Only in My Dreams (23 page)

She moved around the island to the fridge. “There's nothing wrong with a bagged salad. Fast, easy, usually fairly good for you.” Wow, that sounded like a bad pickup line. She paused with her hand on the door. “That didn't come out right.”

He laughed. “I like fast and easy. And the fairly good for you part is a bonus. Though I wouldn't call you easy and I sure as hell wouldn't characterize you as ‘fairly' good.”

Her blood heated at the compliment. She found the bag and closed the door. “Bowl?”

His hands occupied with forming meatballs, he indicated a cupboard with his foot. “Down here.” He scooted over so she could get inside the door he'd indicated.

She squatted down and found a suitable bowl. At this level, her head came to just below his waist. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, but gave in to standing up slowly and grazing his thigh with her breast. “Sorry about that,” she breathed.

“No, you're not.” His voice sounded tight. “Temptress.”

Oooh, she liked that. Moving around to the side of the island to prevent further temptation, she prepped the salad.

He'd finished with the meatballs and set them aside while he put the angel hair in the now-boiling water. “Kyle came by this morning after you left.”

Her hand froze in midair as she was about to dump feta cheese on the salad. “He did?”

He dashed some salt into the pasta water. “Yeah, you didn't see him on your way out? He said he passed you on the road.”

She hadn't noticed. She'd been too fixated on meeting with Craig. “I missed him somehow. What did he want?” She added the cheese and tossed in the rest of the items—some crunchy crouton-type things that weren't croutons, cranberries, and hazelnuts.

“Just to see the progress. He's pretty excited about the restaurant.”

“He is?” She'd avoided him since Wednesday, which had been fairly easy since he was staying in the apartment over the garage instead of his old bedroom. Which was weird. Both she and Tori were in their old rooms, why wasn't he? Maybe Dad had told him to stay in the apartment—he'd been angry enough that she could imagine him saying that. Yuck, her muscles were starting to tighten just thinking about them.

“What's going on with him? He said you were all pissed at him.”

If anyone else had asked, she would've shrugged the question off and changed the subject. Yet, she found herself wanting to talk to Dylan about it. He was such a good listener—whether she was talking about Alex or her SPD. Even her Mom had said he was great. “Pissed isn't the right word. Hurt or disappointed are more accurate.”

“What happened?”

She took the bowl and packet of dressing to the table, intending to toss it when the pasta was ready. “He ran into some trouble or something—lost his job and his apartment in Portland. He came home for a bit, but when Dad offered him a job designing the menus and overseeing food operations for the brewpubs, he bolted to Florida.”

His brow puckered. “That seems odd. He's a chef, right?”

“A really good one. What's even more odd is that he wasn't cooking there. He was bartending. And boating. And perfecting his tan.” She didn't bother curbing her sarcastic tone.

“So he bailed . . . I guess I don't understand why that's a big deal.”

She could see why he might think that, but there was so much more to what had happened. Why did family have to be so complicated? “Dad was really angry with him for turning down the job. It wasn't just a charity offer—he really needed someone in that role and Kyle refused. I think there might be more to it than that, but neither one of them has ever said. For me, it was more personal. When we were younger, Kyle was sort of my guardian. He looked out for me. While Mom regulated me from a sensory perspective, Kyle was sort of the number two guy in that respect. He kept me grounded, made sure I was okay. When he left, I felt betrayed that he didn't even talk to me about it. He just left a stupid note saying he'd come home soon. Which he didn't. I think he came home maybe three times in those four years.”

“Ouch. Now I sort of want to kick his ass.”

Sara suppressed a smile. “I don't know that anyone would stop you. In fact, we'd all probably help.”

“You Archers are dangerous. I thought Hayden was going to punch me the other day, then you hit him in the arm. I might have to start wearing body armor.”

She cringed. “I'm not really violent. Sometimes I react physically—without thinking.” That was one of the things she hated most about her SPD.

He looked at her with understanding. “Let me guess, it's a sensory thing.”

