Sun-Kissed (21 page)

“Well, we’re all right here, then.” Mack’s deep voice sounded so gentle and exultant both at once. “All the rest, learning how to sleep together, learning to feel comfortable with someone else seeing us at our silliest—drooling on a pillow, hair sticking up—that’s all just habit, sweetheart. You can make me a new habit.”

She twisted into him, breaking his control of the dance, to which he immediately adjusted, to yield to her way. He always did adapt when she sought control. “I want to.” She held their hands tightly between them. “I really want to.”
I still might need help. But I want this, too.

“Then I’ve got everything I need, right here,” he said, and snugged her in close. “Because what you want to do, you find a way to do.”

“Not always,” she said, with that bittersweet twist. Just as it had with him, the world had beaten her a time or four. Two miscarriages. A divorce. Trial and prison. The three little grandkids that had never come to be had hurt her terribly, too, this defeated grief.
Damn you, God.
Not even granddaughters?

Damn you. How dare you hurt my son?

“Yeah, but this time you’ve got me to help.” Mack nudged her backwards into the house, still dancing, but closer in now, putting some dirty into it.

He turned out the lights she had left on inside as they went, leaving them in the glow of the nightlight peeking from the door of the bathroom and the moonlight from the veiled window. Funny how much sweeter it was to come home to a dark house with another person than to a lit house by herself.

It was chilly now, with the windows still open. But he held her in close, like a man who planned to keep her warm.

“You know what I’d like, right now?” he asked, in that ground-up voice close to her ear, a brush of warmth. And lower still, all the way down to a secret, just for her: “I’d like to feel you orgasm, under my hand. You have no idea how freaking beautiful that is.” The bed brushed the backs of her knees. He lowered her, tango-slow and steady, as if it was just another dip in a dance. His voice was hushed as he repeated his words from just a moment ago: “It seems like a special gift. That you would let me control you. That you’d trust me, when I do this.”

As her weight rested against the mattress, his hand trailed lightly over one breast, down her stomach, to rest—just rest, no pressure—against the juncture of her thighs.

She drew a slow breath in and out, controlling the instinct to cross her thigh over, to knock his hand away before he could make her that vulnerable.

She was already vulnerable to him. He had her. He’d had her forever. She just had to accept it.

“Or when I do this.” He stretched out beside and above her, braced on one elbow, his other hand starting to rub oh-so-lightly at that point between her thighs. Not invasive. Barely enough pressure to be felt through her skirt. “Look at you,” he said wonderingly. “Under me. Right here. Mine. I don’t think I ever had enough trust in us for this fantasy, Anne. And I have to say—it’s gorgeous.”

She licked her lips and lifted herself a little to his hand. Just—that pressure. That warmth. Her skirt was too thick. Damn quality fabric and pencil form. She wanted it to be flimsy and flower-child swirly, something he could bunch up, something that didn’t even stop his hand if he wanted to slide it between her thighs, and cup, and press.

His shirt had come half unbuttoned in the hammock. She pulled at it, sliding her hands to get at his chest, his body hard and warm and alive under her hands.

“I should have done this so long ago, Anne. I just—I never thought you’d let me. And I didn’t want to break what we had.”

“You said that was unbreakable,” she reminded him. A little anxiety wanted to curl in her, at even the hint that it might be, but that anxiety couldn’t manage the curl, because—well, it wasn’t breakable. Even now, if they put an end to this deeper intimacy, they’d find their balance again and still have their friendship.

“It took me a long time to believe that, though,” Mack said. “Most things in the world can be broken.”

And that was when she realized something. “Me going to prison taught you some things, too, didn’t it?” About her strength. About their strength.

“God, yes.” He kissed her, urgent and angry, a hint of rage from just the mention of her going to prison. “It taught me how much I loved you, for one. It taught me that you could break my goddamn heart just as much as Julie or Jaime could. And it taught me that I’d damn well better grab you. Shit.” He twisted his head away from her mouth to bite at her shoulder, as if the fierceness of his emotions had surged too high for her tender lips.

