Sympathy for the Devil (International Bad Boys Book 4) (7 page)

“You should lose them. I may have mentioned that this morning too—when you weren’t listening.”

“I’ll work on it.” The trouble with old regrets was that they knew where to find you no matter where you might be. “May I ask you a question?”

He nodded, his eyes dark and hooded.

“When you look back on that night, what do you see? What do you believe happened?”

He hesitated before answering. He turned his gaze from her to the ocean. “I see ships bells and a girl in the moonlight who reached out and took what she wanted and got lost in the moment . . . with me.”

“Romantic.”

“’Course I am. I whisk a pretty girl away from a night of trivia and up to a secluded lighthouse and now I’m about to kiss her. That’s very romantic.”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Did I mention pretty girl?”

“There are lots of pretty girls in this world.” She’d photographed plenty of them. “Why me?”

“Maybe I want to see if your kisses of today are a match for those memories.”

“I’m pretty sure they won’t be.”

“Really? Are you that out of practice?”

“No, but back then there was the added lure of the forbidden.”

“You are so right.” His voice rolled over her, low and rough. “Definitely a lure.”

“And a certain amount of desperation on my part on account of I was leaving.”

“The desperation was mutual.” He had a sinner’s smile, warm and wicked, and his eyes had gone dark with intent, as he turned away from the ocean and came to stand in front of her. “We should definitely factor that in.”

“We probably shouldn’t be kissing at all,” she murmured, getting caught up in his eyes. Dark eyes tonight, whereas in daylight they were a glorious grey-green. “Last time I kissed you I was naked five minutes later.”

“I can do better than that these days.”

That’s what she was afraid of. “Promise me you’ll go slow.”

“I can go very slow.”

“And no hands.” He had great hands, persuasive hands. She’d writhed beneath them before.

“Are they too rough for you?”

“No. I’m thinking that kisses and hands might be a little too much for me. Especially if you, you know, go really slow.” That particular combination had been known not to slow her down at all. Especially when the hands and lips had belonged to him.

“Right.” He was closer now, she could feel the heat in him, licking at her skin, and the air released with that one agreeable little word whispering across her lips. “Any more instructions, Breanna?”

She was pretty sure a whimper could double as a no.

Time hung between one second and the next and then with a crooked smile he leaned in and kissed her, slow and easy. Warm lips against her own and the whisper of a sigh as he parted for her and took the kiss deeper, one hand to the back of her head now, while his thumb traced lazy circles behind her ear, and it was good, the curl of that wicked tongue against hers, easily as good as before.

Better.

Assured, the way he simply reached out and took what he wanted, his other hand sliding low on the small of her back as he drew her ever closer and his kisses destroyed her, open-mouthed and lazy, each languid slide of his tongue taking her mercilessly apart. She was drowning in the taste of him, remembering it of old, and reacquainting herself with the feel of him. So greedy for the feel of him. The scent of him.

There was more of him—another discord when it came to matching reality to memory—but, oh, she welcomed it. More perfectly sculpted muscle mass beneath her hands, more breadth across his chest and more height to him, and every bit of it within reach.

Not the half-wild and wholly beautiful boy of her dreams.

It was as if he’d grown into his strength and fully embraced his sexuality and the pleasure he took from it, every slow and electric roll of his body self-assured.

The boy had taken her apart and put her back together again.

If she let him, this man could do more.

She gave up, gave in, one hand to his heart and the other riding low on his hip as she stepped in between his legs, losing every ounce of self-restraint when a groan ripped through him, low and needy.

She liked knowing that she could make him make those noises.

“You still want me.” The knowledge slid into her, hot and heady.

“Yes.”

She traced the shape of his need with her fingers, palmed him next and closed her eyes on a gasp as he rocked up into her hand and then again. His spine curved sinuously and his shoulders flexed, a fine tension threading through his body. There was no shame in him, and, from the feel of it, precious little restraint.

“Would you come for me if I asked it of you?” she whispered against his lips.

“Ask.”

One simple growled word, but it enslaved her more effectively than any touch. Right here and now with nothing but her hand on him . . . would he lose himself in the moment?

She thought he would.

God.

She cupped him, pressed in hard against him and watched him shudder.

She could feel her panties getting damp and slick with musk.

“Not exactly my idea of slow, Breanna.”

Nor hers. Would he think her too forward if she fell to her knees for him? Would he think any less of her than he already did?

He took one more soul-stealing kiss from her and then he stepped back and put some air between them. Electric air, admittedly, but space enough for breathing.

He licked his lips as if to savor any last shred of her that might be on them and then he fixed her with a hot, possessive gaze that dropped to her kiss-plumped lips and stayed there. “So what do you think? Are today’s kisses any match for the memories?” he murmured.

“Yes.” He knew exactly what kind of wildness his kisses had delivered. Bree mentally added
way too accomplished for his own good
to his misdemeanors. “I’m sorry. I want to take things slow with you. And then I start touching you and that’s the end of slow.”

“Really not complaining.”