Wow, he really got it. “Yeah.” She was so dumbfounded, she couldn't think of anything else to say.

He threw the meatballs into a pan and cooked them up, changing the subject to whether she followed the Blazers (she loved basketball), the Timbers (she liked soccer), and the Hops (baseball was not her favorite thing). The conversation was easy and fast and definitely good for her.

When they were nearly finished eating Dylan asked, “How was your meeting with your assistant?”

Yet another topic that had wound her up. She finished her glass of wine—her second—and looked at the water sluicing down the outside of the sliding glass door.

“I shouldn't have asked.” He must've read her expression. “Forget I brought it up.”

Surprisingly, she didn't mind. Maybe it was the wine or maybe it was the comfort she felt being with and talking to him. “It's okay. He totally blindsided me—the douchebag is trying to steal my business.”

He coughed, then reached for his beer to wash his food down. “Sorry, your use of ‘douchebag' surprised me. What do you mean he's trying to steal your business?”

“He's been managing things while I've been here in Ribbon Ridge—helping Mom, working on The Alex.”

“Right.” He nodded before throwing back the rest of his beer.

“Because he's doing so much and has established such a close relationship with
my
clients,” she didn't bother to hide her bitterness, “he apparently thinks he should own the entire thing. In fact, he's been signing new clients to
his
new business—Craig Warner Events—on the advice of his lawyer, aka his boyfriend.”

Dylan's eyes narrowed as he set his empty bottle on the table. “Douchebag might not be a strong enough word.”

“No, it's not. He's a total asshat.”

“Better word, but I might go even dirtier.” He gave her a somewhat diabolical grin. “That's how we ex-military types roll.”

Again, she felt a smile coming on. How did he do that? She'd been wound up in knots when she'd arrived and now she was more relaxed than she'd been in ages. Well, since their last one-night stand anyway.

“Feel free to call him whatever you think he deserves.” She pinched the stem of her wineglass and turned it on the table. “I don't know what I'll be able to do. I tried calling my best clients, but no one picked up. I suppose I should check my voicemail. Where's my purse?”

“In the hallway, but forget it. You're not worrying about that tonight.” He stood up and bussed their dishes. “I need to take care of the laundry.”

“No, tell me where it is and I'll do it.”

He arched a brow at her. “I told you I was good at laundry.”

She laughed. “And I believe you. But you've got your hands full with the dishes.”

“Oh, I see how it is. You'd rather do laundry than clean the kitchen.”

“Totally.”

He pointed toward a doorway halfway down the wall of the great room. “There's a mud room through there.

Sara got up but paused to look at him. “Why'd you start doing your laundry as a nine-year-old? My brothers could barely pick out their own clothes at that age.”

“Necessity because of the whole back and forth thing. I never seemed to be on anyone's laundry cycle.” He shrugged. “It seemed more efficient to just learn to do it myself. It only takes a few too-small shirts and pink socks to figure out what not to do.”

Though he spoke with humor, Sara felt a pang of sadness for the boy who'd had to fend for himself. He busied himself with the dishes, and she let the moment go.

The mudroom clearly hadn't been remodeled, though his washer and dryer were top-notch front-loaders with steam cleaning and drying. She could actually dry her sweater in his dryer. Cool.

She pulled her clothes from the washer and blushed when she found her underwear. It was one thing to jump all over a guy in his shower and another altogether to realize he'd washed your unmentionables. No sign of her bra, but then he'd bragged about his laundry prowess. She turned a full circle and sure enough, it was hanging on a peg on the wall near the corner. It was still pretty wet, but she didn't want to throw it in the dryer with her jeans so she left it where it was. It looked so odd, so
intimate
hanging in his outdated, somewhat Spartan mudroom.

When she returned to the kitchen, he was just finishing loading the dishwasher. “Your laundry room needs an overhaul,” she said, eyeing her empty wineglass, which he'd left on the counter.

His brow arched playfully. “Hey, I don't know if you noticed, but I've been working pretty hard on the rest of the place.” He shut the dishwasher and leaned back against the counter. “Can I get you more wine?”

