CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TESS SANK ONTO the couch in the small, low-lit living room at Beach House No. 8 and watched the flames lick the Pres-to-Log she’d put a match to before checking on the boys. It wasn’t cold, really; she was dressed warmly enough in a pair of yoga pants and matching top with long sleeves and a collar that she’d zipped to a point above her cleavage. But she’d decided the fire would be nice company for the night. Rebecca was sleeping over at a friend’s, and her sons had slipped into dreamland not long after dark. An inflatable canvas raft had occupied Duncan and Oliver all afternoon. Riding the small waves near the shoreline had so worn them out that they’d almost been asleep before Russ.
She propped her bare feet on the coffee table, bumping the framed photo of the kids that she’d brought from home. With the four either asleep or absent, it was time to think of herself. It was time to decide what she wanted to do with her life.
A knock on the front door startled her. Griffin or Jane, she supposed, needing to borrow a cup of sugar or something similar. But it was Teague White standing in the dim glow of the porch light, his athletic build nearly filling the opening. He smiled, a flash of white in his tan face that struck her somewhere below her heart.
She placed her hand there. “Hi.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I was at Captain Crow’s…and then I thought of you. Would you like to share a drink with me?”
Oh, to be so free! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to take off for a drink or anything else without making plans and backup plans and backup for the backup plans. Was that what she wanted for herself? she wondered. More freedom? She had divorced friends and knew it was an unexpected by-product of shared custody. When the kids were with Dad, Mom had hours and hours of alone time.
“Tess?”
“Oh.” She laughed. “Sorry, took a hike on a mind trail.”
“Mind trail?”
Her next laugh wasn’t as amused. It was a phrase that she and David had coined long ago. One of those private codes that came out of a long marriage. “I was daydreaming.” She took a breath. “But as to your offer—I’m sorry, I can’t go anywhere. The boys are asleep and—”
“Even if I brought the drink to you?” He held up a chilled six-pack of Mexican beer.
Her favorite brand. She hesitated only a second, then held open the door. “I have limes.”
As he stepped inside, she hurried to turn on another lamp. She didn’t want to send the wrong message with a romantic ambience. In the kitchen, she sliced a Mexican lime into quarters and placed them on a small plate that she set on a tray beside a basket of tortilla chips and a bowl of mango salsa.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Teague said as she slid the items onto the coffee table.
Embarrassed heat washed up her neck. Was he thinking she’d misread the situation? That she considered it some kind of date?
“But now that you did,” he said, giving her another of his easy grins, “thanks.”
From their opposite corners of the short couch, they both slipped a wedge of lime into their golden brew. Then their gazes met, and with tacit agreement they held out the longneck bottles. It seemed a natural thing to do. But at the click of glass against glass, it suddenly felt datelike. Another wash of heat climbed up her neck, but Tess ignored it and forced herself to relax against the cushions. Try this out, she told herself. Your life could be like this. A romantic evening. A different man.
More of her tension dissipated as beer was sipped. Small talk was exchanged.
“I ran into your brother earlier today,” Teague said. “He didn’t look very happy to find me talking to Jane.”
“You know Jane?”
“Know all the pretty girls on the beach,” he said, tipping his bottle at Tess. “Always looking to end my bachelor status.”
“Right,” she scoffed. “You and all the other handsome firefighters are on the endless search for your better halves.”
He appeared to consider her remark seriously. “Can’t speak for everyone else, but I do know what I want.”
Tess could only feel envy. “What’s that?” Maybe I can co-opt your same wish.
“You…”
Her swallow of beer almost went down wrong.
“…or should I say, what you have.”
She coughed now, clearing her throat as well as clearing her mind of any unbidden image that might be trying to form. “And what do I have that you want?” she asked, trying for rueful. “A crying baby, a rebellious teen, two little boys that… Never mind, just don’t ask me about Cheetos.”
He laughed. “All of the above…except maybe not the Cheetos since I don’t know where that’s going. But I grew up in a very lonely house without brothers or sisters.”
She thought of the quiet little kid he’d been, trailing after Griffin and Gage.
“I want the whole big, messy family.”
