Unforgettable (The Dalton Gang #3) (20 page)

“Good girl,” he said, reaching for the sponge she kept on a shelf, and the bottle of bath gel beneath it, working up a lather, then turning them both so his back was beneath the spray.

She lifted her arms when he pushed for her to, stacking them on top of her head. The motion lifted her tits, too, and he told his dick not to look. But she was beautiful, pale with dark centers, and it was hard not to bend down and taste her, to toy with her and tongue her, to use his teeth until she moaned.

Instead, he soaped her shoulders and her throat and her armpits, bathed her breasts and her ribs and her arms, turning her again so he could wash her back, and then so he could wash her ass. Again he had to tell his dick this was one of those times it had to bide, that better times would be found down the road, but having had such a good time with this woman, none of his words took.

He began to thicken, and he bent to wash her feet and her legs, and she turned while he was down there, giving him her front, his face pussy-level, as if testing him, and damn if he was going to fail. Not this time. Not when his honor was out there. His promise. And her need to be able to trust that he could keep his word.

Instead of the sponge, he used the soap in his hand to wash her there, sliding the long side of his fingers along the crease of both thighs, then parting her gently. He swallowed hard when she gasped, but he didn’t linger, reaching for the shampoo as he stood. She stepped beneath the shower to rinse, wetting her hair again, then lifting her chin and leaning her head back toward him.

Watching as a kid when his mother had scrubbed Faith’s in the sink was the only thing he knew about washing long hair, but he did his best, massaging her scalp, working the suds through the long, ropy strands. She rolled her head on her shoulders, to the left, to the right, shuddered as if from the pleasure of his hands, melting against him, her skin hot and slick and comforting.

The words
I could get used to this
came tumbling down along with the flow from the shower as she rinsed her hair, and he reached for her soap to wash up. They beat against him, making him weak when he was here to be strong, because that’s what she needed right now. This wasn’t the time nor the place for these feelings, these needs he kept buried to start reaching up, giving new life to dreams he was on the verge of letting go.

Moving around him to the rear of the tub, she twisted the water from her hair, then pulled open the curtain, the rings rattling on the rod as she did. She wrapped the first towel she grabbed around her head, the second around her body, then stepped out, and offered him the third.

The moment ticked, and he stayed where he was, watching confusion play out in her expression, until she lowered her hand and asked, “Boone?”

“I’m just going to . . . finish up in here.”

He saw the moment the truth clicked on, her eyes going hooded and dark. “I can bathe you, you know.”

He shook his head. “Not a good idea.”

“Because of this?” she asked, reaching for his hard cock and stroking.

He closed his eyes, groaned and grimaced, trying to remember the assurances he’d made, the words he’d said to her, his code. “Because of this not being about sex.”

“It can be.”

“No. It can’t.”

“I want it to be.”

“Not this time.

But she wasn’t listening. Or she felt she owed him or something, and she dropped both of her towels, returning to the tub, closing the curtain, and bending over, her hands on the tub’s corners, her ass pressed into his groin. “You did for me. Now let me do for you.”

“Everly—”

She ground against him. “Please,” she said, looking back at him over her shoulder, her eyes pleading, filled with a strange sense of urgency, as if his refusal would hurt her feelings, which didn’t make any kind of sense.

He bent his knees, fisted his cock, and aligned their bodies, pushing into her, then grabbing her hips and rocking against her. He pounded hard. He pounded fast. Set a rhythm designed to do him in, the shower beating his back.

Water and soap slicked their skin as their thighs slipped and slid. Her moans filled the small enclosure; each time he hit bottom, she cried out. The sounds tore at his gut, driving him harder, making him angry because this was not what he wanted.

He loved it. He ached, and she felt so goddamn good, gripping him, tightening around him, squeezing him as if she could catch him and keep him from pulling away. He wanted to believe she was getting off, but knowing how sick she’d been, it was hard. He didn’t want to be the only one here having fun, and he didn’t want a tit-for-tat exchange.