Then he nipped it again. And then he pushed her shirt aside, popping buttons again, and just ran his hand over her shoulder a moment, absorbed, tender, thorough. As if her shoulder was an amazing thing. “It taught me how strong you were.” The one lesson she had guessed. “It taught me how much you matter. And I always thought I
knew
how much you mattered. But you mattered even more than that.”

“I think I’ve always known how much you matter,” Anne said. “And I think, at the same time, I’m still learning it more and more right now.”

A flicker across his face of pleasure, of something more intense than both, and then he kissed her again.

Kissed down the line of her throat, over her shoulder, down the swell of her breast, pulling aside her shirt, undoing some buttons and popping others. “I love your taste in lingerie,” he breathed against the golden-beige silk and subtle lace. “It’s like kissing champagne.”

She had this vision of herself going to his head, bubbling through him, making him giddy. It made her—sparkle. All through her, everywhere inside. It made her stretch to let all those sparkles slide freely from her fingertips to the roots of her hair to her toes. To her nipples and those surprisingly erogenous insides of her elbows, and dance its way on down, lower, deeper, more pleased with itself the lower and deeper it got.

“I like your taste in—nothing.” She spread his shirt and stretched her fingers over the broad planes of his chest, with the curls of gray hair. “In just you.”

“Yeah?” He leaned over her, lapping up the compliments and the stroking.

“Yeah,” she whispered, tracing his muscles down over his ribs, hooking her thumbs possessively in his waistband as she curled her hands over his butt. “Yeah.”
Mine.

“I like your taste in nothing, too, but let me enjoy this pretty bra for a while. I didn’t give it enough attention last time.” He tongued her through the fine lace, sucking her into his mouth. That veiled intimacy worked so well on her. Instead of flinching back from her nakedness, she
wanted
it, wanted to have that veil fall away, so she could feel his mouth.

“Yeah,” Mack breathed, scraping his jaw gently against her skin as he sought the other breast. “Like champagne.”

Desire mounted in her, this hungry, confused thing. Desire could be tender? Could be starved and tender both? Her hands climbed up his back, under his shirt, the soft cotton panels falling to either side of her body.

“I must be getting drunk for real this time,” Mack said. “Because I’m losing track of important things.” One of his hands slid back down to that juncture between her thighs. “Like this.”

She went still, breath coming in sips, as his heat soaked through her skirt again, so hot she could feel it through the layers of cloth. Such a frustrating protection, that cloth.

“You like that, don’t you?” he breathed, deepening the rub of his hand just barely. Still the barrier was too thick, too much.

She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on that elusive heat.

“Want to tell me what you want?” His thumb rubbed precisely, as if he knew exactly what she wanted, but those layers of cloth still blocked him.

She shook her head, her eyes still closed, chasing after that feeling.

“Want me to guess?” He found the edge of her skirt and stroked his hand under it, up her thigh, sure and warm and determined to reach his goal.

She nodded, eyes still closed. Her fingers kneaded into his shoulders and slid over his back, chasing sensations everywhere, as if she could drag them all in through her fingertips alone.

“I think you want me here.” His hand pressed hot over her panties, and she shivered in relief at how much thinner they were than that skirt.
Now
she could feel him. Really feel him. She rocked herself against his hand involuntarily.

“I think you might even want me here.” All the gravel was back in his voice, as his fingers dipped under the elastic of her panties and found her wetness. He made a low hum of approval, deep in his throat. “Oh, yes. Yes, I
like
how much you want me here.”

She kept her eyes closed, focusing on him utterly. “I love your
scent
,” she whispered. “I love the
warmth
of you. I love the expression in your eyes right now when I can’t even see it. I love the way the panels of your shirt brush against my skin.”

“Anne.” His voice was wondering. His fingers dipped gently between the lips of her sex and stroked silk moisture upwards, finding her clitoris. “I have to get drunk on you more often. You say the damnedest things when I lose all inhibitions.”

“Mack Corey.” She twisted toward his fingers and shivered with pleasure, then shivered again when he responded to the first shiver by repeating the movement exactly. “You don’t have inhibitions.”

“You haven’t been listening to what I’ve been saying, Anne. I’ve been holding back my fantasies about you for a long time. Just to make sure I kept what was most important.”