“We’re that, all right,” Tess said with a wry smile. Child clutter was everywhere, from the pairs of rubber thongs jumbled by the front door to the action figures locked in mortal combat by the built-in bookshelves. Surely there was a lurking plastic block or two somewhere, ready to wield brutal pain on an unsuspecting sole.
Teague settled into the corner of the couch. He wore ancient jeans, a Hawaiian shirt he could have stolen from Griffin’s closet and leather flip-flops. He looked a little lazy and a lot male, and she felt another small ping of awareness below her breastbone. Heat gathered where her hairline met the nape of her neck.
His eyes on her, Teague took a slow pull from his beer, and his swallow moved along the tan column of his neck. He settled more comfortably on the cushions, and as he stretched out one long leg, the edge of his sandal met the side of Tess’s bare heel, the contact as light as a butterfly kiss.
She froze, her gaze dropping to the label of the beer she held, though her peripheral vision didn’t miss their tiny point of connection. Did he know they were touching? It wasn’t flesh-on-flesh or anything, but wouldn’t a normal person pull back from even that small invasion of personal space?
Maybe he didn’t notice.
Maybe he was asking a question with that near-nudge.
She’d given him the answer before, though, hadn’t she? That first day on the beach she’d explained she was the mother of four. Married.
But how true was the married thing? And wasn’t she more than a mother? She was supposed to be figuring that out. Tonight.
Now the heat at her nape traveled around and down, and she automatically pressed the cold beer bottle to the thin skin below her collarbone, bared by the stretchy yoga top. She glanced over at Teague, found him staring.
A sheepish grin curved his mouth. “I told you about that crush, right?”
Another opening. She wasn’t such a wife and mother that she didn’t know it. The woman in her recognized that she could make a move of her own right now, twitch a toe, find something flirtatious to say, and this moment could possibly turn into something different.
Could turn into someone different.
Tess opened her mouth—
—and heard Russ begin to cry. She was up so quickly she stepped on Teague’s foot. But the contact barely registered as she hurried in the direction of the hall. “He’s been fussy,” she said over her shoulder. “I think he may be getting another tooth.”
Her guest was rising from the couch. “I should go?” But then Russ squawked again, and Teague answered his own question. “I should go.”
She didn’t bother seeing him out. It took twenty minutes to soothe her baby. Humming under her breath, she held his head against her shoulder and rocked back and forth, standing outside the room he shared with Duncan and Oliver. Once he was down again, she pulled a lightweight throw over his sailboat-printed jammies and arranged his special blanket under one arm. He reflexively gathered it close to his chest.
David used to do that to her when they were in bed.
David hadn’t touched her in bed in months.
Back in the living room, she cleaned up the bottles and snack and then returned to her original place on the couch. She stared at the photo of the kids in front of her. Her foot twitched, remembering that brief connection with Teague. Maybe she should have asked him to stay. Start that new life with a bang.
The stupid pun made her groan.
Over her own low-throated sound she heard another knock on the door. Her heart lurched. He’d come back!
Tess couldn’t pretend she wasn’t home. She also couldn’t pretend that her pulse wasn’t racing at a chance for…another bite of the apple.
Oh, God, she was full of wordplay tonight.
And nerves.
Her palms were so wet, her hand slipped on the doorknob. When she opened it, her breath caught.
Not Teague, but David. Her husband, David, carrying a carton, one of those portable file boxes. “I have something to show you,” he said.
She couldn’t help but compare him to her other visitor of the evening. Instead of being casually dressed, David appeared to have come straight from the office. His shirt was white, his slacks pale taupe, he wore the loafers she’d had resoled six weeks ago. She’d given him the paisley tie for his birthday. When everything had changed.
“Can I come in?”
She moved aside and watched, bemused, as he transferred the framed photograph to a corner of the coffee table, then removed file folders from the box. His long-fingered hands laid them on the flat surface, one after the other, until they were all on display. With a satisfied air, he stepped back.
Curiosity piqued, she came closer, trying to understand the point of his exhibit. It wasn’t immediately apparent, and he didn’t immediately offer up an explanation.