She glanced at her glass. She'd already had two, but she still wasn't ready to go home. Her eyes met his. “Sure.”

His gaze seemed to sizzle as he comprehended what that meant—which he had to know when he'd offered her a third glass of wine. He grabbed the open bottle, a great pinot from just up the road, and refilled her glass. “I think I'll join you.” He got his own glass and poured out the rest of the bottle. He held up his glass. “To rainy nights.”

Sara toasted him silently, her blood heating at the sultry look in his eyes.

He came around the bar and took her glass from her fingers. He set both on the counter behind him. Turning back toward her, he reached for her waist and pulled her forward. Then he situated her so that she was sandwiched between him and the island, which hit her lower back. Without a word and with an incredibly intense stare, he lifted his hands to the front of the robe. He slid his hands inside, parting the fluffy terrycloth, and cupped her breasts.

Sara planted her feet on the smooth, scraped hardwood as sensation rocked through her. His warm hands massaged her, his fingers finding her sensitive nipples and coaxing them into stiff, aching peaks. He pushed the robe back farther to expose her flesh. He bent his head and drew one breast into his mouth with a long, hard suck. She gasped, letting her head fall back. He gently bit her nipple, then licked and soothed it.

He lifted her and set her on the edge of the island. She locked her gaze with his, feeling his lustful stare like a searing caress. He parted her legs, the robe separating with the movement. He clasped her knees then slid his hands up her thighs, his thumbs stroking her as he went.

She had to taste him. She clasped his neck and drew him closer as her mouth crashed down over his. Their tongues met in a hot battle of need and passion. Desire arced out from her core. Then his thumbs were there, parting her most intimate flesh. He ripped his mouth from hers and gently pushed her back down on the island until her spine met the granite. His mouth came down on her hard, his tongue flicking her clit. Her orgasm was already right there, threatening to bear her away to some dark and distant place. And she was ready to go—desperate for release.

His fingers thrust inside of her, filling her. Her muscles clenched down as rapture broke over her. She cried out, her head cast back against the cool granite as he fucked her with his mouth and fingers.

Her orgasm was still flooding her senses when he pulled her up to a sitting position. “I want you upstairs,” he said.

She nodded. At least she thought she did. She wasn't terribly certain what she was doing or if she was even capable of moving. Her entire body felt like it was made of wet noodles.

He leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Do I need to carry you?” He nipped her earlobe then suckled the flesh. His hand kneaded her hip through the plush robe.

She scooted from the edge of the counter and landed softly on the floor. Then she threw him a seductive stare, crooked her finger, and turned toward the stairs. She slipped the robe from her shoulders, giving him a view of her bare back.

He came up behind her and trailed his hand down her spine. At the base of the stairs, he gave her behind a playful swat. She turned and dropped the robe at her feet.

With a growl, he rushed forward. Sara laughed, a throaty, sexy sound that sounded as though it belonged to someone else, and tore up the stairs. He followed her, his feet slapping against the wood. She reached the threshold of his bedroom before his hands clasped her waist and he pressed up flush to her back. His cock nudged her backside—he must've tossed his clothes off on the way up.

He moved her forward into the room, his hands splaying up over her ribcage to cup the undersides of her breasts. His thumbs and forefingers drew on her nipples, pulling and pinching them hard enough to make her moan, but not to hurt. He steered her toward the bed and kissed her neck. “Can I do this from behind? Your back . . . it's so sexy.”

It was hard to believe, but Sara had never had sex in that position. She felt suddenly shy and a bit embarrassed by her lack of experience.

“And your ass,” he brought his hand down and traced a finger over one cheek then palmed the soft flesh, “also very sexy.”

He pushed her hair to the side and kissed a path from the back of her neck to the base of her spine, pushing her over toward the bed as he traveled downward.

She fell forward, catching herself on her palms. “You'll have to tell me what to do.” She sounded breathless. Lust pounded through her as if she hadn't just orgasmed downstairs.