Do-Over (12 page)

There he had it: the one person he most wanted to take to the boathouse, didn’t want to go. Life in Camelot wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

F
LOWER GARDENS ALL
looked the same in the twilight—dim. It was no loss to Cara. She’d asked to see them purely as a matter of subterfuge. After all, the gardens had to be closer to the boathouse than the dining room was.

Sometime between his kisses and words—both of which had rocked her soul—making love to Morgan had hit the top of Cara’s list. She had never gotten
around to the bikini wax, but those things hurt like hell, anyway.

Cara glanced back at the house. It was a tad off-putting to know that two women and one fairy godfather were probably peeking out the windows at this moment. A little embarrassment, however, wasn’t going to sway her.

She took Mark’s hand and wove her fingers between his. “I’d like to see the boathouse.”

Smart guy that he was, he didn’t miss her meaning. And noble guy that he was, she could tell that he was going to give her a chance to back out. They both stood silent. Somewhere, a cricket began its nighttime song.

Finally, Mark spoke. “Cara—”

“I mean it. I want to see the boathouse. Now.”

His eyebrows edged upward.

Okay, maybe she’d sounded a little imperious. A little demanding.

She added a slightly less strident, “Please.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

She took a step in the direction of the water, but he drew her back. “There’s no pretending this didn’t happen, no going back to the way things were. You know that, right?”

She’d earned his doubt; now she wanted to earn his trust. Cara took his other hand. “Why would I want to go back when everything looks so wonderful right here, in front of me?”

He turned his face upward, toward the inky blue sky. He wasn’t going to refuse her, she knew that—or at least she was pretty sure she knew that. And she
doubted that he was thinking the same thing she was:
please don’t let me mess this up.

He freed one hand, and then gave their other, still-linked hands a gentle tug.

“This way,” he said, leading her down a winding flagstone path lit by small footlights on either side.

Cara teetered a bit on the conservative but really skinny heels of her strappy black sandals. She’d had more wine than usual at dinner, not because she was nervous about the possibility of this moment, but because she’d figured drinking some pricey French courage might make her feel less stupid if she chose the wrong fork from the array of four at her place setting. Being a commoner wasn’t always easy.

Whatever the reason she’d downed the wine, the end effect was the same. She was feeling loose and ready to rock-and-roll. Amazing, considering the last time she’d had sex—back during the Pleistocene Era—it had been an arid firework-free event.

She repeated her plea to the do-over gods:
Please, please, please don’t let me mess this up.
A warm breeze curled around her. Cara chose to take it as a sign. Why be picky about her omens?

She and Mark walked through an arched arbor, heavy with vines, and around a bend. Ahead waited the boathouse, its white clapboard exterior washed in the glow of more landscaping lights. His Camelot sure had its share of romantic settings. This one jutted out over the water, anchored to land at the back. A dock wrapped around its water-facing sides at ground level, and a broad wooden stairway led up to the second floor.

Mark’s grip on her hand grew firmer and he picked up his pace. When the guy made up his mind, he
meant business. He ushered her up the stairway. In the time it took her to register the two Adirondack chairs sitting on this upper porch and give a quick glance at the enormous sweep of lake beyond, Mark had opened the door, reached his hand in and flicked on some lights. He led her inside.

The boathouse didn’t smell of beeswax, lemon and unstinting care as the main house did. This was like stepping back in time. There was a slight musty, not-frequently-used smell about it, not unpleasant really, and distinctive enough that Cara closed her eyes, focused on the scent for a moment and wove it into her memories.

Then Mark gave her something else to remember. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her as though it had been years—not hours—since his mouth had last closed over hers. His hands moved quickly, surely down her back, then up and around to touch her breasts. She shivered with pleasure. One hand moved again, to explore the zipper running down the back of her dress.

Cara wriggled closer to him, loving the feel of his hardness pushing against her.
She
could do this to him.
She
could make him want her this way. The knowledge was incredible. Not that she needed a whole lot more inspiration than Mark’s hands everywhere on her. Then he backed off, leaving her breathing heavy with no place to go.