She bit her own smile. “Me?” She kept her eyes closed, because she could see him better that way. See years and years of him, layered over each other, all compacted into the way he was looking at her right now. Such an intense way she had to veil it with her own eyelids.

“Exactly. Shh, now, sweetheart, you need to concentrate.”

She did. He was so right, she did. All of her was focusing more and more on the sensation building under his fingers. That leisurely, steady rhythm, no hurry to get where he was going, no hurry to let
her
get there either. He was watching her. She knew he was watching her as he stretched it out, as he took his sweet time, watching every sigh and stretch of her body, every arch of her neck, every flicker of her eyebrows and working of her lips as she chased that feeling he kept drawing out.

“Mack.” She grabbed at his hand.

“Well, you did tell me to guess.” Another slow, savoring move of his thumb. “I like guessing. I like watching you and guessing every thing you want. Sometimes, in my fantasies, I like
not giving it to you
, so I can stretch it out.” His fingers trailed away from her clitoris, playing with the lushness of her sex.

She made a frustrated noise and tightened her hold on his hand, fighting him for control of it.

“Shh, now, honey, you like this, too.” His fingers dipped lazily deep into her and drew slowly out as his thumb played up and down her folds. “Don’t you?”

“
Mack.
” Her muscles tightened around him. Her whole body bowed. But she needed—she had to have his thumb back higher. Back exactly where it had been. She dragged at his hand.

“That’s the beauty of not being eighteen anymore, Anne. I just made love a few hours ago, and right now…I can take my time.”

She reached immediately for his jeans, cupping him. Yes. They’d been dancing and making out, and she knew perfectly well he was aroused. He was trying to act as if he was all in control, but…she rubbed him, strong and sure, through his jeans.

“Mmm.” A deep sound of pleasure.

“Want me to guess, too?” she challenged.

“Guess with them unzipped and your hand inside. I’ll like that guessing game a lot better.”

She let go of his hand to unbutton and unzip him, and, freed from her grip, his hand stroked a silky path back to that needy little nub and wet it with the moisture he had collected.

She lost all possible focus on his jeans, her hands halfway inside them, her body arching again as she lost herself to this sensation.

He pressed her hand hard against his erection and circled around her clitoris again. “Do you know in one of my favorite fantasies, I keep you like this all night?” he whispered.

Her eyes flew open at last.

His glittered, pitch black in the dimness. Funny, in her head, they had been blue. Vivid with light, like their walks on the beach in the early morning.

“Fortunately for you, my ability to imagine you begging for more of me all night only ever really lasted five minutes in the shower,” he said wryly.

Oh, God, she wanted to take a shower with him. Be all slippery, and have his fingers act just…like…this.

“Mack.” She bumped against him and tried to press his hand down.

“I know, honey. I can tell. All right, shh. Shh. Close your eyes again.”

They fell closed of their own volition, pleasure vibrating through her again at the movement of his fingers. Oh, now he was serious. Now he was…clever, and…firm, and…insistent, and, and, and—

She just split apart. Fizzed out of herself like champagne, in this effervescence of being. Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure that he caressed and rode and caressed some more until she was almost crying, until she had to come down. She grabbed his hand and locked it between her thighs to hold it still, sobbing for breath. Subsiding. Subsiding. Slowly, slowly, slowly subsiding, a mad full-moon tide retreating at last.

“Shit, Anne,” Mack said, very softly, and then shoved at his own jeans. “Do you mind if I’m, uh, in kind of a hurry?”

“Not eighteen,” she managed to mumble, a ghost of teasing.

“Yeah, well. I told you how long my fantasies of all night actually lasted in my shower, didn’t I? Jesus, Anne, you are
hot.
” He got the condom on much more briskly than before, having apparently refreshed his memory of the process last time. He pulled her panties and skirt off both, in one swift movement, and braced himself above her. “Ready, honey?”

Oh, God, she liked the way he asked that. It sent this erotic charge of anticipation through her whole body. Like pausing at the top of a roller coaster, only the ride was going to be so much better. In answer, she wrapped her thighs around his hips and sank both hands into his butt, pulling their bodies together.