In Your Wildest Dreams (20 page)

sinking his face into the silk of her hair. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her curves molding to him, and he was struck with stirrings that had just finally begun to fade with the horror of finding her in the bayou in a leaky boat.

So just as suddenly as he'd embraced her, he pushed her away and reached for a tube of disinfectant cream on a shelf behind him, shoving it into her hand as he squeezed past her out of the bathroom. "Put this on your hands. I'll be outside," he said over his shoulder, too brusquely.

Passing through the kitchen, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and, as an afterthought, reached for a second. Heading out to the old glider, he thought, /
can't keep seeing her, I just can't.
Because the truth was—part of him had been
glad
she'd turned him down earlier. It had alleviated the guilt, sending him home frustrated but free. Free of that nagging shame that battered him upon acknowledging how much he'd felt with her—again.

What had taken place back at the LaRue House wasn't just sex. It was about giving her apple pie to help her feel close to her grandmother. It was about holding her hand as they walked down the street. So many little things twined together in his heart when he was with her, making it so that he simply wanted to be with her
more.

And at the same time, what had happened in her room had been
all about
sex. He'd been driven by something so deep in his soul he could barely understand it. He'd desperately wanted to give her something she needed. Something he needed, too. He'd forgotten about everything—
anything
—else in those moments. There had only been him and her and a raging desire that felt palpable, like it was wrapping around them, propelling his every action and emotion.

So it was pure hell that she was here now—in the one place that was his alone, where he could escape and not think, not feel.

He'd tell her she had to go. Then he'd take her back up the bayou himself and see that she got on her way. It was that simple. He'd break it to her as soon as she came out.

As if on cue, she pushed through the door and he silently offered the can of beer he'd been unsure she'd drink. Taking a seat next to him, she accepted it without reaction—as unpredictable as always, his Miss Chardonnay.

He stared out over the dark waters that usually brought him so much peace, listening as she popped the top and took a sip. "Drink your beer and then I'll take you back up the bayou."

He felt those blue eyes piercing him, but didn't turn to look at her. "I need to talk to you."

Something in his stomach pinched, yet still he stared straight ahead into the swallowing night. "So talk."

"It's about what you said back at my room. That you couldn't help me anymore."

He blinked, tried not to feel her nearness. Tried to push away the wanting that seemed to pluck at every pore of his skin. "What about it?"

"I'm desperate, Jake. You know that."

Her gentle sigh wafted over him, but he cut her off at the knees. "We've had this conversation before. If you've got anything new to say, get to it."

She stayed silent for a long moment, before speaking softly. "I
don't
have anything new. And maybe that's the point. Tina's still out there somewhere and I have to find her. But I know I can't do it alone. You're my only friend here. And you're also my only hope. Maybe Tina's only hope, too."

Finally, he turned his gaze on her, only in order to drive his words home, since they must not have sunk in back at her room. "What makes you think I have any more chance of findin' her than you do? I've already looked under every rock I know and no sign of her. What makes you think havin' my help makes the slightest difference at all?"

'
F
or
all I know, maybe it doesn't. But
..
. you're all I have here. And I know you didn't want to help me in the first place and that I really have no right to ask, but I'm asking. I'm asking you not to desert me."

/ can't do it.

Tell her that. Say the goddamn words.

But something prevented him from it. He'd made the mistake of looking into those earnest blue eyes and his chest had tightened, his stomach shriveled.

"I happen to think we make a decent team," she went on. Yet when he narrowed his eyes in doubt, she added, "Although I'll do whatever you say if you keep helping me. I promise."

"You've promised before,
chère.
Tonight, for instance, you said you'd stay put, no? But then there you are, back in a slinky dress, puttin' yourself in harm's way. What reason do I have to take you at your word?"

She bit her lip, then took a page from
his
book—staring out into the black bayou. "Because I'm at rock bottom," she said frankly. "Without you, I truly don't have a clue what to do next." She turned to look at him again. "But I think you know me well enough by now to know I
will
do
something.
And I don't want to be stupid about it."

He tilted his head. 'Too late for that."

"Then I don't want to
keep
being stupid about it."

He withdrew his gaze once more. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. The rock was the knowledge that she would eventually do something dumb enough to get herself hurt if he left her to her own devices—the same reason he'd agreed to help in the beginning. The hard place was behind his zipper, and he didn't know
how
the hell he was gonna keep dealing with that.

"What do you say, Jake? Give me one more chance?"

He still wanted to refuse, but he didn't have it in him.
Face it, son, you was born to help folks,
his mother had told him not too long ago. Stephanie. Shondra. That stupid, mangy dog. Jesus, what did they think he was, some kind of superhero? But no, not even close. Superheroes got the job done. He just
tried
to—and it didn't usually work. Becky could attest to that.