“Damn,” he said, briefly leaning his forehead against hers.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m not exactly prepared for this.” He gripped her arms in his hands and gave her a quick, hard kiss. “I
need to go up to the house. I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”

He was out the door, down the steps and onto the pathway before Cara could even form a response. She moved the zipper on her dress halfway back up, took a moment to calm sizzling nerve endings and began to look around. So this was a hotbed of sweaty, adolescent lust….

A marine-blue sofa done up in a slip-covered canvas-and-toggle maritime theme faced floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water. Complementing plaid chairs with a small trunk between them sat against the windowed wall.

Cara ran her hand across the back of the sofa, then went around to the other side and sat on it. A couple of bounces up and down told her that Mark hadn’t focused much on the comfort of his high school girlfriends. Her pampered thirty-year-old bones weren’t up for this ride.

She stood and began to snoop. Behind closed door number one she found a small tidy bathroom, complete with shower. Door number two hid a walk-in closet. The shelves were stocked with fat orange life jackets, coils of line and assorted bits of boating paraphernalia.

Cara opened door number three. “Bingo!”

Here was an honest-to-God bedroom. She walked to the double bed, placed her palms on its surface and pushed. Unlike the canvas couch with the screaming springs, this had true potential. Cara pulled down the pale yellow comforter and folded back one corner of the white top sheet beneath. Her fingers trailed over the surface of the bed and a thrill chased through her.

Mark’s footsteps sounded on the stairway outside.

She stepped back into the main room just as he was pushing through the door.

Smiling, he held up a bag. “Food and drink courtesy of Jerome.”

“I take it he won’t be out here to interrupt us like he did when you were in high school?”

He set the sack on the kitchenette countertop. “Definitely not,” he said as he pulled out a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

She was well-stoked enough already, thanks. Her mind spun with imaginings of days and nights with Mark, living out the unbelievable sex that his smile promised. And then doubt began to creep in…

“I’m not a model,” she blurted. “I’m not elegant-looking like Nicole. I’ll never have a waist to speak of and there are these little pudges of fat at the top of my thighs that aren’t going to go away, no matter how much I exercise, which, granted, isn’t a lot. And my breasts—Stop laughing, Morgan!”

He closed the distance between them in easy, confident strides. “Sorry, but I can’t believe this. Are you actually trying to negotiate your way out of getting naked?”

“I’m—I’m just going for full disclosure.”

“I can think of a better way to accomplish that.”

He pulled his shirt over his head, leaving him in only a pair of khakis. Cara’s mouth went dry. This was the body of a naturally athletic guy—fit muscle covered by golden skin, dark hair over prominent pectorals, then narrowing and arrowing downward.

“Your turn,” he said.

She glanced around. They were still in the main room and already he was stripping. So much for rich boys being conservative. “Um, I’m not sure I—”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He reached behind her and deftly slid down the zipper on her dress. When he reached the small of her back, he released the zipper but let his finger travel lower in a teasing trail. She shook, whether it was from the beginnings of evening coolness in the air, nerves or the sexual awareness that gripped her, she couldn’t say.

Mark pulled her into his arms. “Nervous?”

“I think… A little, maybe.”

“Well, let me let you in on a secret. So am I. I mean, I have every one of my teenage fantasies to fulfill. And to make matters more challenging, here I am trying to do justice to the local volcano goddess.”

Someone was having a perception problem, and it wasn’t her. “A volcano goddess?
Me?
”

“Trust me on this, sweetheart.” He reached behind her head and undid the twist that held her hair. He tossed the clip toward the couch, then combed ran his fingers down the strands he’d released. “Hot.”

He worked her dress off her shoulders. This was getting really good, so she helped him by freeing her arms. Then she pushed it the rest of the way down, leaving a circle of black fabric at her feet.

“Red-hot,” he said, running his finger down a crimson bra strap. Cara was thankful she’d had the optimism to put on her good underwear.