But it was too late for much of anything but blowing his wad, and he slammed into her, bounced against her, his balls slapping her ass. His thighs were burning when he surged forward, his fingers digging into her hips as he came. He held her, squeezed her, shuddered as he shot all he had into her, nearly taking her feet off the tub’s bottom, and knowing he was bruising her as he did.

Something about marking her left him feeling all kinds of caveman and he tightened his hold for one long moment before letting her go. She stood, stretching, turning into him and wrapping her arms around his neck and tugging his mouth to hers.

She kissed him, a soft press of lips, an even softer slide of her tongue, lifting up on her tiptoes, then using her hands on the back of his head to urge him down. He followed her lead, keeping the kiss tender, falling into it, into her, a deep connection he wasn’t sure he understood.

This was supposed to be sex. No emotions. Yet the pull he felt told him he’d need to be bound in barbed wire instead of silk scarves for any such agreement to stick.

TWENTY-ONE

B
OONE WAS SILENT
on the drive to his parent’s home. Everly was silent, too. She still felt like crap, for one thing, but she was also dealing with the certainty that she’d done something wrong. That begging him for sex,
giving
him sex, insisting he use her body instead of his hand had changed things between them. And that was the strangest thing of all. That sex had been the very thing to bring emotions into play.

She wasn’t used to this, having a man do for her, take care of her, see to her needs. Everything with Toby had been about him. His hunger came before anything else, determined everything else. With Boone, she initiated as many of their encounters as he did. He came along willingly, but it was almost as if he didn’t want to suggest anything improper. That he didn’t mind sharing a quiet picnic and back-porch beer.

That as much as he enjoyed the sex, he wanted to be with her for reasons having nothing to do with her body, and he had to keep his emotions out of the equation because of it.

So here they were, enjoying one another physically, but neither one willing to invest anything else. Everly because she wanted less. Boone because he wanted more.

How had things become such a mess?

She knew how. Toby. She’d let him get into her head and push Boone out. And yet Toby was not the man she’d grown up dreaming about. The man she wanted to build a life with. The man she wanted for a partner. The way her parents were partners. The way Boone’s parents were, too.

Her childhood had been perfect. She was the eldest sibling of four. Her parents never raised their voices to their children or to one another, and only raised their hands in fair discipline, not wanting to spoil the child by sparing the rod. There had been food on the table, clothes in the closets, bikes in the driveway, cars in the garage. She’d wanted for nothing. And because her parents’ social circle consisted of couples with children who attended the same church, she’d thought all families were the same.

It wasn’t until college that she’d realized how sheltered she’d been. She’d been loved. No question. But she’d known nothing about, well, anything. Hollywood, politics, philosophy, theology, war. Not that she needed an education in those subjects to get by in the world, but it would’ve been nice to have an idea of what went on across the planet she called home.

Oh, and sex. No one in her family ever talked about sex. Her mother had explained menstruation and conception, though very little about the latter, and absolutely nothing about orgasms. She’d learned about those herself, masturbating in the dark of her bedroom, going still when footsteps sounded in the hallway, feigning sleep when her door opened, finishing herself off when it closed.

She didn’t know, for example, that couples squabbled and made up. She thought arguments were a bad thing, since her parents never disagreed or raised their voices, and had spent most of her life avoiding conflict. And yet when she’d been ready for a relationship, she’d gone looking for a bad boy to give her the wild, heated sex her body longed for, never once considering how the rest of Toby’s makeup would pour havoc like honey over her life until the sting of trouble had her running far, far away.

“You okay?” Boone asked from beside her. She nodded, then gave him a soft, “Yes,” so he wouldn’t have to take his eyes off the road. He was sweet. So very sweet. Always thinking of her. Always caring.

He navigated the narrower streets of old Crow Hill to a neighborhood nearer the schools. Large ranch-style homes sat on large fenced lots, trees providing privacy for backyard patios and pools. The Mitchells’ house reminded her a lot of the house she’d grown up in. A family home, sprawling, the yard never quite as well kept as those of childless families.

Everly could well imagine the chores of mowing and raking and skimming detritus from the pool falling to a teenage Boone. The same chores had fallen to her younger brother. But between playing baseball and football and tumbling through the grass, running with the family dog through the sprinkler, their yard had always looked lived-in, as did most of the houses they passed.