“I stuffed things up between us all those years ago. I screwed up royally.” She didn’t know if he understood her overwhelming need to do things right this time around. “I don’t want to be that person again—the one who takes without regard for anyone else. I
won’t
be that person. I need to think more and want less and
not
make a mess of this.”

“Bree. You need to let go of that. Stop taking complete responsibility for both of our sins and move on.” With one last searching glance he took another deliberate step back. “I can do slow. I can be a goddamn Master of Slow. As long as we move on.”

It was still a close call. Going slow or diving back into his arms. She could go either way.

He took the choice from her when he held out his hand. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

*     *     *

Later that evening
and into the early hours of the following morning—well after he’d dropped Breanna home—Caleb stood on the deck of the trawler and rolled with the waves and tried to keep his mind on the job. He did the work well enough, muscle memory and experience taking over when attentiveness failed. He gave his brother no cause to complain. But his mind and the low thrum of want in his body was all for Bree.

He’d looked everywhere for the type of passion he shared with her so effortlessly. Pretty girls and beautiful ones. Tanned and laughing beach girls. Shy girls, smart girls, exhibitionists who thrived on the thrill of semi-public sex; he’d even fallen in with an unavailable woman or two, just to see if the lure of the forbidden made a difference to the intensity of a relationship—and the answer there was yes, damn right it did—but he’d still never come close to finding what he’d tasted all those years ago with Bree.

He’d wondered whether his memory had been faulty.

He’d wondered whether youthful desperation, fuelled by alcohol, had been the key.

Last night, the answers had slammed home with shuddering finality.

There was not a thing wrong with his memory.

Youth and desperation had nothing to do with it.

It was just Bree.

She wasn’t his yet.

But she would be.

T
wo days later,
Bree rose from her bed and reached for the lamp switch and her swimwear. She hadn’t gone to the beach yesterday morning; she’d spent the morning with her parents instead. Working in the garden with her mother, then making homemade vanilla slice—her father’s favorite—along with lemonade made with lemons from the tree. Her father had sat and tussled with the crossword while her mother had cleaned out bird baths and Bree had attacked the weeds in the garden, and it was good, this easy companionship. It had been special in a way it never had been before.

Damn near broke her heart.

Her father failing on the one hand and Caleb on her mind on the other, so she would try and balance both of those emotions as best as she could.

Could it really be that easy to let go of the mistakes of the past? All those years she’d spent thinking that she’d driven a wedge between brothers, and now Caleb was saying, no. Don’t worry about that. It’s fine. Move on.

Move on . . .

If she went to the beach before dawn she could be back before breakfast and maybe, just maybe, she’d see Caleb and get her fix and edge ever closer to discovering what it was he wanted from her, and what she would give.

Swimmers on and a simple cotton shift on over that, and her camera gear over her shoulder, but she left it in the car once she got to the beach in favor of sitting on the bonnet and waiting for the world to get a little lighter.

She didn’t really want to take photographs this morning anyway.

The water shone inky, tipped with silver, and she knew full well that it could be dangerous and unpredictable. And as for what lay beneath . . .

Yeah, she’d wait a while, wait and see if anyone else turned up, maybe a certain someone who treated the ocean like a second home.

Someone who kissed like a dream and had agreed to take things slow.

And then a truck pulled up beside her little red sedan and Caleb got out of it, and she didn’t question why he was there or why she was so glad to see him.

“Looking a little pensive there, Bree.”

“Maybe it’s the light.”

“How’s your father?”

“He’s good.”

“Now, answer me honestly.”

“He’s tired and talking about me giving him grandchildren. But, hey, no pressure.” She felt her eyes filling with tears. “Can we swim? Do you want to swim?”

“Okay,” he told her gently. “You want a board?”

“Why aren’t you running away from me? I’m a mess.”

“Nah, you just need a little break from reality. A distraction, that’s all.”

He handed her a board and took another for himself from the collection sitting on a custom rack in the back of his truck and they headed down to the water’s edge in silence. It wasn’t until they were knee deep in gentle waves that apprehension about the ocean nibbled at her again. “Will you stay close?”

“I can do that.” He was right there beside her, so much more than shadow and light.

She followed him out, let him pick the way for them both, cutting through waves and over them until they were beyond the break and the water rocked them like babies and the bottom of the ocean was far beyond the measure of her feet.

And then she was sitting up astride the board and facing the horizon, her legs dangling in the water and her hands tracing the ragged surface of the wax atop the smoother surface of the board.

Silvery, the light now. That breathless waiting moment between darkness and dawn and finally, she felt some of her tension seep away.

“I need to do this more often,” she murmured.

“I agree.”

“I got more careful when I left here.” She leaned forward to trail her hand in the water, fingers wide and knowing she couldn’t catch it if she tried. “I stopped taking chances. Doing stuff like this.”

“Why?”

“Caution, mostly. When I left here I was all about taking control and not making mistakes. Instead of being part of a moment and taking chances, I got behind the lens and started cataloguing other people’s moments instead. I forgot what it was like to teeter on the edge of something magical or something terrible.”