“Pure fire,” he said in a thick voice that made her think maybe the perception problem had been hers all along.

She stepped out of her dress, then slipped out of her sandals. And as any goddess worth the name should, Cara took the lead. She looped her fingers around his wrist and led him to the bedroom.

She settled herself on top of the sheets. They felt so
soft, almost like silk, and so cool against her skin. “So when you had those sweaty fantasies, was the girl waiting for you, like this?”

Cara drew one foot upward, placing it flat on the bed and let her knee stray ever so slightly to the outside. There was a fine line between volcano goddess and total tramp, but based on the level of heat in Mark’s eyes, she was doing this just right.

The mattress gave as he sat on the edge of the bed and quickly rid himself of his shoes and socks. He joined her. Her bra was off and gone in a matter of seconds, and his kiss stole her composure in an equally short time.

She wasn’t the only person going about matters just right…. Two fingers slowly rubbed over the damp panel of silk between her legs, exactly were she loved it most. One hot mouth closed over a nipple, drawing her upward in a sensuous flight of feeling. That was all it took for Cara’s body to reach a peak it had been too long denied. She cried out Mark’s name as she came slowly, completely apart. He held her close to his hot skin, murmuring sexy phrases, awed words.

When she found the energy to open her eyes again, she smiled up at him. “Sorry. I’m sure none of your high school girlfriends ever did that.”

“More’s the pity,” he said, then knelt, reached down and tugged off her panties. He brushed his fingers across the red curls at the vee of her thighs and then stroked one finger inward.

“More fire,” he said in a satisfied voice.

Cara pushed her hips upward, following the heat of his touch.
Oh God, was it going to happen again…this soon?

“Mark,” she forced past her ragged breathing.

He withdrew his hand. Shuddering, she reached for him, trying to pull him closer.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he said. “My timing is totally messed up tonight. I’ll be right back. Promise.”

He left her then, cool air again washing against her overheated skin. Cara stretched and snuggled her head into her pillow a bit deeper. If she’d had even a whisper of modesty left, she would have scurried under the covers, but she was a volcano goddess tonight and she planned to revel in it.

Mark returned with the paper grocery bag he’d carried in earlier. After removing a plastic bag filled with grapes, another with slices of French bread and a third with a wedge of cheese, and setting those on the white-painted nightstand, he turned the bag upside down and rained small square packets over the bottom of the bed.

Cara laughed. “Don’t tell me those are from Jerome, too.”

“No, they’re my addition.”

“Ambitious,” she said with an arch of her brow.

He shucked off his khakis and underwear, and Cara felt her eyes grow wide. “Or maybe not so ambitious, after all.”

He crawled over her, his legs bracketing hers, the weight of his erection hot against her belly. She pushed at his shoulders and he willingly rolled over so he lay flat on the mattress and she was framed above him.

She touched him where she wanted and as she wanted to. When she wrapped her hand around his penis, she smiled at the strained set of his jaw and the fine sheen of perspiration popping out on his skin. She played until he closed his hand over hers.

“No more,” he gasped.

With a sigh of mock regret, she reached for one of the condom packets still scattered about the foot of the bed. She opened it and fitted the condom onto him with hands that didn’t tremble too much. And when she was done, moved over him and kissed him, pushing her tongue into his mouth, stealing his taste.

Holding her safe in his arms, he rolled them again. She opened her legs and closed her eyes as he fitted himself to her. Hesitance and need battled. Perceptive as always, Mark sensed it in her.

“We’ll take this as slowly as you need to,” he said.

His gift of control was all she needed to lose the fear. “I don’t think slow is in my vocabulary tonight.”

He pushed forward until she was filled with him. Discomfort became pleasure in less than a beat of her heart. And as he drew back, then took her again and again with a sure, knowing rhythm on which any true volcano goddess could groove, she cried out and spiraled and danced among the stars. This time, Mark was right there with her, in her, completing her.

And when they came back to earth, he held her close and said, “You, Cara Adams, are the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me.”