Finishing his beer, he calmly crushed the can in his fist and lowered it to the porch. Finally, he took a deep breath and focused on her again. "Let's get somethin' straight here. I keep lookin' for your sister, I do it on my own— there's no 'team' about it. Got it?" He didn't give her a chance to answer. "I do this on one condition and it's that you do
nothin'
independent of me, understand? I find out you did and that's it, I'm done, you're on your own. You give me the pictures of your sister and you're not involved in this anymore, other than hearin' what I find. Is that
perfectly one hundred percent clear?"

She looked contrite, but far from beaten, as she firmly replied, "Yeah, it's clear."

"Good."

"Any other concerns?" she asked with a slightly sarcastic bite to her voice.

"Yeah," he said. "What about the other part?" She blinked. "Other part?"

He pulled in his breath, crossed his arms over his chest, and peered out over the water. "The part about me not bein' able to keep my hands off you."

The admission, though one he thought pretty obvious, hung between them for a long moment. Long enough that he grew restless, uncomfortable. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of mints, popping one in his mouth.

Finally, her voice came soft, almost drowned out by the sounds of insects, but not so low that he didn't absorb each and every word. "Believe it or not, Jake, I don't
want
you to keep your hands off me. I
...
definitely want them on me."

"
Could
a
fooled me,
chère."

She glanced down at her beer can, fiddled with the ring on top. "I know. I'm sorry. I
...
can't explain."

He'd stopped trying not to look at her. "I wish you'd try."

Slowly, she raised her blue gaze, looking nervous and sad. Then she blinked and turned away. "I just have this thing about
...
not liking to lose control." She drew in a sharp breath and met his eyes once more. "And you make me lose control."

His chest began to sizzle. He hadn't seen that coming. Maybe he should have, yet it still struck him hard—and good. His muscles tensed with heat as he went stiff in his pants. But then again
...
"Not completely, though. You always manage to stop, no?"

She looked emotionally spent. "I try to let go with you, Jake, but
...
no man has ever made me feel like you do."

"Which is?"

Her
lips
trembled slightly, yet she didn't break their gaze.
"Wild.
Like I don't even know myself. Because I want to do
everything
with you."

Jake leaned closer, without planning it, and lifted one hand to her cheek. "Tell me what you want to do with me,
beb."

"Things I... don't even know about." She shook her head lightly. "Just
...
everything.
Everything."

He moved still nearer, bending over her. "Think you'll ever be able to let go completely and let me have all of you?" His voice was a dark whisper just before he lowered a soft, slow kiss to her
lips
.

Stephanie gave in to the moment without thought or decision. She couldn't resist Jake's kisses. From the first one he'd swept across her
lips
to this deep, tender meeting of tongues, she was lost to him when his mouth covered hers. Heavenly sensations reverberated through her entire body until the kiss finally ended and she murmured, "God, I hope so."

"Mmm, me too,
chère."
A small grin softened his strong features when she least expected such tenderness.

She returned the gentle smile, repeating the same words she'd already spoken a few minutes ago. "What do you say, Jake? Give me another chance?"

He pulled in his breath, his eyes going darker with want, as his gaze settled on her mouth. His answer came in the form of another kiss, his tongue warmly seeking hers. He felt impossibly good—his hands gently cupping her cheeks, his mouth seeming to drink of her, the warmth where their bodies touched. Risking her life in the dark swamp had been worth it, for this.

His kisses grew shorter, but still tender, and as always, he tasted of mint and masculinity. She loved the very bigness of
his
body, the hardness of his muscles as she ran her hands over his broad shoulders.

When he laid her down on the glider, pain arced through her. "Ow! My back."

"Mmm, from your spill in the pirogue. You'll have a couple of nasty bruises come mornin'." He reached behind him for the vinyl cushion he'd been leaning against, sliding it beneath her. "Better?"

She relaxed, testing it. "Yes."

"Good." He lowered a
gen
tl
e
kiss to her forehead before bringing his mouth back to hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, wanting him closer, wanting to feel the weight of his body.

When one hand covered her breast, she sighed with pleasure and instinctively arched deeper into his palm. His low growl fueled her, and as for any trepidation, it was—blessedly—nowhere in sight. There was only him, and her, and this dark, private place that seemed a world away from anything bad. His thumb
gen
tl
y
stroked her nipple through her top and bra.

"These are so pretty,
beb"
he murmured, his breath warm at her ear. Shifting to his side next to her, he bent to lower a delicate kiss to the curve of feminine flesh exposed by her top. "I loved kissin' 'em earlier, loved how hard your pretty nipple felt on my tongue."

She whimpered, turned on by his erotic talk, and also because her nipples weren't the only things that were hard—his erection pressed like a column of stone against her thigh.

When his hand slid from her breast to the denim between her legs, she sucked in her breath, moving involuntarily against his touch. "And down here—mmm, I wanted to taste you down here, too,
chère."

She shivered in his arms, despite the heat, then rolled to face him, wanting to feel his hardness where she yearned for it most. But when his hand eased onto her bottom, he pulled back, chuckling. "Your jeans are all wet back here. Why didn't you tell me? Want me to find somethin' for you to change into?"