She glanced at his profile. He had a strong, masculine nose, and his lips were set in a serious line. There was a shadow of whiskers along his jaw that her fingers suddenly itched to stroke. His short hair was ruffled on top, and she knew he’d been forking his fingers through it, a gesture he made when he was in deep concentration or worried.
They stood without speaking, and she listened to him breathe, one of the dearest rhythms of her life. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as a heavy understanding settled over her. Familiar didn’t equal dull, she thought. New and different was not that big a draw.
At least not for her.
“What’s all this?” she finally asked, gesturing at the folders.
“I wanted you to look over our financials,” he said.
Her heart seized for a moment, then restarted at a dizzying pace. Look over their financials! That sounded like predivorce business. Though…maybe not. One of her friends had been given the divorce talk by her husband—but only after the bastard had siphoned off most of their accounts.
David wouldn’t do it like that, she assured herself. If she and David divorced, he would be excruciatingly fair.
If she and David divorced… There would be dates. A different man.
She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “I’m looking them over,” she said, her voice weary. “What about the financials should I be seeing?”
He took a seat on the sofa and tapped a finger on the front of each manila folder. “Statements for all our bank accounts. Your 401(k), my 401(k). College funds for the kids. Current mortgage statement. I had the house appraised yesterday and this is the report. We own the cars outright, but I have estimates for their value in this file. See? I’ve labeled it Big-Ticket Items.”
She stared at him. “What, no credit report?”
He slid out a folder from under another. “Right here.”
A few years back, new neighbors had moved in, and she and David had invited them to their New Year’s Eve party. The husband of the couple insisted on a midnight tradition: “Throw all the change in your pockets onto the street!” It was supposed to bring good fortune for the coming year, according to the man.
David had gone along with a smile.
Before breakfast the next morning, he’d re-collected every coin.
At least some things about him hadn’t changed—he was still careful about each penny. Looking into the face of the man she’d loved and married, while remembering that New Year’s, made her sure of something else that was unchanged as well.
Tess herself was still the same. I still love my husband, my life as his partner. My work as the mother of our children. That was what she wanted. The knowledge of it settled in her chest, a puzzle piece being reseated where it belonged. She could move away from the house she and David shared together, but that didn’t mean she could leave behind her love for him. The thoughts about dates and different men were passing fancies. A match flare compared to the steady light and heat that were her feelings for her husband.
She sighed and gestured to the table. “What’s all this mean, David?”
“It’s our net worth. What we’ve accumulated in the last almost fourteen years.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“You thought I didn’t want you. Of course I do. I’m showing you what we’ve done together. What we’ve built.” He huffed out an impatient breath. “I’m trying to convince you to come home. To stay.”
“Do you want me or my 401(k)?”
He looked at her as if she was speaking in Russ’s babbling baby language. “Both. They go together. Your plan is in your name.”
He refused to understand. Instead of talking to her about what was going on with him and why he’d altered, he was trotting out paperwork. Exhausted, she dropped into the armchair adjacent to the sofa. “I don’t know, David….”
He rose, his expression panicked. “What? Tess, don’t you get it? Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
He threw a hand in the direction of the files. “This is what I have to offer,” he said. “This is what is on the table.”
But instead of the columns of numbers and the neatly compiled accounting of what David thought summed up their worth—his worth—Tess only saw that photograph. Their four beautiful, beloved children. The family that he had somehow reduced to file folders and appraisal forms. Rising, she picked up the frame and held it with both hands so he could see.
“This is what’s on the table.” With tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, she stalked toward her bedroom. “This is what you have to find a way to value.”
He didn’t follow, and she didn’t expect him to. In her bedroom, she closed the door and leaned against it, holding her children’s picture against her heart. Was it any good knowing who you were and where you wanted to be in your life, she thought, if the person with whom you wanted to share that life wouldn’t share himself?
* * *
JANE WATCHED Griffin hand the sleeping baby to his sister. Then Tess glanced toward Duncan and Oliver, crashed on the couch at No. 9, their heads together and their bodies lax, like a pair of rag dolls put down for the day.
