.

She had the taste of him in her mouth, and the good, solid feel of him beneath her. He'd rolled her over so that she lay sprawled across him. Concerned, she supposed, that he would crush her. Always the gentleman.

Just how did she play this? she wondered. How did she handle the aftermath of such wild, spectacular sex? Initiating it was one thing, participating was clearly, and fabulously, another. But she felt certain that these first few moments of the after would set the precedent for how they would go on.

“I can actually hear your mind clicking back in gear,” he murmured. There was a hint of amusement in his voice as he smoothed down her messy cap of hair. “It's fascinating. I don't know that I've ever been quite so attracted to a woman's brain before.” When she started to shift, he ran his hands
down her back, gave her butt a friendly squeeze. “No, don't move yet. Your head's ahead of me.”

She took a chance, raised her head to look at him. Those gorgeous green eyes of his were at half-mast. The mouth that had so recently sent her system into overdrive was softened with a faint smile. He was, she decided, the perfect picture of the fully satisfied male animal.

“Is this going to be awkward?” she wondered aloud.

“Doesn't have to be. It seems to me that we've been heading here since the first minute we met. Whether we knew it or not.”

“Which poses the next question.”

Ah, that tidy, practical, ordered mind, he thought. “Which is, what direction do we take from here? We'll have to talk about that.” He rolled her over and, before she could speak again, took her mouth in a long, deep, mind-hazing kiss. “But first, the practicalities.”

He scooped her off the bed, into his arms. Her system gave a fresh jerk. It was so odd, being carried this way, experiencing the arousing vulnerability of being physically outmatched. “I'm not sure I like the way you do this.”

“Let me know when you make up your mind. Meanwhile, I vote for a shower and dinner. I'm starving.”
 

No, it wasn't going to be awkward, she concluded. In fact, it was amazingly pleasant to be wearing one of his faded T-shirts, listening to Bob Seger's sandpaper vocals grinding out rock. Byron had trusted her to put a salad together while he grilled the steaks. She was finding the process enjoyable—the colors and textures of the vegetables he'd set out for her. The summer-garden scent of them. She couldn't remember being quite so aware of food before. She liked to eat, Kate thought, but taste had always been the main stimulus. Now she decided there was more to it than that. There was the feel of the food, the way different ingredients played off each other, harmonized or clashed.

The moist, feathery layers of an artichoke heart, the firm
snap of a carrot, the subtle bite of cucumber, the delicacy of salad greens.

She set down the chef's knife and blinked. What the hell was she doing? Romanticizing a salad? Good God. Carefully, she poured herself half a glass of the wine he'd set on the counter to breathe. Though she hadn't had any recent flare-ups, she was still leery of alcohol. She sipped the wine gingerly.

She could see him through the glass doors, talking to the dogs as he turned the steaks. Flame and smoke billowed.

They were cooking together, she thought. She was wearing his shirt. Dogs were begging for scraps, and music was playing.

It was all so quietly domestic. Terrifying.

“Honey—” Byron slid open the doors. “You want to pour me a glass of that? These steaks are about done.”

“Sure.” Easy, girl, she warned herself. This was just a nice, pleasant evening between two consenting adults. Nothing to get jittery over.

“Thanks.” Byron took the glass she brought to him, swirled the wine before drinking. “You want to eat out here? It's a nice night.”

“Okay.” And more romantic, she thought as they carried out the dinnerware. Why shouldn't she enjoy a little starlight and wine with the man who'd just become her lover? There was nothing wrong with that.