Casper’s truck was parked in the Mitchells’ driveway, so Boone pulled up to the curb, helping Everly out through the driver’s door, and holding her elbow as they walked up the sidewalk. Faith met them in the foyer that emptied into a big family room. She reached up to kiss Boone’s cheek, then gave Everly a thorough once-over. “You look about as bad as I feel.”

“Same to you, sister,” Everly said weakly.

“Wanna head to the powder room and spend some time with a tube of concealer?

Everly lifted her bag with both hands. “I’m not sure I brought enough for all the time I’ll need to spend.”

Faith hooked her elbow through Everly’s, as Boone pushed by the both of them with a grunt. “C’mon. We’ll give it a go.”

“It won’t do any good,” Everly said, mostly because it hurt to open her eyes. “Your mother’s too observant and your father’s too smart.”

“Oh, I’m not trying to fool them,” Faith said, hauling her toward the long hall off the entryway. “I just want Casper off my ass. And Boone, too.”

“That’s right. You’ve got two to deal with,” Everly said, leaning over the pedestal sink to examine her eye baggage in the mirror.

“Boone, I ignore. Casper’s the only one who really gets any say. And only then if I let him.” Faith pressed a hand to her own cheek, turned her head this way and that. “Good lord does my skin look like candle drippings or what?”

Everly cut her eyes to the side and met Faith’s in the mirror. “Maybe this is a good time to remind you whose idea it was to drink like we’d spent yesterday crawling our way out of a desert.”

“Hey, I got Arwen to bring nachos.”

That reminder had Everly bringing her fingers to her lips. “Please. Don’t speak of nachos. Ever again. I’m going to have enough trouble with pot roast.”

Giving up on her face, Faith backed up and sat on the toilet lid, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. “How did Boone talk you into coming over today of all days?”

“It wasn’t hard,” Everly said, dabbing her ring finger on the concealer, then getting as close as she could to the mirror. “It was either stay at the ranch—”

“Wait.” Faith’s head came up. “What were you doing at the ranch?”

“That’s where Boone took me last night,” she said, meeting the other woman’s reflected gaze.

“Wow. Do you know you’re the first woman he’s ever taken to the ranch? As far as I know, anyhow, and this being Crow Hill—”

“You know all.”

“This makes me so happy,” she said, standing and pulling Everly into a hug. “You are perfect for Boone.”

After this morning, waking in his bed where they’d slept without touching, then showering in her bathroom where they’d done nothing but touch, hearing those words from his sister brought confusion raining down like wet confetti. “Why do you say that? I mean, how exactly am I perfect? What makes me perfect for him? I don’t understand why—”

“Ev, chill. I’m not dragging the two of you to the altar. I’m just happy to see him with someone who’s such a good fit. And,” she added, when Everly urged her on with a desperate wave of her hand, “you’re a good fit because whether or not either of you know it, you both want the same things.”

“The same things. Like Camembert with artisan bread, and a closet full of Loubies, and three hours in the stylist’s chair every three weeks?”

“Not those kind of things. Things that matter.”

“My hair matters.”

“And I’ll bet Boone loves getting all tangled up in your hair, but I’m talking about real things. Balls-to-the-wall honesty. Tenderness. Friends and family. No secrets. Everything front and center. And let me tell you, it’s not easy . . .”

Were those the things she wanted? Everly mused as Faith went on about her relationship with Casper. Were those the things Faith thought important to her? Family and friends, yes. And she could never again have anything but an honest relationship. But tenderness? Where did that fit in? Where had it come from?

And what about the biggest secret of all that she was keeping from Boone? He’d told her about his history with Penny Upton and her parents. But she hadn’t been able to tell him about Toby. Granted, the circumstances were not the same, but while Boone had moved on after the trial, she was letting Toby keep her tied to the past.

Unless things were as similar as they were different, Boone’s encounter with Les Upton defining the things he wanted now as fully as her history with Toby defined her.

A loud knuckle rap on the door followed by Boone’s bellowed, “Get your asses out here,” had both women giggling and Faith opening the door.