Following her gaze, Griffin sighed. “Fine, I’ll carry one next door.”
Jane raised her hand. “I’ll get the other.”
“I can do it,” Rebecca offered. “We left you with the s’mores mess.”
Griffin gave Jane a look. “Yeah. You stay here and clean up. Get ready.”
The look, the ominous note in his voice, tripped a shiver down her spine. Get ready for what? But Jane thought she knew, so she reined in her imagination and gathered up the marshmallow bag, the graham cracker box, the straightened wire clothes hangers and took them into the kitchen. Back by the dying fire in the living room, she found the last square of chocolate and popped it into her mouth.
She was licking a sweet trace from her thumb when Griffin stalked back inside. The door slammed behind him. His gaze snapped to her face, and she froze, her lips still sucking her flesh.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
With a slow movement, she released her finger and let her hand fall to her side. Her palm pressed against the cream-colored lace of the swingy shorts she wore with a tennis sweater she’d found one day thrown over a chair. She supposed it was Griffin’s—well, she knew it was, because the cotton cable-knit held his smell, that dry sage and lemon scent that was starting to pervade her dreams. If he had a problem with her co-opting his clothing, he’d kept it to himself.
“You don’t like s’mores?” she asked. “I think you had at least three.”
“I don’t like turning into my sister’s go-to babysitter,” he said. “Those kids should stay on their side of the fence.”
“It was one evening so your sister could visit with her girlfriend,” Jane said, waving away his complaint. “They’re your niece and nephews.”
“I’ve got enough to worry about,” he muttered. “Now, I’m talking to Rebecca’s history class with that crabby coot next door.”
Jane managed not to smile. “That was very kind of you to agree.”
“Have you ever tried saying no to a thirteen-year-old drama queen?”
Now she grinned and clasped her hands together, holding them over her heart. “Please, Uncle Griff,” she said in a theatrical tone. “If you don’t say yes I won’t pass the class. I won’t get into a good college. I’ll be forced into selling makeup at the MAC counter until I’m sixty-two when they’ll turn me out to the Estée Lauder pasture.” It had gone something like that.
“Plus,” he said darkly, “I’m never going to look at a Cheeto the same way again.”
“You’re just jealous of Duncan and Oliver’s new talent.” She dared to move closer and poked him in the ribs covered by the ragged T-shirt he wore with jeans. “Admit they’re adorable.”
He narrowed his eyes until they were mere slices of summer sky. “I know what you’re doing, Jane.”
“Then why did you bother asking me what it was?” Even though the fire was nearly out, her body seemed to heat up under the weight of his gaze. Her skin prickled against her clothes, and her scalp felt flushed. She took a few steps back. “There’s nothing wrong with some relaxation with family at the end of a long workday.”
He followed her. “Relaxation? Is that what you think I need?”
“Sure.” She gave a casual shrug, though there were flutters in her belly now, teasing and twirling. The way he was looking at her, the way he was stalking her, caused a fraying of her nerves. “Everyone does.” Though he’d not had another outburst after that night she’d found him on the floor in the dark, she was aware working on the memoir was wearing on him. By evening he was as tense as barbed wire strung between two posts.
“You too?”
She shrugged again. This wasn’t about her.
“Because you’re right, being cooped up all day with you is…hard on me, Jane.”
Her mouth went dry. He gave that word hard a distinct sexual edge. Clearing her throat, she looked away. “I’m sorry, but you’ll remember it was you who insisted we collaborate. And I try to give you space. I don’t mean to be intrusive.”
“I know you don’t. But there you are, with your shoes. Every day, the shoes.”
Puzzled, she glanced down. They were flat thong sandals she’d bought at a flea market. On top, striped ribbon was folded into a flower, its center made up of multicolor, shiny beads. They were feminine and mostly sweet, nothing that should put that burning intensity in his eyes. As she looked up, that gaze seemed to trap her.
His voice softened. “And the mouth, Jane, the mouth is making me feel…”
“I thought you didn’t feel anything,” she whispered. It was what had appalled her that night in the office. It was what had motivated her to get the kids over this evening. Because of course he felt things. She didn’t know precisely how the self-delusion was serving him, but she did think he needed to find a way to connect with the emotions he’d walled off.