“Hold your horses, big boy,” she said, patting the center of his chest. “I’m giving your woman here the lowdown on all your peccadilloes.”

“My pecca— What the hell did you say?”

Her head spinning, Everly dropped to sit on the toilet lid. “I may need to vomit before I eat,” she said, drawing a long string of curses from Boone.

Faith slammed the door, cutting him off, and wetting a cloth in the sink as he grumbled on the other side. “Are you going to be sick? Because you don’t have to be here. I’m happy to drive you home so you can get some sleep.”

“No. I’m fine.” She pressed the cold cloth to her forehead, then to her throat and her nape. “And I slept. For hours. I had no idea where I was when I woke up.”

“So you two didn’t . . .” Faith stopped, made some sort of obscene gesture with the fingers of both hands.

Everly shook her head, then puffed out her cheeks to steady the dizzying motion. “I don’t even remember Boone and the others coming to the bookstore. Do you?”

“Hmm. I guess I don’t. But I do remember later, in bed with Casper, thinking I was dreaming about an elephant, then—”

“Oh my God, Faith! I do not need to hear that.”

“I don’t need to hear it either,” Boone said from outside the door.

“Oops,” Faith said. “Are we good to go here?”

“One more thing,” Everly said, leaning forward to whisper. “I think, when I was drunk, I told him I loved him.”

“What?” Faith nearly yelled the question, falling against the door, and the door falling open.

Boone was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the hallway, his boots crossed at the ankles, his arms crossed over his chest, his brow in a deep frowning angry V. “You two done now? Mom’s waiting.”

“Yes, Grumpy. We’re done.”

“You better hope she didn’t hear you.”

“Oh, c’mon. You think Momma doesn’t know we talk about men’s—”

“Criminy, Faith, shut the hell up,” he said, following behind them as Faith took Everly’s arm and steered her through the house. She cast a look over her shoulder, mouthed an apology. Boone just rolled his eyes and shooed her toward her seat in the dining room.

“Everly, I’m so pleased you could join us today.” Catherine Mitchell leaned to set the gravy boat in the center of the table before taking her chair opposite her husband at the end. “I know we met at the anniversary party, but for all the years you’ve known Faith, you and I should’ve spent more time together by now.”

“Thank you for including me,” Everly said. “Everything looks and smells wonderful, though I have to admit I’m a bit worse for wear today.”

“You and me both,” Faith said, the concealer doing nothing to help her look anything other than queasy.

“Something tells me you two girls got into the same trouble last night.” This from Curtis Mitchell, Boone’s father.

“‘Trouble’s’ not quite a big enough word,” Casper said, reaching for the bowl of carrots Curtis handed him.

“And trouble’s going to be exactly what you’re in if you don’t keep your big mouth shut. Especially since this is all your fault.”

“Faith! That’s no way to talk to Casper,” Catherine said, starting the basket of hot rolls around the table.

“Yes ma’am,” she said, earning a chuckle from Clay, who sat between Everly and his soon-to-be father, as he scooped up a helping of mashed potatoes.

Casper reached over to bop him playfully on the head. “And no laughter from the peanut gallery.”

“Yes sir,” Clay said, adding a slice of pot roast to his plate, his head down, his mouth tight against another laugh.

Everly took a roll when the basket came by, thinking she could probably handle bread, sparing a glance across the table at Boone whose gaze was all for his food. There wasn’t a hint that he was fighting a grin. Or a scowl to prove that he wasn’t. There was nothing. Much as there’d been nothing earlier on the drive over.

“Well, now I want to know how all of
this
,” Curtis said, nodding his head at Everly on his right, at Faith sitting to his wife’s, “is Casper’s fault.”

“No, Daddy,” Faith said, glaring at Casper. “I’m pretty sure you don’t.”

But Curtis, letting his grin take over his face, looked from his daughter to her man. “Casper? What did you do now?”

Everly couldn’t let anyone else take the blame. “It’s more my fault, Mr. Mitchell—”

“Curtis, please.”

“Curtis,” she said, then continued. “I was at the house on Mulberry Street Friday night to interview Casper for a story.”