“Ninety-nine percent of the time,” he reminded her. “But that remaining one percent is all about you.”
Her shoulder blades clipped the edge of the aperture leading to the hallway. She’d been in retreat, she realized, but Griffin had kept pace. He was still as close as before, his breath hot on her temple, stirring her hair.
“I think we should relax my way, Jane.”
Now the flush spread across her body in one hot rush. His delicious smell surrounded her, his hard rangy body was tempting her from just inches away. She could rub herself against it again. Kiss him. Touch him. Mold herself to his long muscles and hair-roughened skin.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she told both of them.
“But we have so few days left to…relax together, Jane. How could this single time hurt?”
True, she thought hazily, though the logic felt a little wobbly. Then his big hand cupped her cheek and his thumb brushed across her mouth. She went wobbly and, just like that, knew it was the first caress of the night.
Because she was going to give in, of course. Maybe another woman would resist a man who said I don’t do serious with women, never have, but after her last romantic disaster she wasn’t in danger of going silly and emotional with another unavailable male. Been there, done that, got the trampled heart.
But that didn’t mean she would walk away now.
He was studying her face, his thumb dragging slowly and deliberately across her bottom lip. It had been leading to this since that night in L.A. Since before then…since that first afternoon when she’d walked into Party Central and found a dangerous pirate alone in the crowd.
It wouldn’t last. Of course it wouldn’t last. Nobody expected a commitment from a pirate. You knew he would steal, though. Your breath, your good sense, your ability to make more token protests, or your insistence on negotiating some favorable terms. Still, she hesitated another moment.
Griffin was as persuasive in his own way as Rebecca had been in hers. “You need to give me what I want, Jane.” He slid one arm around the small of her back even as his thumb kept up that slow back-and-forth. “You need to give it to me the way I want.”
Seduction dripped from the low-voiced words. Jane swayed toward him, and when he made yet another pass across her mouth, she dipped her chin and sucked his thumb inside. His breath hitched, and the reflexive twitch of his arm jerked her closer against him.
He was aroused. The bulge in his jeans was hard against her, and she couldn’t help the way her hips pressed into it.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” He tucked his fingers in the waistband of her shorts and tugged, canting back her hips. “What part of the ‘way I want’ don’t you understand?”
In answer, she ran her tongue over the pad of his thumb. He grunted, then popped it free of her clinging lips. He placed his own on hers and kissed her, that helpless heat washing over her again. Her fingers curled in the sides of his shirt, and she hung on to him as his tongue plunged inside her, possessing her, plundering, as only a pirate could.
With his hand still fisted in her shorts, he walked her backward, she retreating as directed by the forward press of his hard thighs. On the hallway runner, she stumbled, and he was forced to yank her close to keep her upright. She moaned as they were pressed together, and she ground her pelvis against his, needy for deeper contact.
His mouth lifted and he cursed. “You stop,” he said, his eyes boring into hers. “I’m going to make it good for you.”
“It is good,” she said. Her hands slid up his sides and curled around his neck. “Kiss me again.”
He succumbed to her demand for a moment, but broke this kiss too soon. His hands grabbed her wrists and he unwrapped her arms, then spun her around so she faced forward. Still holding on to her, he herded her down the hall to his room.
Inside it was dimly lit and smelled of Griffin, layers of citrus and sage, peppered by temper. He hadn’t made his bed, and its sheets lay rumpled and wild, just like the man himself. As well she knew, he didn’t sleep much…and she realized that tonight his insomnia might keep her up too. She trembled.
“That’s right, honey-pie,” he said, his breath blowing hot against her ear. “We’re gonna get you all shivery.” His hands went to the hem of the sweater, and he lifted it, sliding the thick material along her body. It brushed against her braless breasts, catching on the already-stiff jut of her nipples.
Griffin groaned as he tossed the garment away with one hand, widening the fingers of the other over her chest. His long fingers were able to reach each sensitive peak. He nuzzled her neck, his mouth hot against the tender skin.
Jane writhed, rubbing her backside against his groin. Then he threw off his own shirt, and she moaned as his chest crowded her back. His fingers plucked at her nipples, and her head lolled against his shoulder. She tilted her face. “Please, Griffin.” His mouth covered hers.
Again, he plundered. Again, she pushed back, wiggling against him. He muttered, breaking the kiss so he could turn her around. They looked at each other, their pants coming fast and heavy, the sound louder than the ever-present breath of the ocean outside.
He bent his head, nipped her bottom lip. Jane’s womb clenched at the little pain, her nipples curled tighter. She ran her palms up his sides, her thumbs riding the rippling muscles. He grunted into their kiss, and then he slanted his head for another fit. When she sucked on his tongue, his hands found the soft lace of her shorts and he yanked.
They fell to her ankles.
Griffin stepped back. There was a flush across the bridge of his nose. His mouth was wet, his gaze intensely blue in the half-light of the room. “You wore that underwear for me,” he said.
How could she have? How could she have known he would choose tonight to undress her? They were more lace, a stretch of pale pink that sat low on her hip bones and was banded by flirty black ruffles.
“Admit it,” he said, his voice rough.
She started to shake her head, but then—oh, God, she realized he was right. All her big talk about one-night stands had been just big talk. Without conscious awareness of it, she’d been hoping for this. Planning for this. She’d been wearing her prettiest panties every day.
Because of him.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he said, moving close again.
But when she tried stepping back, her feet tangled in the pooled fabric of her shorts. She lost her balance, and Griffin tried stabilizing her. His grab was just a fraction too late, and she landed on her knees…right in front of that tempting bulge of denim. Another shiver rolled down her spine, and she looked up. Griffin was staring at her, his chest moving like a bellows as her fingers rose to the top button of his jeans.
He was hard—everywhere—as she tugged down the tab of the zipper. Glancing up again, she peeled the heavy fabric and his soft cotton boxers away from his hips. His hand sifted through her hair as she leaned forward and drew a line on his shaft with the tip of her tongue.
With the flat of it, she rolled over the crown, wetting the plum-soft skin before drawing it into the cavern of her mouth. His soft groan ratcheted her arousal. Her nipples tightened again, the points tingling as she swallowed more of him. She curled her fingers around the root of his shaft and balanced herself with her other hand on his steely thigh. Her mouth set up a languid yet steady rhythm, and she breathed along with it, her pulse thrumming loud in her ears.
It was carnal and beyond hot, and she imagined herself on the deck of his pirate ship, the Jolly Roger fluttering in the breeze above her head as she was captive to his desires. Her imagination had always been her most seductive partner, and it worked again for her now. Her panties were wet, and she took her hand from his thigh to reach inside them and touch—
“Damn it!” Griffin suddenly yanked her to her feet.
“What? What?” She was dizzy as he lifted her from the floor and half carried, half tossed her onto the bed. Then he was on the mattress too, and he stilled, taking in her body splayed on his sheets, wearing only the pink-and-black panties and the girlie sandals. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Her voice seemed to shake him from his stupor. He slipped her shoes off her feet, dropping one and then the other over the side of the bed. His fingers played with the waistband of her panties. “I’m the captain of this orgasm,” he said, as if he’d been privy to her little fantasy. “This time I’m the one who’s going to give it to you.”
He slid the last piece of her clothing free, and she watched him tuck the little ball of fabric in his bedside table drawer. “You only get them back if you let me give you your climax. Take it yourself, and I take the underwear.”
Panty ransom? She would have laughed, but he was giving her a burning, smoldering, serious look. So she stifled her little nervous giggle. “Okay.”
He stacked a couple of pillows against the wood-slat headboard. Next, he pushed her up against them, propping her there. “It’ll give you a good view,” he said. “Now put your hands here and here.” He moved them himself, making her curl her fingers around a slat on either side of her head.
It was Jane who was breathing hard now. Her breasts trembled with each inhale and exhale. Still wearing his unfastened pants, he swung a leg over her body to straddle her, his head at the level of her stiffened nipples. “You hold still,” he instructed, and then he bent his head to them.
She bowed into the wet heat, the avid tugs. Griffin tightened his knees against her legs, keeping her thighs pressed close together as he sucked her into his mouth. At first it was just the taut bead of the nipple, then he widened to take in more of her breast, then he drew his mouth away, letting the soft mound slide out until his teeth caught only the tight nub. She cried out at the little sting and then cried again when he lifted completely away. But he only moved to the other breast, performing the same salacious, delicious acts on it as one hand played with the already wet nipple.
Desire flowed outward from his touch. Her fingers tightened on the slats as he continued working over her breasts. Holding still became impossible. She twisted her torso, her lower half still caught by his powerful thighs. Then he was scooting down, trailing kisses toward her navel. He insinuated a leg between her knees, and then he was grasping her there, one in each hand, opening her to his gaze.
Chills raced over her body. He looked at her soft, swollen center. “Pretty,” he said, his nostrils flaring, his blue eyes blazing. One finger swiped through the drenched tissues and he brought it to his mouth. Sucked.
Jane’s breath seized.
“Tasty,” Griffin said, then slid lower.
Oh, God. She understood his intention, and instantly shifted her legs, trying to bar him access.
He glanced up, one eyebrow raised.
“I don’t… I’ve never…” She couldn’t get out the words.
“Well, I do,” Griffin said. “And there won’t be any ‘never’ about this.” Then he slid his palms from her knees to her inner thighs, widening her body, opening the delicate folds of flesh.
She really was the captive of a pirate. Because he was plundering again, his mouth taking her prisoner. The wet thrust of his tongue had her making a high, keening noise. Then it took a short excursion north, where he worried her clitoris with the tip, lashing it with tiny, measured strokes of pleasure.
He dipped low again, penetrating her with a firm wet thrust, then back up to the knot of nerves that now was pulsing with its own demand. Over and over, down and up, back and forth, in and out. Jane’s muscles went tense, started a fine tremble, and she could only hold fast as she watched his dark head move between the paleness of her thighs.
The view, as he’d known, only took her higher.
Each of her short pants ended in a moan. He glanced up, and she saw it all, his hot blue eyes, his extended tongue, his mouth glazed from her own wetness. It twisted her arousal tighter, and then he went after her clitoris again, sucking it into his mouth as two fingers speared her body.
His impalement tossed her overboard and into wave after wave of orgasmic bliss. She pitched and rolled with pleasure, wanting to ride them forever. Griffin stayed with her, his mouth easing as the seas calmed. On her final shudder, though, he still possessed her, his fingers deep inside of her.
She opened her eyes to find him watching her face.
“That’s putting you first, Jane,” he said.
In the haze of postclimax bliss, the words didn’t register. She only knew that she needed more of him. She protested as he slid his fingers from her and caught at his arm as he moved across the bed.
He laughed, low and smug. “I’m only getting a condom.”
It took too long. But finally he was over her, inside her, filling her again, and her inner tissues twitched as he worked her with his penis, finding the last twitches of the orgasm still waiting for him there.
His thrusts were heavy and decisive, and she opened wide in every way to accept him. His mouth found hers, and she opened there too, taking in the thrust of his tongue. She twisted against his chest, her sensitive nipples abraded by his hair.
“Can you go again?” he said, his voice breathless.
“What?” Her brain wasn’t working; only her body made sense to her now. Her body and his.
Instead of answering, he reached between them and found her clitoris once more. He stroked it gently, an irresistible counterpoint to the intense driving rhythm of his shaft. She lifted into both, her hips rolling upward, and then she was shuddering and Griffin was pushing deep, deep, deeper, drowning them both in sharp, sweet bliss.
When she came to herself, he was sliding back into the bed. He had a warm washcloth that he drew over her face and neck, down her midsection, and finally to the still-throbbing place between her thighs. He held it there.
She felt drugged by sex and intimacy. He used the intoxication to worm yet more out of her. “You think I should relax, Jane? Then fine, we’re going to be relaxing like this a lot. Until we leave Beach House No. 9, I’m saving all my one percent for you.”
Drowsy and pliant, she could only murmur. “Yes, sir. Aye, aye.”